Page 64 of Against the Wind

Martin nodded and watched John’s head of dripping curls as he stalked off to join the column forming behind George Weightman. Soon that group slogged away over the muddy ground.

At eleven o’clock, the Brandreth-led group reached another farmhouse. Martin knew from his earlier research on Pentridge that the Widow Hepworth lived there with her servants and two sons.

“Mary Hepworth!” Brandreth shouted over the noise of the incessant rain as he pounded on the door. “We would have yer pistols and any other weapons stored on yer farm.”

The widow, who was not about to be cowed, shouted back through a window, “Ye’ll not be having anything of mine! So ye best turn yer horde around and leave. What you’re doing is all wrong, and I’ll not be a part of it.”

Martin was pleased to see that the Widow Hepworth was a tough old bird. He had heard she was a most independent woman. After what happened at the first farm, he’d been worried all the surrounding farmers would only encourage Brandreth with food and provisions and was gratified to see this woman take a stand against the Nottingham Captain.

Notwithstanding Mrs. Hepworth’s discouraging words, the mob of men searched for a way into the farmhouse. Martin was preparing to argue against a forced entry when he heard the sound of glass breaking at the back of the house. Brandreth strode to investigate, and Martin followed, close on his heels. As they neared the broken window, the Nottingham Captain raised his pistol and pointed it into the jagged opening. Realizing what he was about to do, Martin lunged—but not soon enough.

Brandreth fired, and a moan sounded from inside the house followed by a woman’s scream. Martin peered over Brandreth’s shoulder to see a man slumped onto the floor of what appeared to be the kitchen, and a woman, presumably Mrs. Hepworth, bending over him. She turned, staring over her shoulder at the men on the other side of the window and shouted, “Ye’ve shot my servant!”

“You idiot!” Martin shouted at Brandreth. “You’ve shot an innocent man! This has gone too far. Enough!”

Brandreth rounded on him. “It was my duty,” he said coldly, glaring back. “And if you say anything more I’ll blow yer brains out, Frenchman.”

He’d stowed his pistol but waved his shotgun menacingly at Martin, who pulled a pistol of his own from the back of his breeches, and with fierce disdain for the crazed convert Martin growled, “You can try, Captain.” He slurred the title in mockery.

Brandreth must have seen the ice in Martin’s eyes in the light shining from the farmhouse window, or perhaps he didn’t want the men to see one of their own cut down, for at Martin’s words the Nottingham Captain turned away and ordered his followers to “March!” For one brief moment Martin regretted the lost opportunity to end everything there.

At this point, some of the men who’d been pressed into joining the march ran away under cover of darkness. Martin speculated, not unreasonably, they agreed with him that the attack on Mrs. Hepworth’s servant had indeed been “enough,” and now that they’d seen their captain was not above murder likely feared for their own lives. Martin was encouraged to see the men dropping out and prayed there would be more deserters when they reached the ironworks. His last hope to end the madness rested with George Goodwin.

By the time they’d traveled the few miles to the Butterley Ironworks, notwithstanding those who’d deserted the march at the Widow Hepworth’s house, Martin was dismayed to see the number of men in Brandreth’s group bulging with new recruits that had joined on the way so that they again numbered nearly one hundred. Brandreth had explained earlier that his plan was to kill the three senior managers at the ironworks and ransack the factory for weapons, but he was in for a surprise as he beat on the gates with the butt of his pistol. Thanks to Martin’s earlier meeting with George Goodwin, and the message John had carried to the man earlier that day, Goodwin was prepared.

In a moment, the ironworks manager crossed the short distance from his office to the gates to meet them, a score of tall, powerfully built men at his back. Martin recalled the special constables Goodwin had been forced to provide, and he assumed the men were a part of that group.

“You’ll give us men!” Brandreth demanded of Goodwin. Isaac Ludlam, with a spear, and William Turner, brandishing a pistol, flanked him. “We’re marching to London to stand up a new government for all of us.”

Goodwin surveyed the waiting mob and, with only his eyes, acknowledged Martin’s presence. “You shall not have a one. You are too many already, and your purpose is not a good one. Disperse!”

While only twenty men stood behind Goodwin, it was a formidable rearguard, armed and, by the looks in their eyes, ready to wound or kill if necessary. Brandreth’s men fell back. If Brandreth and Oliver had had any supporters inside the ironworks, they were not present.

“We’ve no intention of doing that,” said Brandreth with firm conviction.

Goodwin was not to be daunted, either. “The laws are too strong for you. You are going with halters about your necks.”

Martin was pleased Goodwin had raised the specter of hanging, which caused many in the crowd to murmur. More men slipped away. Brandreth and Turner were too occupied to notice.

In an apparent attempt to reason with Brandreth, Goodwin invited four men into his office to talk: Brandreth, Turner, Ludlam and, with a scowl from Brandreth, Martin. The hexagonal brick office was just as Martin remembered, but the desk had been cleared as if the manager was expecting company.

Martin was happy to be out of the driving rain. The group sat in rough wooden chairs as their host offered the four men hot coffee. One of Goodwin’s guards stood at the door. Martin gratefully accepted the mug warming his cold wet hands before taking a large swallow of the hot brew. He waited expectantly, hoping Goodwin would be able to pull the men back from the brink of disaster.

“You must leave off this foolish venture,” urged the ironworks manager. Looking at Isaac Ludlam, whom he apparently knew, Goodwin counseled, “Isaac, you must convince these men not to go on. This is beyond folly.”

Ludlam shook his head, eyes downcast. “No, George. I cannot go back. I’m in too deep.”

Martin joined the plea for reason. “Perhaps Mr. Goodwin has the right of it. It is a bad night for revolution. The men are wet and tired and have had no sleep and little to eat. Surely this is not well thought out.” He looked into the hostile, angry eyes of Brandreth and sadly realized the man was beyond hearing logic.

Goodwin seemed pleased by Martin’s words and nodded, but Brandreth rose scowling. “We’ll have done with this! If ye’ll not give us men or weapons, we’ll continue with the hundreds we have. Thousands more wait at Nottingham.” He turned and stalked out of the office.

Turner and Ludlam followed, but Martin remained behind to shake Goodwin’s hand. “Thank you for trying to end this.”

“Are you staying out there with those men tonight, Mr. Donet?”

“I must see this folly, as you well named it, to its conclusion, doing what little I can to deter the good men among them from continuing. That madman Brandreth has already engaged in one shooting, and I am worried there will be more. Not all the men marching with him came willingly, as you might imagine.” Martin then thanked Goodwin for having prevented the factory from contributing men and weapons to the uprising, and reluctantly trudged back out into the rain.

The remaining mob was a dreary band: wet, tired, worn. Some of the reluctant marchers seized the opportunity and stepped forward to take sides with Goodwin, who had followed Martin out and now stood as sentinel watching at the open gates. Goodwin ordered the mob to leave the factory land, which they did, and at Brandreth’s command to “March!” those who remained determined resumed the long grind southeast toward Nottingham.