THE SNARE
By Rafael Sabatini
CONTENTS
I. THE AFFAIR AT TAVORA
II. THE ULTIMATUM
III. LADY O'MOY
IV. COUNT SAMOVAL
V. THE FUGITIVE
VI. MISS ARMYTAGE'S PEARLS
VII. THE ALLY
VIII. THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER
IX. THE GENERAL ORDER
X. THE STIFLED QUARREL
XI. THE CHALLENGE
XII. THE DUEL
XIII. POLICHINELLE
XIV. THE CHAMPION
XV. THE WALLET
XVI. THE EVIDENCE
XVII. BITTER WATER
XVIII. FOOL'S MATE
XIX. THE TRUTH
XX. THE RESIGNATION
XXI. SANCTUARY
POSTSCRIPTUM
THE SNARE
CHAPTER I. THE AFFAIR AT TAVORA
It is established beyond doubt that Mr. Butler was drunk at the time.This rests upon the evidence of Sergeant Flanagan and the troopers whoaccompanied him, and it rests upon Mr. Butler's own word, as we shallsee. And let me add here and now that however wild and irresponsible arascal he may have been, yet by his own lights he was a man of honour,incapable of falsehood, even though it were calculated to save his skin.I do not deny that Sir Thomas Picton has described him as a "thievingblackguard." But I am sure that this was merely the downright, ratherextravagant manner, of censure peculiar to that distinguished general,and that those who have taken the expression at its purely literal valuehave been lacking at once in charity and in knowledge of the caustic,uncompromising terms of speech of General Picton whom Lord Wellington,you will remember, called a rough, foulmouthed devil.
In further extenuation it may truthfully be urged that the whole hideousand odious affair was the result of a misapprehension; although I cannotgo so far as one of Lieutenant Butler's apologists and accept theview that he was the victim of a deliberate plot on the part of histoo-genial host at Regoa. That is a misconception easily explained. Thishost's name happened to be Souza, and the apologist in question has veryrashly leapt at the conclusion that he was a member of that notoriouslyintriguing family, of which the chief members were the Principal Souza,of the Council of Regency at Lisbon, and the Chevalier Souza, Portugueseminister to the Court of St. James's. Unacquainted with Portugal, ourapologist was evidently in ignorance of the fact that the name of Souzais almost as common in that country as the name of Smith in this. He mayalso have been misled by the fact that Principal Souza did not neglectto make the utmost capital out of the affair, thereby increasing thedifficulties with which Lord Wellington was already contending as aresult of incompetence and deliberate malice on the part both of theministry at home and of the administration in Lisbon.
Indeed, but for these factors it is unlikely that the affair could everhave taken place at all. If there had been more energy on the part ofMr. Perceval and the members of the Cabinet, if there had been less badfaith and self-seeking on the part of the Opposition, Lord Wellington'scampaign would not have been starved as it was; and if there had beenless bad faith and self-seeking of an even more stupid and flagrantkind on the part of the Portuguese Council of Regency, the BritishExpeditionary Force would not have been left without the stipulatedsupplies and otherwise hindered at every step.
Lord Wellington might have experienced the mental agony of Sir JohnMoore under similar circumstances fifteen months earlier. That he didsuffer, and was to suffer yet more, his correspondence shows. But hisiron will prevented that suffering from disturbing the equanimity of hismind. The Council of Regency, in its concern to court popularity withthe aristocracy of Portugal, might balk his measures by its deliberatesupineness; echoes might reach him of the voices at St. Stephen'sthat loudly dubbed his dispositions rash, presumptuous and silly;catch-halfpenny journalists at home and men of the stamp of Lord Greymight exploit their abysmal military ignorance in reckless criticism andcensure of his operations; he knew what a passionate storm of anger anddenunciation had arisen from the Opposition when he had been raised tothe peerage some months earlier, after the glorious victory of Talavera,and how, that victory notwithstanding, it had been proclaimed that hisconduct of the campaign was so incompetent as to deserve, not reward,but punishment; and he was aware of the growing unpopularity of thewar in England, knew that the Government--ignorant of what he was solaboriously preparing--was chafing at his inactivity of the past fewmonths, so that a member of the Cabinet wrote to him exasperatedly,incredibly and fatuously--"for God's sake do something--anything so thatblood be spilt."
A heart less stout might have been broken, a genius less mighty stifledin this evil tangle of stupidity, incompetence and malignity that sprangup and flourished about him on every hand. A man less single-mindedmust have succumbed to exasperation, thrown up his command and takenship for home, inviting some of his innumerable critics to take hisplace at the head of the troops, and give free rein to the militarygenius that inspired their critical dissertations. Wellington, however,has been rightly termed of iron, and never did he show himself more ofiron than in those trying days of 1810. Stern, but with a passionlesssternness, he pursued his way towards the goal he had set himself,allowing no criticism, no censure, no invective so much as to give himpause in his majestic progress.
Unfortunately the lofty calm of the Commander-in-Chief was not sharedby his lieutenants. The Light Division was quartered along the RiverAgueda, watching the Spanish frontier, beyond which Marshal Neywas demonstrating against Ciudad Rodrigo, and for lack of funds itsfiery-tempered commander, Sir Robert Craufurd, found himself at lastunable to feed his troops. Exasperated by these circumstances, SirRobert was betrayed into an act of rashness. He seized some church plateat Pinhel that he might convert it into rations. It was an act which,considering the general state of public feeling in the country atthe time, might have had the gravest consequences, and Sir Robert wassubsequently forced to do penance and afford redress. That, however,is another story. I but mention the incident here because the affair ofTavora with which I am concerned may be taken to have arisen directlyout of it, and Sir Robert's behaviour may be construed as setting anexample and thus as affording yet another extenuation of LieutenantButler's offence.
Our lieutenant was sent upon a foraging expedition into the valley ofthe Upper Douro, at the head of a half-troop of the 8th Dragoons, twosquadrons of which were attached at the time to the Light Division. Tobe more precise, he was to purchase and bring into Pinhel a hundredhead of cattle, intended some for slaughter and some for draught. Hisinstructions were to proceed as far as Regoa and there report himselfto one Bartholomew Bearsley, a prosperous and influential Englishwine-grower, whose father had acquired considerable vineyards inthe Douro. He was reminded of the almost hostile disposition of thepeasantry in certain districts; warned to handle them with tact and tosuffer no straggling on the part of his troopers; and advised toplace himself in the hands of Mr. Bearsley for all that related to thepurchase of the cattle. Let it be admitted at once that had SirRobert Craufurd been acquainted with Mr. Butler's feather-brained,irresponsible nature, he would have selected any officer rather than ourlieutenant to command that expedition. But the Irish Dragoons had onlylately come to Pinhel, and the general himself was not immediatelyconcerned.
Lieutenant Butler set out on a blustering day of March at the head ofhis troopers, accompanied by Cornet O'Rourke and two sergeants, and atPesqueira he was further reinforced by a Portuguese guide. They foundquarters that night at Ervedoza, and early on the morrow they were inthe saddle again, riding along the heights above the Cachao da Valleria,through which the yellow, swollen river swirled and foamed along itsrocky way. The prospect, formidable even in the full bloom of
fruitfuland luxuriant summer, was forbidding and menacing now as some imaginedgorge of the nether regions. The towering granite heights across theturgid stream were shrouded in mist and sweeping rain, and from theleaden heavens overhead the downpour was of a sullen and mercilesssteadiness, starting at every step a miniature torrent to go swell theroaring waters in the gorge, and drenching the troop alike in body andin spirit. Ahead, swathed to the chin in his blue cavalry cloak, thewater streaming from his leather helmet, rode Lieutenant Butler, cursingthe weather, the country; the Light Division, and everything else thatoccurred to him as contributing to his present discomfort. Besidehim, astride of a mule, rode the Portuguese guide in a caped cloak ofthatched straw, which made him look for all the world like a bottle ofhis native wine in its straw sheath. Conversation between the two wasout of the question, for the guide spoke no English and the lieutenant'sknowledge of Portuguese was very far from conversational.
Presently the ground sloped, and the troop descended from the heights bya road flanked with dripping pinewoods, black and melancholy, that fora while screened them off from the remainder of the sodden world. Thencethey emerged near the head of the bridge that spanned the swollen riverand led them directly into the town of Regoa. Through the mud and clayof the deserted, narrow, unpaved streets the dragoons squelched theirway, under a super-deluge, for the rain was now reinforced by steadyand overwhelming sheets of water descending on either side from thegutter-shaped tiles that roofed the houses.
Inquisitive faces showed here and there behind blurred windows; odddoors were opened that a peasant family might stare in questioningwonder--and perhaps in some concern--at the sodden pageant that waspassing. But in the streets themselves the troopers met no living thing,all the world having scurried to shelter from the pitiless downpour.
Beyond the town they were brought by their guide to a walled garden, andhalted at a gateway. Beyond this could be seen a fair white house setin the foreground of the vineyards that rose in terraces up the hillsideuntil they were lost from sight in the lowering veils of mist. Carvedon the granite lintel of that gateway, the lieutenant beheld theinscription, "BARTHOLOMEU BEARSLEY, 1744," and knew himself at hisdestination, at the gates of the son or grandson--he knew not which, norcared--of the original tenant of that wine farm.
Mr. Bearsley, however, was from home. The lieutenant was informedof this by Mr. Bearsley's steward, a portly, genial, rather priestlygentleman in smooth black broadcloth, whose name was Souza--a namewhich, as I have said, has given rise to some misconceptions. Mr.Bearsley himself had lately left for England, there to wait until thedisturbed state of Portugal should be happily repaired. He had been aconsiderable sufferer from the French invasion under Soult, and nonemay blame him for wishing to avoid a repetition of what already hehad undergone, especially now that it was rumoured that the Emperor inperson would lead the army gathering for conquest on the frontiers.
But had Mr. Bearsley been at home the dragoons could have received nowarmer welcome than that which was extended to them by Fernando Souza.Greeting the lieutenant in intelligible English, he implored him, in theflorid manner of the Peninsula, to count the house and all within it hisown property, and to command whatever he might desire.
The troopers found accommodation in the kitchen and in the spacioushall, where great fires of pine logs were piled up for their comfort;and for the remainder of the day they abode there in various states ofnakedness, relieved by blankets and straw capotes, what time the housewas filled with the steam and stench of their drying garments. Rationshad been short of late on the Agueda, and, in addition, their wearyride through the rain had made the men sharp-set. Abundance of foodwas placed before them by the solicitude of Fernando Souza, and theyfeasted, as they had not feasted for many months, upon roast kid, boiledrice and golden maize bread, washed down by a copious supply of a roughand not too heady wine that the discreet and discriminating stewardjudged appropriate to their palates and capable of supporting someabuse.
Akin to the treatment of the troopers in hall and kitchen, but on anobler scale, was the treatment of Lieutenant Butler and Cornet O'Rourkein the dining-room. For them a well-roasted turkey took the placeof kid, and Souza went down himself to explore the cellars for awell-sunned, time-ripened Douro table wine which he vowed--and ourdragoons agreed with him--would put the noblest Burgundy to shame; andthen with the dessert there was a Port the like of which Mr. Butler--whowas always of a nice taste in wine, and who was coming into someknowledge of Port from his residence in the country--had never dreamedexisted.
For four and twenty hours the dragoons abode at Mr. Bearsley's quinta,thanking God for the discomforts that had brought them to such comfort,feasting in this land of plenty as only those can feast who have kept arigid Lent. Nor was this all. The benign Souza was determined thatthe sojourn there of these representatives of his country's deliverersshould be a complete rest and holiday. Not for Mr. Butler to journey tothe uplands in this matter of a herd of bullocks. Fernando Souza had atcommand a regiment of labourers, who were idle at this time of year, andwhom his good nature would engage on behalf of his English guests.Let the lieutenant do no more than provide the necessary money for thecattle, and the rest should happen as by enchantment--and Souza himselfwould see to it that the price was fair and proper.
The lieutenant asked no better. He had no great opinion of himselfeither as cattle dealer or cattle drover, nor did his ambitions beget inhim any desire to excel as one or the other. So he was well content thathis host should have the bullocks fetched to Regoa for him. The herd wasdriven in on the following afternoon, by when the rain had ceased, andour lieutenant had every reason to be pleased when he beheld the solidbeasts procured. Having disbursed the amount demanded--an amount morereasonable far than he had been prepared to pay--Mr. Butler would haveset out forthwith to return to Pinhel, knowing how urgent was the needof the division and with what impatience the choleric General Craufurdwould be awaiting him.
"Why, so you shall, so you shall," said the priestly, soothing Souza."But first you'll dine. There is good dinner--ah, but what gooddinner!--that I have order. And there is a wine--ah, but you shall giveme news of that wine."
Lieutenant Butler hesitated. Cornet O'Rourke watched him anxiously,praying that he might succumb to the temptation, and attempted suasionin the form of a murmured blessing upon Souza's hospitality.
"Sir Robert will be impatient," demurred the lieutenant.
"But half-hour," protested Souza. "What is half-hour? And in half-houryou will have dine."
"True," ventured the cornet; "and it's the devil himself knows when wemay dine again."
"And the dinner is ready. It can be serve this instant. It shall," saidSouza with finality, and pulled the bell-rope.
Mr. Butler, never dreaming--as indeed how could he?--that Fate wastaking a hand in this business, gave way, and they sat down to dinner.Henceforth you see him the sport of pitiless circumstance.
They dined within the half-hour, as Souza had promised, and they dinedexceedingly well. If yesterday the steward had been able without warningof their coming to spread at short notice so excellent a feast, conceivewhat had been accomplished now by preparation. Emptying his fourth andfinal bumper of rich red Douro, Mr. Butler paid his host the complimentof a sigh and pushed back his chair.
But Souza detained him, waving a hand that trembled with anxiety, andwith anxiety stamped upon his benignly rotund and shaven countenance.
"An instant yet," he implored. "Mr. Bearsley would never pardon me did Ilet you go without what he call a stirrup-cup to keep you from the illsthat lurk in the wind of the Serra. A glass--but one--of that Port youtasted yesterday. I say but a glass, yet I hope you will do honour tothe bottle. But a glass at least, at least!" He implored it almost withtears. Mr. Butler had reached that state of delicious torpor in whichto take the road is the last agony; but duty was duty, and Sir RobertCraufurd had the fiend's own temper. Torn thus between consciousness ofduty and the weakness of the flesh, he looked at O'Rourke.
O'Rourke,a cherubic fellow, who had for his years a very pretty taste in wine,returned the glance with a moist eye, and licked his lips.
"In your place I should let myself be tempted," says he. "It's anelegant wine, and ten minutes more or less is no great matter."
The lieutenant discovered a middle way which permitted him to take aprompt decision creditable to his military instincts, but revealing adisgraceful though quite characteristic selfishness.
"Very well," he said. "Leave Sergeant Flanagan and ten men to wait forme, O'Rourke, and do you set out at once with the rest of the troop. Andtake the cattle with you. I shall overtake you before you have gone veryfar."
O'Rourke's crestfallen air stirred the sympathetic Souza's pity.
"But, Captain," he besought, "will you not allow the lieutenant--"
Mr. Butler cut him short. "Duty," said he sententiously, "is duty. Beoff, O'Rourke."
And O'Rourke, clicking his heels viciously, saluted and departed.
Came presently the bottles in a basket--not one, as Souza had said, butthree; and when the first was done Butler reflected that since O'Rourkeand the cattle were already well upon the road there need no longer beany hurry about his own departure. A herd of bullocks does not travelvery quickly, and even with a few hours' start in a forty-mile journeyis easily over-taken by a troop of horse travelling without encumbrance.
You understand, then, how easily our lieutenant yielded himself tothe luxurious circumstances, and disposed himself to savour the secondbottle of that nectar distilled from the very sunshine of the Douro--thephrase is his own. The steward produced a box of very choice cigars, andalthough the lieutenant was not an habitual smoker, he permitted himselfon this exceptional occasion to be further tempted. Stretched in a deepchair beside the roaring fire of pine logs, he sipped and smoked anddrowsed away the greater par of that wintry afternoon. Soon the thirdbottle had gone the way of the second, and Mr. Bearsley's steward beinga man of extremely temperate habit, it follows that most of the wine hadfound its way down the lieutenant's thirsty gullet.
It was perhaps a more potent vintage than he had at first suspected, andas the torpor produced by the dinner and the earlier, fuller wine waswearing off, it was succeeded by an exhilaration that played havoc withthe few wits that Mr. Butler could call his own.
The steward was deeply learned in wines and wine growing and in verylittle besides; consequently the talk was almost confined to thatsubject in its many branches, and he could be interesting enough, likeall enthusiasts. To a fresh burst of praise from Butler of the rubyvintage to which he had been introduced, the steward presently respondedwith a sigh:
"Indeed, as you say, Captain, a great wine. But we had a greater."
"Impossible, by God," swore Butler, with a hiccup.
"You may say so; but it is the truth. We had a greater; a wonderful,clear vintage it was, of the year 1798--a famous year on the Douro, thequite most famous year that we have ever known. Mr. Bearsley sell somepipes to the monks at Tavora, who have bottle it and keep it. I beg himat the time not to sell, knowing the value it must come to have one day.But he sell all the same. Ah, meu Deus!" The steward clasped his handsand raised rather prominent eyes to the ceiling, protesting to his Makeragainst his master's folly. "He say we have plenty, and now"--he spreadfat hands in a gesture of despair--"and now we have none. Some sons ofdogs of French who came with Marshal Soult happen this way on a foragethey discover the wine and they guzzle it like pigs." He swore, and hisbenignity was eclipsed by wrathful memory. He heaved himself up in apassion.
"Think of that so priceless vintage drink like hogwash, as Mr. Bearsleysay, by those god-dammed French swine, not a drop--not a spoonfulremain. But the monks at Tavora still have much of what they buy, I amtold. They treasure it for they know good wine. All priests know goodwine. Ah yes! Goddam!" He fell into deep reflection.
Lieutenant Butler stirred, and became sympathetic.
"'San infern'l shame," said he indignantly. "I'll no forgerrit when I...meet the French." Then he too fell into reflection.
He was a good Catholic, and, moreover, a Catholic who did not takethings for granted. The sloth and self-indulgence of the clergy inPortugal, being his first glimpse of conventuals in Latin countries,had deeply shocked him. The vows of a monastic poverty that was keptcarefully beyond the walls of the monastery offended his sense ofpropriety. That men who had vowed themselves to pauperism, who worecoarse garments and went barefoot, should batten upon rich food andstore up wines that gold could not purchase, struck him as a hideousincongruity.
"And the monks drink this nectar?" he said aloud, and laughedsneeringly. "I know the breed--the fair found belly wi' fat capon lined.Tha's your poverty stricken Capuchin."
Souza looked at him in sudden alarm, bethinking himself that allEnglishmen were heretics, and knowing nothing of subtle distinctionsbetween English and Irish. In silence Butler finished the third and lastbottle, and his thoughts fixed themselves with increasing insistenceupon a wine reputed better than this of which there was great store inthe cellars of the convent of Tavora.
Abruptly he asked: "Where's Tavora?" He was thinking perhaps of thecomfort that such wine would bring to a company of war-worn soldiers inthe valley of the Agueda.
"Some ten leagues from here," answered Souza, and pointed to a map thathung upon the wall.
The lieutenant rose, and rolled a thought unsteadily across the room.He was a tall, loose-limbed fellow, blue-eyed, fair-complexioned, witha thatch of fiery red hair excellently suited to his temperament. Hehalted before the map, and with legs wide apart, to afford him thesteadying support of a broad basis, he traced with his finger the courseof the Douro, fumbled about the district of Regoa, and finally hit uponthe place he sought.
"Why," he said, "seems to me 'sif we should ha' come that way. I'sshorrer road to Pesqueira than by the river."
"As the bird fly," said Souza. "But the roads be bad--just mule tracks,while by the river the road is tolerable good."
"Yet," said the lieutenant, "I think I shall go back tha' way."
The fumes of the wine were mounting steadily to addle his indifferentbrains. Every moment he was seeing things in proportions more and morefalse. His resentment against priests who, sworn to self-abnegation,hoarded good wine, whilst soldiers sent to keep harm from priests' fatcarcasses were left to suffer cold and even hunger, was increasing withevery moment. He would sample that wine at Tavora; and he would bearsome of it away that his brother officers at Pinhel might sample it. Hewould buy it. Oh yes! There should be no plundering, no irregularity, nodisregard of general orders. He would buy the wine and pay for it--buthimself he would fix the price, and see that the monks of Tavora made noprofit out of their defenders.
Thus he thought as he considered the map. Presently, when having takenleave of Fernando Souza--that prince of hosts--Mr. Butler was ridingdown through the town with Sergeant Flanagan and ten troopers at hisheels, his purpose deepened and became more fierce. I think the changeof temperature must have been to blame. It was a chill, bleak evening.Overhead, across a background of faded blue, scudded ragged banks ofclouds, the lingering flotsam of the shattered rainstorm of yesterday:and a cavalry cloak afforded but indifferent protection against the windthat blew hard and sharp from the Atlantic.
Coming from the genial warmth of Mr. Souza's parlour into this, theevaporation of the wine within him was quickened, its fumes mounted nowoverwhelmingly to his brain, and from comfortably intoxicated that hehad been hitherto, the lieutenant now became furiously drunk; and thetransition was a very rapid one. It was now that he looked upon thebusiness he had in hand in the light of a crusade; a sort of religiousfanaticism began to actuate him.
The souls of these wretched monks must be saved; the temptation toself-indulgence, which spelt perdition for them, must be removed fromtheir midst. It was a Christian duty. He no longer thought of buying thewine and paying for it. His one aim now was to obtain possession ofit not merely a part of it, but all of it--and carry it off, t
herebyaccomplishing two equally praiseworthy ends: to rescue a conventfulof monks from damnation, and to regale the much-enduring, half-starvedcampaigners of the Agueda.
Thus reasoned Mr. Butler with admirable, if drunken, logic. Andreasoning thus he led the way over the bridge, and kept straight onwhen he had crossed it, much to the dismay of Sergeant Flanagan, who,perceiving the lieutenant's condition, conceived that he was missing hisway. This the sergeant ventured to point out, reminding his officer thatthey had come by the road along the river.
"So we did," said Butler shortly. "Bu' we go back by way of Tavora."
They had no guide. The one who had conducted them to Regoa had returnedwith O'Rourke, and although Souza had urged upon the lieutenant atparting that he should take one of the men from the quinta, Butler, withwit enough to see that this was not desirable under the circumstances,had preferred to find his way alone.
His confused mind strove now to revisualise the map which he hadconsulted in Souza's parlour. He discovered, naturally enough, that thetask was altogether beyond his powers. Meanwhile night was descending.They were, however, upon the mule track, which went up and round theshoulder of a hill, and by this they came at dark upon a hamlet.
Sergeant Flanagan was a shrewd fellow and perhaps the most sober man inthe troop--for the wine had run very freely in Souza's kitchen, too,and the men, whilst awaiting their commander's pleasure, had taken thefullest advantage of an opportunity that was all too rare upon thatcampaign. Now Sergeant Flanagan began to grow anxious. He knew thePeninsula from the days of Sir John Moore, and he knew as much of theways of the peasantry of Portugal as any man. He knew of the brutalferocity of which that peasantry was capable. He had seen evidencemore than once of the unspeakable fate of French stragglers from theretreating army of Marshal Soult. He knew of crucifixions, mutilationsand hideous abominations practised upon them in these remote hilldistricts by the merciless men into whose hands they happened to fall,and he knew that it was not upon French soldiers alone--that theseabominations had been practised. Some of those fierce peasants hadbeen unable to discriminate between invader and deliverer; to thema foreigner was a foreigner and no more. Others, who were capable ofdiscriminating, were in the position of having come to look upon Frenchand English with almost equal execration.
It is true that whilst the Emperor's troops made war on the maxim thatan army must support itself upon the country it traverses, therebyachieving a greater mobility, since it was thus permitted to travelcomparatively light, the British law was that all things requisitionedmust be paid for. Wellington maintained this law in spite of alldifficulties at all times with an unrelaxing rigidity, and punished withthe utmost vigour those who offended against it. Nevertheless breacheswere continual; men broke out here and there, often, be it said,under stress of circumstances for which the Portuguese werethemselves responsible; plunder and outrage took place and provokedindiscriminating rancour with consequences at times as terrible tostragglers from the British army of deliverance as to those from theFrench army of oppressors. Then, too, there was the Portuguese MilitiaAct recently enforced by Wellington--acting through the PortugueseGovernment--deeply resented by the peasantry upon whom it bore, andrendering them disposed to avenge it upon such stray British soldiers asmight fall into their hands.
Knowing all this, Sergeant Flanagan did not at all relish this nightexcursion into the hill fastnesses, where at any moment, as it seemed tohim, they might miss their way. After all, they were but twelve men alltold, and he accounted it a stupid thing to attempt to take a short cutacross the hills for the purpose of overtaking an encumbered troop thatmust of necessity be moving at a very much slower pace. This was theway not to overtake but to outdistance. Yet since it was not for him toremonstrate with the lieutenant, he kept his peace and hoped anxiouslyfor the best.
At the mean wine-shop of that hamlet Mr. Butler inquired his way bythe simple expedient of shouting "Tavora?" with a strong interrogativeinflection. The vintner made it plain by gestures--accompanied by arattling musketry of incomprehensible speech that their way lay straightahead. And straight ahead they went, following that mule track forsome five or six miles until it began to slope gently towards the plainagain. Below them they presently beheld a cluster of twinkling lightsto advertise a township. They dropped swiftly down, and in the outskirtsovertook a belated bullock-cart, whose ungreased axle was arousing thehillside echoes with its plangent wail.
Of the vigorous young woman who marched barefoot beside it, shoulderingher goad as if it were a pikestaff, Mr. Butler inquired--by his usualmethod--if this were Tavora, to receive an answer which, though voluble,was unmistakably affirmative.
"Covento Dominicano?" was his next inquiry, made after they had gone somelittle way.
The woman pointed with her goad to a massive, dark building, flanked bya little church, which stood just across the square they were entering.
A moment later the sergeant, by Mr. Butler's orders, was knocking uponthe iron-studded main door. They waited awhile in vain. None came toanswer the knock; no light showed anywhere upon the dark face of theconvent. The sergeant knocked again, more vigorously than before.Presently came timid, shuffling steps; a shutter opened in the door, andthe grille thus disclosed was pierced by a shaft of feeble yellow light.A quavering, aged voice demanded to know who knocked.
"English soldiers," answered the lieutenant in Portuguese. "Open!"
A faint exclamation suggestive of dismay was the answer, the shutterclosed again with a snap, the shuffling steps retreated and unbrokensilence followed.
"Now wharra devil may this mean?" growled Mr. Butler. Drugged wits, likestupid ones, are readily suspicious. "Wharra they hatching in here thatthey are afraid of lerring Bri'ish soldiers see? Knock again, Flanagan.Louder, man!"
The sergeant beat the door with the butt of his carbine. The blows gaveout a hollow echo, but evoked no more answer than if they had fallenupon the door of a mausoleum. Mr. Butler completely lost his temper."Seems to me that we've stumbled upon a hotbed o' treason. Hotbed o'treason!" he repeated, as if pleased with the phrase. "That's wharritis." And he added peremptorily: "Break down the door."
"But, sir," began the sergeant in protest, greatly daring.
"Break down the door," repeated Mr. Butler. "Lerrus be after seeingwha' these monks are afraid of showing us. I've a notion they're hidingmore'n their wine."
Some of the troopers carried axes precisely against such an emergency asthis. Dismounting, they fell upon the door with a will. But the oak wasstout, fortified by bands of iron and great iron studs; and it resistedlong. The thud of the axes and the crash of rending timbers could beheard from one end of Tavora to the other, yet from the convent itevoked no slightest response. But presently, as the door began to yieldto the onslaught, there came another sound to arouse the town. From thebelfry of the little church a bell suddenly gave tongue upon a frantic,hurried note that spoke unmistakably of alarm. Ding-ding-ding-dingit went, a tocsin summoning the assistance of all true sons of MotherChurch.
Mr. Butler, however, paid little heed to it. The door was down at last,and followed by his troopers he rode under the massive gateway intothe spacious close. Dismounting there, and leaving the woefully anxioussergeant and a couple of men to guard the horses, the lieutenant led theway along the cloisters, faintly revealed by a new-risen moon, towards agaping doorway whence a feeble light was gleaming. He stumbled over thestep into a hall dimly lighted by a lantern swinging from the ceiling.He found a chair, mounted it, and cut the lantern down, then led theway again along an endless corridor, stone-flagged and flanked on eitherside by rows of cells. Many of the doors stood open, as if in silenttoken of the tenants' hurried flight, showing what a panic had beenspread by the sudden advent of this troop.
Mr. Butler became more and more deeply intrigued, more and more deeplysuspicious that here all was not well. Why should a community of loyalmonks take flight in this fashion from British soldiers?
"Bad luck to them!" he growled, as he stumb
led on. "They may hide asthey will, but it's myself 'll run the shavelings to earth."
They were brought up short at the end of that long, chill gallery byclosed double doors. Beyond these an organ was pealing, and overheadthe clapper of the alarm bell was beating more furiously than ever. Allrealised that they stood upon the threshold of the chapel and that theconventuals had taken refuge there.
Mr. Butler checked upon a sudden suspicion. "Maybe, after all, they'vetaken us for French," said he.
A trooper ventured to answer him. "Best let them see we're not before wehave the whole village about our ears."
"Damn that bell," said the lieutenant, and added: "Put your shoulders tothe door."
Its fastenings were but crazy ones, and it yielded almost instantly totheir pressure--yielded so suddenly that Mr. Butler, who himself hadbeen foremost in straining against it, shot forward half-a-dozen yardsinto the chapel and measured his length upon its cold flags.
Simultaneously from the chancel came a great cry: "Libera nos, Domine!"followed by a shuddering murmur of prayer.
The lieutenant picked himself up, recovered the lantern that had rolledfrom his grasp, and lurched forward round the angle that hid the chancelfrom his view. There, huddled before the main altar like a flock ofscared and stupid sheep, he beheld the conventuals--some two score ofthem perhaps and in the dim light of the heavy altar lamp above them hecould make out the black and white habit of the order of St. Dominic.
He came to a halt, raised his lantern aloft, and called to themperemptorily:
"Ho, there!"
The organ ceased abruptly, but the bell overhead went clattering on.
Mr. Butler addressed them in the best French he could command: "Whatdo you fear? Why do you flee? We are friends--English soldiers, seekingquarters for the night."
A vague alarm was stirring in him. It began to penetrate his obfuscatedmind that perhaps he had been rash, that this forcible rape of a conventwas a serious matter. Therefore he attempted this peaceful explanation.
From that huddled group a figure rose, and advanced with a solemn,stately grace. There was a faint swish of robes, the faint rattleof rosary beads. Something about that figure caught the lieutenant'sattention sharply. He craned forward, half sobered by the sudden fearthat clutched him, his eyes bulging in his face.
"I had thought," said a gentle, melancholy woman's voice, "that theseals of a nunnery were sacred to British soldiers."
For a moment Mr. Butler seemed to be labouring for breath. Fully soberednow, understanding of his ghastly error reached him at the gallop.
"My God!" he gasped, and incontinently turned to flee.
But as he fled in horror of his sacrilege, he still kept his headturned, staring over his shoulder at the stately figure of the abbess,either in fascination or with some lingering doubt of what he had seenand heard. Running thus, he crashed headlong into a pillar, and, stunnedby the blow, he reeled and sank unconscious to the ground.
This the troopers had not seen, for they had not lingered. Understandingon their own part the horrible blunder, they had turned even as theirleader turned, and they had raced madly back the way they had come,conceiving that he followed. And there was reason for their haste otherthan their anxiety to set a term to the sacrilege of their presence.From the cloistered garden of the convent uproar reached them, and themetallic voice of Sergeant Flanagan calling loudly for help.
The alarm bell of the convent had done its work. The villagers wereup, enraged by the outrage, and armed with sticks and scythes andbill-hooks, an army of them was charging to avenge this infamy. Thetroopers reached the close no more than in time. Sergeant Flanagan, onlyhalf understanding the reason for so much anger, but understanding thatthis anger was very real and very dangerous, was desperately defendingthe horses with his two companions against the vanguard of theassailants. There was a swift rush of the dragoons and in an instantthey were in the saddle, all but the lieutenant, of whose absence theywere suddenly made conscious. Flanagan would have gone back for him, andhe had in fact begun to issue an order with that object when a suddensurge of the swelling, roaring crowd cut off the dragoons from the doorthrough which they had emerged. Sitting their horses, the little troopcame together, their sabres drawn, solid as a rock in that angryhuman sea that surged about them. The moon riding now clear overheadirradiated that scene of impending strife.
Flanagan, standing in his stirrups, attempted to harangue the mob. Buthe was at a loss what to say that would appease them, nor able to speaka language they could understand. An angry peasant made a slash at himwith a billhook. He parried the blow on his sabre, and with the flat ofit knocked his assailant senseless.
Then the storm burst, and the mob flung itself upon the dragoons.
"Bad cess to you!" cried Flanagan. "Will ye listen to me, ye murtheringvillains." Then in despair "Char-r-r-ge!" he roared, and headed for thegateway.
The troopers attempted in vain to reach it. The mob hemmed them abouttoo closely, and then a horrid hand-to-hand fight began, under the coldlight of the moon, in that garden consecrated to peace and piety. Twosaddles had been emptied, and the exasperated troopers were slashing nowat their assailants with the edge, intent upon cutting a way out of thatmurderous press. It is doubtful if a man of them would have survived,for the odds were fully ten to one against them. To their aid came nowthe abbess. She stood on a balcony above, and called upon the peopleto desist, and hear her. Thence she harangued them for some moments,commanding them to allow the soldiers to depart. They obeyed withobvious reluctance, and at last a lane was opened in that solid,seething mass of angry clods.
But Flanagan hesitated to pass down this lane and so depart. Three ofhis troopers were down by now, and his lieutenant was missing. He wasexercised to resolve where his duty lay. Behind him the mob was solid,cutting off the dragoons from their fallen comrades. An attempt to goback might be misunderstood and resisted, leading to a renewal of thecombat, and surely in vain, for he could not doubt but that the fallentroopers had been finished outright.
Similarly the mob stood as solid between him and the door that led tothe interior of the convent, where Mr. Butler was lingering alive ordead. A number of peasants had already invaded the actual building, sothat in that connection too the sergeant concluded that there was littlereason to hope that the lieutenant should have escaped the fate his ownrashness had invoked. He had his remaining seven men to think of, andhe concluded that it was his duty under all the circumstances to bringthese off alive, and not procure their massacre by attempting fruitlessquixotries.
So "Forward!" roared the voice of Sergeant Flanagan, and forward wentthe seven through the passage that had opened out before them in thathooting, angry mob.
Beyond the convent walls they found fresh assailants awaiting them,enemies these, who had not been soothed by the gentle, reassuring voiceof the abbess. But here there was more room to manoeuvre.
"Trot!" the sergeant commanded, and soon that trot became a gallop. Ashower of stones followed them as they thundered out of Tavora, and thesergeant himself had a lump as large as a duck-egg on the middle of hishead when next day he reported himself at Pesqueira to Cornet O'Rourke,whom he overtook there.
When eventually Sir Robert Craufurd heard the story of the affair, hewas as angry as only Sir Robert could be. To have lost four dragoonsand to have set a match to a train that might end in a conflagration wasreason and to spare.
"How came such a mistake to be made?" he inquired, a scowl upon his fullred countenance.
Mr. O'Rourke had been investigating and was primed with knowledge.
"It appears, sir, that at Tavora there is a convent of Dominican nuns aswell as a monastery of Dominican friars. Mr. Butler will have used theword 'convento,' which more particularly applies to the nunnery, and sohe was directed to the wrong house."
"And you say the sergeant has reason to believe that Mr. Butler did notsurvive his folly?"
"I am afraid there can be no hope, sir."
"It's perh
aps just as well," said Sir Robert. "For Lord Wellington wouldcertainly have had him shot."
And there you have the true account of the stupid affair of Tavora,which was to produce, as we shall see, such far-reaching effects uponpersons nowise concerned in it.