• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Over the next two weeks, Nemo ate, and rested, and recovered, regaining strength to fight, if necessary. He tended the other prisoners as best he could, using first aid he’d learned from Florence Nightingale. Even under such good conditions, though, three of the injured conscripts died.

Liedenbrock clung to the fence and raged at the guards. “Ach! You are inhumans. Why are you not taking these men to doctors?” But Nemo realized the wounded prisoners would have died in any case. In fact, he suspected the men had lived longer here than they might have in the overcrowded hospital.

“No, no,” Conseil mumbled in misery. “None of us will leave this place alive.”

Caliph Robur rode in, not deigning to get down from his horse. He stared them all to silence with his black eyes. “We will now begin a rigorous regimen of exercise. Your rations will be increased, and you will also be required to develop greater endurance.”

“Why?” Nemo said, stepping forward. “Explain why we are here.”

“Aye, we deserve some manner of explanation,” Cyrus Harding said, startling them with his words, which he usually kept to himself. The boatbuilder’s nostrils flared as he spoke.

One of the guards snatched out a long whip, but Robur raised his hand to forestall any brutality. “These men are free to ask questions. We chose them because of their inquisitive minds.” He gazed down at Nemo and gave him a thin smile. “However, Engineer, I am not yet at liberty to provide answers.”

“Ach! We would rather be back on the battlefield,” Liedenbrock snapped.

“No, no,” Conseil said with a vigorous shake of his head. “No we wouldn’t.”

Raising his green-turbaned head high, Robur rode out of the fenced circle. After he departed, the guards forced the prisoners into a routine of calisthenics to tone up their muscles. Aching and sore, they repeated the activities the next day, and the next. Their increased rations barely compensated for the extra work. Even though Conseil seemed ready to drop from exhaustion, he somehow managed to keep up.

Nemo helped the mousy man whenever possible. “We must bide our time, Conseil. Do this for you, not for him. We still don’t know what Robur wants.” He moved from prisoner to prisoner, passing the same angry message in an attempt to maintain morale.

Over the course of a week, the exercises became more strenuous, and Nemo felt himself returning to full vigor. Given the monotony of prison camp life, he even began to look forward to the daily workout.

When the weather grew colder with the onset of hard winter, the caliph ordered all prisoners to stand in ranks inside the encampment as he rode in to inspect them. The stallion tossed his head, but Robur clamped his legs and squeezed the mount into submission, guiding it past his carefully selected captives. He found nothing to disappoint him and returned to his starting point without saying a word.

Then he spoke to the captain of his private guards in Turkish. By now, Nemo had picked up enough of the words to understand, though he did not let the enemy realize this. “They are ready. Tomorrow we leave.”

The next morning the prisoners heard distant gunshots, bugles of command, and military charges. The standard Turkish troops had all left their camp and rushed off to the main battle, leaving Robur’s camp to themselves.

“Ach! They are fighting another battle at Sevastopol,” Liedenbrock said, furrowing his broad brow. Nemo nodded. Stony-faced, Cyrus Harding just stared into the distance, imagining the unseen battlefield.

With the major armies occupied with the fighting, Caliph Robur and his guards surrounded their prisoners. They marched the men past the colorful pavilions, beyond the now-empty camp of Turkish soldiers and smoldering cook fires. Next, the men began trudging across country toward the Crimean Mountains and the coast.

Nemo’s feet grew sore, but he drove back any thought of complaint with a dour resistance. Encouraged by his comrades, Conseil staggered along, muttering unintelligible complaints.