The Snare | Page 5

them with tact and to
suffer no straggling on the part of his troopers; and advised to place
himself in the hands of Mr. Bearsley for all that related to the purchase
of the cattle. Let it be admitted at once that had Sir Robert Craufurd
been acquainted with Mr. Butler's feather-brained, irresponsible nature,
he would have selected any officer rather than our lieutenant to
command that expedition. But the Irish Dragoons had only lately come
to Pinhel, and the general himself was not immediately concerned.

Lieutenant Butler set out on a blustering day of March at the head of
his troopers, accompanied by Cornet O.'Rourke and two sergeants, and
at Pesqueira he was further reinforced by a Portuguese guide. They
found quarters that night at Ervedoza, and early on the morrow they
were in the saddle again, riding along the heights above the Cachao da
Valleria, through which the yellow, swollen river swirled and foamed
along its rocky way. The prospect, formidable even in the full bloom of
fruitful and luxuriant summer, was forbidding and menacing now as
some imagined gorge of the nether regions. The towering granite
heights across the turgid stream were shrouded in mist and sweeping
rain, and from the leaden heavens overhead the downpour was of a
sullen and merciless steadiness, starting at every step a miniature
torrent to go swell the roaring waters in the gorge, and drenching the
troop alike in body and in spirit. Ahead, swathed to the chin in his blue
cavalry cloak, the water streaming from his leather helmet, rode
Lieutenant Butler, cursing the weather, the country; the Light Division,
and everything else that occurred to him as contributing to his present
discomfort. Beside him, astride of a mule, rode the Portuguese guide in
a caped cloak of thatched straw, which made him look for all the world
like a bottle of his native wine in its straw sheath. Conversation
between the two was out of the question, for the guide spoke no
English and the lieutenant's knowledge of Portuguese was very far from
conversational.
Presently the ground sloped, and the troop descended from the heights
by a road flanked with dripping pinewoods, black and melancholy, that
for a while screened them off from the remainder of the sodden world.
Thence they emerged near the head of the bridge that spanned the
swollen river and led them directly into the town of Regoa. Through
the mud and clay of the deserted, narrow, unpaved streets the dragoons
squelched their way, under a super-deluge, for the rain was now
reinforced by steady and overwhelming sheets of water descending on
either side from the gutter-shaped tiles that roofed the houses.
Inquisitive faces showed here and there behind blurred windows; odd
doors were opened that a peasant family might stare in questioning
wonder - and perhaps in some concern - at the sodden pageant that was

passing. 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,
and halted at a gateway. Beyond this could be seen a fair white house
set in the foreground of the vineyards that rose in terraces up the
hillside until they were lost from sight in the lowering veils of mist.
Carved on the granite lintel of that gateway, the lieutenant beheld the
inscription, "BARTHOLOMEU BEARSLEY, 1744," and knew himself
at his destination, at the gates of the son or grandson - he knew not
which, nor cared - of the original tenant of that wine farm.
Mr. Bearsley, however, was from home. The lieutenant was informed
of this by Mr. Bearsley's steward, a portly, genial, rather priestly
gentleman in smooth black broadcloth, whose name was Souza - a
name which, as I have said, has given rise to some misconceptions. Mr.
Bearsley himself had lately left for England, there to wait until the
disturbed state of Portugal should be happily repaired. He had been a
considerable sufferer from the French invasion under Soult, and none
may blame him for wishing to avoid a repetition of what already he had
undergone, especially now that it was rumoured that the Emperor in
person would lead the army gathering for conquest on the frontiers.
But had Mr. Bearsley been at home the dragoons could have received
no warmer welcome than that which was extended to them by Fernando
Souza. Greeting the lieutenant in intelligible English, he implored him,
in the florid manner of the Peninsula, to count the house and all within
it his own property, and to command whatever he might desire.
The troopers found accommodation in the kitchen and in the spacious
hall, where great fires of pine logs were piled up for their comfort;