CHAPTER XXII   THE MARCH OF THE FORLORN SEVEN THOUSAND

It will now be necessary to relate the final incidents of the siege of Harfleur, after Geoffrey had been removed from the shadow of the gallows.

All that night a heavy cannonade was directed against the doomed town in order to prepare the way for the grand assault. But ere the latter was delivered the Lord of Gaucourt sent a herald to the King of England offering to capitulate within three days unless the town should be succoured before the expiration of that term.

Incredibly inactive, the King of France made no effort to relieve the fortress that had held out so bravely and desperately for more than thirty days, and on Sunday, September 22, Gaucourt, accompanied by the principal knights and burgesses of Harfleur, delivered up the keys of the town.

On the following day Henry and his forces entered Harfleur with all the pomp and magnificence of a conqueror, but at the North Gate he removed his casque and shoes, and with impressive humility walked barefooted to the principal church of the town, where the Te Deum and Non Nobis were sung with the greatest fervour by hundreds of battle-worn English warriors.

Having done his spiritual duty Henry's next care was to secure the captured town against attacks from without, and to take steps to husband his resources. Accordingly the captured knights and men-at-arms were compelled to give up their arms and armour, and allowed to retain only those garments sufficient to cover them. Those who were willing to give their parole to surrender themselves at Calais at Martinmas were dismissed. A few who declined to give such assurances were sent to England with the booty.

The English had, by sheer valour and perseverance, secured the chief town and port in Normandy; but in so doing their losses by wounds and sickness were so great that the primary object of the invasion—the conquest of France—was for the time being out of the question.

Henry had three courses open to him: he could either remain within the walls of Harfleur till reinforcements arrived from England, or he could re-embark and give up the fruits of victory; or he could adopt the desperate step of marching along the coast to Calais, a distance of more than one hundred and seventy miles. Something had to be done; so, with the glorious record of his great grandfather, Edward III, to raise the enthusiasm of his men, Henry decided upon the third and most dangerous alternative.

His preparations were soon complete, for the massing of a huge French army hastened his actions. Five hundred and fifty men-at-arms and twelve hundred archers were to be left at Harfleur to hold the town at all costs; the sick and wounded, together with the artillery and heavy transport, were sent back to Southampton, and with a bare seven thousand men King Harry set out upon his desperate enterprise on the morning of October 8.

"By St. George, 'twill be a question of no little advancement or a glorious death," exclaimed Sir Thomas Carberry to his squire as from his position in the vanguard of the host he turned and saw the orderly lines of men breasting the hill beyond the town of Harfleur. "If we gain our end our deed will be sung as long as England remains a nation. Failing that, dulce et decorum est pro pâtria mori—what sayest thou, Geoffrey?"

"Fair lord, I am in accord with thee, though to speak plainly I would rather return to England victorious than lay my bones in the soil of France. What thinkest thou of our chance, Sir Thomas?"

"'Tis not a chance: our future lies in the hands of One above. Yet, speaking as a man well versed in war, our position is very little different from that of the worthy King Edward III before Crécy, and, certes, not worse than before Poictiers. Mark yon line of hungry men clad in rags and rusty armour: I'll warrant they'll fight as blithely and as well as did their forefathers. Times and manners change, in sooth, but the character of the English soldier will, I trow, ever remain the same."

Day after day the weary march was maintained, the troops sleeping in the open at night, in constant expectation of a sudden onfall by the overwhelming host that was known to be hovering in the vicinity. Yet without any serious opposition the English Army reached the mouth of the Somme, where Edward III had made a successful crossing on his march to Calais.

But the fortune that had favoured his great-grandsire was denied the brave and headstrong King Henry, for at Blanche-Taque, the scene of the passage of the Somme, the French were massed in such a strong position that it would have been sheer madness to attempt the ford.

"By my halidome, my lords," exclaimed the King, when he saw the enemy's strength and unassailable position, "ere I left Harfleur I registered a solemn vow not to retrace one step while I wear coat-armour. If I cannot go on, here I must abide, but since I am unwilling to stand here and hurl defiance at these Frenchmen, I must needs go on."

To this deliberate vow Henry scrupulously adhered. On one occasion it is recorded that he inadvertently rode past a house that had been selected for his night's resting-place. Stubbornly he refused to return, and spent the night with his troops in the open.

It can be readily understood that a man who rigorously kept his oath pertaining to small matters would be even more strict in the ordering of greater things. He now gave orders for the little army to turn aside and march inland, following the left bank of the swift-flowing Somme.

This meant that the danger of his position was increased fourfold. So long as he kept to the coast his left flank was secured from attack, but directly the English Army marched away from the sea, it was liable to be completely surrounded by the ever-growing French host.

For eight long days the English army marched slowly up the valley of the Somme, vainly endeavouring to find a bridge or a ford that had been left slenderly guarded. To the fatigues of their arduous march were added the difficulties of obtaining provisions in a devastated country, but encouraged by the personal example of their Sovereign the troops maintained their courage and self-confidence.

"Canst perceive yon castle?" asked Gripwell of Geoffrey, pointing to the summit of a square keep that showed itself above a distant hill. "Tis the Castle of Maissons where the Count, Sir Raoul d'Aulx, holds thy father captive."

"I have heard much of Maissons, but never before have I perceived it," replied Geoffrey, shading his eyes as he looked towards the grim pile. "How sayest thou, Arnold? Perchance Sir Raoul and most of his men are in the field. If I obtain my lord's permission to take a score of men-at-arms, 'twould be an easy matter to ride over to Maissons and demand its surrender. Without doubt the near presence of the English army would frighten them into opening their gates."

"Nay, 'tis not to be thought of, Squire Geoffrey," replied Gripwell. "Hath not the King issued orders concerning stragglers and against affairs requiring the absence of any soldiers from the army? Think no more of it yet awhile, for I'll warrant that if we vanquish the host that threatens us the gates of every castle in Normandy will be thrown open to the King."

Reluctantly the young squire had to abandon the chance of rescuing his father, but ere long an event occurred that kept him fully occupied for some time to come.

"Geoffrey," exclaimed Sir Thomas Carberry, who had just left the King's presence, "the time hath come when we must prove our courage and devotion. Dost mark yon mill, at the head of the river? The red roof is to be seen above the trees on thy left."

"Yes, sir," replied the squire. "Methinks that foes are in force there, since the smoke of many camp fires rises skywards."

"Nay, 'tis the fires of the wood-cutters of Peronne. But to the point: my company must seize yon mill at all costs, and hold the ford above but hard by the mill till the main body of the army can cross. See to it that the mounted men-at-arms only are to essay this task—of the archers we have no need. Now, hasten, for every moment is precious."

Led by Sir Thomas Carberry in person, with Geoffrey and Oswald and Richard Ratclyffe riding close behind him, the eighty men-at-arms rode steadily through the open valley towards the ford. Then, as the company rounded an intervening spur of ground, the mill again appeared in sight.

Scattered in and around the rambling stone building were several French knights, crossbowmen and men-at-arms. Although placed there for the express purpose of guarding the important passage, it was not until the head of the English column showed itself that the defenders realized the danger. Standing in his stirrups Sir Thomas shouted his battle-cry; then with a roar the horsemen thundered towards the ford.

Ere the horses could gain the water sufficient time had elapsed to enable the crossbowmen to wind their cumbersome weapons, and with a dull bass hum the heavy quarrels began to speed over and betwixt the Englishmen, some finding a billet in the bodies of the charging horsemen or their steeds. Now and again a horse would sink to earth, throwing its rider headlong, while those following had much ado to prevent themselves from being overthrown by the still plunging animal. Sometimes a thrown rider would struggle to his feet and begin to stumble blindly after his comrades, but more often the thrown warrior would lie still and motionless, never again to hear the shouts of his victorious comrades in arms.

Now the head of the column was in the swift-flowing river. The water soaked through Geoffrey's mailed shoes and greaves, but the squire heeded it not: his whole attention was directed against a knot of mail-clad Frenchmen who were urging their steeds into the stream to contest the possession of the ford.

With a crash the sharpened lance-points met, but owing to the retarding influence of the water the shock was not so great as that of the tilt-yard. Some of the less skilful riders were hurled from their saddles to perish miserably in the river, but the majority, casting aside their unwieldy lances, fell upon each other with axe, mace and sword.

Of what happened during the next few moments Geoffrey had but a dim recollection. It was cut, thrust, and parry, steel ringing on steel, horses champing and neighing, wounded men shrieking dismally till their miserable cries were stifled by the silent yet swift-running current, and above all the hoarse shouts of the English men-at-arms who were not to be gainsaid in their determination to win the ford.

At length the mêlée thinned, and the squire found himself opposed to a knight clad in bronzed armour, and armed with a long two-handled sword. Wedged firmly in his high-pommelled saddle the Frenchman had slung his shield behind his back, and, with the reins dropped upon his horse's mane, he was able to devote his whole strength to the wielding of his mighty weapon.

A sweeping cut delivered at Geoffrey's head the squire caught upon his shield, with no other ill effect than to shear off its upper corner.

Then with lightning rapidity the cut was repeated, this time full on the youth's right side. The Englishman's sword barely checked the swinging blow that all but numbed the lad's sword-arm, while his counter-cut fell harmlessly upon the French knight's gorget.

Realizing that the only way to avoid the seemingly tireless cuts was to get within his adversary's guard Geoffrey dug his spurs into the flanks of his charger. The powerful brute instantly responded, and the two animals were plunging neck to neck as Geoffrey rained a hail of ineffectual blows upon the Frenchman, who in turn endeavoured to shorten his sword and recover his lost advantage.

Heedlessly the two combatants were edging down stream, till with a neigh of terror the Frenchman's horse lost its footing. Its hind feet had slipped over a shelf in the bed of the river. Scraping desperately with its fore hoofs it strove to regain a foothold. Only by his prompt action was Geoffrey able to save himself and his steed from a similar fate.

"Help me, I yield," shouted the knight, dropping his sword and holding out his right hand.

In reply, Geoffrey stretched out his gauntleted hand to grasp his vanquished foe, but ere he could do so the struggling animal's feet slipped from the ledge, and in an instant horse and knight were lost to view in the depths of the mill-stream.

By this time the ford was won. Those of the defenders who had escaped slaughter had fled, save a few who, taking shelter in the mill, resisted desperately till slain to the last man.

The Constable of Portchester's company had lost heavily. Fifteen gallant men-at-arms had ridden to their death, while a score more had been sorely wounded. Ratclyffe was making light of a blow that, cracking his steel bascinet, had grazed his forehead till he was well-nigh blinded with blood. Neither Sir Thomas nor his squire Geoffrey had sustained injury, though dents in their armour bore silent testimony to the heat of the action. But the object of the engagement was achieved, for without further molestation the whole of the little English army crossed the Somme.

"Ay, my lord, they bore themselves right manfully," replied Sir Thomas Carberry, when the Earl of Exeter complimented him on the gallant exploit of the company. "But here we are across the river, and I'll warrant our difficulties are only begun. Yet mark these rascals of mine, they reck not the odds, so long as there is the prospect of a fight."

"Then they'll have their desire ere long, Sir Thomas," replied the Earl—"a fight compared with which this gallant deed is but naught. The fame of the English arms will ring through Christendom ere we reach Calais."

"Amen," replied the Constable. "For 'tis for this purpose that we are here."