“FORWARD! THEY ARE OURS!”
The whole of the long May day was occupied in completing arrangements, and it was not until five o’clock in the afternoon that everything was in readiness. It had been a beautiful day, warm with May sunshine, but cooled by a breeze from
the west, sweet with the scent of flowers and growing grass. The walls of the city, the windows and roofs of the houses, the buildings on the bridge, and the streets were lined with people waiting to see the Maid and her companions set forth. Presently Jeanne appeared, standard in hand, mounted on a great grey horse, and clad in a rich hucque of crimson cramoisie over her armour. At sight of her the people went wild with joy, shouting:
“Noël! Noël! Noël!” while women and girls threw flowers before her. Jeanne turned a happy face toward them, bowing and smiling, as she rode forth to her
last field.
With her rode D’Aulon, his brother, Pothon le Bourgnignon, her brothers, Jean and Pierre, and her Confessor, Father Pasquerel, and a company of five hundred
men. Across the bridge they clattered, then took at speed the long line of the causeway to Margny.
“Forward! they are ours!” called Jeanne’s clear voice as the village was reached.
With a shout the troops hurled themselves upon the Burgundians, taking the enemy completely by surprise. A scene of confusion ensued. There were cries of
triumph from the French as they chased the Burgundians hither and thither, and
cries of dismay and clashing of steel from the Burgundians as they scattered before the French through the village. Everything was going as the Maid had planned; for the town was taken.
Just at this juncture Jean de Luxembourg, commander of the Burgundian camp at
Clairoix, with several companions, was riding from Clairoix on a visit to the commander at Margny. They had drawn rein on the cliff above Margny, and were discussing the defences of Compiègne when, hearing the clash of arms, they looked over the bluff and saw the scrimmage. Wheeling, they made for Clairoix, and brought up their troops on a gallop. To render the post of Margny untenable took time; so when, flushed with triumph, Jeanne’s men turned into the plain toward Clairoix, Luxembourg’s men-at-arms set upon them, attacking
their right flank. The French rolled back, overwhelmed by the onslaught.
Rallying her men, Jeanne charged, and swept back the enemy. Again the French
were repulsed; again the Maid drove back the Burgundians; and thus the fray raged on the flat ground of the meadow, first in favor of the one, and then of the other. As they surged with this alternative of advance and retreat the French were
pressed back to the causeway. And then, as reinforcements of the Burgundians continued to arrive a panic suddenly seized the French, and they broke and ran
for the bridge and the boats. In vain Jeanne tried to rally them to the charge. For once they were deaf to her voice.
Caring only for the safety of her band Jeanne covered the rear, charging the enemy with those who remained with her, with such effect that they were driven
back full half the length of the causeway. “She that was the chief and most valiant of her band, doing deeds beyond the nature of woman.” [26]
Suddenly there sounded a loud hurrah, and from a little wood on the left there came galloping and running across the meadow land from Venette the men-at-arms and the archers of England. Assailed on all sides, for the Burgundians at Margny had rallied and re-entered the fray, the confusion of the French became
extreme. A struggling, seething mass of fugitives crowded the causeway, running for their lives. Men and foot soldiers, and behind them mounted men-at-arms, spurring hard, and all making for the boulevard. The gunners on the walls trained their cannon on the mass of men, but fugitives and enemy were so commingled that friend and foe could not be distinguished, and they dared not fire. And De Flavy did nothing.
Roused to the danger of their position D’Aulon entreated Jeanne to make for the town.
“The day is lost, Pucelle,” he cried. “All are in retreat. Make for the town.” But Jeanne shook her head.
“Never,” she cried. “To the charge!”
D’Aulon, Jean and Pierre, her brothers, all her own little company, closed around her, resolved to sell their lives dearly in her defence, and D’Aulon and Pierre, seizing hold of her bridle rein, forcibly turned her toward the town, carrying her back in spite of herself.
But now they were assailed from all sides, the little company fighting, struggling, contesting every inch of ground, beating off their adversaries, and advancing little by little toward the boulevard.
“We shall make it, Jeanne,” exulted Pierre D’Arc when they were within a stone’s throw of the walls, but the words died on his lips, for at this moment came a ringing order from the gate:
“Up drawbridge: close gates: down portcullis!”
Instantly the drawbridge flew up, down came the portcullis, the gates were closed and barred. Jeanne the Maid was shut out.
A groan came from Pierre’s lips, but his sister smiled at him bravely; as old D’Aulon shouted:
“Treachery! In God’s name, open for the Maid.”
But the gates were closed, and the drawbridge remained up. There was a second’s interchange of looks between the brothers and sister as the enemy with shouts of triumph closed around them in overwhelming numbers. Only a second,
but in that brief time they took a mute farewell of each other. Man after man of the little company was cut down or made prisoner. D’Aulon was seized, then Jean, then Pierre, and Jeanne found herself struggling in the midst of a multitude of Anglo-Burgundians. One seized her wrists, while a Picard archer tore her from the saddle by the long folds of her crimson hucque, and in a moment they
were all upon her.
“Yield your faith to me,” cried the Picard archer, who had seized her hucque.
“I have given my faith to another than you, and I will keep my oath,” rang the
undaunted girl’s answer.
At this moment there came a wild clamour of bells from the churches of Compiègne in a turbulent call to arms to save the Maid. Their urgent pealing sounded too late.
Jeanne D’Arc had fought on her last field. The inspired Maid was a prisoner.
