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He propped himself on one arm and winced as the gunshot wound caught fire and singed the already ragged nerves. When he tried to take a deep breath, his lungs hitched. Fresh blood soaked through his untended bandage. He used the pain as a crutch to keep himself conscious through a wave of clammy nausea.

When he remembered the horrific battlefield, he was amazed to have survived at all. He caught his breath and then sat forward a little more. No matter how long it took, he had to see more of where he was. He thought of all the things he had already survived, and promised himself he would survive this, too. Now, he had Caroline to live for.

None of the other soldiers responded to Nemo’s gradual, pain-wracked movement. The crowded and smelly room held too many wounded soldiers, each wrapped in agony and despair. He heard two men talking to each other, lying side by side on the cold floor. By starlight, Nemo made out that one man’s leg had been amputated; both of the other man’s arms were wrapped in wide splints held together by meager strips of bandages.

“We drove the Russians back, aye,” the man with broken arms said in a cocky British accent. “At least we done that much. Our forces kept the buggers from getting to Balaclava.”

The man with the amputated leg coughed, then hissed as it sent a burst of pain through his system. “Gor! But at what bloody cost? Goddamn that arse Earl Cardigan! Not one of the bloody officers knew what he was doing. They just chose opposite paths to spite each other.” He propped himself on one elbow, while the man with splinted arms watched with a twinge of envy. “Damn! Half an hour was all it took. Half a bloody hour, an’ two-thirds of the Light Brigade were killed or wounded. What’s the goddamned sense in that?”

“History will remember us as heroes, aye,” said the man with the splinted arms, though he didn’t sound as if he believed it himself.

“They’ll remember us as bloody fools,” said the other soldier.

From down the corridor a pale yellow light appeared, like a will o’ the wisp. As the wounded men noticed it, they stirred and came awake. “It’s the lady with the lamp.” They seemed to hold their breath.

When the woman finally arrived, Nemo was surprised to see a thin, stern-looking nurse in an ugly gray uniform. She was in her early thirties, with a weak chin and a rounded nose. Arched eyebrows graced her smooth forehead over deep-brown, intelligent eyes.

Her dark hair, parted in the middle, was tied back severely under a bonnet. Though intensely weary, she walked with fluid movements, like a ghost carrying an eerie spectral light. Her expression softened with compassion as she looked at all the miserable soldiers. In a low voice she soothed those men who were conscious and could look at her. She promised to write a letter home for one, gave a cup of water to another.

When she came to Nemo, she looked at him in surprise. “You’re not one of the British troops. Do you speak English? Can you understand me?”

Nemo nodded. “I am French, but I speak English.”

She brightened, then spoke to him in his own language. “What are you doing here, Monsieur? You were wounded on the battlefield. This hospital is full of the survivors of the British Light Brigade.”

“I was . . . with them, at the wrong time, Mademoiselle,” Nemo said. “I didn’t have any choice. A lieutenant said he would shoot me if I didn’t ride in as part of their foolish charge.”

A look of disgust crossed the woman’s face, making her appear much older. “All officers should be forced to spend a day here in the hospital. They would see what destruction their stupidity causes. I have written repeated requests for additional supplies.” She gestured helplessly. “There aren’t enough medicines, or beds -- not even rags for bandages. How can I tend the sick under these conditions?” She took a deep breath, as if forcing back her despair. “Who is your commanding officer? We must report you to the French forces.”

Nemo let out a bitter sigh. “Every contingent here is so confused with bureaucracy,