The Valley of Death

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  As he was writing, a dark shadow filled the entrance to the cave, and he glanced up, instinctively knowing that this was not one of his men returned early. He half expected to see a Cossack standing there, from one of the death squads hunting him down, but though it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise, the figure was not the shape of a man.

  A brown bear stood there, regarding him thoughtfully, its massive head swaying to and fro. Even from so far away, Crossman could smell the creature’s stinking breath, and he wanted to gag: its teeth must have been as rotten as those in Wynter’s head. That did not mean they were unserviceable teeth though, and there was nothing wrong with its claws.

  ‘Jesus,’ murmured Crossman, a wave of religion flooding through him for a moment.

  It was a large beast, but fortunately for Crossman it could not stand on its hind legs due to the low ceiling at the cave’s entrance. It only had to move a few paces inside, however, to find that room. Crossman’s hand went inside his shirt, reaching down to his waistband for his Tranter revolver. He wished it were a 24-pound cannon.

  The bear lifted its head as if it heard something and growled menacingly in the back of its throat.

  ‘A bear,’ moaned Crossman in reply. ‘How did you get here?’

  He found the handle of his pistol and withdrew the weapon slowly, at the same time raising his legs so that he was tucked into a hollow, a niche, at the back of the cave. The bear moved further in, sniffing loudly. Crossman raised his firearm, aimed at the bear’s head, but his hand was shaking so much he did not fire the weapon for fear he might just wound the creature and have to contend with a crazed animal in a small space.

  The bear did not come anywhere near him, however, but went straight to Wynter’s knapsack, ripping it open with its claws. There it found what it wanted: salt-beef and biscuits. It ate the meat and biscuits very quickly, then moved on to other knapsacks.

  Crossman heard voices then. Wynter and Clancy were coming back up the slope, clunking their water bottles, arguing and making one hell of a din. The newly formed alliance against the Ranger sergeant had obviously not lasted very long. Jack Crossman cursed his men for not being alert and straight-thinking. They were supposed to be out on a fox hunt, not at home in some inn’s backyard, quarrelling about this and that. Crossman could hear Wynter’s whining tone and the deeper voice of Clancy going at each other.

  Shut up, damn you, the pair of you, thought Crossman. By God I’ll bang your heads together when I get hold of you.

  And where were the bloody sentries he’d posted? What was Peterson doing? And Devlin? Hadn’t they seen the bear walk past them? Perhaps it had come up the slope from the stream. That would make sense. It had been drinking. Peterson and Devlin might not have noticed a bear moving through the thick shrubs which covered the slopes down to the water. Wynter and Clancy should have seen it though, if they hadn’t been so engrossed in winning their arguments.

  The bear glanced up on hearing the two men approach the cave entrance, but it was a disinterested look, as if the creature could not care less who came in so long as they did not interrupt its meal.

  At the last minute, Crossman shouted, ‘Don’t come in here – there’s a bear.’

  He heard the arguments stop immediately, then saw both men peering into the dimness, their carbines at the ready. Wynter saw the bear. His eyes widened, as well they might, at the size of it. The lance corporal raised his weapon to his shoulder, catching a buckle as he did so.

  The bear glanced up at the clinking sound but appeared unconcerned.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ said Clancy, grabbing Wynter’s arm. ‘Leave it be!’

  ‘What?’ cried Wynter, confused. ‘What’s to do, man? It’s goin’ to eat the sergeant if we don’t shoot it.’

  ‘The bear’s blind,’ Clancy said, moving forward. ‘And there’s the mark of the chain on its neck. Come down, Sergeant. Move slow towards me. Come on, don’t worry, I’ve seen bears like this. Go round the edge.’

  Crossman did as he was urged, Clancy sounding as if he knew what he was talking about. By the time he reached the door, Clancy was standing close to the bear, watching it chomp away on salt-pork and salt-beef, eating the rations the men had humped all the way up into the hills.

  ‘How about saving some of the biscuits,’ complained Wynter, ‘you knowing so much about bears and such?’

  ‘It might be a tame bear,’ said Clancy, ‘but I’m not fool enough to take away its food. We’ll just have to let it finish.’

  He came back out to where Crossman was still trembling a little from the experience.

  ‘You all right, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, just a shock that’s all. You say this is a tame bear? What, a dancing bear?’

  ‘No, it’s not that tame. It’s been blinded, Sergeant. Look, its eyes have been taken out. I think it’s been used for bear-baiting. They often do that to ones used for bear-baiting – blind them. It’s so the dogs stand more chance against it, otherwise it’d kill them too easy.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Wynter, ‘they sets savage creatures against each other – dogs against this bear? – for sport? I bet that’s somethin’ to watch, eh? Maybe we could take this bear back with us and earn a bit in the camp.’

  Clancy whirled on him. ‘That’s typical of your kind, Wynter. You don’t worry about the poor creature’s feelings, do you? All you think about is profit.’

  ‘Bears an’t got feelings,’ muttered Wynter, but he could see the fury in Clancy’s eyes and his tone was half conciliatory. ‘Bears are brutish animals, an’t they? God didn’t give ’em souls and such, I’m sure.’

  At that moment there was a hoot from the heights above the cave. Peterson had seen someone coming. Shortly after the hoot came the sound of a shrill whistle. The bear looked up and came to the entrance of the cave, its nose twitching and pointing. The whistle came again and the bear trundled off, down the slope, in the direction of the noise.

  ‘Wynter,’ whispered Crossman. ‘Follow it. See who it belongs to – but stay hidden. Clancy, gather up the knapsacks in the cave and hide them best as you can. I’m going up to Peterson’s lookout point. I’ll follow your movements from there, Wynter.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Sergeant,’ said Wynter sarcastically, but he did as he was told, following the bear at a distance, keeping well down in the vegetation.

  Crossman climbed up a narrow chimney in the cliff face, to find himself in a cleft between two rocks. Peterson was there, her carbine following Wynter’s movements through the brush. She pointed, showing Crossman where to look. There, on the path the bear had taken, were three men. Two were Russian soldiers in grey coats. The third was a figure not unlike Yusuf Ali, in baggy civilian clothes. He had a chain on a pole in one hand and some kind of food in the other. There was a whistle in his mouth, which he blew at intervals, at the same time as waving the food in the air, allowing its scent to carry on the breeze.

  ‘Entertainment for the Russian infantry,’ muttered Crossman. ‘The bear must have got away from them in the night.’

  Finally, the bear reached the small group. The trainer threw it the hunk of food. Then as it was eating it, the man looped the chain carefully around the bear’s neck. The bear did not seem at all aggressive as it was led away along the pathway that followed the stream eastwards.

  Wynter continued to track the small group, following at a good distance, until Peterson and Crossman lost sight of him.

  ‘Well, he may be a pain in the backside,’ said Crossman, ‘but he knows how to stalk. I’ll wait in the cave for his report. Are you all right up here, Peterson?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  She looked a little drawn, however, and Crossman unwisely enquired further.

  ‘What’s the matter, Corporal? Are you ill? You haven’t got the cholera? Or dysentery?’

  Peterson grimaced. ‘Not the cholera, Sergeant, but something just as terrible to a soldier in my position.’ She turned and looked at him. ‘Women’s matters.’<
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  Crossman said, ‘Oh,’ and coloured up. ‘Oh well – I’m sure you’ll handle it.’

  He left her there, not allowing the images in his head to form anything more vague than the picture of a soldier in discomfort. If he tried to visualize how she would deal with her problems he knew he would start wondering what he was doing harbouring a woman in his peloton. It would not do to begin taking such things into consideration when he posted picquets and handed out duties to his band of saboteurs. Best to put it out of his head and let her get on with her own difficulties.

  Once back in the cave he began to worry about the Bashi-Bazouk. Had Yusuf Ali run into any Russian patrols? This was, after all, their country, and they would have Tartars amongst them who would know it well.

  His fears were confirmed when Wynter returned later in the morning.

  ‘There’s fifty or sixty of ’em, Sergeant. Russian infantry. They’ve made a sort of camp further along, in some fir trees. And they’ve got Yusuf Ali. He’s tied to a tree . . .’

  ‘Damn,’ muttered Crossman.

  This left him with a dilemma. Peterson and Devlin were at this moment posted on the two best vantage points in the Fedioukine Hills, from where it would be unlikely they would miss sighting the caravan. However, if Crossman were to save Ali he might need all his soldiers. He would have to bring the two picquets down and leave the trails unwatched.

  ‘Damn Ali’s hide. He’s put me in a spot now.’

  ‘What are we goin’ to do then, Sergeant? It could take all of us to get him loose.’

  Finally, after much heart-searching, Crossman decided he could not leave Ali to his fate. The Bashi-Bazouk had saved his life on more than one occasion and was, besides, a valuable member of the group. Crossman knew he would be hanged, drawn and quartered on his return, for putting the life of a Turk over the success of the fox hunt, but he simply could not abandon a man who was not only a valuable soldier, but was now a good friend.

  ‘We’ll go after Ali,’ he said, gathering together his kit. ‘From the accounts I was given before leaving Balaclava, the caravan should be around this area today. If it passes while we’re otherwise engaged, we’ll try to pick up its trail and track it later. Get the picquets down.’

  Wynter nodded. ‘Lord knows, me and the Turk have got our differences,’ he said, ‘but you can’t leave one of your own to them savages back there.’

  The lance corporal went off to fetch Devlin and Peterson, while Crossman found Clancy down by the stream.

  ‘Come on, Clancy, your first bit of action,’ said Crossman. ‘We’re rescuing the Bashi-Bazouk from the Russians.’

  ‘My first bit of action?’ Clancy said indignantly. ‘I was at the Alma, Sergeant.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Private – I meant with Sergeant Crossman and his band of misfits. Set to, now. Go help the others break camp. We must be on our way in minutes.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  The dark-skinned man made his way back up to the cave, leaving Crossman to splash some water on his face by way of performing his ablutions.

  ‘I hope I’m doing the right thing,’ he murmured to the bushes and the world in general. ‘I don’t know whether even Ali would approve of this . . .’

  Wynter led the way and the other four followed. During the time they had been a unit the Bashi-Bazouk had taught them how to move silently through rugged countryside. The rotund and flamboyant Turk could pick his way across loose scree without disturbing a single stone. A clumsy beetle made more noise on its feet than Yusuf Ali. Some of this skill, and others, he had managed to pass on to the peloton, enabling them to become reasonable scouts and pathfinders, trackers and stalkers.

  The days were now cooler and the nights cold, as they were moving into October. In the hills, the light seemed softer and moister. It was preferable to the atmosphere down in their hovel close to Balaclava, where the stink of livestock and human faeces overpowered everything. Up here too, there was no mud to cling to every part of one’s boots and clothing. Conditions down there were worsening with each day, since an army on the move can leave its sewage and rubbish behind it, but a static army gradually sinks into a self-made morass.

  They picked juicy berries from bushes as they walked, to keep up their strength and to help preserve their water supply. By mid-afternoon they had reached the spot where Wynter had turned back after seeing the Russians. The enemy had struck camp, however, and had taken to the trail again.

  For the first time Crossman wondered what on earth a section of sixty-odd Russian infantry were doing, marching through the Fedioukine Hills. Were they going somewhere, or coming from some place? Perhaps they were a larger version of Crossman and his peloton. Perhaps they were saboteurs.

  Wynter led them on, using the abilities taught him by the Bashi-Bazouk, and finally they picked up the tail end of the Russian file.

  They followed until early evening, when the Russians made camp amongst some trees. So confident were the enemy that they posted only two sentries, to the west and south, facing the position of the British and French armies. Obviously they felt they had nothing to fear from the other directions.

  While the Russians organized themselves, Crossman and his men took a vantage point in some rocks to the north, looking down on the grove and its occupiers. It was near enough to witness what went on in the enemy camp, yet far enough away to hold quiet discussions on their next move.

  Smoke curled out of the trees, drifting up into the evening. The soldiers below clattered and banged, laughing, eating and drinking. Crossman could smell alcohol and knew some of the Russians were becoming intoxicated. The Tartar who owned the bear went off with some soldiers carrying nets and poles with nooses on the end. This group followed the slopes down into the valley below.

  Crossman used his spyglass to locate Yusuf Ali, who was tied to a tree in the middle of the encampment. The bear was chained to a stake nearby, docile as a lamb. It was lapping water from a tin dish and shaking its head as if it had ticks in its ears, which amongst its other parasites it probably did. The beast was in poor condition, since its owner obviously did not see to its personal hygiene and the bear, now being blind, could not care for itself as it might have done.

  Crossman’s group chewed on fragments of salt-pork which the bear had missed on his rampage through their kit.

  Before dark had fallen, the bear-handler returned with the soldiers. They had caught some five wild dogs, probably a whole pack. They were small, flea-bitten animals in as poor condition as the bear itself. They barked and snapped at the men and each other, as they were dragged along on the end of noosed poles.

  ‘Here we go,’ whispered Wynter. ‘You should enjoy this, Clancy – it’s what they do in your country, an’t it, darkie?’

  ‘My country is Ireland,’ growled Clancy, menacingly, ‘and don’t you forget it, Wynter.’

  ‘Just havin’ a bit of fun,’ said Wynter, aggrieved. ‘I don’t mean no harm.’

  ‘Where’s the humour in it, Wynter?’

  The soldier did not answer but, aware that the eyes of the others were on him, avoided looking up.

  In the grove below, things were happening. The bear had been chained high by the neck, so that it now stood on its hind legs and was being prodded by a soldier with a sword. Its naturally quiet nature left it and it began to become enraged, lashing out futilely at the soldier tormenting it. The man laughed, and stabbed and poked, knowing the bear could not see where the sword was going to prick it next. The beast’s great claws swished through the air, tearing leaves and branches from the tree to which it was tied. It growled and moaned under this torture, confined by the length of the thick chain.

  The Russian soldiers formed a ring, bayonets fixed to their rifles, inside which the dogs were forced forward at blade point, snapping and snarling. The only way out for the dogs was through the bear, who now had a scent of the canines and knew what was to come. It stood high on its hind legs, swiping the air before it, waiting for the pack.


  The dogs too, seemed to know what was expected of them. They went at it in twos and threes, leaping up at the bear, biting its arms and chest. Those who did not jump went for the legs, tearing at the poor creature’s ankles. Patches of blood began to appear on the bear and its fur began to drip red. The scent of blood made the dogs go insane. They threw themselves at the great beast, the bolder ones going for the throat now, trying to tear out the bear’s gullet and so finish it.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ whispered Peterson. ‘I can’t watch this . . .’

  The others felt the same but were unable to tear their eyes from the scene, just as a man witnessing a terrible tragedy is powerless to take his eyes from drowning or burning or crushed people, even though the sight is sickening and horror fills his breast.

  Pieces of fur flew. Bits of bloody flesh flicked on to the faces of the goading watchers. The crazed eyes of the dogs were white with fear and bloodlust, their jaws slavering and foaming. The bear cried out in its agony and rage, a god of the forest being mercilessly tormented by these canine fiends.