“There are three more bits of evidence,” said the other, “that I have dug up in holes and corners; 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 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.  Yet they never broke; and Olivier’s curt account ends with a strong tribute of admiration for the mystic valour of these imbeciles. `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