The Valley of Death

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘I’d guess at a thousand rounds, sir,’ said Crossman.

  ‘Excellent.’ General Buller rubbed his hands together. ‘At least we’re making progress in the little things. If only we could budge His Highness . . .’ He stopped as if suddenly realizing the impropriety of making such a remark in the presence of a junior officer and an NCO. ‘Well, there we are. Off you go, the pair of you. Well done, again.’

  The two men, given their leave, went back to the hovel together, where Dalton-James went into conversation with Major Lovelace over the arrangements to retrieve the rifles.

  Crossman went out to find water to wash. He was stripped to his waist and was dipping his head in a rain barrel, when Lavinia Durham came around the corner on her horse. He pretended he had not seen her and waited for her to move on. It seemed, however, he was not going to escape her that easily.

  ‘I am not moving from this place, until you speak with me, Alexander,’ she said.

  She had that determined look on her face that he knew so well. Crossman sighed and reached for his coatee, having abandoned his sheepskin coat before going to see Buller. She gasped when she saw the stripes on the sleeve.

  ‘Sergeant?’ she said, looking down at him. ‘Are you not an officer?’

  He was concerned that someone would see them and wonder what was going on. There was traffic using the road and at any time one of Crossman’s superiors might pass them.

  ‘Lavinia, get down from that horse and speak with me properly, if you please,’ Crossman said in an authoritative tone. ‘I am not going to converse with you from this disadvantageous position. You already have me up against the wall. Equal footing, if you please, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice, Alexander. You have no hold over me now, you know,’ she said, tilting her chin a little. ‘Bertie is my lord and master now.’

  And Bertie is welcome to this side of you, my dear, thought Crossman.

  Despite her words the small and shapely Lavinia Durham dismounted and held her horse by the reins as she looked up into the tall man’s eyes. He stared at her pretty round face with the little curved nose and big hazel eyes. She had not changed a jot. Still pretty, rather than beautiful, with a permanent slightly cross expression on her face, underlined by a determined mouth. In spite of himself he felt his heart melting.

  When she looked up into his eyes from close quarters her expression softened.

  ‘Oh Alex, what happened to us?’

  ‘If you mean in the past, we – we were too young,’ he said. ‘Much too young.’

  Her mouth firmed up again. ‘You did not need to go away so suddenly, without a word.’

  Old anger flared inside him too. ‘I’m afraid I did need to – and you, you could have trusted me. You could have waited.’

  Her eyes moistened. ‘I still don’t understand why you had to go. Will you not explain it to me now? I mean, how is it that you are a man in the ranks? A sergeant? Your father’s regiment is but a few paces away. Your brother is with him. Do they not know you are here, Alex? What has happened to you? I deserve an explanation.’

  ‘Yes, you do, but not here, Lavinia. Some other time. I – I have to tell you, however, that I’m enlisted under a false name. The name I am known by is Jack Crossman. It means nothing – it is just a nom de guerre. My father and brother have no idea that I’m serving in the ranks and I would prefer it to stay that way, if you please, my dear.’

  ‘I am not your dear.’

  Two French officers passed them by, from the Chasseurs d’Afrique regiment, a basketful of frogs between them. They had obviously been out collecting. One of them smiled at Lavinia and saluted the way one salutes a lady.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you know they cut the legs off the poor creatures while they are still alive?’

  He couldn’t resist it, hoping humour might lighten the situation. ‘The frogs or the Frenchmen?’

  She turned to face him again. ‘Both,’ she replied. ‘I’ve seen it done to both. Now, sir, are you going to apologize for being so familiar? It’s not right, you know, to call me your dear. I belong to another.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Mrs Durham. You are a married lady now. I hope you are very happy. I wish it with all my heart. I’m sure – I’m positive – Bertie is a marvellous husband. He should be. He should be very proud of having such a wonderful wife.’

  She looked away with a sour expression. ‘As to that, well, it is convenient. I get to do as I like, for he is an indulgent husband, but I do not know what happiness means.’ She stared Crossman directly in the eyes. ‘You know I have a reputation?’

  He shrugged. ‘It is none of my business, Lavinia.’

  She nodded, the sour expression returning. ‘Yes, I have a reputation. They call me the Vulture, do they not? Because I like the blood and gore of battle. Well, I refuse to apologize for my enthusiasm for warfare, but it’s not so much the blood, it’s the excitement. I need excitement in my life, Alex. I’m that kind of woman. I love the roar and thunder of battle, the shouting and the clash of steel. I love the colour—’

  ‘The colour of blood?’

  She shook her head and looked away. ‘See, even you do not understand. I thought you might, but I was wrong.’ She turned back with a fierce expression. ‘But I am not a wanton woman, Alex. That part of the reputation is wrong. I do not have secret liaisons with men. I have many friends, many followers, but no lovers. Do you understand me?’

  He was shocked by the intensity of her words and by the force of her aspect.

  ‘If you say so, then I believe you,’ he said gently. ‘You always spoke the truth, Lavinia. Sometimes it was not the truth people wanted to hear, but you spoke it anyway. If you say you are true to your husband, then I accept your statement without reservation. Not that it matters to me, in any case. I have no claim on the truth from you.’

  ‘It’s important to me that you believe me.’

  ‘I do, I do.’

  She slapped her quirt against her thigh, making her mount jump a little, jerking the reins in her hand.

  ‘Why do they do that?’ she said, almost as if she were speaking to herself. ‘Why do they fill their smutty minds with such nasty pictures?’

  ‘Because they are frightened men and need something else to think about but the blood and gore of battle.’

  ‘You would excuse them,’ she flashed. ‘I think it is because they have minds like dung heaps.’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said, smiling a little at the fire in her. ‘Lavinia, it has been pleasant speaking with you, but I must go on. I – I have to meet my commanding officer and report,’ he lied.

  She suddenly thought of something. ‘Why were you dressed like a sheep-stealer? And that beard, it looks frightful on you, Alex. You’re such a handsome man underneath. You smell like a goat. What is all this?’

  He was trapped. If he fobbed her off with some silly story, she would dig elsewhere and come up with the truth. He knew her well. It was dangerous to let her loose with only a fragment of the real picture. She might go running to the wrong parties and questioning the wrong men. It was better he put her straight, here and now, and trust to her secrecy.

  ‘I’m – I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I will – I’m working incognito. It’s my job to go out and count the enemy battalions. It’s not hazardous work, but it has to be done. I’m with the 88th Foot for my normal duties, but Major Lovelace is my real master.’

  ‘I thought Fitzroy didn’t like spies?’

  ‘Fitzroy?’

  She smiled. ‘Lord Raglan to you. He doesn’t, you know. He can’t abide them. Are you under his orders?’

  ‘No, my commander is one of his generals. Lavinia, you mustn’t say a word about this. It could get people into trouble. Not just me, there are many involved.’

  ‘I might keep it to myself, if I’m inclined to.’

  ‘Lavinia, please.’

  ‘Just as I might not go to your father and tell him you’re here, dressed
as a bandit, smelling like a goat. I might even not tell him you’re in the ranks, a sergeant. It all depends, doesn’t it?’

  She mounted her horse again, leaving him in a torment of suspense.

  He took hold of the bridle and held her there for a moment, looking up into her lovely face. Her small riding hat was tipped a little forward, in the style of the times, and there was shadow over her eyes, but still they sparkled. Her riding habit emphasized her shapely figure as she sat high in the saddle, waiting for him to speak. He had once adored her. There were still small embers in his breast. At that moment he wanted to hold her close to him, but she was now forbidden to all except the unremarkable Bertie, with his paunch and hearty laugh.

  ‘Lavinia,’ said Crossman, ‘I loved you once.’

  She stared down into his eyes with a strange expression on her face.

  ‘And you will love me again,’ she said ominously, whipping her horse forward, jerking the bridle from his hands.

  She trotted, then cantered away, up the path alongside the road, scattering soldiers using the only hard piece of ground in the gorge with the carelessness of a refined lady.

  Crossman sighed in hopelessness. Why did things have to suddenly complicate themselves? As if life were not bad enough with Cossack death squads hunting him by night and Lieutenant Dalton-James badgering him by day, he had to run into his only former sweetheart, here on a muddy track in the Crimea. If God had some plan for him, it was an enmeshed one, full of crisscrossing lines and complex meetings.

  He had met Lavinia at an Oxford ball when he was at the university. She was a sparkling jewel then, fresh-faced, innocent, a little too forward (always a little too forward) but not outrageous in her behaviour. They had fallen in love, as young people do, in an instant. Picnics by the Thames had followed. Hunts with her brothers. Riding down to Fordwells village of a Sunday, where a lenient aunt of hers allowed them time together alone. It was a sweet time, a time of pure love and gaiety, of anxiousness, of earnestness.

  Then he had gone home, to talk of her to his parents, and had found instead the truth about his birth.

  It was all in the past now, all history.

  He thought about his joke that had gone wrong, just a few moments ago. She was no longer the innocent, naive girl he had once known. His sweetheart had seen the horrors of war, had witnessed men’s brains being splashed over the battlefield. She had seen bodies smashed beyond recognition, broken to pieces with round shot, shattered by grape shot, blasted by shells. Lavinia had watched operations, had probably assisted the surgeons, as limbs were cut from bodies while their owners were still conscious. Had heard them screaming in agony, watched the losing of gouts of blood, seen the soldiers die minutes later.

  Nine out of ten amputees died of shock or loss of blood, yet still the surgeons refused to give them chloroform, saying that an operation for an amputation was such a serious thing for a man he ought to be awake to observe it. Such horrors would be distressing he knew, even to the eyes of a seasoned camp follower.

  Rupert Jarrard came over later in the day to talk with Crossman. ‘Hello, Jack,’ he said, finding Crossman sitting outside the hovel smoking his chibouque and reading a magazine about the latest inventions of the day. ‘Back from another hunt?’

  Jarrard was not so much in evidence since they had moved to Balaclava, wanting to be up at the front line when he was working, and in the French encampment when he was not. He had found a pretty, unmarried cantinière, who seemed besotted with such exotic creatures as American correspondents. Jarrard, in turn, found French women irresistible, so the match was good.

  Crossman looked up and smiled. ‘I might say the same of you, Rupert. You stink of French perfume.’

  Jarrard waved a hand. ‘Oh, as to that, well – I think I might be in love, Jack.’

  A snort escaped Crossman’s nostrils. ‘I think you would fall for any woman who says, “Oui, oui, monsieur.” ’

  ‘And what about you? You have your French lady, what’s her name? Lisette?’

  ‘A gentleman does not use the first name of his friend’s betrothed, Rupert, even if she is far away in Paris.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m no gentleman, Jack. I’m an American pioneer turned newspaperman. You won’t find much of the gentleman in those two. And there was another before her, wasn’t there? That Irish girl with the dark eyes? I think it was the Irishness in her that attracted you, rather than the woman herself.’

  ‘You mean the widow, Mrs Rachael McLoughlin? She is now Mrs Corporal O’Clarey.’

  ‘Ah, she married the flute player.’

  ‘Yes. A camp-follower can’t stay single for very long, unless she starts selling her favours to the soldiery. She must marry to survive, Rupert, and Rachael O’Clarey is a good woman, with a beautiful disposition.’

  Rupert nodded, staring into the middle distance as if he could see her there. ‘I understand the attraction, Jack. When I saw her standing on the battlefield at the Alma, her shawl around her shoulders as dusk fell on the dying and the dead, she was like some ethereal being, some lovely faerie from an Irish tale. She held me in thrall too.

  ‘But you can’t compete with musicians, Jack. The girls only have to hear the plaintive, haunting tunes from a flute and it melts their souls. It’s not fair competition.’

  Crossman nodded, taking a puff of his chibouque. ‘That’s true enough. They should put the flute players in the front battalions, so they’re facing the worst of the fire. But, Rupert, enough of the fair sex – have you seen the latest piece of science?’ Crossman’s voice rose in excitement as he prodded the magazine in his hand with the stem of his chibouque. Women were all very well as a subject for a slow, thoughtful conversation, but for real enthusiasm one needed inventions, quirks of science, new mechanical contrivances.

  ‘Straite’s arc lamp, which, if you remember me telling you, is an improved version of Sir Humphrey Davy’s safety lamp, has been perfected by yet another Englishman, a Mr W. Petrie. What do you think about that then?’

  Jarrard took the magazine and, looking at it, said, ‘Sounds like an exclusive club for Englishmen.’ He read on a little, turning over the page, and then smiled.

  ‘Ah, but see here, on page 7. The first mechanical dishwasher has been developed in the United States. Now there’s pause for thought.’

  Crossman scowled. ‘Dishwasher?’ he said scornfully. ‘What good is that to the world? Why, there are plenty of maids to wash dishes. Would you take work away from those below stairs, Rupert?’

  ‘In my country, Jack, we hope to dispense with servants altogether, and replace them with machines. In America every man is a king and mechanical devices his slaves. A dishwasher is a marvellous tool. It removes the drudgery for ordinary women in the kitchen. Women of ordinary families are entitled to some free time too, Jack.’

  Crossman shook his head, this being far too democratic for his way of thinking.

  Their conversation went along these lines for a while, arguing the different merits of one invention over another, and the superiority of their national inventors. Inevitably, however, the dialogue got around to the war. Both men felt it was not going well for the allies.

  Rupert said despairingly, ‘The men are still in rags, Jack. It’s October and still no new clothing has arrived. There are soldiers with bare feet, their uniforms in tatters. What is the army thinking of? I’ve seen doors being torn off hovels to be used as operating tables for the surgeons. You are one of the richest countries in the world. What is all this?’

  ‘Poor – no, terrible logistics, Rupert. The system seems to have become totally unwieldy. We came here ill-equipped, and for the most part, untrained. I told you previously, the British army is administered by seven different departments, all independent of one another. We have commitments all over the world. Is it any wonder the war is going badly?’

  ‘Yet you won the Battle of the Alma.’

  ‘Due, as you know, only to the courage and resourcefulness of the ordinary common sold
ier and his regimental officers.’

  Jarrard nodded, making mental notes for his next article, which would arrive much too late in his newspaper’s columns for any effective action to be taken.

  The two men talked on, into the evening, fond of their meetings with one another. When it was time to go, Jarrard bid his friend goodnight, and made his way on a borrowed horse towards the French lines.

  Crossman stayed outside, the gnats and midges not so bothersome after the light had gone completely. His thoughts turned naturally to Mrs Durham. He found himself comparing her with Lisette Fleury, now in Paris. There was a growing feeling in his breast for Lisette, who had come to him one night on their Crimean farm, hungry for love. The two women seemed to have much in common on the surface, but then when he considered it carefully, were really quite different.

  When Crossman had come to the Crimea the last thing on his mind was women. There was too much anger in his life to allow softer thoughts inside. It was true he had been attracted to the Irish widow, her big brown eyes and lost expression had aroused the protector in him, but that had not been love. Then Lisette had – had what? – had happened. Accidentally, almost. At the farm where she had hidden Crossman and his men from the Cossacks. Now he had been confronted with an older love, one from his past, and his feelings were confused.

  He sighed and tapped the bowl of his chibouque on his boot heel, emptying it of cold ashes.

  Not a mile or two from where Crossman was sitting contemplating the complications of his life, two eager young men were sharing a camp fire. They were cousins, not much more than boys, who had each joined different regiments of the cavalry. Private Feltam was in the 17th Lancers and Roughrider Eggerton in the 6th Inniskilling Dragoons. Both were proud of their regiments, but mutual respect did not allow each the freedom to express it in front of the other, as most troopers of rival cavalry regiments might do.

  ‘We have not seen much action yet, cousin,’ grumbled Feltam. ‘I am almost ashamed to write home.’

  ‘It’ll come, it’ll come,’ replied the more phlegmatic Eggerton, stirring the flames with a stick. ‘Not our fault Lord Raglan sees fit to hold us back.’