Joan could have marched by the English forts.  However, it was not to be.  She had been cheated out of her first chance to strike a heavy blow for her country.

In camp that night she slept in her armor on the ground.  It was a cold night, and she was nearly as stiff as her armor itself when we resumed the march in the morning, for iron is not good material for a blanket.  However, her joy in being now so far on her way to the theater of her mission was fire enough to warm her, and it soon did it.

Her enthusiasm and impatience rose higher and higher with every mile of progress; but at last we reached Olivet, and down it went, and indignation took its place.  For she saw the trick that had been played upon her—­the river lay between us and Orleans.

She was for attacking one of the three bastilles that were on our side of the river and forcing access to the bridge which it guarded (a project which, if successful, would raise the siege instantly), but the long-ingrained fear of the English came upon her generals and they implored her not to make the attempt.  The soldiers wanted to attack, but had to suffer disappointment.  So we moved on and came to a halt at a point opposite Checy, six miles above Orleans.

Dunois, Bastard of Orleans, with a body of knights and citizens, came up from the city to welcome Joan.  Joan was still burning with resentment over the trick that had been put upon her, and was not in the mood for soft speeches, even to reversed military idols of her childhood.  She said: 

“Are you the bastard?”

“Yes, I am he, and am right glad of your coming.”

“And did you advise that I be brought by this side of the river instead of straight to Talbot and the English?”

Her high manner abashed him, and he was not able to answer with anything like a confident promptness, but with many hesitations and partial excuses he managed to get out the confession that for what he and the council had regarded as imperative military reasons they so advised.

“In God’s name,” said Joan, “my Lord’s counsel is safer and wiser than yours.  You thought to deceive me, but you have deceived yourselves, for I bring you the best help that ever knight or city had; for it is God’s help, not sent for love of me, but by God’s pleasure.  At the prayer of St. Louis and St. Charlemagne He has had pity on Orleans, and will not suffer the enemy to have both the Duke of Orleans and his city.  The provisions to save the starving people are here, the boats are below the city, the wind is contrary, they cannot come up hither.  Now then, tell me, in God’s name, you who are so wise, what that council of yours was thinking about, to invent this foolish difficulty.”

Dunois and the rest fumbled around the matter a moment, then gave in and conceded that a blunder had been made.

“Yes, a blunder has been made,” said Joan, “and except God take your proper work upon Himself and change the wind and correct your blunder for you, there is none else that can devise a remedy.”