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Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc
Chapter 34
THE CAMPAIGN of the Loire had as good as opened the road to Rheims. There
was no sufficient reason now why the Coronation should not take place.
The Coronation would complete the mission which Joan had received from
heaven, and then she would be forever done with war, and would fly home
to her mother and her sheep, and never stir from the hearthstone and
happiness any more. That was her dream; and she could not rest, she was
so impatient to see it fulfilled. She became so possessed with this
matter that I began to lose faith in her two prophecies of her early
death--and, of course, when I found that faith wavering I encouraged it
to waver all the more.
The King was afraid to start to Rheims, because the road was mile-posted
with English fortresses, so to speak. Joan held them in light esteem and
not things to be afraid of in the existing modified condition of English
confidence.
And she was right. As it turned out, the march to Rheims was nothing but
a holiday excursion: Joan did not even take any artillery along, she was
so sure it would not be necessary. We marched from Gien twelve thousand
strong. This was the 29th of June. The Maid rode by the side of the King;
on his other side was the Duke d'Alencon. After the duke followed three
other princes of the blood. After these followed the Bastard of Orleans,
the Marshal de Boussac, and the Admiral of France. After these came La
Hire, Saintrailles, Tremouille, and a long procession of knights and
nobles.
We rested three days before Auxerre. The city provisioned the army, and a
deputation waited upon the King, but we did not enter the place.
Saint-Florentin opened its gates to the King.
On the 4th of July we reached Saint-Fal, and yonder lay Troyes before
us--a town which had a burning interest for us boys; for we remembered
how seven years before, in the pastures of Domremy, the Sunflower came
with his black flag and brought us the shameful news of the Treaty of
Troyes--that treaty which gave France to England, and a daughter of our
royal line in marriage to the Butcher of Agincourt. That poor town was
not to blame, of course; yet we flushed hot with that old memory, and
hoped there would be a misunderstanding here, for we dearly wanted to
storm the place and burn it. It was powerfully garrisoned by English and
Burgundian soldiery, and was expecting reinforcements from Paris. Before
night we camped before its gates and made rough work with a sortie which
marched out against us.
Joan summoned Troyes to surrender. Its commandant, seeing that she had no
artillery, scoffed at the idea, and sent her a grossly insulting reply.
Five days we consulted and negotiated. No result. The King was about to
turn back now and give up. He was afraid to go on, leaving this strong
place in his rear. Then La Hire put in a word, with a slap in it for some
of his Majesty's advisers:
"The Maid of Orleans undertook this expedition of her own motion; and it
is my mind that it is her judgment that should be followed here, and not
that of any other, let him be of whatsoever breed and standing he may."
There was wisdom and righteousness in that. So the King sent for the
Maid, and asked her how she thought the prospect looked. She said,
without any tone of doubt or question in her voice:
"In three days' time the place is ours."
The smug Chancellor put in a word now:
"If we were sure of it we would wait her six days."
"Six days, forsooth! Name of God, man, we will enter the gates
to-morrow!"
Then she mounted, and rode her lines, crying out:
"Make preparation--to your work, friends, to your work! We assault at
dawn!"
She worked hard that night, slaving away with her own hands like a common
soldier. She ordered fascines and fagots to be prepared and thrown into
the fosse, thereby to bridge it; and in this rough labor she took a man's
share.
At dawn she took her place at the head of the storming force and the
bugles blew the assault. At that moment a flag of truce was flung to the
breeze from the walls, and Troyes surrendered without firing a shot.
The next day the King with Joan at his side and the Paladin bearing her
banner entered the town in state at the head of the army. And a goodly
army it was now, for it had been growing ever bigger and bigger from the
first.
And now a curious thing happened. By the terms of the treaty made with
the town the garrison of English and Burgundian soldiery were to be
allowed to carry away their "goods" with them. This was well, for
otherwise how would they buy the wherewithal to live? Very well; these
people were all to go out by the one gate, and at the time set for them
to depart we young fellows went to that gate, along with the Dwarf, to
see the march-out. Presently here they came in an interminable file, the
foot-soldiers in the lead. As they approached one could see that each
bore a burden of a bulk and weight to sorely tax his strength; and we
said among ourselves, truly these folk are well off for poor common
soldiers. When they were come nearer, what do you think? Every rascal of
them had a French prisoner on his back! They were carrying away their
"goods," you see--their property--strictly according to the permission
granted by the treaty.
Now think how clever that was, how ingenious. What could a body say? what
could a body do? For certainly these people were within their right.
These prisoners were property; nobody could deny that. My dears, if those
had been English captives, conceive of the richness of that booty! For
English prisoners had been scarce and precious for a hundred years;
whereas it was a different matter with French prisoners. They had been
over-abundant for a century. The possessor of a French prisoner did not
hold him long for ransom, as a rule, but presently killed him to save the
cost of his keep. This shows you how small was the value of such a
possession in those times. When we took Troyes a calf was worth thirty
francs, a sheep sixteen, a French prisoner eight. It was an enormous
price for those other animals--a price which naturally seems incredible
to you. It was the war, you see. It worked two ways: it made meat dear
and prisoners cheap.
Well, here were these poor Frenchmen being carried off. What could we do?
Very little of a permanent sort, but we did what we could. We sent a
messenger flying to Joan, and we and the French guards halted the
procession for a parley--to gain time, you see. A big Burgundian lost his
temper and swore a great oath that none should stop him; he would go, and
would take his prisoner with him. But we blocked him off, and he saw that
he was mistaken about going--he couldn't do it. He exploded into the
maddest cursings and revilings, then, and, unlashing his prisoner from
his back, stood him up, all bound and helpless; then drew his knife, and
said to us with a light of sarcasting triumph in his eye:
"I may not carry him away, you say--yet he is mine, none will dispute it.
Since I may not convey him hence, this property of mine, there is another
way. Yes, I can kill him; not even the dullest among you will question
that right. Ah, you had not thought of that--vermin!"
That poor starved fellow begged us with his piteous eyes to save him;
then spoke, and said he had a wife and little children at home. Think how
it wrung our heartstrings. But what could we do? The Burgundian was
within his right. We could only beg and plead for the prisoner. Which we
did. And the Burgundian enjoyed it. He stayed his hand to hear more of
it, and laugh at it. That stung. Then the Dwarf said:
"Prithee, young sirs, let me beguile him; for when a matter requiring
permission is to the fore, I have indeed a gift in that sort, as any will
tell you that know me well. You smile; and that is punishment for my
vanity; and fairly earned, I grant you. Still, if I may toy a little,
just a little--" saying which he stepped to the Burgundian and began a
fair soft speech, all of goodly and gentle tenor; and in the midst he
mentioned the Maid; and was going on to say how she out of her good heart
would prize and praise this compassionate deed which he was about to-- It
was as far as he got. The Burgundian burst into his smooth oration with
an insult leveled at Joan of Arc. We sprang forward, but the Dwarf, his
face all livid, brushed us aside and said, in a most grave and earnest
way:
"I crave your patience. Am not I her guard of honor? This is my affair."
And saying this he suddenly shot his right hand out and gripped the great
Burgundian by the throat, and so held him upright on his feet. "You have
insulted the Maid," he said; "and the Maid is France. The tongue that
does that earns a long furlough."
One heard the muffled cracking of bones. The Burgundian's eyes began to
protrude from their sockets and stare with a leaden dullness at vacancy.
The color deepened in his face and became an opaque purple. His hands
hung down limp, his body collapsed with a shiver, every muscle relaxed
its tension and ceased from its function. The Dwarf took away his hand
and the column of inert mortality sank mushily to the ground.
We struck the bonds from the prisoner and told him he was free. His
crawling humbleness changed to frantic joy in a moment, and his ghastly
fear to a childish rage. He flew at that dead corpse and kicked it, spat
in its face, danced upon it, crammed mud into its mouth, laughing,
jeering, cursing, and volleying forth indecencies and bestialities like a
drunken fiend. It was a thing to be expected; soldiering makes few
saints. Many of the onlookers laughed, others were indifferent, none was
surprised. But presently in his mad caperings the freed man capered
within reach of the waiting file, and another Burgundian promptly slipped
a knife through his neck, and down he went with a death-shriek, his
brilliant artery blood spurting ten feet as straight and bright as a ray
of light. There was a great burst of jolly laughter all around from
friend and foe alike; and thus closed one of the pleasantest incidents of
my checkered military life.
And now came Joan hurrying, and deeply troubled. She considered the claim
of the garrison, then said:
"You have right upon your side. It is plain. It was a careless word to
put in the treaty, and covers too much. But ye may not take these poor
men away. They are French, and I will not have it. The King shall ransom
them, every one. Wait till I send you word from him; and hurt no hair of
their heads; for I tell you, I who speak, that that would cost you very
dear."
That settled it. The prisoners were safe for one while, anyway. Then she
rode back eagerly and required that thing of the King, and would listen
to no paltering and no excuses. So the King told her to have her way, and
she rode straight back and bought the captives free in his name and let
them go.
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