WE MARCHED out in great strength and splendor, and took the road toward
Orleans. The initial part of Joan’s great dream was realizing itself at
last. It was the first time that any of us youngsters had ever seen an
army, and it was a most stately and imposing spectacle to us. It was
indeed an inspiring sight, that interminable column, stretching
away into the fading distances, and curving itself in and out of the
crookedness of the road like a mighty serpent. Joan rode at the head of
it with her personal staff; then came a body of priests singing the Veni
Creator, the banner of the Cross rising out of their midst; after these
the glinting forest of spears. The several divisions were commanded by
the great Armagnac generals, La Hire, and Marshal de Boussac, the Sire
de Retz, Florent d’Illiers, and Poton de Saintrailles.
Each in his degree was tough, and there were three degrees—tough,
tougher, toughest—and La Hire was the last by a shade, but only a shade.
They were just illustrious official brigands, the whole party; and
by long habits of lawlessness they had lost all acquaintanceship with
obedience, if they had ever had any.
But what was the good of saying that? These independent birds knew no
law. They seldom obeyed the King; they never obeyed him when it didn’t
suit them to do it. Would they obey the Maid? In the first place they
wouldn’t know how to obey her or anybody else, and in the second place
it was of course not possible for them to take her military character
seriously—that country-girl of seventeen who had been trained for the
complex and terrible business of war—how? By tending sheep.
They had no idea of obeying her except in cases where their veteran
military knowledge and experience showed them that the thing she
required was sound and right when gauged by the regular military
standards. Were they to blame for this attitude? I should think not.
Old war-worn captains are hard-headed, practical men. They do not
easily believe in the ability of ignorant children to plan campaigns
and command armies. No general that ever lived could have taken Joan
seriously (militarily) before she raised the siege of Orleans and
followed it with the great campaign of the Loire.
Did they consider Joan valueless? Far from it. They valued her as the
fruitful earth values the sun—they fully believed she could produce the
crop, but that it was in their line of business, not hers, to take
it off. They had a deep and superstitious reverence for her as being
endowed with a mysterious supernatural something that was able to do a
mighty thing which they were powerless to do—blow the breath of life and
valor into the dead corpses of cowed armies and turn them into heroes.
To their minds they were everything with her, but nothing without her.
She could inspire the soldiers and fit them for battle—but fight
the battle herself? Oh, nonsense—that was their function. They, the
generals, would fight the battles, Joan would give the victory. That was
their idea—an unconscious paraphrase of Joan’s reply to the Dominican.
So they began by playing a deception upon her. She had a clear idea
of how she meant to proceed. It was her purpose to march boldly upon
Orleans by the north bank of the Loire. She gave that order to her
generals. They said to themselves, “The idea is insane—it is blunder No.
1; it is what might have been expected of this child who is ignorant of
war.” They privately sent the word to the Bastard of Orleans. He also
recognized the insanity of it—at least he thought he did—and privately
advised the generals to get around the order in some way.
They did it by deceiving Joan. She trusted those people, she was not
expecting this sort of treatment, and was not on the lookout for it. It
was a lesson to her; she saw to it that the game was not played a second
time.
Why was Joan’s idea insane, from the generals’ point of view, but not
from hers? Because her plan was to raise the siege immediately, by
fighting, while theirs was to besiege the besiegers and starve them out
by closing their communications—a plan which would require months in the
consummation.
The English had built a fence of strong fortresses called bastilles
around Orleans—fortresses which closed all the gates of the city but
one. To the French generals the idea of trying to fight their way past
those fortresses and lead the army into Orleans was preposterous; they
believed that the result would be the army’s destruction. One may not
doubt that their opinion was militarily sound—no, would have been, but
for one circumstance which they overlooked. That was this: the English
soldiers were in a demoralized condition of superstitious terror; they
had become satisfied that the Maid was in league with Satan. By reason
of this a good deal of their courage had oozed out and vanished. On the
other hand, the Maid’s soldiers were full of courage, enthusiasm, and
zeal.
Joan could have marched by the English forts. However, it was not to be.
She had been cheated out of her first chance to strike a heavy blow for
her country.
In camp that night she slept in her armor on the ground. It was a cold
night, and she was nearly as stiff as her armor itself when we resumed
the march in the morning, for iron is not good material for a blanket.
However, her joy in being now so far on her way to the theater of her
mission was fire enough to warm her, and it soon did it.
Her enthusiasm and impatience rose higher and higher with every mile
of progress; but at last we reached Olivet, and down it went, and
indignation took its place. For she saw the trick that had been played
upon her—the river lay between us and Orleans.
She was for attacking one of the three bastilles that were on our
side of the river and forcing access to the bridge which it guarded (a
project which, if successful, would raise the siege instantly), but
the long-ingrained fear of the English came upon her generals and they
implored her not to make the attempt. The soldiers wanted to attack,
but had to suffer disappointment. So we moved on and came to a halt at a
point opposite Checy, six miles above Orleans.
Dunois, Bastard of Orleans, with a body of knights and citizens, came
up from the city to welcome Joan. Joan was still burning with resentment
over the trick that had been put upon her, and was not in the mood for
soft speeches, even to revered military idols of her childhood. She
said:
“Are you the bastard?”
“Yes, I am he, and am right glad of your coming.”
“And did you advise that I be brought by this side of the river instead
of straight to Talbot and the English?”
Her high manner abashed him, and he was not able to answer with anything
like a confident promptness, but with many hesitations and partial
excuses he managed to get out the confession that for what he and the
council had regarded as imperative military reasons they so advised.
“In God’s name,” said Joan, “my Lord’s counsel is safer and wiser than
yours. You thought to deceive me, but you have deceived yourselves, for
I bring you the best help that ever knight or city had; for it is God’s
help, not sent for love of me, but by God’s pleasure. At the prayer of
St. Louis and St. Charlemagne He has had pity on Orleans, and will not
suffer the enemy to have both the Duke of Orleans and his city. The
provisions to save the starving people are here, the boats are below the
city, the wind is contrary, they cannot come up hither. Now then, tell
me, in God’s name, you who are so wise, what that council of yours was
thinking about, to invent this foolish difficulty.”
Dunois and the rest fumbled around the matter a moment, then gave in and
conceded that a blunder had been made.
“Yes, a blunder has been made,” said Joan, “and except God take your
proper work upon Himself and change the wind and correct your blunder
for you, there is none else that can devise a remedy.”
Some of these people began to perceive that with all her technical
ignorance she had practical good sense, and that with all her native
sweetness and charm she was not the right kind of a person to play with.
Presently God did take the blunder in hand, and by His grace the wind
did change. So the fleet of boats came up and went away loaded with
provisions and cattle, and conveyed that welcome succor to the hungry
city, managing the matter successfully under protection of a sortie
from the walls against the bastille of St. Loup. Then Joan began on the
Bastard again:
“You see here the army?”
“Yes.”
“It is here on this side by advice of your council?”
“Yes.”
“Now, in God’s name, can that wise council explain why it is better to
have it here than it would be to have it in the bottom of the sea?”
Dunois made some wandering attempts to explain the inexplicable and
excuse the inexcusable, but Joan cut him short and said:
“Answer me this, good sir—has the army any value on this side of the
river?”
The Bastard confessed that it hadn’t—that is, in view of the plan of
campaign which she had devised and decreed.
“And yet, knowing this, you had the hardihood to disobey my orders.
Since the army’s place is on the other side, will you explain to me how
it is to get there?”
The whole size of the needless muddle was apparent. Evasions were of
no use; therefore Dunois admitted that there was no way to correct the
blunder but to send the army all the way back to Blois, and let it begin
over again and come up on the other side this time, according to Joan’s
original plan.
Any other girl, after winning such a triumph as this over a veteran
soldier of old renown, might have exulted a little and been excusable
for it, but Joan showed no disposition of this sort. She dropped a word
or two of grief over the precious time that must be lost, then began at
once to issue commands for the march back. She sorrowed to see her army
go; for she said its heart was great and its enthusiasm high, and that
with it at her back she did not fear to face all the might of England.
All arrangements having been completed for the return of the main body
of the army, she took the Bastard and La Hire and a thousand men and
went down to Orleans, where all the town was in a fever of impatience
to have sight of her face. It was eight in the evening when she and the
troops rode in at the Burgundy gate, with the Paladin preceding her with
her standard. She was riding a white horse, and she carried in her hand
the sacred sword of Fierbois. You should have seen Orleans then. What
a picture it was! Such black seas of people, such a starry firmament of
torches, such roaring whirlwinds of welcome, such booming of bells
and thundering of cannon! It was as if the world was come to an end.
Everywhere in the glare of the torches one saw rank upon rank of
upturned white faces, the mouths wide open, shouting, and the unchecked
tears running down; Joan forged her slow way through the solid masses,
her mailed form projecting above the pavement of heads like a silver
statue. The people about her struggled along, gazing up at her through
their tears with the rapt look of men and women who believe they are
seeing one who is divine; and always her feet were being kissed by
grateful folk, and such as failed of that privilege touched her horse
and then kissed their fingers.
Nothing that Joan did escaped notice; everything she did was commented
upon and applauded. You could hear the remarks going all the time.
“There—she’s smiling—see!”
“Now she’s taking her little plumed cap off to somebody—ah, it’s fine
and graceful!”
“She’s patting that woman on the head with her gauntlet.”
“Oh, she was born on a horse—see her turn in her saddle, and kiss the
hilt of her sword to the ladies in the window that threw the flowers
down.”
“Now there’s a poor woman lifting up a child—she’s kissed it—oh, she’s
divine!”
“What a dainty little figure it is, and what a lovely face—and such
color and animation!”
Joan’s slender long banner streaming backward had an accident—the fringe
caught fire from a torch. She leaned forward and crushed the flame in
her hand.
“She’s not afraid of fire nor anything!” they shouted, and delivered a
storm of admiring applause that made everything quake.
She rode to the cathedral and gave thanks to God, and the people crammed
the place and added their devotions to hers; then she took up her march
again and picked her slow way through the crowds and the wilderness
of torches to the house of Jacques Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of
Orleans, where she was to be the guest of his wife as long as she stayed
in the city, and have his young daughter for comrade and room-mate. The
delirium of the people went on the rest of the night, and with it the
clamor of the joy-bells and the welcoming cannon.
Joan of Arc had stepped upon her stage at last, and was ready to begin.