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Then the caliph yanked his horse’s head around and dug in his heels. He and his troops rode off down the hill toward the army encampments around the walls of Sevastopol.

iii

By late October, 1854, the siege showed few signs of letting up. The Russians trapped inside the Sevastopol fortress had lit fires and burned down buildings. At night, occasional deserters slipped out and fled alone across the countryside.

Supplies began running out for the British and French forces as well. When a Sardinian cargo ship arrived, the food and clothing were rapidly distributed -- and came up far short. Spotters stood on the beaches, looking across the Black Sea in vain for other sails.

In hill camps, the Turkish warriors kept to themselves, separated by culture and language . . . as well as the knowledge that, though this war was supposedly being fought on their behalf, theirs was the weakest army here.

After centuries of greatness, the Ottoman Empire had recently been led by several generations of self-absorbed Sultans whose vision rarely strayed beyond the palace boundaries. Regardless of the religious or patriotic overtones imparted by other European leaders, the Turkish lands were seen as lush prizes in an Imperial game. Though claiming altruistic motives, the leaders of Europe had their eyes on the riches of the Black Sea region.

Nemo’s quiet engineering work had improved the lives and strategic positions of the allied armies. His ingenuity became so well known among the troops that he was recognized in any camp. Many soldiers wanted to hear about his balloon trip across Africa, or about being marooned on a desert island, or about fighting against pirates in the South China Sea. Others just wanted Nemo’s best guess as to when they would all be going home.

For two days he bedded down on the plain with the British Light Brigade: six hundred mounted troops that could move quickly, unencumbered by heavy artillery. They could be ready at a moment’s notice to charge against an enemy. As the siege dragged on, the proud brigadiers had grown restless for action.

Though the Earl of Cardigan was ostensibly their commander, friction among the British officers had thrown leadership of the Light Brigade into question. Often, conflicting orders were issued, either by or against Cardigan, just to spite him or to plunge the troops into confusion. Morale had reached its lowest point, and nothing in Nemo’s engineering repertoire could fix that.

After crawling out of his tent, he ate a meager breakfast, refreshed himself, and went to check his horse. For now, Nemo had spent enough time studying the Light Brigade’s encampment to the north of Sevastopol, and he intended to move on that morning.

Before he could leave, however, an alarm sounded, and the brigadiers sprang out of their white tents. They blinked in surprise and confusion -- then excitement. “The Russians are moving! They’re trying to break free from the north.”

Bugles shrilled, and members of the Light Brigade rushed to saddle their horses and gather their weapons. “They’re heading toward Balaclava,” one of the commanders yelled.

Remembering his terrain maps, Nemo realized the military significance of Balaclava, a small fortified village not far from Sevastopol. The Russian troops had lost Balaclava early in the siege -- but if they could retake it, they would expand their foothold on the Crimea and gain desperately needed supplies.

Earl Cardigan stepped out of the officer’s tent in full commander’s uniform and raised his ponderous voice. “Upon our honor, men, the Brigade shall be the first to meet them.” Cardigan lifted his ceremonial sword in the air and sawed the reins of his horse. The heavy mare reared up, making the earl look every inch the commanding military figure. “Light Brigade, prepare to charge!”

Nemo climbed into the saddle of his horse and looked across to where the fortress gates had been thrown down. The frantic Russian army poured forth with all