Page 65 of Against the Wind

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.”