The Sign of the Broken Sword
The thousand arms of the forest were grey, and its million fingerssilver. In a sky of dark green-blue-like slate the stars were bleakand brilliant like splintered ice. All that thickly wooded and sparselytenanted countryside was stiff with a bitter and brittle frost. Theblack hollows between the trunks of the trees looked like bottomless,black caverns of that Scandinavian hell, a hell of incalculable cold.Even the square stone tower of the church looked northern to the pointof heathenry, as if it were some barbaric tower among the sea rocks ofIceland. It was a queer night for anyone to explore a churchyard. But,on the other hand, perhaps it was worth exploring.
It rose abruptly out of the ashen wastes of forest in a sort of hump orshoulder of green turf that looked grey in the starlight. Most of thegraves were on a slant, and the path leading up to the church wasas steep as a staircase. On the top of the hill, in the one flat andprominent place, was the monument for which the place was famous. Itcontrasted strangely with the featureless graves all round, for it wasthe work of one of the greatest sculptors of modern Europe; and yet hisfame was at once forgotten in the fame of the man whose image he hadmade. It showed, by touches of the small silver pencil of starlight, themassive metal figure of a soldier recumbent, the strong hands sealedin an everlasting worship, the great head pillowed upon a gun. Thevenerable face was bearded, or rather whiskered, in the old, heavyColonel Newcome fashion. The uniform, though suggested with the fewstrokes of simplicity, was that of modern war. By his right side lay asword, of which the tip was broken off; on the left side lay a Bible. Onglowing summer afternoons wagonettes came full of Americans and culturedsuburbans to see the sepulchre; but even then they felt the vast forestland with its one dumpy dome of churchyard and church as a place oddlydumb and neglected. In this freezing darkness of mid-winter one wouldthink he might be left alone with the stars. Nevertheless, in thestillness of those stiff woods a wooden gate creaked, and two dimfigures dressed in black climbed up the little path to the tomb.
So faint was that frigid starlight that nothing could have beentraced about them except that while they both wore black, one man wasenormously big, and the other (perhaps by contrast) almost startlinglysmall. They went up to the great graven tomb of the historic warrior,and stood for a few minutes staring at it. There was no human, perhapsno living, thing for a wide circle; and a morbid fancy might well havewondered if they were human themselves. In any case, the beginning oftheir conversation might have seemed strange. After the first silencethe small man said to the other:
"Where does a wise man hide a pebble?"
And the tall man answered in a low voice: "On the beach."
The small man nodded, and after a short silence said: "Where does a wiseman hide a leaf?"
And the other answered: "In the forest."
There was another stillness, and then the tall man resumed: "Do you meanthat when a wise man has to hide a real diamond he has been known tohide it among sham ones?"
"No, no," said the little man with a laugh, "we will let bygones bebygones."
He stamped his cold feet for a second or two, and then said: "I'mnot thinking of that at all, but of something else; something ratherpeculiar. Just strike a match, will you?"
The big man fumbled in his pocket, and soon a scratch and a flarepainted gold the whole flat side of the monument. On it was cut in blackletters the well-known words which so many Americans had reverentlyread: "Sacred to the Memory of General Sir Arthur St. Clare, Hero andMartyr, who Always Vanquished his Enemies and Always Spared Them, andWas Treacherously Slain by Them At Last. May God in Whom he Trusted bothReward and Revenge him."
The match burnt the big man's fingers, blackened, and dropped. He wasabout to strike another, but his small companion stopped him. "That'sall right, Flambeau, old man; I saw what I wanted. Or, rather, I didn'tsee what I didn't want. And now we must walk a mile and a half alongthe road to the next inn, and I will try to tell you all about it. ForHeaven knows a man should have a fire and ale when he dares tell such astory."
They descended the precipitous path, they relatched the rusty gate, andset off at a stamping, ringing walk down the frozen forest road. Theyhad gone a full quarter of a mile before the smaller man spoke again. Hesaid: "Yes; the wise man hides a pebble on the beach. But what does hedo if there is no beach? Do you know anything of that great St. Claretrouble?"
"I know nothing about English generals, Father Brown," answered thelarge man, laughing, "though a little about English policemen. I onlyknow that you have dragged me a precious long dance to all the shrinesof this fellow, whoever he is. One would think he got buried insix different places. I've seen a memorial to General St. Clare inWestminster Abbey. I've seen a ramping equestrian statue of GeneralSt. Clare on the Embankment. I've seen a medallion of St. Clare in thestreet he was born in, and another in the street he lived in; and nowyou drag me after dark to his coffin in the village churchyard. I ambeginning to be a bit tired of his magnificent personality, especiallyas I don't in the least know who he was. What are you hunting for in allthese crypts and effigies?"
"I am only looking for one word," said Father Brown. "A word that isn'tthere."
"Well," asked Flambeau; "are you going to tell me anything about it?"
"I must divide it into two parts," remarked the priest. "First there iswhat everybody knows; and then there is what I know. Now, what everybodyknows is short and plain enough. It is also entirely wrong."
"Right you are," said the big man called Flambeau cheerfully. "Let'sbegin at the wrong end. Let's begin with what everybody knows, whichisn't true."
"If not wholly untrue, it is at least very inadequate," continued Brown;"for in point of fact, all that the public knows amounts precisely tothis: The public knows that Arthur St. Clare was a great and successfulEnglish general. It knows that after splendid yet careful campaignsboth in India and Africa he was in command against Brazil when the greatBrazilian patriot Olivier issued his ultimatum. It knows that on thatoccasion St. Clare with a very small force attacked Olivier with a verylarge one, and was captured after heroic resistance. And it knows thatafter his capture, and to the abhorrence of the civilised world, St.Clare was hanged on the nearest tree. He was found swinging there afterthe Brazilians had retired, with his broken sword hung round his neck."
"And that popular story is untrue?" suggested Flambeau.
"No," said his friend quietly, "that story is quite true, so far as itgoes."
"Well, I think it goes far enough!" said Flambeau; "but if the popularstory is true, what is the mystery?"
They had passed many hundreds of grey and ghostly trees before thelittle priest answered. Then he bit his finger reflectively and said:"Why, the mystery is a mystery of psychology. Or, rather, it is amystery of two psychologies. In that Brazilian business two of the mostfamous men of modern history acted flat against their characters. Mindyou, Olivier and St. Clare were both heroes--the old thing, and nomistake; it was like the fight between Hector and Achilles. Now, whatwould you say to an affair in which Achilles was timid and Hector wastreacherous?"
"Go on," said the large man impatiently as the other bit his fingeragain.
"Sir Arthur St. Clare was a soldier of the old religious type--the typethat saved us during the Mutiny," continued Brown. "He was always morefor duty than for dash; and with all his personal courage was decidedlya prudent commander, particularly indignant at any needless waste ofsoldiers. Yet in this last battle he attempted something that a babycould see was absurd. One need not be a strategist to see it was as wildas wind; just as one need not be a strategist to keep out of the wayof a motor-bus. Well, that is the first mystery; what had become of theEnglish general's head? The second riddle is, what had become of theBrazilian general's heart? President Olivier might be called a visionaryor a nuisance; but even his enemies admitted that he was magnanimous tothe point of knight errantry. Almost every other prisoner he had evercaptured had been set free or even loaded with benefits. Men who hadreally wron
ged him came away touched by his simplicity and sweetness.Why the deuce should he diabolically revenge himself only once in hislife; and that for the one particular blow that could not have hurt him?Well, there you have it. One of the wisest men in the world acted likean idiot for no reason. One of the best men in the world acted like afiend for no reason. That's the long and the short of it; and I leave itto you, my boy."
"No, you don't," said the other with a snort. "I leave it to you; andyou jolly well tell me all about it."
"Well," resumed Father Brown, "it's not fair to say that the publicimpression is just what I've said, without adding that two things havehappened since. I can't say they threw a new light; for nobody can makesense of them. But they threw a new kind of darkness; they threw thedarkness in new directions. The first was this. The family physicianof the St. Clares quarrelled with that family, and began publishing aviolent series of articles, in which he said that the late general wasa religious maniac; but as far as the tale went, this seemed to meanlittle more than a religious man.
"Anyhow, the story fizzled out. Everyone knew, of course, that St. Clarehad some of the eccentricities of puritan piety. The second incident wasmuch more arresting. In the luckless and unsupported regiment which madethat rash attempt at the Black River there was a certain Captain Keith,who was at that time engaged to St. Clare's daughter, and who afterwardsmarried her. He was one of those who were captured by Olivier, and,like all the rest except the general, appears to have been bounteouslytreated and promptly set free. Some twenty years afterwards this man,then Lieutenant-Colonel Keith, published a sort of autobiography called'A British Officer in Burmah and Brazil.' In the place where the readerlooks eagerly for some account of the mystery of St. Clare's disastermay be found the following words: 'Everywhere else in this book Ihave narrated things exactly as they occurred, holding as I do theold-fashioned opinion that the glory of England is old enough to takecare of itself. The exception I shall make is in this matter ofthe defeat by the Black River; and my reasons, though private, arehonourable and compelling. I will, however, add this in justice to thememories of two distinguished men. General St. Clare has been accusedof incapacity on this occasion; I can at least testify that this action,properly understood, was one of the most brilliant and sagacious ofhis life. President Olivier by similar report is charged with savageinjustice. I think it due to the honour of an enemy to say that he actedon this occasion with even more than his characteristic good feeling. Toput the matter popularly, I can assure my countrymen that St. Clare wasby no means such a fool nor Olivier such a brute as he looked. This isall I have to say; nor shall any earthly consideration induce me to adda word to it.'"
A large frozen moon like a lustrous snowball began to show through thetangle of twigs in front of them, and by its light the narrator hadbeen able to refresh his memory of Captain Keith's text from a scrap ofprinted paper. As he folded it up and put it back in his pocket Flambeauthrew up his hand with a French gesture.
"Wait a bit, wait a bit," he cried excitedly. "I believe I can guess itat the first go."
He strode on, breathing hard, his black head and bull neck forward, likea man winning a walking race. The little priest, amused and interested,had some trouble in trotting beside him. Just before them the trees fellback a little to left and right, and the road swept downwards across aclear, moonlit valley, till it dived again like a rabbit into the wallof another wood. The entrance to the farther forest looked small andround, like the black hole of a remote railway tunnel. But it was withinsome hundred yards, and gaped like a cavern before Flambeau spoke again.
"I've got it," he cried at last, slapping his thigh with his great hand."Four minutes' thinking, and I can tell your whole story myself."
"All right," assented his friend. "You tell it."
Flambeau lifted his head, but lowered his voice. "General Sir Arthur St.Clare," he said, "came of a family in which madness was hereditary; andhis whole aim was to keep this from his daughter, and even, if possible,from his future son-in-law. Rightly or wrongly, he thought the finalcollapse was close, and resolved on suicide. Yet ordinary suicide wouldblazon the very idea he dreaded. As the campaign approached the cloudscame thicker on his brain; and at last in a mad moment he sacrificed hispublic duty to his private. He rushed rashly into battle, hoping to fallby the first shot. When he found that he had only attained capture anddiscredit, the sealed bomb in his brain burst, and he broke his ownsword and hanged himself."
He stared firmly at the grey facade of forest in front of him, with theone black gap in it, like the mouth of the grave, into which their pathplunged. Perhaps something menacing in the road thus suddenly swallowedreinforced his vivid vision of the tragedy, for he shuddered.
"A horrid story," he said.
"A horrid story," repeated the priest with bent head. "But not the realstory."
Then he threw back his head with a sort of despair and cried: "Oh, Iwish it had been."
The tall Flambeau faced round and stared at him.
"Yours is a clean story," cried Father Brown, deeply moved. "A sweet,pure, honest story, as open and white as that moon. Madness and despairare innocent enough. There are worse things, Flambeau."
Flambeau looked up wildly at the moon thus invoked; and from where hestood one black tree-bough curved across it exactly like a devil's horn.
"Father--father," cried Flambeau with the French gesture and steppingyet more rapidly forward, "do you mean it was worse than that?"
"Worse than that," said Paul like a grave echo. And they plunged intothe black cloister of the woodland, which ran by them in a dim tapestryof trunks, like one of the dark corridors in a dream.
They were soon in the most secret entrails of the wood, and felt closeabout them foliage that they could not see, when the priest said again:
"Where does a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest. But what does he doif 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, for the dark wood and thedark saying got a little on his nerves; "will you tell me this story ornot? What other evidence is there to go on?"
"There are three more bits of evidence," said the other, "that I havedug up in holes and corners; and I will give them in logical ratherthan chronological order. First of all, of course, our authority for theissue and event of the battle is in Olivier's own dispatches, whichare lucid enough. He was entrenched with two or three regiments on theheights that swept down to the Black River, on the other side of whichwas lower and more marshy ground. Beyond this again was gently risingcountry, on which was the first English outpost, supported by otherswhich lay, however, considerably in its rear. The British forces as awhole were greatly superior in numbers; but this particular regiment wasjust far enough from its base to make Olivier consider the project ofcrossing the river to cut it off. By sunset, however, he had decided toretain his own position, which was a specially strong one. At daybreaknext morning he was thunderstruck to see that this stray handful ofEnglish, entirely unsupported from their rear, had flung themselvesacross the river, half by a bridge to the right, and the other half by aford higher up, and were massed upon the marshy bank below him.
"That they should attempt an attack with such numbers against such aposition was incredible enough; but Olivier noticed something yet moreextraordinary. 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 in the mire like flies in treacle.Needless to say, the Brazilians blew great gaps in them with artillery,which they could only return with spirited but lessening rifle fire. Yetthey never broke; and Olivier's curt account ends with a strong tributeof admiration for the mystic valour of these imbeciles. 'Our line thenadvanced 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 resistsaying that few finer sights can have been seen in history than the laststand of this extraordinary regiment; wounded officers picking up therifles of dead soldiers, and the general himself facing us on horsebackbareheaded and with a broken sword.' On what happened to the generalafterwards 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 itwill not take long to tell. I found at last in an almshouse down in theLincolnshire Fens an old soldier who not only was wounded at the BlackRiver, but had actually knelt beside the colonel of the regiment whenhe died. This latter was a certain Colonel Clancy, a big bull of anIrishman; and it would seem that he died almost as much of rage as ofbullets. He, at any rate, was not responsible for that ridiculous raid;it must have been imposed on him by the general. His last edifyingwords, according to my informant, were these: 'And there goes the damnedold donkey with the end of his sword knocked off. I wish it was hishead.' You will remark that everyone seems to have noticed this detailabout the broken sword blade, though most people regard it somewhatmore reverently than did the late Colonel Clancy. And now for the thirdfragment."
Their path through the woodland began to go upward, and the speakerpaused a little for breath before he went on. Then he continued in thesame 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-knownfigure both here and on the Continent, a Spaniard named Espado; I knewhim myself, a yellow-faced old dandy, with a hooked nose. For variousprivate reasons I had permission to see the documents he had left; hewas a Catholic, of course, and I had been with him towards the end.There was nothing of his that lit up any corner of the black St. Clarebusiness, except five or six common exercise books filled with the diaryof some English soldier. I can only suppose that it was found by theBrazilians on one of those that fell. Anyhow, it stopped abruptly thenight before the battle.
"But the account of that last day in the poor fellow's life wascertainly worth reading. I have it on me; but it's too dark to read ithere, and I will give you a resume. The first part of that entry is fullof jokes, evidently flung about among the men, about somebody called theVulture. It does not seem as if this person, whoever he was, was one ofthemselves, nor even an Englishman; neither is he exactly spoken of asone of the enemy. It sounds rather as if he were some local go-betweenand non-combatant; perhaps a guide or a journalist. He has been closetedwith 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 ofIreland man and a Puritan. There are continual jests about the contrastbetween this Ulsterman's austerity and the conviviality ofColonel Clancy. There is also some joke about the Vulture wearingbright-coloured clothes.
"But all these levities are scattered by what may well be called thenote of a bugle. Behind the English camp and almost parallel to theriver ran one of the few great roads of that district. Westward the roadcurved round towards the river, which it crossed by the bridge beforementioned. To the east the road swept backwards into the wilds, and sometwo miles along it was the next English outpost. From this directionthere came along the road that evening a glitter and clatter oflight cavalry, in which even the simple diarist could recognise withastonishment the general with his staff. He rode the great white horsewhich you have seen so often in illustrated papers and Academy pictures;and you may be sure that the salute they gave him was not merelyceremonial. He, at least, wasted no time on ceremony, but, springingfrom the saddle immediately, mixed with the group of officers, and fellinto emphatic though confidential speech. What struck our friend thediarist most was his special disposition to discuss matters with MajorMurray; but, indeed, such a selection, so long as it was not marked, wasin no way unnatural. The two men were made for sympathy; they were menwho 'read their Bibles'; they were both the old Evangelical type ofofficer. However this may be, it is certain that when the generalmounted again he was still talking earnestly to Murray; and that ashe walked his horse slowly down the road towards the river, the tallUlsterman still walked by his bridle rein in earnest debate. Thesoldiers watched the two until they vanished behind a clump of treeswhere the road turned towards the river. The colonel had gone back tohis tent, and the men to their pickets; the man with the diary lingeredfor another four minutes, and saw a marvellous sight.
"The great white horse which had marched slowly down the road, as it hadmarched in so many processions, flew back, galloping up the road towardsthem as if it were mad to win a race. At first they thought it had runaway with the man on its back; but they soon saw that the general, afine rider, was himself urging it to full speed. Horse and man swept upto them like a whirlwind; and then, reining up the reeling charger, thegeneral turned on them a face like flame, and called for the colonellike the trumpet that wakes the dead.
"I conceive that all the earthquake events of that catastrophe tumbledon top of each other rather like lumber in the minds of men such as ourfriend with the diary. With the dazed excitement of a dream, they foundthemselves falling--literally falling--into their ranks, and learnedthat an attack was to be led at once across the river. The general andthe major, it was said, had found out something at the bridge, and therewas only just time to strike for life. The major had gone back at onceto call up the reserve along the road behind; it was doubtful if evenwith that prompt appeal help could reach them in time. But they mustpass the stream that night, and seize the heights by morning. It is withthe very stir and throb of that romantic nocturnal march that the diarysuddenly ends."
Father Brown had mounted ahead; for the woodland path grew smaller,steeper, and more twisted, till they felt as if they were ascendinga winding staircase. The priest's voice came from above out of thedarkness.
"There was one other little and enormous thing. When the general urgedthem to their chivalric charge he half drew his sword from the scabbard;and then, as if ashamed of such melodrama, thrust it back again. Thesword again, you see."
A half-light broke through the network of boughs above them, flingingthe ghost of a net about their feet; for they were mounting again to thefaint luminosity of the naked night. Flambeau felt truth all round himas 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 otherdispassionately; "but in this affair one falls over the blessed swordeverywhere."
"Well, what is there in that?" growled Flambeau; "it was a twopencecoloured sort of incident; the old man's blade breaking in his lastbattle. 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 youhaven't dragged me through this Polar expedition merely because two menwith an eye for a picture saw St. Clare's broken sword."
"No," cried Father Brown, with a sharp voice like a pistol shot; "butwho saw his unbroken sword?"
"What do you mean?" cried the other, and stood still under the stars.They had come abruptly out of the grey gates of the wood.
"I say, who saw his unbroken sword?" repeated Father Brown obstinately."Not the writer of the diary, anyhow; the general sheathed it in time."
Flambeau looked about him in the moonlight, as a man struck blindmight look in the sun; and his friend went on, for the first time witheagerness:
"Flambeau," he cried, "I cannot prove it, even after hunting through thetombs. But I am sure of it. Let me add just one more tiny fact that tipsthe whole thing over. The colonel, by a strange chance, was one of thefirst struck by a bullet. He was struck long before the troops came toclose quarters. But he saw St. Clare's sword broken. Why was it broken?How was it broken? My friend, it was broken before the battle."
"Oh!" said his friend
, with a sort of forlorn jocularity; "and praywhere is the other piece?"
"I can tell you," said the priest promptly. "In the northeast corner ofthe cemetery of the Protestant Cathedral at Belfast."
"Indeed?" inquired the other. "Have you looked for it?"
"I couldn't," replied Brown, with frank regret. "There's a great marblemonument on top of it; a monument to the heroic Major Murray, who fellfighting gloriously at the famous Battle of the Black River."
Flambeau seemed suddenly galvanised into existence. "You mean," he criedhoarsely, "that General St. Clare hated Murray, and murdered him on thefield of battle because--"
"You are still full of good and pure thoughts," said the other. "It wasworse than that."
"Well," said the large man, "my stock of evil imagination is used up."
The priest seemed really doubtful where to begin, and at last he saidagain:
"Where would a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest."
The other did not answer.
"If there were no forest, he would make a forest. And if he wished tohide a dead leaf, he would make a dead forest."
There was still no reply, and the priest added still more mildly andquietly:
"And if a man had to hide a dead body, he would make a field of deadbodies to hide it in."
Flambeau began to stamp forward with an intolerance of delay in timeor space; but Father Brown went on as if he were continuing the lastsentence:
"Sir Arthur St. Clare, as I have already said, was a man who readhis Bible. That was what was the matter with him. When will peopleunderstand that it is useless for a man to read his Bible unless he alsoreads everybody else's Bible? A printer reads a Bible for misprints. AMormon reads his Bible, and finds polygamy; a Christian Scientistreads his, and finds we have no arms and legs. St. Clare was an oldAnglo-Indian Protestant soldier. Now, just think what that mightmean; and, for Heaven's sake, don't cant about it. It might mean a manphysically formidable living under a tropic sun in an Oriental society,and soaking himself without sense or guidance in an Oriental Book. Ofcourse, he read the Old Testament rather than the New. Of course, hefound in the Old Testament anything that he wanted--lust, tyranny,treason. Oh, I dare say he was honest, as you call it. But what is thegood of a man being honest in his worship of dishonesty?
"In each of the hot and secret countries to which the man went he kept aharem, he tortured witnesses, he amassed shameful gold; but certainlyhe would have said with steady eyes that he did it to the glory of theLord. My own theology is sufficiently expressed by asking which Lord?Anyhow, there is this about such evil, that it opens door after doorin hell, and always into smaller and smaller chambers. This is the realcase against crime, that a man does not become wilder and wilder, butonly meaner and meaner. St. Clare was soon suffocated by difficulties ofbribery and blackmail; and needed more and more cash. And by the time ofthe Battle of the Black River he had fallen from world to world to thatplace which Dante makes the lowest floor of the universe."
"What do you mean?" asked his friend again.
"I mean that," retorted the cleric, and suddenly pointed at a puddlesealed with ice that shone in the moon. "Do you remember whom Dante putin the last circle of ice?"
"The traitors," said Flambeau, and shuddered. As he looked around at theinhuman landscape of trees, with taunting and almost obscene outlines,he could almost fancy he was Dante, and the priest with the rivulet of avoice was, indeed, a Virgil leading him through a land of eternal sins.
The voice went on: "Olivier, as you know, was quixotic, and would notpermit a secret service and spies. The thing, however, was done, likemany other things, behind his back. It was managed by my old friendEspado; he was the bright-clad fop, whose hook nose got him called theVulture. Posing as a sort of philanthropist at the front, he felt hisway through the English Army, and at last got his fingers on its onecorrupt man--please God!--and that man at the top. St. Clare was in foulneed of money, and mountains of it. The discredited family doctor wasthreatening those extraordinary exposures that afterwards began andwere broken off; tales of monstrous and prehistoric things in Park Lane;things done by an English Evangelist that smelt like human sacrifice andhordes of slaves. Money was wanted, too, for his daughter's dowry; forto him the fame of wealth was as sweet as wealth itself. He snapped thelast thread, whispered the word to Brazil, and wealth poured in from theenemies of England. But another man had talked to Espado the Vulture aswell as he. Somehow the dark, grim young major from Ulster had guessedthe hideous truth; and when they walked slowly together down that roadtowards the bridge Murray was telling the general that he must resigninstantly, or be court-martialled and shot. The general temporised withhim till they came to the fringe of tropic trees by the bridge; andthere by the singing river and the sunlit palms (for I can see thepicture) the general drew his sabre and plunged it through the body ofthe major."
The wintry road curved over a ridge in cutting frost, with cruel blackshapes of bush and thicket; but Flambeau fancied that he saw beyond itfaintly the edge of an aureole that was not starlight and moonlight, butsome fire such as is made by men. He watched it as the tale drew to itsclose.
"St. Clare was a hell-hound, but he was a hound of breed. Never, I'llswear, was he so lucid and so strong as when poor Murray lay a cold lumpat his feet. Never in all his triumphs, as Captain Keith said truly, wasthe great man so great as he was in this last world-despised defeat. Helooked coolly at his weapon to wipe off the blood; he saw the point hehad planted between his victim's shoulders had broken off in the body.He saw quite calmly, as through a club windowpane, all that must follow.He saw that men must find the unaccountable corpse; must extractthe unaccountable sword-point; must notice the unaccountable brokensword--or absence of sword. He had killed, but not silenced. But hisimperious intellect rose against the facer; there was one way yet. Hecould make the corpse less unaccountable. He could create a hill ofcorpses to cover this one. In twenty minutes eight hundred Englishsoldiers were marching down to their death."
The warmer glow behind the black winter wood grew richer and brighter,and Flambeau strode on to reach it. Father Brown also quickened hisstride; but he seemed merely absorbed in his tale.
"Such was the valour of that English thousand, and such the genius oftheir commander, that if they had at once attacked the hill, even theirmad march might have met some luck. But the evil mind that played withthem like pawns had other aims and reasons. They must remain in themarshes by the bridge at least till British corpses should be acommon sight there. Then for the last grand scene; the silver-hairedsoldier-saint would give up his shattered sword to save furtherslaughter. Oh, it was well organised for an impromptu. But I think (Icannot prove), I think that it was while they stuck there in the bloodymire that someone doubted--and someone guessed."
He was mute a moment, and then said: "There is a voice from nowhere thattells me the man who guessed was the lover... the man to wed the oldman's child."
"But what about Olivier and the hanging?" asked Flambeau.
"Olivier, partly from chivalry, partly from policy, seldom encumberedhis march with captives," explained the narrator. "He released everybodyin most cases. He released everybody in this case."
"Everybody but the general," said the tall man.
"Everybody," said the priest.
Flambeau knit his black brows. "I don't grasp it all yet," he said.
"There is another picture, Flambeau," said Brown in his more mysticalundertone. "I can't prove it; but I can do more--I can see it. There isa camp breaking up on the bare, torrid hills at morning, and Brazilianuniforms massed in blocks and columns to march. There is the redshirt and long black beard of Olivier, which blows as he stands, hisbroad-brimmed hat in his hand. He is saying farewell to the great enemyhe is setting free--the simple, snow-headed English veteran, whothanks him in the name of his men. The English remnant stand behindat attention; beside them are stores and vehicles for the retreat.The drums roll; the Brazilians are moving; the English are still likestatu
es. So they abide till the last hum and flash of the enemy havefaded from the tropic horizon. Then they alter their postures all atonce, like dead men coming to life; they turn their fifty faces upon thegeneral--faces not to be forgotten."
Flambeau gave a great jump. "Ah," he cried, "you don't mean--"
"Yes," said Father Brown in a deep, moving voice. "It was an Englishhand that put the rope round St. Clare's neck; I believe the hand thatput the ring on his daughter's finger. They were English hands thatdragged him up to the tree of shame; the hands of men that had adoredhim and followed him to victory. And they were English souls (God pardonand endure us all!) who stared at him swinging in that foreign sun onthe green gallows of palm, and prayed in their hatred that he might dropoff it into hell."
As the two topped the ridge there burst on them the strong scarlet lightof a red-curtained English inn. It stood sideways in the road, as ifstanding aside in the amplitude of hospitality. Its three doors stoodopen with invitation; and even where they stood they could hear the humand laughter of humanity happy for a night.
"I need not tell you more," said Father Brown. "They tried him in thewilderness and destroyed him; and then, for the honour of England andof his daughter, they took an oath to seal up for ever the story of thetraitor's purse and the assassin's sword blade. Perhaps--Heaven helpthem--they tried to forget it. Let us try to forget it, anyhow; here isour inn."
"With all my heart," said Flambeau, and was just striding into thebright, noisy bar when he stepped back and almost fell on the road.
"Look there, in the devil's name!" he cried, and pointed rigidly at thesquare wooden sign that overhung the road. It showed dimly the crudeshape of a sabre hilt and a shortened blade; and was inscribed in falsearchaic lettering, "The Sign of the Broken Sword."
"Were you not prepared?" asked Father Brown gently. "He is the god ofthis country; half the inns and parks and streets are named after himand his story."
"I thought we had done with the leper," cried Flambeau, and spat on theroad.
"You will never have done with him in England," said the priest, lookingdown, "while brass is strong and stone abides. His marble statues willerect the souls of proud, innocent boys for centuries, his village tombwill smell of loyalty as of lilies. Millions who never knew him shalllove him like a father--this man whom the last few that knew him dealtwith like dung. He shall be a saint; and the truth shall never be toldof him, because I have made up my mind at last. There is so much goodand evil in breaking secrets, that I put my conduct to a test. All thesenewspapers will perish; the anti-Brazil boom is already over; Olivieris already honoured everywhere. But I told myself that if anywhere, byname, in metal or marble that will endure like the pyramids, ColonelClancy, or Captain Keith, or President Olivier, or any innocent man waswrongly blamed, then I would speak. If it were only that St. Clare waswrongly praised, I would be silent. And I will."
They plunged into the red-curtained tavern, which was not only cosy, buteven luxurious inside. On a table stood a silver model of the tomb ofSt. Clare, the silver head bowed, the silver sword broken. On thewalls were coloured photographs of the same scene, and of the systemof wagonettes that took tourists to see it. They sat down on thecomfortable padded benches.
"Come, it's cold," cried Father Brown; "let's have some wine or beer."
"Or brandy," said Flambeau.
The Innocence of Father Brown Page 12