They were soon in the most secret
entrails of the wood when the priest said again:
"Where does a wise man hide a
leaf? In the forest. But what does he do if there is no forest?"
"Well, well," cried Flambeau irritably, "what does he do?"
"He grows a forest to hide it
in," said the priest in an obscure voice. "A fearful sin."
"Look here," cried his friend impatiently, "will you tell me this story or not? What other evidence is there
to go on?"
"There are three more bits of
evidence," said the other, "and I will give
them in logical rather than
chronological order. First of all,
of course, our authority for the issue and event of the battle is in Olivier's own dispatches, which are
lucid enough.
"He was entrenched with two or
three regiments on the heights that swept down to the Black River, on the other
side of which was lower and more marshy ground. Beyond this again was gently
rising country, on which was the first English outpost, supported by others
which lay, however, considerably in its rear. The British forces as a whole
were greatly superior in numbers; but this particular regiment was just far
enough from its base to make Olivier consider the project of crossing the river
to cut it off. By sunset, however, he had decided to retain his own position,
which was a specially strong one. At daybreak next morning he was thunderstruck
to see that this stray handful of English, entirely unsupported from their
rear, had flung themselves across the river, half by a bridge to the right, and
the other half by a ford higher up, and were massed upon the marshy bank below
him.
"That they should attempt an
attack with such numbers against such a position was incredible enough; but
Olivier noticed something yet more extraordinary. For instead of attempting to
seize more solid ground, this mad regiment, having put the river in its rear by
one wild charge, did nothing more, but stuck there. Needless to say, the
Brazilians blew great gaps in them with artillery, which they could only return
with lessening rifle fire. Yet they never broke; and Olivier's curt account
ends with a strong tribute of admiration for the mystic valour of these
imbeciles.
(1) 'Our line then advanced finally,' writes
Olivier, 'and drove them into the river;
we captured General St. Clare himself and several other officers. The colonel and the major had both fallen in the battle. I cannot resist
saying that few finer sights can have been seen in history than the last stand
of this extraordinary regiment; wounded officers picking up the rifles of dead
soldiers, and the general himself facing us on horseback bareheaded and with a
broken sword.'
"On what happened to the general
afterwards Olivier is as silent as Captain Keith."
"Well," grunted Flambeau, "get on to the next bit of evidence."
"The next evidence," said Father Brown, "took some time to
find, but it will not take long to tell. I found at last in an almshouse down
in the Lincolnshire Fens an old soldier who not only was wounded at the Black
River, but had actually knelt beside the colonel of the regiment when he died.
This latter was a certain Colonel Clancy, a big bull of an Irishman; and it
would seem that he died almost as much of rage as of bullets. He, at any rate,
was not responsible for that ridiculous raid; it must have been imposed on him
by the general. His last edifying words, according to my informant, were these:
'And there goes the damned old donkey
with the end of his sword knocked off. I wish it was his head.'
"You will remark that everyone
seems to have noticed this detail about the broken sword blade, though most
people regard it somewhat more reverently than did the late Colonel Clancy. And
now for the third fragment."
Their path through the woodland began
to go upward, and the speaker paused a little for breath before he went on.
Then he continued in the same business- like tone:
"Only a month or two ago a
certain Brazilian official died in England, having quarrelled with Olivier and
left his country. He was a well-known figure both here and on the Continent, a
Spaniard named Espado; I knew him myself. There was nothing of his that lit up
any corner of the black St. Clare business, except five or six common exercise
books filled with the diary of some English soldier. I can only suppose that it
was found by the Brazilians on one of those that fell. Anyhow, it stopped
abruptly the night before the battle.
"It's too dark to read it here,
and I will give you a resume. The first part of that entry is about somebody
called the Vulture. It sounds rather as if he were some local go-between and
non-combatant; perhaps a guide or a journalist. He has been closeted with old
Colonel Clancy; but is more often seen talking to the major. Indeed, the major is somewhat prominent in this
soldier's narrative; a lean, dark-haired man, apparently, of the name of Murray—a north of Ireland man and a
Puritan. There are continual jests about the contrast between this
Ulsterman's austerity and the conviviality of Colonel Clancy.
"Behind the English camp and
almost parallel to the river ran one of the few great roads of that district.
Westward the road curved round towards the river, which it crossed by the
bridge before mentioned. To the east the road swept backwards into the wilds,
and some two miles along it was the next English outpost. From this direction
there came along the road that evening a glitter and clatter of light cavalry,
in which even the simple diarist could recognise with astonishment the general
with his staff. He rode the great white horse which you have seen so often in
illustrated papers and Academy pictures; and you may be sure that the salute
they gave him was not merely ceremonial. He, at least, wasted no time on
ceremony, but, springing from the saddle immediately, mixed with the group of
officers, and fell into emphatic though confidential speech.
"What struck our friend the
diarist most was his special disposition to discuss matters with Major Murray. The
two men were made for sympathy; they were men who 'read their Bibles'; they
were both the old Evangelical type of officer. However this may be, it is
certain that when the general mounted again he was still talking earnestly to
Murray; and that as he walked his horse slowly down the road towards the river,
the tall Ulsterman still walked by his bridle rein in earnest debate. The
soldiers watched the two until they
vanished behind a clump of trees where the road turned towards the river.
The colonel had gone back to his tent, and the men to their pickets; the man
with the diary lingered for another four minutes, and saw a marvellous sight.
"The great white horse which had
marched slowly down the road, as it had marched in so many processions, flew
back, galloping up the road towards them as if it were mad to win a race. Horse
and man swept up to them like a whirlwind; and then, reining up the reeling
charger, the general turned on them a face like flame, and called for the
colonel like the trumpet that wakes the dead.
"With the dazed excitement of a
dream, they found themselves falling—literally falling— into their ranks, and
learned that an attack was to be led at once across the river. The general and
the major, it was said, had found out something at the bridge, and there was
only just time to strike for life. The major had gone back at once to call up the
reserve along the road behind; it was doubtful if even with that prompt appeal
help could reach them in time. But they must pass the stream that night, and
seize the heights by morning. It is with the very stir and throb of that
romantic nocturnal march that the diary suddenly ends."
Father Brown had mounted ahead; for
the woodland path grew smaller, steeper, and more twisted, till they felt as if
they were ascending a winding staircase. The priest's voice came from above out
of the darkness.
"There was one other little and
enormous thing. When the general urged them to their chivalric charge he half drew his sword from the scabbard;
and then, as if ashamed, thrust it back again. The sword again, you see."
A half-light broke through the network
of boughs above them, flinging the ghost of a net about their feet; for they
were mounting again to the faint luminosity of the naked night. Flambeau felt
truth all round him as an atmosphere, but not as an idea. He answered with
bewildered brain:
"Well, what's the matter with the sword? Officers generally have
swords, don't they?"
"They are not often mentioned in
modern war," said the other dispassionately; "but in this affair one
falls over the blessed sword everywhere."
"Well, what is there in that?" growled Flambeau; "it was a twopence coloured sort of
incident; the old man's blade breaking in his last battle. Anyone might bet the
papers would get hold of it, as they have. On all these tombs and things it's
shown broken at the point. I hope you haven't dragged me through this Polar
expedition merely because two men with an eye for a picture saw St. Clare's
broken sword."
"No," cried Father Brown,
with a sharp voice like a pistol shot; "but who saw his unbroken
sword?"
"What do you mean?" cried the other.
"I say, who saw his unbroken
sword?" repeated Father Brown obstinately. "Not the writer of the diary, anyhow; the general sheathed it in
time."
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