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!”