Into the Valley of Death

by A L Berridge

  Jarvis turned stolidly to the cornet. ‘Orders, sir?’

  Seconds ticked away as the boy hesitated. ‘We’d better find Lord Cardigan and the rest of the Brigade.’

  One of the Lancers coughed. ‘Lord Cardigan’s gone, sir. He had a little cut-about at the guns, but we saw him ride back out.’

  Bloody typical. Lead them in, dump them, and run for home. But the effect on Hoare was shocking, and he had to swallow twice before speaking again. ‘Well, the Heavies, then. We’ll find Lord Lucan and …’ He stopped and looked uncertainly about him.

  ‘The guns have stopped,’ said Oliver. ‘The cannon. I don’t think …’

  Ryder felt cold in his stomach. If the Heavies had been coming those two batteries on the flanks would have been hammering them all the way, but Oliver was right, the guns were silent. Cardigan had deserted them, Lucan had abandoned them, and the Light Brigade had been left to die alone. He said, ‘We must cut our way out, sir. Back to the guns and out.’

  Hoare nodded feverishly, especially at that word ‘out’. ‘Yes. Yes, come on. I mean threes about, gallop – march!’

  They galloped, but not in a charge now, this was retreat. A band of Cossacks saw it and swooped after them, eagerly pursuing fleeing prey. Ryder remembered the fate of the Turks that morning, he knew what their own Lancers had done to the Russian gunners, he dug in his hooks and bloody galloped. They crested a knoll, he could see the battery below them, but Hoare was shouting ‘No, no! This way!’ and wheeling right, waving his arm furiously to make them follow.

  He saw what Hoare was after, a solid little force of 8th Hussars and 4th Light Dragoons rallying round Colonel Douglas and the indestructible Lord George Paget, but the Russian hussars were already between them and moving in for the attack. He yelled, ‘No, sir! The battery, there’s no hope that way!’

  But Hoare was the officer, Jarvis and the others already wheeling after him, and Ryder had no choice but to follow. The Cossacks were now to left of them, the Uhlans behind, the hussars in front, they were charging for the second time into the certainty of destruction.

  ‘Break through!’ cried Hoare, his young voice breaking under the strain of it. ‘Break through to the others, break through!’

  But the hussars were disciplined cavalry, not to be broken by a force of a dozen, however desperate. Hoare seemed blinded to it, he crashed right into them, pushing and pushing to reach the illusion of authority and safety on the other side, but the hussars closed round him, a sabre swiped him from the saddle and Ryder closed his eyes against the sight of a sixteen-year-old boy cut to pieces right in front of him.

  ‘Back!’ shouted a voice in his ear, Jarvis’s mouth wide open as he yelled ‘Left about wheel!’ Ryder was already doing it, wrenching on the reins to bring Tally round, point her nose at the battery and home. There were only six of them now, the Lancers must have already gone, and somehow they had to fight through an army of hundreds.

  Hussars were turning to face them, pistol and carbine balls followed them, and curving round like a flock of jackals came their own particular band of Cossacks. It was a race again, back to the guns from the other side, and then the Uhlans were in front of them, thick and impenetrable, nothing for it but to wheel and go round. Jarvis led, Ryder swerved after him, letting his sword dangle as he groped at his belt for his pistol, but Jarvis had taken it, never returned it, the bastard would be the death of them all. He snatched at his sword, got it and raised it, but a gunshot banged close and Oliver was down. Rolling and alive and maybe not badly wounded, he was struggling up and snatching his bridle to remount, but as Ryder reined to turn the Cossacks crashed into them.

  Lances were in among them, spears thrusting at faces and bodies, and there went Prosser, shoved from his saddle like a doll on the end of a skewer. Attack was the only hope, and Ryder threw himself at the leader with a bloodcurdling yell. His sword plunged forward, but the Cossack swerved, a lance sprang in at his face, he dodged and felt another graze down his back. Pain fired in his head, leaving him dizzy and half blind. A blade jerked at his reins, the leather slid through his hands, then he was bumping against his mare’s flank, crashing down smack on his mutilated back, and he heard himself scream aloud.

  He was surrounded by horses’ legs, and sat up to see five lances all pointed down at him. He felt his sword still anchored to his wrist and wrapped his fingers firmly round the hilt, but a lance cracked down across his forearm, and the point of another slid right under his chin. A coarse tuft of black hair decorated the shaft, and behind it he saw the metallic gleam of a sharp, cruel hook.

  Somebody shouted above him. The lance point withdrew reluctantly from his throat, and slowly he let his gaze slide round. A hussar officer was trotting into the circle, waving imperiously at the Cossacks to back away. ‘Surrender your sword,’ he said in perfect English. ‘You will not be harmed, you are a prisoner.’

  He untied his sword, but the shame of it stung. All those dead men left in the North Valley, and he had no more than a few cuts. Jarvis was being disarmed too, but at least he was hurt, one leg of his overalls slashed open and bloody. He wondered who else had been taken, but the only double-white stripes around him were on the bodies of the dead. He made himself look at their faces, averting his eyes from what was left of Hoare’s, skimming quickly over Prosser’s, but feeling sudden hope at the absence of the one he knew best.

  There was no sign of Oliver.

  A haze of blue smoke still hung over the guns as Oliver finally reached the battery. It seemed almost a place of safety now, the starting point for the journey home. He had a pistol ball in his calf, but Misty was steady beneath him, he had other men about him again, and Lieutenant Grainger had appeared to lead them. The lieutenant’s face was black with smoke, his uniform slashed with sabre strokes, his left arm hung limp and bloody, but he was a real live officer Oliver knew, and other dragoons had rallied to his voice. There were only eight of them altogether, but that was eight times better than being alone.

  ‘Steady now,’ said Grainger, as they threaded between the muzzles of the silenced guns. ‘Save your speed for when we near the other batteries, then in with your hooks and race for home. Got it?’

  They did, and every face was suddenly taut with the realization they had to run the gauntlet a second time.

  ‘Spread out,’ said Grainger. ‘Weave all you like, never mind the line, just give them less of a target. Don’t stop for anything, it’s every man for himself and please God I’ll see you all back there.’

  He stepped his mount to one side, and Oliver was moved by the way he nodded as they passed, as if he was shaking hands with them, saying goodbye. With a curious twist of his mouth he said, ‘The 13th will advance – trot – march!’ and then they were off, racers out of a starting gate, bolting forward and back up the valley.

  A brisk trot and no fire behind them, the Don Cossack battery had no one left to man it. Riderless horses darted in front of them, some tried to close up and run alongside, but none crushed into Oliver and his mare stayed calm. It was hard dodging the bodies, jumping over men and swerving round horses, it felt cruel and wrong, but they were all doing it, they were in it together and on their way home. Then the bang, the whizz and ping, the first musket-ball from the Causeway Heights, and Grainger yelled, ‘Gallop, my lads, go it all you know!’

  They galloped. Oliver put his head down until he could see nothing but ground shooting past under Misty’s hooves, and prayed to just keep seeing it all the way back. No one was down yet, they’d taken the gunners by surprise. Probably they hadn’t expected anyone to come back at all. But the muskets were still firing, bang, bang, bang along their path, and then a cannon opened up, thick smoke in his eyes, and suddenly he was shooting forward, the ground thudding up to his face as Misty screamed and dropped beneath him. He rolled clear, up on hands and knees in the dirt, scrabbling back to the horse that was his only way out, but she was dead, poor Misty, the shell had blown away half her hind legs. He sagged by he
r body, hearing the others gallop on for home, leaving him here by himself.

  For a black moment he gave into it, curling into a ball behind the corpse of his mare, just wanting it all to be over and done, but even in the depths of self-pity he knew that wasn’t the answer. Ryder was dead or prisoner, no one could save him but himself. The thought of Ryder flicked into memory, his friend saying ‘Promise me’ and looking as if he meant it.

  He raised his head. The guns were quiet now, no one else to shoot at, and he himself was covered by the dead horse. He reached under the sheepskin for his cloak, and covered his blue and white with concealing grey. No one fired, and he reached up again to work free his blanket roll. The cards were in there, and he could imagine what Woodall would say if he came back without them. Besides, he’d need the blanket tonight when it got cold.

  He tucked the roll under his arm and the Adams in his belt, and waited for the sound of hooves. Almost instantly they came, more survivors from the battery, and at once the guns began again from the Causeway Heights. But not this way, not at him, they were going for the riders as he’d known they would, and at once he lurched to his feet and staggered on up the valley. His leg hurt but not unbearably, he was moving forward, making progress with every step. A few musket shots clipped the ground around him, but there were better targets than one crippled soldier barely visible at the base of the Heights, and with luck he could make it all the way. It couldn’t be much more than three-quarters of a mile.

  After a while he started counting steps. Call each one a yard, there were seventeen hundred and sixty in a mile. Say it was a bit over half to go, say nine hundred steps. One, two, three, four, and a horse on its side frothing at the bit, straining to stand and falling heavily back on its shattered legs. He wished he’d a ball for it, but the Adams held only five and he couldn’t risk running out with the Russians so close. Eight, nine, ten, a man with no face, eleven, twelve, thirteen, and something whirred overhead, a shadow passed over, and a large bird landed on the body of the faceless man. Fourteen, fifteen, keeping going and trying not to hear the squelch of ripping flesh. Keeping going all the way.

  Artillery boomed again behind him, but now he was out of range. He’d got to a hundred and ninety when more horses galloped up from the battery, remnants of the good old 4th and 8th with Lord George Paget holding steady in the middle. They couldn’t stop for him, naturally they couldn’t, it was against the rules to risk lives for men already lost. He stood aside to let them pass, saying ‘hundred and ninety, hundred and ninety’ so as not to lose count.

  Three hundred and twelve, and a lift of hope, a riderless horse standing on the track, but it shied away at his approach and cantered off towards the battery. Three hundred and eighty, and voices ahead, two Cossacks ambling down the valley sticking lances into the bodies of the dead and maybe only wounded. A third crouched to search a haversack, and yet another was wrestling a fine saddle from a fallen horse. Stop, hide, run, he just kept going with the revolver up and levelled in his hand. The two with lances saw him, saw the Adams, and crossed to the other side of the valley, but the looters hardly even lifted their heads as he passed. They weren’t looking for a fight, any of them, only easy pickings from men who would never fight again.

  Four hundred and forty, and he must be coming in range of that first battery in the Fedoukhine Hills. He wondered if he could run past, beat it by surprise and speed, but his legs were so heavy, and when he looked behind he saw a trail of his own blood dotted all along the valley floor. He ought to stop to bind his calf, but he had to get back, he’d bandage it later.

  Slow hooves ahead, a single horse, and it was Bolton’s mare, heading towards him with tragic eyes. She knew him, of course, but her back was half-flayed and he couldn’t possibly ride her. He murmured ‘Good girl, Bobbin’, patted her nose and walked on, but she insisted on following, as if she found comfort in the familiar uniform. After a moment he reached up and took her bridle, leading her with him, leading her home.

  The ground changed underfoot, naked ploughed earth. Every step was an effort, up and down through thick ruts of mud. There were hoofprints all over it, prints of men and horses who’d passed this way half an hour ago and would never come again. He was sure they’d been under fire here, but when he looked to the hills the grey ranks of Russians had disappeared, and there in the scrub he saw the sky-blue jackets and red trousers of the Chasseurs d’Afrique. The French had taken the battery, and he was safe all the way back.

  He started to shake. He’d lost count somewhere, and couldn’t remember how many yards there were in a mile. He couldn’t even remember why he needed to know. He slipped in a rut, clutched at Bobbin’s bridle, stumbled and fell on his face in the mud. Bobbin’s nose came down to nuzzle him, but he just patted at it and let his arm flop back down. He must be nearly there, he’d just close his eyes and rest a minute, that’s all.

  The earth stirred slightly under his hand. Something was moving near him, and a faint swish snapped his eyes open in panic. Would a vulture attack a living man? He levered his face out of the mud and stared uncomprehendingly at blue cloth and the sudden unbelievable sight of a woman’s lap. Above him came a slight clink, and then an arm wrapped round his shoulders to help him sit, and there was Sally Jarvis offering him a mug of rum.

  ‘There, my love,’ she said, and he’d never heard anything as beautiful as her voice. ‘You drink this while I look at your leg.’

  He drank the rum in a daze, and looked up almost fearfully, but she was still there, real and kind like a world he thought had disappeared for ever. He said feebly, ‘What are you doing here?’

  She smiled. ‘There aren’t enough bandsmen, and it’s safe enough.’ He watched incredulously as she drew out a clean dressing from a bulging haversack and began to wrap it expertly round his calf. ‘Poor Oliver,’ she said. ‘You’ve only about a cupful of blood left in you. What would Ryder say if he saw you like this?’

  Reality woke again. ‘I don’t know. He might be …’

  She bent lower over the dressing, and he saw with shock her own arm was bandaged. ‘And Jarvis?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said wretchedly. ‘They could be prisoners. I’m sorry, I don’t know.’ He hadn’t left it behind at all, that terrible valley, he’d brought it back with him like something that was never going to end.

  She tied off the bandage and looked at him, still smiling and still kind. ‘But you didn’t see them killed?’

  He shook his head numbly.

  ‘Then there’s hope, isn’t there?’ she said. ‘And look at you, come back out of there like a miracle. Anything’s possible, Polly Oliver.’

  He smiled shyly, liking her knowing his nickname. ‘I’d better get back.’

  ‘Only if you’re ready,’ she said doubtfully. ‘The bandsmen will be here soon.’

  He didn’t want to wait. He’d walked every step of the journey and wanted to finish it the same way, but his leg felt shaky when he stood and he was afraid he wouldn’t get far.

  ‘Lean on me,’ said Sally. She slung the haversack round her back, wrapped his arm round her shoulder and clasped him firmly round the waist. ‘Come on, we’ll go together.’

  She was completely steady under his weight, and he took Bobbin’s bridle in the other hand. Together they set off over the ploughed field, a man, a woman and a horse walking out of the valley and back to the world of the living, just as Harry Ryder had promised him, an hour and a lifetime ago.

  Ryder was torturing himself with the thought of tea. His mouth was so dry it made clicking sounds when he swallowed, and his body kept shivering as if he was cold inside. A lance prodded in the small of his lacerated back, he screwed up his face and stumbled on.

  They’d taken his horse and haversack, of course, and all he owned now were the clothes he stood up in. Hardly even that, the way the Cossacks were going. One cut off the buttons from Ryder’s coat as souvenirs, while Jarvis had to surrender his entirely for the sake of the braid. He looked curio
usly shrunken without it, just a short stout man in a grey shirt and braces with a little pot belly drooping over his belt. It made Ryder uncomfortable to look at him, but when he offered his own coat Jarvis just smiled contemptuously and turned away.

  They stopped at the aqueduct to wait their turn to cross. There was only one narrow bridge, and Ryder took the chance to look round the milling crowd for other prisoners from the Brigade. He saw pitifully few and no senior officers.

  Except one. One was very senior indeed, and as Ryder looked ahead he saw the grey cloak and weaver hat of a British staff officer being escorted to the bridge. No one was prodding him with a lance, he’d been allowed to stay mounted and was accompanied only by two Russian officers in fur cloaks. Understandable perhaps, respect for his rank – except that there hadn’t been a staff officer near them when they charged. Not one.

  The horse was black, the saddlecloth dark green, just as Sally had seen at Kamara, and Ryder was suddenly sure. He was sure of something else too, that the bastard wasn’t here just as a spectator. He’d done something in the battle, that’s why all those officers were swarming round to congratulate him; he’d done something that had been a huge success. Not the redoubts, there was no mystery about that. Not the Highlanders, and not the Heavies, they’d both been British victories. Only one disaster had happened here today, and Ryder was looking at the aftermath of it right now. Their order came in writing, it was brought by Captain Nolan, there wasn’t a single thing that could be wrong about it, but Ryder stared at the back of the distant staff officer and knew without doubt he was looking at the man who’d destroyed the Light Brigade.

  The hatred was choking him. Look at the bastard now, chatting and laughing quite openly with his captors, as if he didn’t care who saw him. He swept off his cocked hat and Ryder willed him to turn round, turn and show us your filthy cowardly face, but he only gave a mock bow to his captors, tossed the hat disrespectfully in the air, then squashed it carelessly into his pocket. The little pantomime was rewarded with a burst of laughter, and with the sound of it still echoing in his ears Ryder finally understood.