we should strike him; strike him the promised blow–the one from
which the English power in France would not rise up in a thousand
years, as Joan had said in her trance.
The enemy had plunged into the wide plains of La Beauce–a
roadless waste covered with bushes, with here and there bodies of
forest trees–a region where an army would be hidden from view in
a very little while. We found the trail in the soft wet earth and
followed it. It indicated an orderly march; no confusion, no panic.
But we had to be cautious. In such a piece of country we could
walk into an ambush without any trouble. Therefore Joan sent
bodies of cavalry ahead under La Hire, Pothon, and other captains,
to feel the way. Some of the other officers began to show
uneasiness; this sort of hide-and-go-seek business troubled them
and made their confidence a little shaky. Joan divined their state of
mind and cried out impetuously:
“Name of God, what would you? We must smite these English,
and we will. They shall not escape us. Though they were hung to
the clouds we would get them!”
By and by we were nearing Patay; it was about a league away.
Now at this time our reconnaissance, feeling its way in the bush,
frightened a deer, and it went bounding away and was out of sight
in a moment. Then hardly a minute later a dull great shout went up
in the distance toward Patay. It was the English soldiery. They had
been shut up in a garrison so long on moldy food that they could
not keep their delight to themselves when this fine fresh meat
came springing into their midst. Poor creature, it had wrought
damage to a nation which loved it well. For the French knew
where the English were now, whereas the English had no suspicion
of where the French were.
La Hire halted where he was, and sent back the tidings. Joan was
radiant with joy. The Duke d’Alen‡on said to her:
“Very well, we have found them; shall we fight them?”
“Have you good spurs, prince?”
“Why? Will they make us run away?”
“Nenni, en nom de Dieu! These English are ours–they are lost.
They will fly. Who overtakes them will need good spurs.
Forward–close up!”
By the time we had come up with La Hire the English had
discovered our presence. Talbot’s force was marching in three
bodies. First his advance-guard; then his artillery; then his
battle-corps a good way in the rear. He was now out of the bush
and in a fair open country. He at once posted his artillery, his
advance-guard, and five hundred picked archers along some
hedges where the French would be obliged to pass, and hoped to
hold this position till his battle-corps could come up. Sir John
Fastolfe urged the battle-corps into a gallop. Joan saw her
opportunity and ordered La Hire to advance–which La Hire
promptly did, launching his wild riders like a storm-wind, his
customary fashion.
The duke and the Bastard wanted to follow, but Joan said:
“Not yet–wait.”
So they waited–impatiently, and fidgeting in their saddles. But she
was ready–gazing straight before her, measuring, weighing,
calculating–by shades, minutes, fractions of minutes,
seconds–with all her great soul present, in eye, and set of head,
and noble pose of body–but patient, steady, master of
herself–master of herself and of the situation.
And yonder, receding, receding, plumes lifting and falling, lifting
and falling, streamed the thundering charge of La Hire’s godless
crew, La Hire’s great figure dominating it and his sword stretched
aloft like a flagstaff.
“Oh, Satan andhis Hellions, see them go!” Somebody muttered it
in deep admiration.
And now he was closing up–closing up on Fastolfe’s rushing corps.
And now he struck it–struck it hard, and broke its order. It lifted
the duke and the Bastard in their saddles to see it; and they turned,
trembling with excitement, to Joan, saying:
“Now!”
But she put up her hand, still gazing, weighing, calculating, and
said again:
“Wait–not yet.”
Fastolfe’s hard-driven battle-corps raged on like an avalanche
toward the waiting advance-guard. Suddenly these conceived the
idea that it was flying in panic before Joan; and so in that instant it