Into the Valley of Death

by A L Berridge

  His cartridges had long gone. Truman had ducked back into the enclosure to raid the pouches of the dead, but he doubted there’d be time to load anyway. Captain Burnaby was darting into the gaps with a pistol, shouting ‘Hold them, my boys, keep the beggars back!’ but Woodall’s own body was the front line, his and the men next to him behind a wall now hardly three feet high. Some hurled stones to defend themselves, some scraped up handfuls of earth and chucked it in the Russians’ faces, but the Russians were using the mounting corpses as a ramp, trampling their own dead to hurtle over the wall. Too many at once, and sandbags were scattering, he was thrown back and down as a whole pack charged into the enclosure.

  Truman was in their path. Woodall lost sight of him, there were only grey backs and the rise and thrust of bayonets, then the Russians swept on leaving Truman in a bloodied heap on the ground. Guards on the walls leaped to run after them, driven to a frenzy by the longed-for sight of enemy within reach. Someone was yelling, ‘Come on, come on, plenty for everyone!’

  But there weren’t. The few Russians inside weren’t anything like enough for the frustration of men who’d been forced all this time to stand impotent behind high walls. Some were rushing out of the embrasures to get at more of them, and even Captain Burnaby was climbing over the parapet to join the fight below. The battle seemed to be outside for a while, so Woodall clambered to his feet and went to find Truman.

  He was still alive, but spluttering bright red blood down his chin. Woodall propped him against the magazine, but the ripped and broken belly told him there was nothing to be done. Truman knew it too. He made a face like an irritated child, said ‘All up, chum,’ and gave Woodall the faintest of smiles.

  Woodall tried to think of something uplifting to say, but his wretched mind was blank, he was hearing only that word ‘chum’ and wanting to cry.

  ‘Fun though, wasn’t it?’ said Truman, and spat out blood. ‘Like playing King of the Castle as a kid.’

  Woodall struggled. ‘I’ve never played it.’

  ‘No,’ said Truman, and there was something sad in his eyes. ‘I don’t suppose you have.’ His face screwed into spasm, then his mouth fell open and the blood poured out unchecked.

  The sound of gunfire seemed to come from a long way away. Woodall turned wearily back to the walls, but saw with a growing unease they were now half empty, abandoned by their defenders in the dash outside. He walked back to his old place to look over the parapet.

  The valley was in turmoil. Everywhere he looked men were hurtling down the slopes to join the battle on the valley floor, red-coated linesmen thronging in among the fighting mass of grey. Only the 46th and 68th were fighting in red today, it had to be the Fourth Division, but why were they here, why had they abandoned the heights? Others were catching the contagion, the Coldstream starting to swoop downhill and even the Scots Fusiliers edging from their post on the ridge to advance on the Russians below. What possessed them? It was against orders, against sense, what the hell did they think they were playing at?

  ‘Charge,’ said a voice, vaguely familiar and somewhere above him. ‘Charge!’

  Then the whole enclosure was at it, loyal, level-headed Guards yelling ‘Charge, charge!’ and rushing to the embrasures, leaping and vaulting over the low shoulders of the work, taking a way out anywhere they could find. ‘No!’ yelled the Duke, ‘No!’ yelled General Bentinck, ‘No!’ yelled Lieutenant Verschoyle, holding firm to the colours, but they were all ignored, everything forgotten in the need to be let loose on the Russians outside. One man had done this, one order, and Woodall looked frantically round to see who had given it.

  And there he was. On horseback outside the enclosure, little to see but the cocked hat and beneath it a bandaged neck and battered face Woodall knew he ought to recognize. No staff officer would come out looking like that, and this man wasn’t one. He oughtn’t to be here, he should be dead or captured in the ambush Ryder had set, but somehow the spy was right among their own ranks and leading them all to destruction.

  23

  5 November 1854, 8.10 a.m. to 2.00 p.m.

  Ryder knew. The Guards hurtling pell-mell down the slopes, their officers’ vain shouts of ‘Halt, halt!’ – it was the bloody Alma all over again and the same evil mind behind it. He yelled ‘Come on!’ and began to pound harder up the gully.

  ‘It’s all right,’ panted Oliver, struggling to keep pace. ‘The Russians are running, I can’t see an ambush.’

  ‘Look up,’ said Ryder savagely. ‘Can’t you see, we’re losing the high ground.’

  They’d already lost it. The flags still flew in the Sandbag Battery, but there was only a small wing of linesmen left to protect it, while everyone else was plunging into the valley or pursuing the fleeing Russians into St Clement’s Ravine behind. The Fourth Division should be round there somewhere, but devastating gunfire round the Kitspur’s flanks suggested they too were in trouble. The whoops of distant victory were already changing to cries of alarm, and again came the gunfire, again and again, pierced only by the frantic call of an invisible trumpet begging for help. There bloody well was an ambush somewhere, and creeping round here too. Russians were emerging from cover and firing from the hillside, the valley was only an invitation to death.

  Some Guards had already seen it, and were pelting back for Fore Ridge and the safety of their own Heights. There were troops up there, thank God, swarming round the highest point at Mount Head, but as the Guards neared them a little bloom of whiteness flowered in the fog, then another, and the bang of musketry echoed round the hills. The troops were Russians, Russians on the British Heights, firing down on the helpless soldiers below.

  No time to ask how, no time for anything but to climb. The Battery was alone and unprotected above them, Russians already starting to move towards it from Mount Head, and nothing in their way but those linesmen on the ridge. That would be the 95th, one of the most solid regiments in the Line, they only needed to hold long enough for reinforcements to sweep the Russians off the Heights. He climbed higher and higher, until the linesmen became individuals above him, hopping from one leg to the other with cold while they looked enviously at the fight below. There’d be an officer here somewhere, someone he could –

  ‘Charge!’ yelled a voice. ‘At them, 95th! Charge!’

  ‘No!’ Ryder shouted. ‘No, hold your ground!’ but he was one lowly cavalryman with hardly the breath to speak, and the Derbyshire men were already breaking ranks to pour headlong down the hill. An officer shouted ‘Who gave that order?’ another cried ‘No, men, stay where you are!’ but still they were pelting downhill, thicker and thicker, down and down. He ran with arms outstretched to stop them, but they came charging on, a heavy body cannoned into him, his legs swept from under him, and his head thumped hard on the stony ground. Black-trousered legs stampeded all sides of him, the 95th running down and out of reach.

  Mackenzie pulled him out of their path, and he didn’t bother to resist. The linesmen were gone, and the heights left empty for the Russians advancing on the Battery. Only one man was up there now, a horseman turning away into the fog, and Ryder didn’t need to make out the shape of the cocked hat to know who it must be. Angelo had won again.

  Oliver swept off his shako in defeat. ‘They’ll get the colours. We can’t stop them.’

  They were moving now, those two defiant banners, hurrying out of the Sandbag Battery as if their bearers had only just realized the danger, but the cluster of Guards around them couldn’t number more than a hundred. Flags, that was all, nothing for a man to die for, but the thought of Angelo laying hands on them was suddenly unbearable.

  He struggled to his feet and said, ‘We can try.’

  Woodall pressed close to the colour party. The Russians were after his flag.

  And looked like ruddy getting it. Urgency screamed in the officers’ voices as they urged them all faster, faster, on along the ridge to where the Scots Fusiliers should have been, where the 95th should have been, and where suddenly ther
e was no one at all. A few stragglers were clambering back up to reach them, but their only hope was to beat through the Russians on Mount Head to the safety of the British lines.

  It wasn’t much of one. Officers were pleading with the Duke, ‘You must go, sir, you simply can’t be taken,’ and a moment later their commander galloped away from them, riding hard for Mount Head with only his aide by his side. Woodall watched breathlessly as he scraped by the left flank of the approaching Russian infantry, but the horses won the day, the Duke was through and past with only a few stray musket balls flying harmlessly round his departing shadow.

  But now it was their turn, and they had to do it on foot. Woodall glanced behind and saw how few they were now, sixty at best, with thousands closing in on them from all sides. He said, ‘This looks sticky,’ but the man next to him wasn’t Truman, he was a linesman and a stranger. Woodall was in the worst mess he’d faced in his whole life, and he was quite alone.

  ‘Carry high the colours!’ called an officer, and up went the Regimental at their front. The Queen’s was even nearer, Lieutenant Turner was only a rank in front of Woodall, and the great red flag was spreading and shining right before his eyes. There was no wind to swell it, but Turner was waving it, flying it broad and high to draw the eyes of any stragglers, to bring any British soldier with a soul running to their aid. Woodall’s eyes filled with water, but still the colours waved and nobody came.

  Except the Russians. A roar of voices was growing behind them, enemy flocking from round the Battery to chase this greater prize. The lot from Mount Head were spreading to take them front and right flank, there was nothing to do but run and keep left. Order crumbled, other men’s boots banging into his heels, some turning aside to fire at Russians climbing up from the valley. Verschoyle would make it, surely he would, charging in the same path as the Duke, but the advancing Russians were curving round at his rear, cutting off Turner’s band of defenders from following.

  Then here it was again, the bang of musketry and clash of bayonets ahead. ‘Close in!’ called English voices, ‘Close round the colours!’ and he was, he couldn’t get any closer, they could have covered the lot of them with a ruddy sheet. But there was behind to watch too, and he swung round to face off the Russians coming the other way.

  They were coming all right, a great rampaging pack of them, but a group of maybe fifteen Guards were spreading across the ridge to block them. Captain Burnaby had come back to save them, he was making a rear-guard to help them get away. It bought time, it bought him the seconds to swing back and thrust at the Russian running in from his right. Another behind him, two, they must have cut past Burnaby. Woodall stamped and lunged into one, lowered his head and rammed it smash into the other’s face. The colours were already yards away, he turned to follow – and stopped.

  Burnaby was right. Fighting by the colours only slowed them, giving the Russians time to move in. To defend them he had to let them go, to stand here and let nobody past. He turned again, planted his feet square on the turf, brought up his rifle and realized with dull astonishment he was waiting to die.

  And here it came. Another Russian through, Woodall braced to meet him, but something jerked him back, the man he’d already downed was grabbing round his knees. He was wobbling, tottering, kicking out at the clinging man’s face, screaming and weaving with his bayonet at the other. Yet another coming, a man thundering up the slope from his right, he yelled ‘Get back, back!’ and spun the bayonet to face him, but the colour was blue, not grey, and the face was Harry Ryder’s.

  For a terrible second Woodall wondered if his mind had snapped, but a pistol cracked and the Russian in front fell, that was really Ryder springing to his side, and behind him ran Mackenzie and Polly Oliver. He was surrounded by friends, they’d seen him in danger and come for him, and his head whirled in a sudden intoxication of happiness.

  More Russians were running at him, maybe a dozen, but he kicked away the one at his knees and wondered why he’d found it so hard before. He heard the ring of steel as Ryder and Oliver drew their swords, he heard Mackenzie fire, and stood ready with his own bayonet to face whatever came. They stood side by side, the four of them, and when the enemy were near enough they charged. The joy of attacking, fighting forward, the rifle thrust out, not tucked into his own body, he roared in the faces of the Russians as he cut them down. There were more coming behind, Burnaby’s men must be down, but still he was stamping and thrusting, aware of the whistling of Ryder’s sword clearing space to his left, of Oliver’s to his right, of the occasional crack of their pistols, and beyond them a terrifying war-cry he knew must be Mackenzie.

  Then something else was dashing in from their flank, a great rush of men cheering and yelling, he glimpsed scarlet trousers and knew it was the French. The Frogs were in, now the Russians would catch it, but there were still these beggars in front to deal with, and even as he bashed the butt down on a man’s skull he was turning with eagerness for the next. Another, but he stumbled over a corpse as he lunged, and an icy pain ripped into his chest, the shock tightening like a hand round his throat. He stabbed out blindly, but his knees were buckling, Ryder’s voice cried ‘Woody!’ then he tasted blood in his mouth and knew.

  He was on the ground, men’s feet stamping round him, but his breathing was bubbly and painful, and he wanted to see his friends. He strained up his neck to peer through the fog, and saw high in the distance a square of red that caught his heart and stopped his breath. The Queen’s colour was past the Russians, it was safe and starting round to the British lines at Home Ridge. Its red and gold were blackened with smoke and tattered by gunfire, but he gazed until his eyes darkened and knew it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  Ryder slashed after the last retreating Russian and dropped to his knees by Woodall’s side. The French had it now, they were charging after the fleeing enemy, the bloody army could give him a moment to look to his friend.

  Dennis Woodall was dead. The ugly red wound splattered through his greatcoat was seeping, not bleeding, and the eyes gazed openly at nothing. Ryder brushed them gently closed, and wondered what had brought that little smile to the dead face, what made it look so peaceful. Above him he heard Oliver mumbling softly and knew he was praying.

  ‘A brave end,’ said Mackenzie sadly. ‘He was a fine soldier.’ He began to reload.

  That was all really, and Ryder knew it. There was no room for sentiment here, this was just another dead soldier in a battle, another victim of the bloody madness caused by a man Ryder had allowed to escape.

  He looked up in despair into the grey world. The fog was thinner on the ridge, floating and wispy, opening little glimpses of clarity in the murk. The Grenadier colours were already out of sight, but he heard the distant cheering that greeted them from the British lines beyond. The sound drifted back over the slopes to the shadowy figure of a horseman standing in a fold of the hills, as if he too had stopped to listen. The fog eddied and drifted, wreathing him in smoke, then parted to reveal a cloaked figure in a cocked hat, whose head was just turning to Ryder as if he knew himself watched. There was a bandage round his neck.

  Then he was scrabbling to his feet, snatching uselessly at his empty revolver, remembering Mackenzie’s rifle, shouting ‘Niall – there! Shoot him – there!’

  Mackenzie turned on the first word, and had the Minié up on the third, but the horseman had already turned to ride away, an ordinary respectable British staff officer. A fraction of a second, Mackenzie hesitating, Ryder screamed ‘Now!’ but the horseman heard him, he was turning again, and then the bang, two of them, like an expanded echo. Angelo was toppling, but it was the horse that was hit, he himself rolling free, and Ryder turned to see Mackenzie dropping to his knees, his bonnet blown off, his curly hair growing redder and redder, then his whole body slumping gently to the ground. God, no, not another, not Mackenzie too.

  Then he was screaming again, this time without words, and running as if there were no such things as pain and tiredness, p
ounding after the unhorsed Russian, the man who’d done all of it and had to be made to pay. Oliver was with him, he heard the frantic panting and thudding of feet, and the gasps that told him the boy was crying as he ran. He should save it, the time for that was later, now they were going to kill.

  Angelo knew it, he was going all out for the safety of the Quarry Ravine. He had distance on them, he could reach it in two minutes, but he’d been hurt in the fall, his running was awkward, lop-sided and clumsy, and slowly they were gaining. A smooth crop of rocks, Ryder ran up and over them, dug in his boot and sprang. Angelo swung wildly round with the revolver, but Ryder’s sabre was already slashing down, crunch across the forearm, drop it, you bastard, drop it and fight like a man.

  The pistol fell, but Angelo jumped back to snatch out his own sword. It was good British steel, better than Ryder’s own, but what mattered was the arm that wielded it, and Angelo’s was wounded and Ryder’s young and strong and driven to rage at the death of his friends. He never even thought of the cavalry drill, it was a man not a target he was hitting, and he did it with hate. Once to beat the sword away, back across the cheek, down across the front of the chest, up to slice the jaw, then step back to stab the knee and bring the bastard down where he belonged. Down he came, thump on the grass, bleeding and coughing, human and beatable and finally beaten. Ryder drew back his sword to impale him to the ground.

  ‘No!’ cried Oliver behind him. ‘Not while he’s down!’

  Ryder gripped his hilt harder and damned British decency to hell, but it was no good, the words had been said, the notion was in, and he was back in the old, clean world they’d left behind above the fog. He lowered the sword, and looked down at the man who’d done so much to destroy it. A quick death was too good for him anyway.