Into the Valley of Death

by A L Berridge

  Ryder was aware of a sick, sinking feeling in his guts. Woodall had said that, he’d said Jarvis would suspect. ‘But you must know she’d never …’

  Jarvis slewed round. ‘I didn’t imagine it, if that’s what you think. He as good as told me. How the hell was I to know he wasn’t a real officer, that he was a poxy bastard Russian spy?’ He jerked his head in the direction Angelo had gone. ‘He put me through hell just to bring you down, and it was all a bloody lie.’

  For a moment he remembered Sally in his arms. For a moment he thought of the kiss that would be the last they’d ever have. Then he remembered her stepping back, and knew it had to be her choice and not his.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was a bloody lie.’

  Oliver caught up with them at the base of the Sapoune. There was a mounted picquet with them and he thought at first they’d been arrested, but the horsemen turned off towards the Uplands and the two battered cavalrymen toiled on alone. Their condition seemed to confirm his worst fears, but to his astonishment Ryder was supporting Jarvis and the sergeant-major didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Hullo, Polly,’ said Ryder, without apparent surprise. ‘You’re in perfect time to help a couple of crocks down to Kadikoi.’

  There was a bitterness in his tone Oliver immediately understood. ‘He got away?’

  ‘He got away,’ said Ryder. ‘I’ve marked him, though; there’ll be some kind of wound on his face. He’ll need to lie low for a bit, and if Calvert gets the word out over the next couple of days we might stop him doing any more harm.’

  He’d obviously done some tonight. Oliver rather gingerly offered his shoulder to the sergeant-major, but Jarvis leaned on it with obvious relief and even muttered ‘Thanks’. Something had changed here, and when Ryder told his story Jarvis never even interrupted.

  ‘It’s Kamara that worries me,’ said Ryder. ‘He was dead set on that, Poll, he had to know what we knew. All right, we didn’t hear everything, but what the hell did they say that’s so damned urgent he’d risk coming out in the open like this?’

  ‘That attack you went on about,’ said Jarvis. ‘Come on, it’s got to be that.’

  ‘But it didn’t happen,’ said Ryder. ‘It was meant to be on the 24th but it didn’t bloody happen and I’ve got the back to prove it.’

  Jarvis snorted. ‘You got your back for being an insolent bastard who broke camp. Don’t try to lay it on me.’

  Ryder looked at him with something almost like affection. ‘How’s the ribs, Sar’nt-major? Would you like to walk to the hospital alone?’

  Jarvis bared his teeth at him, and they staggered on in a silence that seemed oddly amiable.

  It was long after midnight when they finally reached the hospital at Kadikoi. The candles were still lit and the orderlies seemed happy to patch up a couple of NCOs who looked as if they’d been on the wrong end of a bull fight, so Oliver handed them over and went to wait in the porch, just as he’d done on the day his world changed.

  Nothing else had. Church life went on as if there were no war, and a little old woman like a gnarled chess piece was muttering under her breath as she trimmed the lamps and wiped away blood splashes from the white plaster walls. It was Sunday tomorrow, and there would be a service here despite the human debris lining the walls.

  The porch hadn’t changed either. The same curling notices were here, in the same fascinating Cyrillic script it was hard to believe made sense to anyone. The calendar was here too, just as out of date as before – in fact exactly as out of date as before. Someone had moved it on since Oliver was last here, but now it read the 23rd when the day just started was 5 November. Why would anyone update a calendar by ten days but not the whole way?

  The old woman bustled into the porch, eyed Oliver as if he were something that needed dusting, and poured water into a vase of pale yellow flowers. They gave off a faint smell of jasmine, and his memory opened to England and schooldays, to history and something called the Julian calendar from a hundred years ago. He thought he remembered hearing that not everyone had changed yet, that Orthodox Greece still used the old system. Wasn’t Russia Orthodox too?

  The old woman flicked her duster over the notice board, reached out to the calendar and tore off the top leaf. The number underneath blazed out fresh and clean, today for the first time, the thick black numerals spelling out the number 24.

  In Russia this was 24 October. The attack on the harbour and assault on the Allies were scheduled for today before dawn. Not last week, not twelve days ago, but now.

  21

  5 November 1854, 2.00 a.m. to 6.00 a.m.

  Mackenzie lay awake in the sleeping wheel of men. Footsteps were approaching, then the canvas rustled, and a cold draught rushed inside.

  ‘Mackenzie,’ said a voice he knew. ‘I’m looking for Niall Mackenzie, is this the right tent?’

  He sat bolt upright. ‘Ryder!’

  ‘Get out of it, will you?’ grumbled Lennox, snatching back his disarranged blanket. ‘Let decent bodies sleep.’

  They were all waking now, muttering and protesting as he crawled apologetically towards the entrance. Farquhar hefted a boot at him and said, ‘Close the flap after you, you selfish bastards, it’s freezing out there.’

  Indeed it was, and Mackenzie’s feet chilled on the wet ground as he emerged to find Ryder with a man he was startled to recognize as Jarvis. ‘What is it? Did you no get him?’

  Ryder told him while he put on his boots. ‘Polly’s gone to Doherty, but God knows what he’ll do, the main assault could be anywhere. We’re off to warn the marines, will you come?’

  Camp-breaking, and in the middle of the night! ‘I will that,’ he said. ‘Give me a minute whiles I see the sergeant.’

  Ryder stared. ‘There isn’t time for …’

  Mackenzie stared back. ‘I’ll not go behind his back. Start without me, I’ll catch you long before Balaklava.’

  He’d be catching them before they cleared camp. Ryder had a pale and groggy look to him, and the sergeant-major had a bandaged neck and thick strapping under his coat. That was quite a fight they’d been in, and from the sound of it worse to come. He turned and ran for Mr Macpherson.

  The tent was but two down. He opened the flap, patted the sleeping sergeant’s shoulder, and said, ‘You’ll forgive me, Mr Macpherson, but I need to go out for a wee while.’

  The sergeant looked blearily at him. ‘What in the name of … ?’

  ‘I’m camp-breaking, Sergeant. I’m wanted at Balaklava to fight off some Russians, but thought I’d best tell you before I went.’

  Macpherson looked at him without expression. ‘Did you.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said patiently. ‘You’ll mind of that intelligence business the cavalry colonel wanted me for, it’s to do with that. There’s an attack coming on the ships and we need to warn the marines.’

  Macpherson sat up. ‘Ah, havers, man, who says?’

  There was not the time for explanations. He said ‘Someone I believe,’ and backed respectfully out of the tent.

  Ryder and Jarvis had moved faster than he’d credited, and had already disappeared into the gorge. He retrieved his rifle and set off briskly after them, but Ryder’s urgency was beginning to hammer in his head, and after a moment he began to run.

  Ryder fought with panic as they ran down the gorge. Dawn wouldn’t break until six, but what did ‘before dawn’ mean? Three o’clock? Four? Now?

  Jarvis kept up. His ribs must be jolting agonizingly despite the strapping, but he’d far too much pride to allow Ryder to outstrip him. Mackenzie could doubtless have outrun them both, but he loped comfortably along beside them and only the set expression of his face betrayed his own desperation. No one spoke. Their pounding feet and gasping breath began to sound oddly close and distinct, as if the world outside them had been muffled to silence.

  ‘Fog,’ panted Jarvis. ‘See it settling? Fog.’

  The mist was certainly thickening and a wisp floated past Ryder’s face like a miniature cloud
. If it was like this at sea, what chance would the fleet have of spotting the danger in one of their own vessels drifting towards them? Missed signals wouldn’t matter, nothing would until the explosion erupted right among the packed ships that were their only way home. Ryder pictured the fire spreading from rigging to rigging, put down his head and ran.

  Balaklava at last, the first white houses looming out of the dark, the slopes about them broken by grey lines of dry-stone walls. The fog grew more opaque as they descended to the sea, and Ryder was unable to make out even the lamps of the distant fleet. At least the silence began to be reassuring. If anything were wrong he’d be hearing shouts, maybe gunfire, but there was only their own running footsteps and the distant monotone barking of a bored dog.

  On past the clusters of military buildings, crude military fingerposts, and the sign for ‘Commisariat’ spelled with one ‘s’. He could see the harbour below now, grey fog and haloed lamps, the gloom pierced only by the skeletal nakedness of masts without sails. They rounded the first line of storehouses, wound through stacks of boxes and piles of iron girders, passed six white tents pitched in the dirt, and there was the quay ahead of them, clear and smooth and peaceful. A lamp shone outside the tiled shack of the harbourmaster’s office, and the figure leaning against the wall wore the reassuring red coat of a marine. There was another huddled under an open shelter with a canvas canopy, and a third sitting against the wheel of a gun carriage. The cluster of ships lay still at anchor, and the only movement was the gentle bobbing of a dinghy moored to the jetty. Jarvis bent double and gasped for breath, but over his head Ryder and Mackenzie exchanged a grin of exhausted relief. They were in time.

  ‘Far enough,’ said a man emerging from behind a storehouse with levelled rifle. ‘This is a prohibited area, what’s the password?’

  At least the marines were alert. ‘I’ve no idea, I’m bloody cavalry, aren’t I? Look, we need to speak to an officer, there’s an attack coming, we’ve got to –’

  The marine jerked the rifle at him. ‘I said, what’s the password?’ His face was expressionless, and his sleeve bore the same number of stripes as Ryder’s own. ‘You could be bloody anyone.’

  Ryder’s temper exploded. ‘For God’s sake! The Russians are coming, and I’ve got to see your officer.’

  The sergeant glanced contemptuously at Mackenzie’s kilt, at Ryder’s torn coat, at the bandaged and stooping figure of Jarvis. ‘You don’t give me orders, Sergeant. This is a prohibited area, we don’t allow rabble on the quay after dark –’

  ‘Rabble!’ Jarvis jerked upright, and thrust himself in front of the marine. ‘That’s “Sergeant-major” to you, Sergeant, I do give you orders, and by God I’m giving one now.’ His breathlessness was gone, his ribs forgotten, he stood straight-backed and imposing, his chest swelling with wrath and his voice a parade-ground roar. ‘I want every man in your command out here now, then you’ll fetch me your officer.’

  If there was one way to beat a bastard it was to confront him with a bigger one. The sergeant threw a helpless glance at the marines already emerging sleepily from their tents, looked back at Jarvis, and capitulated. ‘Aye, aye, Sergeant-major, I mean yes, Sergeant-major, it’s Captain Broomfield, I’ll send a man …’

  ‘You’ll go yourself,’ said Jarvis, hissing the words with venom. ‘And at the double!’

  The sergeant turned and fled.

  Jarvis swivelled his gaze to the open-mouthed marines. ‘Now then, speak up. Have you let any civilians onto this quay tonight?’

  They shuffled nervously under his gaze, and Ryder saw a corporal exchange a glance with his neighbour. He said quickly, ‘No one’s in trouble. There’s going to be an attack on the ships, and there’s local help involved. If you’ve seen anyone, for God’s sake say.’

  The corporal glanced round again, took a deep breath and stepped forward. ‘Only some Bulgars, Sergeant. Just selling wine.’

  Jarvis’s brows lowered ominously, but Ryder intercepted him. ‘It’s a cold night, no harm in a drink. Where did they go?’

  No one seemed to know. ‘They did go on the quay,’ said one. ‘I saw them selling to … someone on guard, but I turned in after that. It was gone one o’clock.’

  Two hours ago. ‘Were they carrying anything? Just bottles?’

  The corporal sounded very sobered now. ‘Great sacks. There were five or six of them, all with leather sacks. I assumed they were bottles, but …’

  Ryder was already turning for the quay. Powder, it had to be, they were packing the fireship ready for the Russian sailors, but which one was it? The sentries must have seen something, he’d have to –

  ‘Hey!’ called an irate voice, and an immaculately dressed captain came marching towards them with a crumpled aide and the marine sergeant in his wake. ‘What the devil do you mean by it, disturbing an officer at this time of night? How dare you shout at my sergeant in front of his men?’

  The old game of hierarchy, when the Russians could be on them any moment. Jarvis dutifully reported, but the first mention of Ryder’s name sent Broomfield into fresh fury.

  ‘Ryder!’ he said, swinging vengefully round on him. ‘You’re the fellow who had us stood to all night on some damn-fool wild-goose chase. You’re at it again, aren’t you? Answer me – aren’t you?’

  Ryder had had enough. ‘Sir, there’ve been saboteurs on the quay, I need to talk –’

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said the captain. ‘You need to learn …’

  Ryder turned and strode onto the quay. The captain shouted ‘Guards, stop that man!’ but it was the guards he wanted anyway. He ran straight for the redcoat leaning against the harbourmaster’s office and called, ‘Listen, those wine sellers, did any of … ?’

  He stopped. Broomfield was shouting ‘Abbott, arrest him!’ but the redcoat didn’t move. He leaned against the lintel as nonchalantly as ever, but his head was lolling forward and his body kept upright only by the bayonet that skewered him to the wall.

  Ryder fought a wave of nausea. Men were pounding towards him along the quay, but they were irrelevant now and he turned to look for the other sentries. They too were unmoving, and the one under the shelter had fallen on his side. Dead, all of them, and the Bulgars already in a ship somewhere, one of the two dozen moored round the harbour.

  Footsteps stopped behind him, and he heard a gasp. ‘Abbott,’ said the marine corporal. ‘My God. Jimmy Abbott.’ Beyond him Captain Broomfield stood in shocked silence, his face suddenly wiped of expression. Mackenzie took one look, unslung his rifle, and turned to study the headland.

  The corporal recovered first. ‘It’s true then, Sergeant? The Russians are coming?’

  ‘Ryder,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Below the fortress – see it?’

  The headland was only a black mass in the dark, the ruined Genoese fortress a jet pillar rising out of it, and between them the night sky was thickened with fog. But Mackenzie was right. The air was still, no clouds were moving, but the fortress wall seemed to be darkening, then paling, darkening, then paling, as if by the passing of shadows.

  Ryder drew his revolver. ‘Not coming, Corporal. They’re already here.’

  Woodall liked the fog. It had the home feel of a London Particular, suggesting the rattle of hansom cabs and hazy glow of gaslight, the smells of wet cabbage and horse dung and in winter the roasting of chestnuts. He could picture himself walking the pavements with jingling coins in his pockets, refusing to toss with the pieman for the pleasure of taking his whole pay home to Maisie.

  He turned abruptly and began to pace the other way. There was nothing like that here. Picquet duty was standing in wet clothes in a cold you could catch your death in, and the only smell was an unpleasant sourness he had a suspicion came from his own clothes. No spares, and he wasn’t sitting round naked in a November fog while he waited for his own to dry. He wriggled his toes in the slimy softness of his socks and wondered if he mightn’t risk washing at least those.

  ‘Hang about,’ said Truman, coming
to a sudden stop beside him. ‘Is that bells?’

  Church bells from the sound of them, muffled and distant, somewhere in Sebastopol. ‘It’s Sunday, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s four in the morning. You don’t think they’re shriving the troops for another battle, do you?’

  Ryder had said they’d given them a church service last time. Woodall peered round at the swirling fog, the dark shapes of rocks and trees that seemed to loom up then float away even as he watched. ‘I hope not. We can’t fight in this beastly fog, it’s like a bonfire.’

  Truman grinned. ‘Very appropriate.’

  Woodall looked blankly at him. ‘Why?’

  Truman rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, chum, it’s November the 5th. Guy Fawkes Night.’

  Chum. Woodall glanced furtively round at the rest of the picquet, but unfortunately no one seemed to have heard. He said brilliantly, ‘Well, let’s hope we don’t get the fireworks to go with it.’

  Truman didn’t laugh. He rubbed his palm against his scrubby beard, and said, ‘Let’s hope.’

  ‘And run like hell!’ said Broomfield. His face was as pale as the fog. ‘Tell Captain Tatham we’ve only got minutes.’

  And not many of those. The marine set off at a breakneck pace, feet slamming the quay as he turned off for the path, but the shapes on the headland were already forming a cluster and starting to move downhill. It was too dark to count, but Ryder could be sure there’d be enough to tackle the two dozen marines now spread round the approaches. Angelo would have known exactly how many he had to beat, he’d been strolling round this area quite openly and unchallenged. One of the men who hadn’t challenged him was Ryder.

  ‘No sign of the Bulgars, sir,’ said the marine sergeant, panting back up along the quay. ‘All the guards are dead, every one of them, but there’s no ships moved.’

  Of course there weren’t, they were waiting for the sailors. ‘They’ll be on board one of them, sir, the hold already packed with powder.’