The Valley of Death

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Sergeant Jack Crossman's second adventure finds him still in the heat of battle in the Crimea. Having survived a dangerous covert mission in The Devil's Own the man known to his comrades as 'Fancy Jack' now faces new horrors at the Battle of Balaclava. In the confusion of the conflict Jack witnesses the carnage during the hopeless and tragic charge of the Light Brigade when more than six hundred British cavalry troops charged Russian gun emplacements, mistakenly following orders that, as they were passed down the chain of command, had been misinterpreted. Kilworth's rousing narrative of courage on the field and his vivid descriptions of the horrifying realities of the Crimean campaign are related with verve and meticulous historical detail, in the spirit of the great military adventures.

Release date: September 1, 2011

Publisher: Robinson Press

Print pages: 160

Sample

1

  

Sergeant Jack Crossman lay asleep on the bare boards of an upper-storey room in a hovel north of Balaclava. Normally he shared the room with Major Lovelace, his superior in
matters of espionage and sabotage. Tonight Lovelace was out in the field, doing some dirty business alone. Crossman had just returned from a mission, or ‘fox hunt’ as it was known to
insiders, and was resting before the next one.

A deep blue shadow slid on to the sill of the small, glassless window. The shape was almost invisible against the dark moonless sky behind him, though the stars were obliterated by his form as
he crouched in the cavity, getting his eyes used to the darkness in the room. Once he could see, the figure dropped silently to the floor. Slowly he lifted his carbine, aiming at the sergeant.

As the man was squeezing the trigger a breeze from the window rustled the loose fabric of his tchekman tunic.

Crossman woke with a start to the smell of horse sweat and red cabbage. Seeing the dark figure, perhaps some phantom manifested from his dream, he cried out in supernatural fear. Luckily a
soldier’s rough instinct also made him roll quickly sideways.

The musket exploded, sounding like a cannon in the confines of the room. A ball ripped into the floorboards where Crossman had lain and acrid blue smoke filled the air. The intruder dropped his
smoking carbine and drew a sword. Crossman’s personal revolver was wrapped in his greatcoat, which was being used as a pillow, but he found the handle of his German hunting knife on his belt.
He whipped the knife from its sheath and plunged the blade into the man’s boot, through his foot, pinning it to the floorboards.

No scream came from the wounded man’s lips. Instead he snarled and slashed with his sabre at the sergeant on the floor, taking a piece of dark hair from the Ranger’s head. The
starlight glittered on the curved blade as the intruder took a second slash at Crossman, who rolled towards the window out of reach. His assailant was still nailed to the floor by the sturdy blade
of the German hunting knife.

‘Wynter, Peterson, Devlin!’ yelled Crossman, calling for the men sleeping on the ground floor. ‘’Ware intruders!’

The soldiers below would have already been wakened by the shot a few seconds earlier and he did not want one of them running up the stone staircase to be stabbed at the top by this night
assassin.

Having warned his men, the tall, lean sergeant leaped from the window, landing in the thick mud below. It was his intention to rush round the front, arm himself, and then go upstairs for the
intruder. However, when he rolled on the ground a shot whined by his head and buried itself in the mud with a plut. A second figure came out of the darkness, rushing towards him, a drawn
sabre in one hand and a pistol in the other.

Out here in the starlight, Crossman could see a little better. The intruders were wearing blue uniforms.

‘Bloody Cossacks,’ he said, aggrieved.

As the man dashed towards him, Crossman kicked out with both feet at the attacker’s legs. The Cossack fell in the mud but tenaciously retained his grip on his weapons. Crossman got to his
feet and despite the sucking mud managed to run round the corner. He hit something soft, which turned out to be the flank of a horse. There were two mounts being held by a third Cossack, ready for
a quick retreat.

The Cossack holding the horses had been startled. His left hand was full of reins and his right held his own horse in check. He could not reach for his weapons without letting go of the jostling
horses, which he was not inclined to do.

The struck mount whinnied and kicked, objecting to being butted in the stomach by a fleeing man. Crossman reached up and felt around the saddle, hoping to find a carbine. He found something, but
it was not a weapon as such. It was thin and pliable. A whip, such as Don Cossacks carried.

There came a series of explosions from the house and something fell out of the window, landing in the mud below as a dead weight. This was the first Cossack, Crossman guessed, discovered by his
men. The second came round the corner, shouting something to the man holding the horses. He whirled his sabre about his head, ready to strike at Crossman.

Crossman licked out with the whip, lashing the man across the face, keeping him at a distance. Red weals appeared on the Cossack’s cheeks and brow. They began to bleed into his eyes, so
that he had difficulty in seeing. Giving up on killing the sergeant, the Cossack sheathed his sword and tried to mount his horse, yelling something at his compatriot.

Out of the night came three rapid shots. The Cossack holding the horses immediately fell between the mounts. The horses now bolted, dragging the half-mounted second Cossack along the ground and
slamming him into the side of a building. He climbed to his feet, staggered a few yards, and was then shot through the head by Peterson, who had come running out of the hovel into the muddy
street.

Silence followed, the air smelling of gunpowder.

‘Lord Almighty,’ said Crossman, aware that only a very few minutes ago he had been fast asleep. ‘I feel sick . . .’

‘Did he get you at all, Sergeant?’ cried Corporal Devlin. ‘Are you hit?’

‘No, no. I think I lost one of the curls my mother loved so much, but not my head, thank God. Thank you, Peterson, for getting the last one. Who shot the man in the saddle? Sounded like a
revolver.’

‘I did,’ said a voice behind them, and Major Lovelace stepped out of the shadows, looking like a Mongolian horse breeder in a ragged fur cap, a civilian sheepskin coat, and baggy
Turkish trousers. It’s a good job I came back when I did.’

The horses, having plunged off into the night, were to be seen no more. From their tents and bivouacs, soldiers were calling, asking what was the matter. Devlin yelled out that all was now well.
The incident had passed. There was no longer any cause for alarm.

Lovelace said, ‘You sure you’re all right, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, thank you. I was fast asleep when the first one came into my room. I thought it was the devil, come for me.’

Peterson, at his elbow, murmured, ‘Thought it was Skuggs, more like, come to take his revenge.’

Crossman glared. The slight but grim-looking Lance Corporal Peterson was a woman in disguise. This fact was unknown to everyone but Sergeant Crossman, who had caught her washing at a rain barrel
one morning. There were more than a few such women on campaign in the Crimea. Some had cut their hair short and joined to be with their husbands, some were camp-followers who had taken to wearing
the uniforms of dead soldiers and some, like Peterson, wanted simply to take part in the excitement of a war. She wanted to do the things men did, at the same time receiving pay for it. Back in
England Peterson might have been a destitute female. Out here she was Lance Corporal Peterson, crackshot with a rifle. It was mainly because of her prowess with a weapon that Crossman kept her
gender a secret and retained her in his peloton.

Now she waited behind for an answer once the others had gone inside the hovel. Crossman did not like the fact that she was so close to being right. It was true the sergeant had engineered the
death of Skuggs, a soldier who had murdered one of his comrades during the Battle of the Alma in order to protect himself. Crossman had all but witnessed the murder carried out by Skuggs but had no
proof. Skuggs knew that and had attempted to kill the sergeant on more than one occasion.

Peterson had been present at Skuggs’ ‘execution’.

‘Skuggs is dead,’ said Crossman. ‘You know that, Peterson.’

‘I believe in ghosts, Sergeant. Don’t you? Murdered men – why they never rest after death until they’ve got their revenge.’

Her eyes did not leave his face. She knew nothing of Skuggs’ crimes. Crossman had not enlightened her.

Crossman said, ‘Skuggs was shot down by a company of Russian riflemen.’

‘And we know who sent him to them, don’t we, Sergeant?’

‘You know nothing, Peterson – nothing at all – and you’re not going to know. It’s for your own protection. If I have nightmares, it’s not because I’m
feeling guilty about anything to do with Skuggs’ death.’

She shook her head in disbelief, but let the matter drop, following the others inside the hovel.

One of the men now lit a lamp. Wynter and Devlin were ordered to put the three bodies in the woodshed, ready for collection in the morning. They found the first one under the first-floor window,
crumpled in the mud where he had taken three Minié rounds in the chest. Wynter and Devlin both claimed to have hit him first as he was climbing back out of the window, a perfect target.

‘I don’t doubt you’ll be getting a few more of these visits,’ said Lovelace, untying his boots. ‘Those Cossacks are from the company you and your men ambushed on
the Fedioukine Hills two days ago. It’s my guess they know who you are – the fact that you’re a special group detached from the 88th Connaught Rangers. You’ll have to watch
your back more closely.’

‘You think they know me personally?’ asked Crossman, raising his eyebrows. ‘How could that be?’

Major Lovelace shrugged. ‘A spy in our camp? One of the Greeks or Tartars. They can do it too, you know. You killed quite a few of those Cossacks. They’re not a forgiving bunch.
They’ll want your hide very badly after such a humiliation.’

Peterson was watching Major Lovelace in frustration as he struggled with his second boot, trying unsuccessfully to remove it from a fatigue-swollen, sweaty foot.

‘Shall I send for your batman, sir?’ she suggested.

‘No, damn it, I can take off my own boots, sir. I’ve just been into Sebastopol and back, through the Russian sentries and sailors working on the defences. I can certainly undress
myself.’

But despite his protestations, it did not look like it. Finally Peterson could stand it no longer and though she detested the upper class and their frail efforts to care for themselves, she
straddled his leg and tugged off the muddy, stubborn boot.

‘Thank you, Peterson.’

Major Lovelace then proceeded to remove the sheepskins, until he stood in only his shirt.

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he said. ‘Those damn sheepskins are full of lice. I couldn’t bear them a moment longer. Hand me those trousers lying on the back of that
chair over there, will you, Peterson, there’s a good chap.’

Peterson, flaming red, did as she was asked, much to the amusement of Crossman.

Once Lovelace was dressed, Crossman proceeded to question him further on his earlier work.

‘Now, sir, these Cossacks. You say they’re out looking for me?’

‘Those were Cossack assassins. They usually work in threes. Didn’t you know they’re sending out these troikas after you? They know what you did at the farmhouse in the north,
where you ambushed them before, and on your other fox hunts. They seem to think you’ve got it in for them.’

‘Troika? That’s a three-horse Russian carriage.’

‘It’s their name for a triad of assassins – the carriage is implicit – it’s an invisible hearse. So far as they’re concerned, it’s Sergeant
Crossman’s peloton against the Cossacks, and they’re determined to get you.’

‘But,’ protested Crossman, ‘it’s simply bad luck that we run into Cossacks all the time. Damn it, they’re all over the place, like cockroaches. You can’t take
a breath of fresh air without running into Cossacks. What am I supposed to do, wave at them and send them on their jolly way?’

Lovelace shrugged and poured himself a glass of wine.

‘I’m just warning you, that’s all. They’re after me too. There’s a price on both our heads.’

Wynter and Devlin were now back in the room.

Wynter said, ‘And on our’n, surely? We must ’ave got a price on us too? It an’t fair if we’ve not.’

Crossman could not believe his ears.

‘Good God, Wynter, why would you want troikas coming after you? Don’t you understand it means fighting the war on two fronts? It’s all right to meet the enemy face to face, but
when they’re hunting you down in packs in the middle of the night, well that’s plain victimization. If you want to be assassinated, I’m sure one of your fellow soldiers would do
it for you – I’ve heard them threaten often enough to do so.’

Wynter looked round at his ‘fellow soldiers’ in a shocked and angry fashion. ‘Who? Who wants to turn me off?’

‘Just about everyone,’ growled Devlin, ‘when you’ve got a snoring fit on you.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Crossman. ‘All of you get some sleep – you’ll need it.’

Grumbling at each other, the men went back to their beds on the floor of the hovel. Crossman and Lovelace remained at the small rickety table in the centre of the room. Major Lovelace turned the
lamp down low. He offered Crossman a glass of wine and the sergeant took it. They sipped in silence, each lost in his own contemplations.

The men were just beginning to recover from the flank march down through the Crimea to Balaclava harbour in the south. Having won the first battle at the River Alma against the Russians, the
British, French and Turkish allies, numbering some 36,000 men, had set out too late to turn the Russian retreat south into a rout from which they could not recover. French insistence that they go
back for the knapsacks their soldiers had left on the ground before the battle, and their Commander-in-Chief, Marshal St Arnaud’s, illness, had prevented following up their victory. Now the
Russian army had escaped to the east and were probably preparing for another attack on the allied forces.

The southern harbour city of Sebastopol, on the west coast of the Crimea, was the prime target of the allies and they had marched south to take it. However, St Arnaud argued they should not
attack the north of the city, but skirt round it and attack the underbelly from the south. He was supported in this by Sir John Burgoyne, the chief engineer of the British force.

Lord Raglan, Commander-in-Chief of the British army, allowed himself to be persuaded to fall in once more with French plans. It was a fact he could not do without the French, for his army was
not powerful enough to take on the Russians alone. The British had lost over two thousand men at the Battle of the Alma: three hundred or so left dead on the battlefield, and many dying of wounds
later. Injured survivors were shipped across the Black Sea to Scutari Barracks Hospital outside Constantinople.

Raglan’s grumbles – for he still favoured attacking the north of Sebastopol while the Royal Navy pounded the south from the sea – filtered down to the troops. The regimental
officers and soldiers of the line felt a little frustrated. Most thought a quick attack on the north would finish the war, but General Canrobert, now in command of the French as they reached the
city, agreed with the dying Marshal St Arnaud’s strategy.

Even as the British were settling in and around the southern harbour of Balaclava, which they had taken with only a few rounds of mortar, Raglan was still pressing for an immediate attack.
Burgoyne and the French now argued that Sebastopol’s defences should be levelled before an attack took place on the south. The British forces had to spread themselves thinly between
Sebastopol and Balaclava, a distance of approximately six miles.

Meanwhile Prince Menshikoffs Russian army had gathered itself together and now lurked somewhere in the eastern hills.

Most of the British officers, and indeed many among the ranks, felt a chance had been missed and that the war looked like being a protracted business because of it. The Christmas of 1854 was
approaching and though some still cared whether the Russians took over the Turkish Empire, many thought they were on a hiding to nothing. They wanted to be home with their loved ones when the New
Year was celebrated.

Thus the siege had begun. While the Russians daily applied their feverish brains and hands to the task of reinforcing Sebastopol’s defences, the allies dug themselves in and failed to make
an early assault. They simply watched the fortifications getting stronger and higher, the rank and file growing restless with frustration at this lack of initiative by their commanders. A short war
would have been in everyone’s best interest, even that of the losers, whoever they might be.

Now, while Crossman and Lovelace drank their wine in silence the dawn began to penetrate the hovel, entering with grey fingers through cracks in the door and through the glassless windows.
Crossman made some coffee by roasting the beans in a frying pan, then placing them in a six-inch shell casing and grinding them with a cannonball. It was not good coffee, but it helped to clear the
head before the start of the day.

‘Well done, Crossman,’ said Lovelace, ‘you make the best of a bad job.’

‘I feel like your fag,’ Crossman replied wryly. ‘Making you toast and tea of a Sunday afternoon.’

The two men had both been to Harrow before fortune took them in different directions. Crossman, whose real name was Alexander Kirk, remembered the more senior Lovelace, but the other man had
only Crossman’s word for it that he had been at the famous school. Older boys rarely remember younger ones, who look to those above as heroes or bullies, and, either way, recall their elders
well.

‘If you are, you made yourself so. You have never told me why you chose to join the ranks under an assumed name – oh, don’t look at me like that, I’ve made a few
enquiries and there was no Crossman at Harrow, ever. Why did you not purchase yourself a commission? Could you not afford it?’

Crossman turned away, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice and not succeeding. ‘I had some trouble with my father.’

‘Ah, I see – the old man wouldn’t put up the money for a commission, eh?’ murmured Lovelace, coming to a natural but false conclusion.

But Crossman’s father was Major Kirk of the 93rd Sutherland Highlanders, and Crossman’s older brother, James, served in the same regiment as a lieutenant. He, Crossman, could have
joined his brother with a commission purchased for him by his father, but he hated the old man, who had been an utter bully to his wife and sons. When Crossman found out he was illegitimate, the
son of a maid whom his father had seduced and then had committed to the workhouse where she subsequently died, he left home and joined the ranks under an assumed name.

A sudden banging on the door saved Crossman replying.

‘Enter!’ cried Lovelace.

A company sergeant from the 44th Foot opened the door and peered inside.

‘Major Lovelace, sir?’ he called.

‘What is it, man?’

‘You’re to report to General Buller, sir.’

Lovelace raised his eyebrows, knowing there was more to come. He had just left Brigadier-General Buller, the commander of the Light Division’s 2nd Brigade. Something must have happened
rather unexpectedly for him to be called back to see the general so soon after reporting.

The company sergeant continued, ‘Marshal St Arnaud died of his illness in the night. General Canrobert is meeting with General Raglan at this moment.’

Lovelace sighed. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’m on my way.’ He turned to Crossman. ‘So the old boy has rattled his last breath and we have Bob-Can’t permanently in the
saddle. Sad. Arnaud was a grand warrior. One of the old school, of course, not like you and me, Sergeant. We’re the sharp new men under Buller’s command. Lord Raglan doesn’t like
us. He thinks we’re “skulkers”.’

‘Maybe he’s right. Maybe battles should be fought in an honourable fashion, with no skulduggery.’

Lovelace pulled on his boots. ‘You think there’s no honour in spying and sabotage? I think it’s part and parcel of war, Sergeant. I would rather sneak around a bit in the dark,
find out a few facts, and thus prevent several regiments from marching into slaughter, than just throw them against an unknown force and hope for the best. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Isn’t it fate when a man dies in battle?’

‘No, Sergeant, it isn’t. When a man stumbles into a previously undiscovered cave and a ten-million-year-old stalactite falls from the ceiling and kills him stone-dead –
that’s fate, my dear fellow. When a man dies on the battlefield, that’s lack of knowledge and planning. Now, hand me that sword, there’s a good chap.’

Crossman had to agree that Lord Raglan seemed to have no plan whatsoever before the Battle of the Alma. He had marched his troops to the top of the heights, then marched the remnants down again,
without any real understanding of what they were up against or how they were to defeat the enemy. Only the fortitude and initiative of the men in the field had won the day for the British and their
allies.

Planning.

The whole war was a shambles as far as planning was concerned. Many of the men were wearing threadbare uniforms with holes, some were shirtless, some were even bootless. Any tents the soldiers
had were so old they were rotting at the seams. Now that the British held the harbour of Balaclava it was expected that supplies would come from England, but there were appalling delays due to
masses of paperwork and red tape.

Not a blanket could be ordered without the request going through seven independent departments for approval back in England. Even when something arrived in the Crimea, a certificate was needed
to allow it to be unpacked, which often did not accompany the goods and so had to be sent for back to England.

The ambulance wagons so desperately needed on the battlefield of the Alma had been off-loaded at Varna and were still not in the Crimea. Surgeons had very little equipment, even lacking candles
so they could not work after darkness fell. It was an appalling mess.

Crossman had seen severed limbs tossed carelessly away by surgeons after the Alma. Because of the lack of wagons the dead were dragged by their heels to open pits and thrown unceremoniously in.
Wounded men were left out all night on the slopes, pleading for water. This is how the men who had fought at the Alma, heroes every one, had been treated.

The lack of organization and the insensitivity of the high command made Crossman grit his teeth in anger as he entered the downstairs room.

‘Stop grinding your jaw, whoever that is,’ growled Wynter from under his blanket. ‘There’s people tryin’ to sleep.’

‘Time you were up in any case,’ snapped Crossman. ‘Come on, you lot – up, up, up. The dawn’s been with us for some time now. I’m expecting orders for a fox
hunt today. I want you men ready, willing and very able.’

The two men and the woman rose, grumbling to themselves, but it was tiredness and discomfort that caused their low spirits, not the prospect of dangers ahead.

2

  

Once again there was a hammering on the door of the hovel and this time it was the major’s batman who was the caller.

‘What is it?’ asked Crossman. ‘Do you want Major Lovelace?’

‘No, Sergeant,’ grinned the soldier. ‘It’s you.’

‘Well, out with it, man.’

‘It’s the Connaught Rangers, Sergeant,’ said the soldier cheerfully. ‘There’s a brawl. Your regiment’s Grenadier Company was sent down from Careenage Ravine
to forage for wood, but they got to the orchard at the same time as some Scotchmen. They’re still fightin’ now, out by the orchard wall. Some kiltie made a remark about the 88th’s
colours still being encased after our bash at the Alma River and an Irishman hit him. That started it goin’, and it went on from there. There’s hell to pay.’

The men with fearful oaths, from Counties Mayo, Galway, Clare and Sligo, raised in Connaught by Lord Clanrickarde, were at it again!

‘The damn colours were still encased after the battle,’ grumbled Crossman. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘He said it like an insult, Sergeant, like you was ashamed to show which regiment you was from. And that’s the way the Irish took it.’

‘They damn well would. And I suppose that’s good reason to give a man a facer. It would be the Scots, of course. They enjoy a fight as much as men from my regiment. Why am I sent
for? Aren’t there other people there to sort it out? Where’s the company sergeant-major?’

‘He’s there,’ grinned the corporal, who seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘It’s him what sent me for you.’

Mystified, Sergeant Crossman hastily made his appearance as smart as possible and then accompanied the corporal to the orchard, where there were still men in trousers punching men in kilts, and
vice versa, with NCOs trying to part them and catching blows themselves. The company sergeant-major was standing nearby, watching and fuming, holding a private by the collar so that the man’s
toes hardly touched the ground.

‘Sarn-Major?’ said Crossman. ‘You sent for me?’

The big, barrel-chested Irish sergeant-major’s eyes glowed with a strange light as he beheld Crossman. There is nothing so terrifying in the army as a sergeant-major in a cold fury. Such
creatures have power emanating from them surpassing even that of God. The mind dwells on the summary stripping of rank . . . swift justice on the wheel – and even hanging does not seem to be
out of the question. Crossman quailed inside.

‘Ah, ’tis the wayward sergeant, come to see us, is it? Where have you been, my fine rooster? Canoodling with your officer friends, is that it?’

Crossman came to attention before the company sergeant-major.

‘I came as quickly as I could – but I have no idea why I’ve been called.’

The sergeant-major jerked the soldier he was holding by the collar like an angler shaking a freshly caught fish.

The man had a bloody nose, a visibly swelling ear, and a piece of yellow facing had been torn from his red coatee. He looked a sorry mess.

‘You don’t, eh? Well, you see this piece of rag I’m holding here, with some useless lump of lard inside it? This belongs to you, Sergeant. I believe they call it Private Clancy
in moments of enlightenment. You know who Private Clancy is, Sergeant?’

‘My new man,’ sighed Crossman.

‘Exactly. And do you know why I’m just a little displeased with this slug in uniform?’

‘It’s my guess, Sarn-Major, that Clancy started the fight.’

‘Be-Jesus, you’re a bright man, to be sure, Sergeant. No wonder the officers in the staff tents love you. It’s your fine brain they’re after, I’m certain of that,
for your common sense is nowhere to be seen. Get this snail’s shit out of my sight quickly, before I nail him to the nearest apple tree and make a martyr of him before my battered
troops.’

‘Yes, Sarn-Major.’

Clancy was released. He quickly grabbed his forage cap from the ground. Crossman took his sleeve and led him away.

Clancy was a handsome young man with a dark complexion and thick black hair. He was probably not more than nineteen. Something abo. . .