WE WERE up at dawn, and after mass we started. In the hall we met
the master of the house, who was grieved, good man, to see Joan going
breakfastless to such a day’s work, and begged her to wait and eat, but
she couldn’t afford the time—that is to say, she couldn’t afford the
patience, she being in such a blaze of anxiety to get at that last
remaining bastille which stood between her and the completion of the
first great step in the rescue and redemption of France. Boucher put in
another plea:
“But think—we poor beleaguered citizens who have hardly known the flavor
of fish for these many months, have spoil of that sort again, and we owe
it to you. There’s a noble shad for breakfast; wait—be persuaded.”
Joan said:
“Oh, there’s going to be fish in plenty; when this day’s work is done
the whole river-front will be yours to do as you please with.”
“Ah, your Excellency will do well, that I know; but we don’t require
quite that much, even of you; you shall have a month for it in place of
a day. Now be beguiled—wait and eat. There’s a saying that he that would
cross a river twice in the same day in a boat, will do well to eat fish
for luck, lest he have an accident.”
“That doesn’t fit my case, for to-day I cross but once in a boat.”
“Oh, don’t say that. Aren’t you coming back to us?”
“Yes, but not in a boat.”
“How, then?”
“By the bridge.”
“Listen to that—by the bridge! Now stop this jesting, dear General, and
do as I would have done you. It’s a noble fish.”
“Be good then, and save me some for supper; and I will bring one of
those Englishmen with me and he shall have his share.”
“Ah, well, have your way if you must. But he that fasts must attempt but
little and stop early. When shall you be back?”
“When we’ve raised the siege of Orleans. FORWARD!”
We were off. The streets were full of citizens and of groups and squads
of soldiers, but the spectacle was melancholy. There was not a smile
anywhere, but only universal gloom. It was as if some vast calamity
had smitten all hope and cheer dead. We were not used to this, and were
astonished. But when they saw the Maid, there was an immediate stir, and
the eager question flew from mouth to mouth.
“Where is she going? Whither is she bound?”
Joan heard it, and called out:
“Whither would ye suppose? I am going to take the Tourelles.”
It would not be possible for any to describe how those few words turned
that mourning into joy—into exaltation—into frenzy; and how a storm of
huzzas burst out and swept down the streets in every direction and woke
those corpse-like multitudes to vivid life and action and turmoil in
a moment. The soldiers broke from the crowd and came flocking to our
standard, and many of the citizens ran and got pikes and halberds and
joined us. As we moved on, our numbers increased steadily, and the
hurrahing continued—yes, we moved through a solid cloud of noise, as you
may say, and all the windows on both sides contributed to it, for they
were filled with excited people.
You see, the council had closed the Burgundy gate and placed a strong
force there, under that stout soldier Raoul de Gaucourt, Bailly of
Orleans, with orders to prevent Joan from getting out and resuming the
attack on the Tourelles, and this shameful thing had plunged the city
into sorrow and despair. But that feeling was gone now. They believed
the Maid was a match for the council, and they were right.
When we reached the gate, Joan told Gaucourt to open it and let her
pass.
He said it would be impossible to do this, for his orders were from the
council and were strict. Joan said:
“There is no authority above mine but the King’s. If you have an order
from the King, produce it.”
“I cannot claim to have an order from him, General.”
“Then make way, or take the consequences!”
He began to argue the case, for he was like the rest of the tribe,
always ready to fight with words, not acts; but in the midst of his
gabble Joan interrupted with the terse order:
“Charge!”
We came with a rush, and brief work we made of that small job. It was
good to see the Bailly’s surprise. He was not used to this unsentimental
promptness. He said afterward that he was cut off in the midst of what
he was saying—in the midst of an argument by which he could have proved
that he could not let Joan pass—an argument which Joan could not have
answered.
“Still, it appears she did answer it,” said the person he was talking
to.
We swung through the gate in great style, with a vast accession of
noise, the most of which was laughter, and soon our van was over the
river and moving down against the Tourelles.
First we must take a supporting work called a boulevard, and which was
otherwise nameless, before we could assault the great bastille. Its rear
communicated with the bastille by a drawbridge, under which ran a
swift and deep strip of the Loire. The boulevard was strong, and Dunois
doubted our ability to take it, but Joan had no such doubt. She pounded
it with artillery all the forenoon, then about noon she ordered an
assault and led it herself. We poured into the fosse through the smoke
and a tempest of missiles, and Joan, shouting encouragements to her men,
started to climb a scaling-ladder, when that misfortune happened which
we knew was to happen—the iron bolt from an arbaquest struck between her
neck and her shoulder, and tore its way down through her armor. When she
felt the sharp pain and saw her blood gushing over her breast, she was
frightened, poor girl, and as she sank to the ground she began to cry
bitterly.
The English sent up a glad shout and came surging down in strong force
to take her, and then for a few minutes the might of both adversaries
was concentrated upon that spot. Over her and above her, English and
French fought with desperation—for she stood for France, indeed she was
France to both sides—whichever won her won France, and could keep it
forever. Right there in that small spot, and in ten minutes by the
clock, the fate of France, for all time, was to be decided, and was
decided.
If the English had captured Joan then, Charles VII. would have flown the
country, the Treaty of Troyes would have held good, and France, already
English property, would have become, without further dispute, an English
province, to so remain until Judgment Day. A nationality and a kingdom
were at stake there, and no more time to decide it in than it takes to
hard-boil an egg. It was the most momentous ten minutes that the clock
has ever ticked in France, or ever will. Whenever you read in histories
about hours or days or weeks in which the fate of one or another nation
hung in the balance, do not you fail to remember, nor your French hearts
to beat the quicker for the remembrance, the ten minutes that France,
called otherwise Joan of Arc, lay bleeding in the fosse that day, with
two nations struggling over her for her possession.
And you will not forget the Dwarf. For he stood over her, and did the
work of any six of the others. He swung his ax with both hands; whenever
it came down, he said those two words, “For France!” and a splintered
helmet flew like eggshells, and the skull that carried it had learned
its manners and would offend the French no more. He piled a bulwark of
iron-clad dead in front of him and fought from behind it; and at last
when the victory was ours we closed about him, shielding him, and he ran
up a ladder with Joan as easily as another man would carry a child, and
bore her out of the battle, a great crowd following and anxious, for she
was drenched with blood to her feet, half of it her own and the other
half English, for bodies had fallen across her as she lay and had poured
their red life-streams over her. One couldn’t see the white armor now,
with that awful dressing over it.
The iron bolt was still in the wound—some say it projected out behind
the shoulder. It may be—I did not wish to see, and did not try to. It
was pulled out, and the pain made Joan cry again, poor thing. Some say
she pulled it out herself because others refused, saying they could not
bear to hurt her. As to this I do not know; I only know it was pulled
out, and that the wound was treated with oil and properly dressed.
Joan lay on the grass, weak and suffering, hour after hour, but still
insisting that the fight go on. Which it did, but not to much purpose,
for it was only under her eye that men were heroes and not afraid. They
were like the Paladin; I think he was afraid of his shadow—I mean in the
afternoon, when it was very big and long; but when he was under Joan’s
eye and the inspiration of her great spirit, what was he afraid of?
Nothing in this world—and that is just the truth.
Toward night Dunois gave it up. Joan heard the bugles.
“What!” she cried. “Sounding the retreat!”
Her wound was forgotten in a moment. She countermanded the order, and
sent another, to the officer in command of a battery, to stand ready to
fire five shots in quick succession. This was a signal to the force on
the Orleans side of the river under La Hire, who was not, as some of
the histories say, with us. It was to be given whenever Joan should feel
sure the boulevard was about to fall into her hands—then that force must
make a counter-attack on the Tourelles by way of the bridge.
Joan mounted her horse now, with her staff about her, and when our
people saw us coming they raised a great shout, and were at once eager
for another assault on the boulevard. Joan rode straight to the fosse
where she had received her wound, and standing there in the rain of
bolts and arrows, she ordered the Paladin to let her long standard blow
free, and to note when its fringes should touch the fortress. Presently
he said:
“It touches.”
“Now, then,” said Joan to the waiting battalions, “the place is
yours—enter in! Bugles, sound the assault! Now, then—all together—go!”
And go it was. You never saw anything like it. We swarmed up the ladders
and over the battlements like a wave—and the place was our property.
Why, one might live a thousand years and never see so gorgeous a thing
as that again. There, hand to hand, we fought like wild beasts, for
there was no give-up to those English—there was no way to convince one
of those people but to kill him, and even then he doubted. At least so
it was thought, in those days, and maintained by many.
We were busy and never heard the five cannon-shots fired, but they were
fired a moment after Joan had ordered the assault; and so, while we were
hammering and being hammered in the smaller fortress, the reserve on the
Orleans side poured across the bridge and attacked the Tourelles from
that side. A fire-boat was brought down and moored under the drawbridge
which connected the Tourelles with our boulevard; wherefore, when at
last we drove our English ahead of us and they tried to cross that
drawbridge and join their friends in the Tourelles, the burning timbers
gave way under them and emptied them in a mass into the river in their
heavy armor—and a pitiful sight it was to see brave men die such a death
as that.
“Ah, God pity them!” said Joan, and wept to see that sorrowful
spectacle. She said those gentle words and wept those compassionate
tears although one of those perishing men had grossly insulted her with
a coarse name three days before, when she had sent him a message asking
him to surrender. That was their leader, Sir Williams Glasdale, a most
valorous knight. He was clothed all in steel; so he plunged under water
like a lance, and of course came up no more.
We soon patched a sort of bridge together and threw ourselves against
the last stronghold of the English power that barred Orleans from
friends and supplies. Before the sun was quite down, Joan’s forever
memorable day’s work was finished, her banner floated from the fortress
of the Tourelles, her promise was fulfilled, she had raised the siege of
Orleans!
The seven months’ beleaguerment was ended, the thing which the first
generals of France had called impossible was accomplished; in spite of
all that the King’s ministers and war-councils could do to prevent it,
this little country-maid at seventeen had carried her immortal task
through, and had done it in four days!
Good news travels fast, sometimes, as well as bad. By the time we were
ready to start homeward by the bridge the whole city of Orleans was one
red flame of bonfires, and the heavens blushed with satisfaction to see
it; and the booming and bellowing of cannon and the banging of bells
surpassed by great odds anything that even Orleans had attempted before
in the way of noise.
When we arrived—well, there is no describing that. Why, those acres
of people that we plowed through shed tears enough to raise the river;
there was not a face in the glare of those fires that hadn’t tears
streaming down it; and if Joan’s feet had not been protected by iron
they would have kissed them off of her. “Welcome! welcome to the Maid
of Orleans!” That was the cry; I heard it a hundred thousand times.
“Welcome to our Maid!” some of them worded it.
No other girl in all history has ever reached such a summit of glory as
Joan of Arc reached that day. And do you think it turned her head, and
that she sat up to enjoy that delicious music of homage and applause?
No; another girl would have done that, but not this one. That was the
greatest heart and the simplest that ever beat. She went straight to bed
and to sleep, like any tired child; and when the people found she was
wounded and would rest, they shut off all passage and traffic in that
region and stood guard themselves the whole night through, to see that
he slumbers were not disturbed. They said, “She has given us peace, she
shall have peace herself.”
All knew that that region would be empty of English next day, and all
said that neither the present citizens nor their posterity would ever
cease to hold that day sacred to the memory of Joan of Arc. That word
has been true for more than sixty years; it will continue so always.
Orleans will never forget the 8th of May, nor ever fail to celebrate it.
It is Joan of Arc’s day—and holy. (1)
(1)It is still celebrated every year with civic and military pomps and
solemnities.—TRANSLATOR.