ON FRENCH FIELDS.
KING HARRY THE FIFTH.
“_Now all the youth of England are on fire,_
_And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;_
_Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought_
_Reigns solely in the breast of every man._”
YOU are gazing upon the death-chamber of a king. He lies upon his bed in
the silent, darkened room, and sleep comes and goes from his troubled
pillow. Conscience smites him and disease racks his bones. He has been a
man of blood all his days, and many crimes are laid to his charge. He
has murdered the king whose crown he wears; the blood of an archbishop
is upon his head. As fitful slumber seizes him, you perceive a noble
youth enter the room. Comely is he in face and figure, though he bears
the marks of recent grief. He stands by his father’s couch, and watches
the sufferer. As he does so, his eye falls on the king’s crown, and he
muses on the weight and cares of majesty. Then he glances again at the
prostrate form on the bed, and a great grief surges into his heart, for,
to all seeming, the king, his father, is dead. He bursts into tears, and
taking up the crown places it on his own head.
“My due from thee is this Imperial crown,
Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,
Derives itself to me. Lo! here it sits,
Which God shall guard: and put the world’s whole strength
Into one giant arm, it shall not force
This lineal honour from me: this from thee
Will I to mine leave, as ’tis left to me.”
But while he speaks, the king awakes, and his roving eye sees the crown
which his son is even now wearing. “Sire,” cries the young prince, “I
never thought to hear thee speak again.” Then the dying king reproves
him:——
“Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:
I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.
Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair
That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours
Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!
Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.
Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity
Is held from falling with so weak a wind
That it will quickly drop: my day is dim.
Thou hast stolen that which, after some few hours,
Were thine without offence.”
The prince, stricken to the heart by his father’s reproaches, flings
himself upon his knees to ask pardon for his presumption, and to assure
the king of the innocence of his deed. He swears that no rebel or vain
spirit has prompted him to seize the crown.
“Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,——
And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,——
I spake unto this crown as having sense....
Accusing it, I put it on my head,
To try with it, as with an enemy
That had before my face murdered my father,
The quarrel of a true inheritor.”
The dying king gladly accepts his son’s explanation, and blessing him
passes away; while the new king, in an agony of grief, swears to throw
off the waywardness and wildness of his ways. And so, amidst the loud
acclaim of his subjects, the crown is placed for the second time on his
head, and he begins to reign. Never king will be better loved; he will
give his people their fill of martial glory, and loudly they will
boast:——
“Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry!”
And now two years have flown, and you see him again following the will
o’ the wisp of that French dominion which the third Edward vainly
sought. It is easy to pick a quarrel with France; her king has lost his
wits, and his selfish kinsmen are tearing the realm in twain with their
enmities and quarrels. So with the might of England at his back Harry
crosses the Channel, and his great guns begin to thunder before the
walls of Harfleur. Before the town falls his army is fearfully wasted by
hunger and disease; nevertheless, he does not mean to return without
doing a deed that “will dazzle all the eyes of France.” From Harfleur he
writes to the Dauphin and offers to fight him man to man for the
kingdom, pleading that the quarrel may thus be settled without the
shedding of innocent blood. But the sluggish, mean-spirited Dauphin
makes no answer, so Harry cries:——
“The game’s afoot;
Follow your spirit, and, upon this charge,
Cry, ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George.’”
It is the evening of October 24th, in the year of grace 1415. Five
thousand English bowmen and five thousand men-at-arms, weary,
half-starved, wasted, ragged, and footsore, are stumbling on through
French fields for Calais, dreaming of the homes they are never likely to
see again. Suddenly the news comes in that a huge French army bars the
way. Out go the scouts, and one of them, a Welshman, speedily returns
with the brave report: “There are enough to be killed, enough to be
taken, and enough to run away.” In sooth, there are 60,000 of them,
fresh, well-equipped, and in the most confident of spirits; the odds are
six to one. “Oh that we now had here but one ten thousand of those men
in England who do no work to-day!” cries a noble, but King Harry
reproves him,——
“No, my fair cousin:
If we are marked to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.”
So the night rolls down, and the English few betake themselves to
prayers; while in the French camp the knights are revelling and feasting
and dicing for the ransoms of the captives they hope to take on the
morrow. The morning sun sees the English army drawn up in a field of
freshly-sown corn, face to face with the French host, that stretches
across the plain by the hamlet of Agincourt. Every archer carries a
five-foot stake as a protection against cavalry; every man of them is
stripped to the waist, and has one shoe off, the better to keep firm
footing on the slippery ground.
And now the gallant king, in full armour, with a jewelled crown
glittering on his helmet, rides along the ranks. He prays aloud for
victory, and turning to his men bids them fight boldly, for God is on
their side. England, he declares, shall never pay ransom for him; he
will conquer, or leave his bones on the field. Then he reminds his
archers that their foes have sworn to put out the right eye and cut off
the left hand of every bowman whom they capture, so that he shall never
loose arrow again. A momentary hush falls on the English as they kneel
to commend their souls to high heaven. Then their lips tighten, their
thews and sinews become steel, and their hearts bound in expectation of
the fray.
“What time is it?” asks the king. “The bells are ringing prime, my
lord,” is the reply. “Now is good time,” says he; “England prayeth for
us, so let us be of good cheer. Banners advance!”
With a loud shout the English bowmen advance twenty paces, and firmly
plant their stakes to form a formidable palisade. On come the
heavy-armed cavalry of the enemy in dense masses, thirty deep. The
archers step forward a few yards, and slowly and steadily begin to
shoot. Not an arrow is wasted; every shaft flies home. To stand still on
the French side is to be shot down like a dog; to turn back is
impossible with the huge press of soldiery behind. So, as the death-hail
falls, the French men-at-arms spur their heavy chargers through the mire
of the freshly-ploughed field. The deadly arrows never cease to fall,
and down go horse and man until they lie in ghastly heaps two spears
high. The French army is a helpless, heaving mass.
“Now’s the day and now’s the hour” for the English archers. They sling
their bows on their backs, they leap forward, and throwing themselves on
the struggling heaps ply sword and mace, axe and bill, with almost
superhuman strength. The living fall on the dead, the dead on the
living, and the English climb the horrible, writhing mounds and hew and
hack at the high-born French knights. King Harry is in the thickest
press. Certain French knights swear to take or slay the English king.
They hew their way to him; a shrewd blow slices the crown from his
helmet, but it is the last blow ever struck by that arm.
The first line is swept to earth, the second line has fallen like wheat
before the reaper’s sickle, and now the third line advances. Taken in
flank by the archers, it turns and flees. In three hours the battle is
over. Eleven thousand Frenchmen lie dead upon the field, prince and
peasant “in one red burial blent.” Agincourt is won, and the English
archer has gained a renown that shall not dim its lustre while the name
of Britain endures.
Once more King Harry is in France, and again none may stand against him.
Rouen, after horrible sufferings, has surrendered; the French princes
are busy murdering one another; the young King of Burgundy throws in his
lot with the English, and the kingdom is at Henry’s feet. So a treaty is
made: Henry is to marry the fair Katherine, daughter of the poor,
witless King of France; he is to rule in his father-in-law’s name, and
succeed him at his death. So Henry begins his wooing, and right merrily
it goes despite his bad French and Katherine’s broken English. On
Trinity Sunday in the year 1420 he leads the princess to the high altar
of the church at Troyes, and they are married. Then the hero of
Agincourt and his bride enter Paris amidst the approving shouts of the
populace, many of whom wear the red cross, the badge of England. But a
third campaign is necessary before the French and their Scottish allies
are beaten and all north France up to the Loire owns Henry’s sway.
And now, in the midst of his splendour, his health fails, and the
doctors are mystified at his malady. As he sinks day by day, he learns
that a son has been born to him at Windsor. At once an old prophecy
flashes into his mind——
“I, Henry, born at Monmouth,
Shall small time reign and much get;
But Henry of Windsor shall long reign and lose all.
But as God wills, so be it.”
His last hour has come. He busies himself with prayer, and the priests
sing psalms over him. When they reach the second verse of the 147th
Psalm he cries, “Good Lord, Thou knowest that my mind was to build up
the walls of Jerusalem.” He speaks no more. His life is done; his
comet-like career is over. So he dies, leaving his infant son to reap
the bitter harvest that he has sown.
[Illustration: =THE MORNING OF AGINCOURT.=
(_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, P.R.A._)]
[Illustration]
JOAN, THE MAID.
“_King of France!”_
_She cried, “at Chinon, when my gifted eye_
_Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit_
_Prompted, I promised, with the sword of God,_
_To drive from Orleans far the English wolves_
_And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims._
_All is accomplished. I have here this day_
_Fulfilled my mission, and anointed thee_
_King over this great nation._”
Seven years have sped by, and the scene shifts to the ancient cathedral
of Rheims. A great concourse of nobles in glittering armour with pennons
and banners fills the nave. Trumpets are sounding, and outside the crowd
raises cheer upon cheer. The sun streams in through the painted windows,
casting rainbow hues on the exultant throng. Ten thousand candles are
burning, and the smoke of incense is ascending. At the high altar, clad
in the ermine robe of state, kneels the Dauphin of France. An
archbishop, wearing his mitre and the splendid robes of his high office,
places the crown upon the prince’s head, and anoints him with the sacred
oil out of the ancient flask which the priests say came straight from
heaven. The Dauphin is king in very deed, and a great shout of joy
echoes and re-echoes from the vaulted roof. And now all eyes turn to the
striking figure by the side of the newly-made king. You see a noble
maiden, clad in knightly armour, and holding a drawn sword in one hand
and a white banner in the other. She kneels at her prince’s feet, and
tears of joy fall from her eyes as she greets him “King” for the first
time. “Now,” she says, “is the will of God fulfilled.”
Who is this maiden, and why holds she such an honoured place amidst this
noble throng? Let the old chroniclers relate her story. It is one of the
most wondrous ever told. What Wallace did for Scotland this maid has
done for France.
In the year 1429 there was a young girl living in Domremy, a village in
the east of France. She was named Joan, and was the daughter of James
Darc and Isobel, his wife. Joan was but a country maid that was wont to
herd the cattle by day and sew and spin in the evening. She was a
strong, handsome girl, nobly formed, with dark hair and lustrous eyes.
About her thirteenth year she grew silent and dreamy, and loved to steal
away from her companions to the village church, where she knelt for
hours together in silent prayer. One day she was standing in her
father’s garden when she heard a Voice, and saw a great light. The Voice
bade her be diligent in work and prayer, for God had chosen her to save
France. She replied that she was but a poor girl who could not ride, or
lead soldiers in the wars; but the Voice spoke to her again and again,
telling her that she must go. The saints appeared to her, too, and they
gave her the same message, and added words of counsel and warning. The
Visions and the Voices were with her night and day, and at length she
felt that she _must_ do their bidding.
Truly her land was in a piteous condition at the time. King Harry of
England was dead, and so was the old French king, his father-in-law, and
the English baby born at Windsor had been crowned King of France. His
uncle, the Duke of Bedford, the famous Talbot, and many another knight
of renown, were leading English armies to and fro, besieging towns,
burning villages, and filling the land with slaughter. Woeful tales of
death, plunder, and famine found their way to the quiet little village
of Domremy, and Joan’s heart was filled with grief at the miseries of
her beloved France. The Scots had come to the help of their old friends,
the French, and though they managed to win a great victory, they were
badly beaten at Verneuil, where the field was dyed with Scottish blood.
As for the Dauphin, the rightful King of France, he only held the
country south of the Loire, and did not hold even that securely. His
strongest fortress was the city of Orleans, which was even now closely
besieged by the English. To make matters worse, the Dauphin was a man of
no spirit and enterprise. He was half-hearted in his own cause, and,
indeed, was not fully assured that he was the son of the late king, and
therefore lawfully entitled to the crown. It is said that he had prayed
secretly that a sign might be given to him to prove that he was the
rightful heir, and that hitherto no sign had been vouchsafed. He had
very little hope of beating the English, for, like the rest of his
countrymen, he had lost heart and deemed his foes unconquerable. A
handful of English archers by their very presence could send five
hundred Frenchmen flying in terror to the woods.
By this time the Voices and the Visions had so wrought upon the Maid
that she left home without taking leave of her father and mother (not
that she did not hold them in honour and respect, but lest they should
hinder her intent), and went to Vaucouleurs hoping for an audience with
Robert de Baudricourt, the commander of the town. Now, her uncle lived
in the town, and to him she betook herself, and told him how the saints
and angels had urged her on her mission, and how the Voices had said,
“Daughter of God, go on! We will be with you.” The uncle listened and
believed, and led her to the captain, who laughed at her, and bade her
uncle chastise her for a foolish maiden.
But again she came to him and told him how a terrible misfortune had
happened that very day to the Dauphin’s army near Orleans. As
Vaucouleurs was many leagues from Orleans, and even the swiftest runner
could not have brought the news so quickly, the captain gave ear to her;
and when he knew that she had spoken the truth, he saw that she was no
mere hysterical country girl, but one endowed with supernatural gifts.
“My lord captain,” she said, “know that for some years back, at divers
times, God hath made known to me and commanded me to go to the gentle
Dauphin, who should be and is the true King of France, that he may give
me men-at-arms, whereby I may raise the siege of Orleans, take him to be
anointed at Rheims, win back Paris, and drive the English from the
realm.” Robert hearkened to her words, and furnished her with man’s
attire. A young knight gave her a horse, which to the surprise of all
she rode well; and, dressed in a gray doublet and black hose, she rode
away to seek the Dauphin, who was then at Chinon. To test her, the
Dauphin dressed one of his knights in his princely attire, and himself,
in a plain and sober dress, mingled with his courtiers. But Joan went
straight to him, and kneeling on one knee, cried, “Fair sir, you are the
Dauphin, to whom I am come.”
“Nay,” said he, “yonder is the Dauphin,” pointing to a richly-dressed
knight in the company.
“No, fair sir,” repeated the maid, “it is to you that I am sent.”
The Dauphin was surprised, but he did not yet believe in her. One day
she took him aside where nobody could hear and whispered to him the
purport of his secret prayer, and assured him that he was the rightful
king. Then the Dauphin had faith in her, and when his council and the
clergy had examined her straitly, and at last had reported that “to
doubt the maid would be to resist the Holy Spirit,” he agreed to send
her with a train of provisions which he hoped to be able to get secretly
into Orleans. While armour was being made for her, she bade the
Dauphin’s servants dig behind the altar of the Chapel of St. Catherine
at Fierbois, and there they would find a sword with five crosses on the
blade. The sword was found, and she girt herself with it, and taking her
banner of white with the image of the Lord and two angels on it, thus
she led her small company towards Orleans.
As she lay at Blois she sent a letter to the English captain who was
besieging Orleans, bidding him depart in peace, or else she would fall
upon him with blows, and “we shall see who hath the better right, God or
you.” The English laughed at her words, and threatened to burn her as a
witch if they caught her. Nevertheless she advanced, and entered the
town, whereat the spirits of the citizens rose and their confidence
returned. And now, being strengthened by fresh troops and fresh stores,
they no longer acted merely on the defensive, but began to assault the
English forts, and with Joan as leader captured two of them. Then Joan
led them against the Bulwark and the Round Towers. All morning they
fought without success, and at one o’clock in the afternoon a bolt from
an English cross-bow wounded her in the shoulder. The arrow was
extracted, and still the fight went on.
After sunset the captain wished to withdraw for the night, but Joan
begged him to fall to again. She mounted her horse and rode to a quiet
place and prayed, and then returned to the fight. She alighted from her
horse, and taking her standard in her hand, waved it to and fro so that
all men saw it. “Take heed,” she said, “when the float of my banner
shall touch the Bulwark.” “It touches! it touches!” they cried. Then
said she to her men, “All is yours; enter in.”
With a great rush the French climbed the scaling-ladders, captured the
Round Towers, stormed the Bulwark, and put to the sword most of the
defenders. That night the English, terrified by the reappearance of the
Maid, raised the siege and departed, leaving their big guns and much
victual behind them. So the town of Orleans was delivered, and Frenchmen
everywhere began to believe that the Maid was really an angel of God
sent to deliver France.
Without delay Joan rode to the Dauphin and besought him to make ready to
be crowned at Rheims, the old coronation place of the French kings. But
he would not set forth until the way was cleared of English. So with six
hundred lances and some infantry Joan led an attack on them, and drove
them before her. And now in June the Dauphin at her entreaty gat him on
the road for Rheims, Joan warning him that “she would only last for a
year, or not much longer, and that he must make haste.” At Troyes the
garrison yielded, and ere long the Dauphin was in Rheims, and the scene
in which you saw the Maid for the first time took place.
Hardly was the coronation over ere Joan urged the king to march on
Paris. As he advanced, town after town opened its gates to him, and
Bedford dared not give him battle. But when the first attack on Paris
failed, he withdrew, like the coward that he was, and would not
persevere, in spite of all Joan’s prayers and tears. Almost
broken-hearted, she hung up her arms in the church of St. Denis, and
begged leave to go home to her father and mother and herd the cattle as
of yore. The king, however, would not let her go, but gave her a pension
and a title of nobility.
Now in Easter week of this fateful year the Voices spoke again to her
and said that she should be taken prisoner before Midsummer Day. They
encouraged her to be resigned to her fate, for God would help her. The
Maid knew full well that to be captured meant being burned as a witch;
nevertheless she halted not in her purpose, deeming her end glorious if
only she could give her body to be burned for her country.
The town of Compiègne was closely besieged by the English and the
Burgundians, and was likely to yield. So the Maid rode thither with her
brothers and two or three hundred men to raise the siege. She charged
the Burgundians, but was surrounded and taken prisoner and held to
ransom. The French would not pay a franc for her, and so her captors
sold her to the English, who “feared not any captain, not any chief in
war, as they had feared the Maid.” She was brought before the Bishop of
Beauvais and tried for witchcraft. After a long and tedious trial, and
after suffering every kind of insult and hardship, she was found guilty,
and was tricked into signing a paper confessing her guilt. And all the
time the miserable French king made no sign, and lifted not his little
finger to save her.
On May 30, 1431, they led her into the market-place of Rouen and burnt
her alive. With her dying words she testified to the truth of her
Visions, and underwent her awful doom with the courage of a martyr. So
she died, pressing to her lips a rude cross which a pitiful soldier held
out to her. The old legends tell that as the flames leaped round her,
and her spirit departed, a pure white dove, the harbinger of peace, rose
from out the smouldering pile and winged its way towards heaven. In very
truth peace did spring from her ashes. Her heroic example gave new life
to the crushed spirit of her countrymen, who rose and drove the invader
from their shores. Four years later, nothing was left of all the English
conquests in France but the town of Calais.
[Illustration: =THE CORONATION OF CHARLES VII. AT RHEIMS.=
(_From the painting by J. E. Lenepveu in the Pantheon, Paris._)]
[Illustration: =JOAN OF ARC STORMING THE “BULWARK” (ORLEANS).=
(_From the painting by J. E. Lenepveu._)]
[Illustration]