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.”
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.
Following Brandreth and his rain-sodden troops, Martin grew weary. Like the others, whose faces bore the trials of the night’s journey, he was cold, wet and tired. The rain tapered off as the dawn neared and they reached the town of Codnor and the Glass House Inn, another brown stone public house. Brandreth must have recognized his rebels would never make it to Nottingham without sustenance, because he waved them to the side of the road.
“We’ll stop here for ale and food.”
Shouts of acclamation went up as the men stumbled into the tavern, wet, muddy and bedraggled, grumbling about the weather and the long night. The inn filled with murmuring as the men greedily reached for the ale and bread brought by serving wenches obviously roused early from their beds. With little in their stomachs, the men were soon slurring words as they complained about the hard times in the Midlands.
Though Martin would not have favored ale for breakfast, he was glad for the drink handed him. His body clamored for food and rest. His feet were tired and his boots muddy. But there was another reason he was grateful for the pause. It was an opportunity to send men home.
He grabbed a piece of bread and washed it down with a gulp of ale. Around him sat half a dozen men wearing discouraged and exhausted looks. With the remaining time being short in which to end the uprising, he reminded those sitting closest to him that they might have already witnessed a man’s death, not to mention the treason to come. The men stared down into their tankards, shamed by what had taken place .
“There’s still time to leave,” Martin prodded. “You know this will not end well.”
“Ye might be right, but we’ve come this far,” said one.
“London is farther still,” Martin reminded him. Several others nodded their agreement and cast furtive glances toward the door as they downed the rest of their ale.
A half hour later, when Brandreth ordered the march resumed, the men, many of whom were swaying with drink, stumbled out of the inn. Martin heard Brandreth promise the innkeeper he would be paid for the ale and bread when the revolution saw its rightful end. Martin doubted the man would see a farthing, so he left several coins on the bar as he departed.
The smell of wet earth rose to Martin’s nostrils as he stepped outside. Shivering in the cold morning air, he drew his damp coat tightly around him. The rain had diminished to a mist that hung over the hills. Still, a number of the men he’d been speaking with were so soaked, dispirited and disturbed by talk of hanging they apparently took his advice and decided to retreat to their homes and their work. Martin was heartened to see them go. Perhaps the budding revolution would die here and they could all go home.
Thoughts of Kit made Martin restless and increasingly anxious to leave. She would be worried by now. Long past worried. He was warmed again by the knowledge she was safe in Pentridge, perhaps still tucked up in their bed. She had often reminded him of a red tabby cat when she curled up to sleep, and it was that image that heartened him now. He wanted to share with her all he’d withheld and join her in that bed. The very thought that his new wife loved him lifted his spirits more than anything. He couldn’t wait to sweep her away on the wedding trip he’d been planning in his mind as he’d slogged through the night. But first he must see an end to this Midlands madness .
At Langley, not halfway to Nottingham, Brandreth’s men fell in with George Weightman’s group. Together, notwithstanding the desertions, Martin could see in the light of the new day the two groups numbered more than two hundred men. He wondered how many were still committed to the venture and how many remained from fear of Brandreth’s wrath should they try to leave. Some, he knew, were only there because they’d been pressed into joining. Day had dawned, and it was now more difficult for any to sneak away.
Brandreth paused in his march to question Weightman on what he had learned. The young man answered his comrade’s inquires with what Martin was certain to be an improbable lie.
“All is right, lads,” George declared. “You have nothing to do but march on. At two o’clock this morning, Nottingham was given up to us.”
John found Martin and gave his own report. “Weightman’s become as unhinged as his captain, sir. He only wants to look good in Brandreth’s eyes. Ye’d not believe the wild actions I’ve witnessed. ’Twas just an excuse for mayhem.”
“I’d believe most anything,” said Martin. “My own eyes have witnessed what may have been murder.” With a sigh he added, “One way or the other, it will soon end. With the dawn, let us hope the men who remain will see reason and take their leave even if they must face Brandreth’s wrath to do so. Did you have any luck turning some back?”
“Aye, I did, but not all as ye can see.” John gestured to the throng of men, a discouraged look on his face.
“If only they carried no weapons,” Martin said aloud, “they might be seen as the Blanketeers, but even that did not end well. I would send them all back now if I could.”
“’Tis sure some are leaving. See there,” said John, gesturing to a group of men scrambling over a small hill in the direction of Pentridge. “Those are Ripley men who were with us all night. I guess they disbelieved Weightman’s words.”
Martin watched the men, mud-splattered and rain-drenched, struggle up the slippery incline to depart as fast as their tired legs would take them. “We can only hope there will be more.”
Once more, with Weightman’s encouragement and Brandreth’s order, the men who remained plodded on through the cold morning.
“I can scarcely believe so many are still about this fool’s errand,” Martin muttered to John a short time later. “Even with the desertions, there must be over a hundred men still blindly following…though half appear foxed.”
“The mud would have discouraged me long afore this,” said John, raising his boot. The mud sucked at his sole and made a popping sound. “Were I my own man.”
Martin chuckled. “Ah, but you weren’t raised in country mud, John. They were. Up to their knees and still marching forward.”
“’Tis enough for me,” an older man suddenly growled in front of them and peeled off.
“I’ve still me west field to tend today,” said another, departing with him.
The desertions became more frequent, and Martin’s hopes rose for a peaceful end to the cold, gruesome night. But it was not to be. Two miles further on, a report was shouted back that a group of Derbyshire Yeomanry, voluntary cavalry, were headed their way. With the threat of real opposition, Brandreth’s mob panicked.
The lines broke apart and the tired farmers and laborers scattered like flies, running as fast as the mud allowed, dropping weapons as they did. It was then that more than a dozen hussars of the Fifteenth Regiment came into sight over a ridge. Their flashy uniforms of dark blue splashed with silver braid and white breeches ending in black Hessian boots were an impressive symbol of the Crown’s authority.
“Bloody hell!” said John in a hoarse gasp.
“Precisely,” echoed Martin. “The cavalry has arrived. It was only a matter of time.”
Martin had no intention of fleeing but pulled John from where he stood transfixed to the side of the road and into the trees, out of the line of fire. They watched as Brandreth’s remaining men faced the dragoons’ sabers with only a few pistols, spears and pikes. Shouts filled the air, and Martin saw Brandreth running away as the mounted soldiers plunged into the disbanding rebels. All was chaos as the men fled from the charging horses.
Martin lingered only long enough for the seized men of Derbyshire to be rounded up before he and John approached the hussar captain who was taking charge of the captured rebels. As the orders were given concerning the prisoners, Martin stepped up to where the dragoon officer sat atop his horse. In his most proper British accent, Martin identified himself.
“Captain, I am Sir Martin Powell, on assignment for the Crown.” Pointing to John, he added, “This is my assistant, John Spencer.”
The uniformed man eyed them critically, taking in their simple clothing. Martin observed the doubt written in the lines of his face, and seeing no alternative he pulled from his jacket the oilskin pouch that protected the letter Ormond had given him on their last day in London. He had hoped he wouldn’t need to use the communication from the Prince Regent, but it now appeared essential. “I believe this will clarify my purpose in being here.”
The captain leaned down from his horse, took the proffered letter and read it, then handed it back, offering his hand to Martin. “Captain Philips at your service, Sir Martin. It’s not often the monarch sends his own man to the Midlands. Were you with this rabble all night?”
“We were, sir. Trying to send as many home as we could and attempting to prevent violence. Not that many were truly committed to the uprising. Some only joined after they were threatened with force. I had hoped more men would leave off this folly.” Suddenly reminded of the crime he’d witnessed during the night he inquired, “Have you been to the Widow Hepworth’s farm?”
“I dispatched one of my men there earlier. The news is not good. The servant who was shot succumbed to his wound. Did you happen to see who fired the shot? Mrs. Hepworth did not know the brigand.”
“Yes, I did. It was Jeremiah Brandreth, the one they call the Nottingham Captain.”
“I know of him. The reports have identified him as the instigator.” The hussar captain turned back, gesturing to the group of rebels his men had confined. “Is he among these?”
Martin and John surveyed the group of more than forty captured. In the morning sun they appeared bedraggled, muddy and dazed. “No, not one of those. He must have slipped away.”
“No matter. We will find him. With a fifty pound reward on his head, I suspect he will soon be produced.”