Page 63 of Against the Wind

Chapter 22

It was the ninth of June, Martin noted as he and John sat waiting at Hunt’s barn that slowly filled with men from the towns of Belper, Ripley and South Wingfield, a day that he hoped would not go down as a blot on England’s history. He observed with irony the good humor the men demonstrated as they filed into the building, laughing and telling jokes among themselves. Almost the atmosphere resembled a country fair, so confident were many of the success of their venture. Fools every one. But there was little Martin could do. The Prince Regent had tied his hands.

By nine o’clock, at least forty were assembled, and the speeches, which he’d heard so often he could now recite them himself, were beginning in earnest as the ringleaders shared their thoughts, hoping to stir the minds of any still reluctant to join the march. All he could think of was the way he’d left things with Kit yesterday, her face full of doubt and despair at wondering what his part was in all this, just like she’d wondered the night before after the meeting in Pentridge. He had chosen not to bring it up again, too afraid she would involve herself. He wouldn’t be surprised if she returned to London on her own. She had money now and could go wherever she wanted.

He thought again. They had grown close these past few weeks. Their nights had been nothing short of wonderful, and they had confessed their love. She would trust him. And when it was over and he was certain she was safe he would tell her all there was to know of his work for the Crown and Prinny’s last assignment.

He glanced around the room, overflowing with men. He counted three pistols and some eight-foot pikes that were little more than sticks with a piece of iron attached. From their faces it seemed to Martin that only Brandreth was truly serious about violence. Many of the rest were just playing at revolution. Oliver was notably but unsurprisingly absent. The deceitful fox had likely already dispatched a message to Sidmouth and was now on his way back to his London den.

Undertaking a march to Nottingham, some fourteen miles to the east, on a night when the heavens threatened rain, was to Martin’s thinking nothing short of harebrained. But none of the men present seemed to recognize that small bit of good sense. He knew Brandreth’s plans were to first march to the ironworks where he intended to gather men and weapons, so Martin had taken all the measures he could, John having warned Goodwin to be ready for the unruly band should they get that far tonight. Personally he hoped the expected rain and eventual weariness of the men would quickly send them home.

He had learned Oliver’s agreement with the magistrates included soldiers at the ready who would engage with force should the Midlands men persist in this cause Oliver had urged upon them. Martin prayed it didn’t come to that. The last thing he wanted was anyone harmed. He had come to like the villagers. They were good men, if simple in their understanding and sadly misled. Plots such as Sidmouth’s and Oliver’s would never occur to them. Thankfully, the private urgings he and John had made to them to leave off had been successful in at least some cases. Judging by the men still pouring into the barn, however, many others had been unconvinced by their words. Some might just be spectators, attending to watch what happened, to share in the fellowship of other men, but Martin couldn’t be certain of that.

When the last speech ended, Brandreth walked to the center of the room. Standing on the hard-packed dirt floor, he surveyed his audience and gestured to a man leaning against the side of the barn to come join him. The man, whom Martin had met first at the Dog Inn, was a stonemason.

Draping his arm around the man’s shoulders Brandreth said, “I’ve appointed William Turner here to be my lieutenant, if there be no objection.”

Murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd.

Brandreth clapped Turner on the back. “Then I say ’tis time we begin our march!” Several ayes were heard and Brandreth continued. “For those who don’t know, we’ll first travel the few miles to the ironworks in Ripley, and on our way we’ll stop at farms to gather weapons, provisions and men. There will be none gainsaying us this eve!”

The men filed out of the barn and into the night. Martin gave John a nod, and they followed. It was now ten o’clock, according to the wedding gift Kit had given him, his treasured pocket watch. Martin was hungry and suspected the other men were as well, for none had left to eat.

Marching briskly down the road at their leaders’ direction, the men headed south to Ripley, where they were joined by a group from the nearby town of Swanwick bringing the number of men to near seventy. Acting as if he were still in the militia, Brandreth formed them into columns. Martin and John hung to the rear. Martin saw few real weapons, though the Swanwick men were armed with hayforks and freshly peeled tree poles studded with nails.

It was late when the downpour that threatened all afternoon finally arrived, and though it came in fierce sheets of cold, biting rain, to Martin’s dismay it did not slow the march. Though they might regret their discomfort, a crowd of men stirred by flowery speeches decrying the treatment of the government and the poor condition of their lives was not easily turned.

“’Tis a bad night for our march,” muttered one of the men walking near Martin and John, lifting their spirits. But when John nodded in agreement, the man said, “But that might discourage any who might oppose us.”

“I only wish I’d brought me winter coat,” said another.

“And me boots,” said a young man who pulled his foot out of a hole filled with mud.

Knowing the night was only beginning, Martin and John exchanged a weary look and drew their coats tighter about them.

Along the way Brandreth, now armed with a shotgun as well as the pistol he’d displayed earlier, went from house to house, hammering on doors and forcing men and boys at gunpoint to join him. “A gun and a man” were demanded at each stop. Though some of the men came unwillingly, all the same they came, so the crowd progressing toward Ripley grew with each mile, one hundred in number as best as Martin could count in the drenching rain.

As the mob—for it was now a mob—approached a farmhouse, Brandreth yelled to the closed front door that they needed provisions. Martin feared he would have to intervene if violence erupted. As it turned out, Brandreth did not have to press his demand. The farmer—one Samuel Hunt, who insisted all know his name—welcomed them onto his land. He must have emptied his stores, for he freely dispensed bread, cheese and beer to the crowd pressing close to his house. After they’d finished, Hunt wished them well in their venture and waved them good eve. Martin wondered what price the farmer would pay for that generosity.

When they got to the home of Colonel Wingfield Hatton, John Onion again threatened the violence he had urged in the prior meeting. However, his diatribe fell on a servant’s deaf ears. Much to Martin’s relief, Squire Hatton was not at home.

Martin was thankful that thus far he’d not had to intervene, though he suspected it might eventually be required of him. The Prince Regent asked only that he learn the truth of what transpired in the Midlands, and the role of Sidmouth’s spies, but neither he nor John could refrain from wanting to turn the tide of men bent on their own destruction. So he stayed, hoping to make a difference. His only warm thought was that this night his kitten was safely ensconced at the inn. While his instincts told him her appearances at the meetings in the barn and at the White Horse Inn were not coincidental, as she suggested, he believed that this time she would listen. He did not fault her curiosity. He had told her little and supposed it was her nature to get involved. That was why he had tried to keep her away from all that was happening. Now he was glad she was safe. It wouldn’t be long before they could leave the Midlands and begin the rest of their life together. A life he very much wanted.

With difficulty, he turned his thoughts back to what lay ahead and followed the marching men.

Soon after they left Colonel Hatton’s home, Brandreth halted the march and divided the column of men into two groups, one on his right, the other on his left. The rain came down in a steady downpour.

“I will lead the first group with my lieutenant William Turner and my friend Isaac Ludlam,” Brandreth shouted, pointing to the men on his right. “The second group,” he called, gesturing to the men on the left, “will follow George Weightman and Edward Turner, William’s brother.”

George Weightman had returned earlier from Nottingham with good reports that all there was ready; throngs of men waited to attack Nottingham Castle before they moved on London. Watching Weightman receive the thanks of Brandreth for this news, Martin thought the young man lied to please his captain. It was obvious George considered this the most important thing he had ever done, and likely he was amplifying the good news to the men above him far above the real truth. Martin wanted to believe so.

His coat soaked from the constant rain, Martin drew John aside as the men finished dividing into two groups. Speaking softly so only his young assistant could hear, he said, “Go with Weightman’s group and, if you can, try to urge men to leave off this insanity. Unless the rain turns them back, I expect this will become ugly at some point, so take care.”

“Aye, sir,” John agreed. “’Tis not hard to see where this is leading. I’ll keep me eyes open.”

“Meet me back at the White Horse when this is over.”

“Aye, sir. Or, if they make it as far as Nottingham, I expect I’ll see ye when the two groups come together.”