The Valley of Death

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Bloody Peterson,’ cried Clancy, infuriated, ‘he gets all the luck.’

  The sergeant-major continued: ‘My chum at the battery is working like a Chinaman to stop the Ruskies from getting through. They got a 68-pounder up there, under Midshipman Hewett’s command. Just as I left they was ordered to spike the gun and leave it, but Hewett refused. He ordered the gabions to be knocked down so’s he could turn the Lancaster on the enemy guns.’

  At that moment the bugle sounded and every man jack of them dashed away to get rifle and kit. No man wanted to die, no man wanted to be wounded, each one had a cold clay feeling of fear in his gut, but almost without exception every man there wanted the 88th Connaught Rangers to be given the chance to distinguish themselves. They were fed up with other regiments fording it over them in the canteens, especially the Highlanders, calling them tardy and slow-witted Paddys. Now at last the brigade was forming up. There was going to be a scrap.

  The River Chernaya ran north-east from the Fedioukine Hills and widened to an inlet the shape of a half-open crocodile’s mouth, before entering the sea. Sebastopol was situated on the lower jaw of the crocodile’s mouth just below its nostrils. To the east of Sebastopol, on the far side of its harbour, towards the ruins of Inkerman, lay an area of rugged land some two miles wide incised with ravines and heavily ridged. One large ravine, called Careenage, ran obliquely across it from the north-west, brushing a ridge named after their queen by the invading British.

  Here on this rough square of land, with its heights overlooking Sebastopol to the west, the British had established a number of posts from which picquets skirmished. A Russian force had come out of Sebastopol, keeping under cover inside the ravines, until they came upon the British picquets.

  Beyond the Victoria Ridge sixty men of Lieutenant Conolly’s 48th Hertfordshire picquets were facing an onslaught by six battalions of Russians – over four thousand men. At that point in the battle, however, only three hundred enemy skirmishers could bring fire to bear on Conolly’s men. The Hertfordshire farm boys, spread wide across the ground, were gritting their teeth and crashing volley after volley into the Russian advance.

  ‘A man with every shot,’ cried Lieutenant Conolly, his sword waving. ‘Bring ’em down, my boys. Don’t give ’em a yard without they have to fight for it. Think of this ground as Hertfordshire countryside. Are we going to let ’em have it? By God, I think not.’

  The roaring Miniés were doing devastating work for the Hertfordshires against Russian converted flintlocks, which merely spat out their balls, but there were monstrous odds against the British at over sixty to one. The air hummed with bullets and men were dropping on one side or the other. Wounded soldiers were receiving the support of their comrades. The sound ones were rapidly becoming exhausted by the intensity of the battle.

  Foot by foot Conolly’s men were forced back until the Russian battalions, bristling like giant porcupines with bayonets, were close enough to charge. Conolly could see the blank expressions of the square nameless enemy in their bulky, grey greatcoats. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he quickly removed his own grey overcoat, revealing his red uniform beneath, in case it should come to hand-to-hand combat. He did not want any of his men to mistake him for a Russian in the heat of the battle.

  His sword flashing in the sunlight now, Conolly leaped forward, slashing and thrusting at the grey mass.

  ‘Into ’em boys!’ he yelled. ‘Give ’em what for!’

  ‘You heard the lieutenant,’ shouted Sergeant Owens, following his commanding officer into the fray. ‘Let’s spike a few of these donkeys!’

  At that moment, as his men let out a great cheer, and drove into the thick wedge of Russian soldiers, Conolly’s sword snapped in half in a Russian’s chest. The man fell forward, his mouth open in a silent scream, to drive the piece of sword even deeper into his chest as he hit the rocky ground. Conolly stared stupidly at the stump of blade for a moment, then flung it away in disgust.

  With glee on their faces the grey soldiers facing him started to press him back. Reaching inside his coat Conolly laid his hand on an instrument which he began to use as a club, beating the heads of those who surrounded him.

  ‘Take that, sir, and that!’ cried Conolly, as if he were fighting some schoolboy bully behind the quad. ‘And that! And that!’

  Gradually, however, they overwhelmed him, drove bayonets and swords into him, struck him with their muskets.

  Badly wounded, Conolly began to slip to the ground, but in a frenzied attack two of his own soldiers fought their way to those who encircled him. The two men grabbed their commanding officer by the arms and dragged him back to safety, where he lay bleeding profusely. Lieutenant Conolly still held his cudgel: an extended telescope with its glass and brass now smeared with Russian blood.

  ‘Fall back,’ whispered the lieutenant. ‘Fall back, Sergeant – reinforcements are coming.’

  ‘Are you bad hurt, sir?’

  ‘Yes, it bloody hurts – but I don’t believe badly enough to kill me, Sergeant. Do as I say, man.’

  His sergeant organized the men to fall back to another skirmishing line of 2nd Brigade picquets, who had come up behind them. Sixty of the 30th’s Cambridgeshire picquets were now advancing against the six battalions of Russians.

  The British extended line was as wide as that of the enemy force, though of course not nearly as tightly packed. A party of the 30th broke away to attack the Russian gunners, harassing them in the hope of preventing their bringing their guns to bear. Grape shot and round shot would have tipped the scales too heavily in favour of the Russians at that moment.

  Surprisingly the Russians were beginning to look beleaguered, despite their massive superiority. Not far away another battalion of Russians had come up the Careenage Ravine, hoping to outflank the British picquets. Goodlake’s sharpshooters, another single company of men, were there to greet them with the most accurate withering fire the Russians had faced so far. They were cut down like stalks beneath a hailstorm and they swiftly went into retreat.

  British batteries were now moving forward, their guns opening up. The 2nd Division had mobilized under General de Lacy Evans, with the 95th Derbyshire driving the enemy back towards Sebastopol. The 95th battalion halted out of range of Sebastopol’s batteries, but their Light Company followed the Russians as skirmishers until the enemy ran back into the town under the cover of their guns.

  Whoops of joy could be heard along the British front as they realized the Russians were in full retreat. Skirmishers on both sides picked a last man or two, then let their hot weapons cool in the morning air. Prisoners were gathered up by the dozen, mostly by the 30th, who were out in front. The Russian Bear had probed the British defences, had not found the soldiers there wanting, and had retired back to his den.

  Unfortunately once again expectation came to nothing for the 88th. There was a big fight up near the Inkerman ruins, but the Connaught Rangers had no part in it. Peterson came down later, to the hovel, where the others were changing into their sheepskin coats and baggy Turkish trousers. She was full of it all, much to the chagrin of the rest of the group.

  ‘It was mean stuff,’ she said. ‘We had a whole battalion coming at us. We just had to keep firing, one man loading while the other discharged. They were swarming after us, but we just laid into them, slating them something bad.’

  Envious as the others were, they could see Peterson had been through a hellish time. She was filthy dirty, from kneeling and lying on the ground. Her Minié was smeared with mud. Clearly the fighting had been heavy, for most of her ammunition was gone from her pouch.

  ‘Captain Goodlake and Sergeant Ashton were in a cave when the Russian column first came into view,’ said Peterson. ‘The Russians were so quick they rushed past them and cut them off from us. But it was like a miracle. The pair of them came running out of the cave bashing and shooting their way through the Russian stragglers to their main column. Then they just charged through their ranks.’

&nbs
p; ‘Didn’t no one stop them, or shoot at them?’ Wynter asked sceptically. ‘I mean, they just strolled through a whole column of Russians?’

  ‘The column was in rather loose order in heavy brush,’ Peterson said, ‘and Goodlake and Ashton had their greatcoats on, covering their red coatees, so they weren’t recognized. The captain and the sergeant both made it back to us. We all cheered like mad and then stood and poured fire into the Russians till they lost heart. Every minute we expected them to charge, for they outnumbered us ten to one, but then the Lancaster gun opened up on them . . .’

  ‘The 68-pounder with the midshipman behind it?’ scowled Clancy.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Peterson, her eyes opening wide. ‘How did you know? Were you there, Clancy?’

  ‘No I wasn’t and I’m glad I wasn’t,’ sniffed Clancy, ‘for it sounds to me like a piddling little action, of no account at all.’

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ crowed Peterson.

  ‘Why would I be jealous?’ said Clancy, darkly. ‘I’ve throttled more Russians with a piece of knotted cord than you’ve shot with that precious rifle of yours.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Crossman intervened wearily. ‘Settle down now. Save your arguments for later. We’re off into the hills again, my boys, to give the Russians a hard time with their supply lines. Jump to it! Where’s Ali?’

  ‘Round back,’ replied Clancy.

  The men did as they were told, soon forgetting how envious they were of Peterson, and a short while later the Bashi-Bazouk was with them, taking and returning their individual greetings with a smile on his broad Turkish face.

  Just before they left for the hills, a large Tartar woman brought Crossman a message. She wore a big grin as she handed it over. The men stood around, waiting for him to read it. He opened the small envelope, which was unsealed, and extracted a billet written on stiff white card.

  ‘The fox hunt an’t cancelled, is it?’ asked Wynter, in his usual aggrieved tone.

  Crossman stared at the words on the card: Please meet me down by the harbour at seven o’clock this evening.

  As was the custom with her, she had used no names, nor anything personal in case the billet went astray. So, she could not keep to their bargain? Or perhaps she had one last word to say to him before they kept to their own sides of the fence? It was difficult to tell what was going on with Lavinia Durham, who thrived on a little intrigue. Perhaps she was even testing him and would fail to turn up, but send some little Turkish child to watch out for him and make sure that he did? It was all in the game with such a woman as Mrs Durham.

  ‘No, it’s not a cancellation,’ said Crossman, putting the card carefully back into the envelope and then slipping it into his pocket. ‘You can rest assured that we will be out in the wilderness soon, Wynter.’

  The others heaved sighs of relief, but Wynter still managed to grumble.

  On their way out of Kadikoi they happened to bump into Lieutenant Dalton-James.

  ‘Don’t let me down, Sergeant,’ said Dalton-James. ‘I want your best work, mind you – your very best.’

  Crossman was slightly nettled by this remark. He felt he always gave his best, whether Dalton-James desired it or not. Then, just as he was about to walk away from the lieutenant, he remembered the note. He reached into his pocket.

  ‘A Tartar woman brought this, sir. I believe she said it was from Mrs Durham, but I can’t confirm that because I did not read it. I didn’t feel it was my place. The woman expressly said to put the envelope in your hands alone. I understood that you were not to mention the existence of the note again, not even to Mrs Durham herself.’

  ‘A Tartar woman told you all that?’ said Dalton-James, looking mystified.

  Crossman realized he was overdoing it.

  ‘Not as such, but I inferred as much.’

  He handed over the little white envelope and walked away, leaving Dalton-James to open and read it.

  Glancing back, Crossman was amused to see a look of bewilderment pass over the lieutenant’s face, swiftly followed by something that might have been a faint smile of self-satisfaction. The officer put the billet in his pocket and then, looking around him quickly as though he had some secret to hide, he strode away towards Kadikoi village. There was a bounce in his step, as if the season of spring had unexpectedly decided to replace autumn.

  Crossman imagined Dalton-James going down to the harbour and approaching Mrs Durham as if they had met by accident, then becoming increasingly agitated when she did not respond to his gentle advances, while she in turn – Crossman knew her so well – would become irritated and waspish with this silly officer who was obviously keeping her ex-lover at bay by his presence.

  ‘I promised to fix you, Mr Dalton-James,’ said Crossman in satisfaction. ‘And so I have.’

  ‘What’s that, Sergeant?’ asked Clancy. ‘You said something?’

  ‘Nothing worth repeating,’ Crossman replied. ‘Look to the path, Clancy. We’re going into the wilds.’

  The party went single file into the hills.

  23

  The craving for laudanum had of course not gone from Sergeant Crossman’s body or mind. Since the stand with the 93rd against the Russian cavalry, Crossman bit the bullet, fighting against the urge. When he had been lying on his back at the mercy of Mrs Durham, the gnawing need had seemed uncontrollable, but he was stronger physically now. Out here in the hills of the Crimea he could not obtain it even if his will collapsed under the battering it was receiving. However, that did not make the craving go away.

  ‘Keep up, Wynter, you’re always lagging behind,’ he said irritably.

  ‘I’m keepin’ up,’ grumbled Wynter, indignantly. ‘What’s the matter with you then, Sergeant? Feelin’ out of sorts?’

  ‘My medical condition has nothing whatsoever to do with you, Lance Corporal, and I’ll be obliged if you will keep your mind on the trail.’

  He knew he was being unreasonably snappy, but he could not help it. Instead, he tried to concentrate on his surroundings. The year was moving inevitably towards winter. There were still many birds to be seen, some of them game birds suitable for the pot. The plant life looked a bit drab though, with the wayside herbs and weeds hanging limply on their stalks, many of them turning a dirty yellow colour.

  It was pleasant enough out here on an expedition, rather than being stuck in the mud and squalor of Kadikoi and its surrounds. Despite that, Crossman began to wonder why he was taking part in all this subterfuge. True, they had given him little choice, but he might have put up more resistance than he had done. It was certainly not the way to quick promotion. He might be doing this thing as well as anyone could, but quite different skills were required of sergeant-majors.

  Sergeant-majors were men whose personalities were stronger and more wilful than those of most men. They were men who could bond groups of males together by the power of their character, yet still remain aloof and in control. They had to be admired and held in awe, even though they were hated. The men had to be able to say, ‘There goes Company Sergeant-Major Robert McKay, whose guts I hate for making me drill like a Roman when I don’t want to, who makes me charge the enemy when the position is hopeless, who makes me clean my kit even before a battle, yet I’d follow the bastard into hell and back, if he told me to.’

  When you looked into a sergeant-major’s eyes, they were usually surprisingly true and honest, for men would not give their all for an unfair leader no matter how much they were bullied. But those eyes were also firm and uncompromising. The regiment came first, the individual second. Discipline. Unbiased discipline. The sergeant-major was the bridge between officer and ranker and a good one favoured neither. He made stupid orders from above work and stupid soldiers below give their best and surpass themselves.

  Many is the man who promised himself to give the sergeant-major a facer if he ever ran into him in civilian life, yet found himself talking softly and with respect to that man when such a thing occurred, recalling old times, finding that the
sergeant-major was as quietly awesome out of uniform, as he had been in it.

  Crossman did not believe he was made of that kind of material. He had much of his surrogate mother in him and she was a gentle soul with an enquiring mind and spirit. Crossman asked too many questions of himself for a sergeant-major, who needed to believe in only one thing: that the regiment’s honour was priceless, and the rest of the world, humanity and spiritual well-being were nothing beside it.

  ‘Right, we’ll set up camp here,’ he told his men. ‘Yusuf Ali, can you climb up higher and check on our position, just to make sure we’re not situated on some faint trail that we can’t see for looking at it?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said the Bashi-Bazouk, his stocky, barrel-shaped form disappearing into the brush.

  ‘Corporal Devlin, organize the camp, if you please. I’m going to scout ahead.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. All right, you three, you heard the sergeant, get to it. Clancy, make a ground oven. I don’t want to see any smoke that’ll bring the Russians running up here. Peterson, you take first sentry. Find a suitable high spot, but not on the skyline. Wynter, look for water. Good, clear running water, not stagnant puddles.’

  Predictably, Wynter whined, ‘Why me for the water?’

  ‘None of your backchat, Wynter; do it. And when you’ve found it, fill the water bottles. You’ll get your chance at making fires and doing sentry duty sooner than you’d wish.’

  Corporal Devlin was good at managing the men. They grumbled less at him than they would have done at Crossman for the same orders. Corporal Devlin, unlike Crossman, would one day make a good sergeant-major. He knew what had to be done and he saw that it was done. He did not stand there thinking: Am I being unreasonable to expect this of exhausted men?

  Crossman made his way through the bushes and trees, towards the road he knew lay below. He wanted to see if he had a useful spot for an ambush. It was no good if the brush did not go right up to the edge of the road. If there was open country to cross they would lose precious seconds of surprise. When their numbers were so few, and the enemy’s so many, they needed every element of shock and the unexpected.