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Observing the enemy troop strength, though, he saw the folly of Cardigan’s maneuver -- as did some of the British soldiers. A second commander rode up to Cardigan, and the two exchanged quick, harsh words. The Earl shook his head, his face clouded with anger, and he rode his mare around in circles as his men formed up on their mounts.

The second commander said, “Stand down, men! We must wait for our other divisions. The Russians are closing in a pincer formation.”

“Belay that order!” Cardigan said with a huff. “We shall strike first and hard.”

A third commander approached from the side. He hadn’t heard Earl Cardigan’s orders or the confrontation with the other officer. As if it was his perfect right to give orders, he shouted, “Light Brigade, follow me! We must head south and meet up with the British divisions. We’ll lead the vanguard, and all attack at once.”

Cardigan wheeled his horse and turned to his men. “All of you, follow me. I am your commander. We shall charge now -- and be victorious this day.”

Before the soldiers could think, the Earl launched off on his confused but energetic mare. For a moment it looked as if he would be all alone in his charge, then those behind him urged their horses into a gallop. All the men drew their swords.

Nemo shook his head, appalled. The Brigade was a mere six hundred men against ten thousand heavily armed and desperate Russian troops. The brigadiers would be slaughtered.

One of the second lieutenants rode up to Nemo and thrashed him on the shoulder with a quirt. “What are you waiting for, man? We’re charging! Back with the group.”

Nemo flinched and looked at the Second Lieutenant in angry surprise. “I am not part of the Light Brigade, sir,” he said in careful English.

The flushed man lashed him again with the whip, then tore a pistol from his belt. “You’re a bloody deserter and a coward. If you don’t ride right now, by God, I’ll shoot you where you sit on your horse.”

Nemo wanted to fling himself upon this blustering idiot and pull him from his horse. He cursed himself for his error. He should have spoken in French, pretended not to understand the lieutenant’s commands. But the glowering man leveled the barrel of his pistol, and Nemo had to decide in an instant.

“You are making a mistake,” he said in a low growl. But he could not argue with the lieutenant, not while the Light Brigade advanced into battle, however misguided they might be. So he turned his horse, grabbed his sword -- a dull ceremonial one, since his primary weapons had been pen and blueprint -- and rode with the Light Brigade to meet the ever-swelling horde of Russians trying to escape Sevastopol.

Enemy troops flowed out, pulling cannons and mounting rifle squadrons. On the hills surrounding the fortress, British infantry and French reinforcements moved in at a fast march, hauling heavy weaponry to arrive at the town of Balaclava before the enemy did. Unfortunately, the Light Brigade, a pathetically small David against the well-armed Russian Goliath, would reach the enemy much sooner.

Nemo galloped beside a fresh-faced young cavalrymen who had asked him about his African balloon adventure just the night before. The man’s blue eyes were wide and sparkling, and if he felt any fear, he did not let it show. His innocent optimism exasperated Nemo, who said, “Can’t you see this is madness?”

“We’re following orders, mate,” the cavalryman said. “We’ve been instructed to charge. We are the Light Brigade, and we’ll bloody well strike a mortal blow against our foes.”

Nemo looked at the size of the enemy army and choked back his fury. “But this brigade doesn’t even know what it’s doing.”

“Aww, you’re only an engineer from France,” the man snapped back, pride adding derision to his voice. “In England, a bloke doesn’t question orders. Our duty is to do as we are told, and die if we must.”

Nemo checked his weapons, knew that if he continued to argue against this insane charge, he would be executed by his supposed allies. So, fuming at the foolishness, he determined