Page 47 of Against the Wind

The lines in the curate’s face told her he bore the worries of his flock. How unusual he was, so vehemently taking up their cause. She admired the man all the more for it. He could easily confine his concerns to their souls, but he cared about their lives on earth as well.

“Whole parishes have been rendered destitute from feeding so many poor. You can read about it yourself. They keep a copy of the Register at the inns,” Wolstenholme said as he gestured back down the road.

“I will, and thank you for telling me.”

Kit followed the curate into the church where he told her of its history, now describing the stained-glass windows. Though created by man, the windows cast a waterfall of color over the hard stone sanctuary, softening its appearance and reflecting the beauty of nature as well as speaking to man’s love of his Creator.

Kit spent several minutes talking with the Reverend and learning more about the church. She even began some sketches of the place and the politically minded curate, but just before noon she took her leave. She intended to return later to finish the drawings, after she’d had a bite to eat.

In response to her inquiry as to where she might dine, the curate recommended the Dog Inn.

The Dog Inn was just down the road from the White Horse, and Martin and John shook the dust off their boots before entering. A servant approached and, after questioning, advised them that Oliver was keeping company with several men in a private room upstairs. Thanking him, Martin and John climbed the stairs.

Trying the handle of the door at the top, Martin found it wasn’t locked. He opened it to see Oliver again holding court, this time around a rectangular table surrounded by a half dozen men.

Sidmouth’s spy immediately recognized them. “It’s Monsieur Donet, is it not?”

Martin was relieved, since the other men were giving him and John hostile looks, born, Martin suspected, of a fear of discovery.

“Come in, come in!” Oliver beckoned them forward.

“C’est bien. You remembered,” Martin said. Beside him, John tipped his head in greeting but said nothing.

With a sweeping gesture of his arm, Oliver urged them join his group of followers. “Why o’course I recall ye. I recall all those in the London group of gentlemen anxious to join the uprising.”

They were no part of Oliver’s imaginary London cohort, but he would let that pass. He and John found two chairs at the side of the room and pulled them up to join the others. The men around the table studied the newcomers with curious stares.

“Meet some of my country friends,” Oliver said, employing the term he had used in London for his contacts in the north.

Going around the table, Martin was first introduced to a man in his fifties, Isaac Ludlam, a brown-haired stonecutter who looked as if he had once been a man of means. His clothes were of good cloth, though noticeably worn. Next to him was William Turner, a stonemason, an average-looking man, thin but of wiry strength, whom Martin judged to be in his forties. Both said they were from the Derbyshire town of South Wingfield to the north. There were three from Pentridge: John Onion, a husky ironworker with powerful hands, and George Brassington, a dark-haired miner, both of whom appeared to be in their early forties; and the shoemaker, Edward Moore, who was perhaps a bit younger and obviously shy, dressed more for the town than the field.

Before they could introduce the last man Moore exclaimed, “Oliver, these are the men who saved my young Johnnie!”

“Well, now,” said Sidmouth’s spy. “’Tis two celebrated heroes who have joined our ranks, men. I heard of the rescue, how the man who saved little Johnnie faced the bull.” He eyed Martin. “Not many men would have done that.” The rest of the men smiled and mumbled their appreciation.

Oliver finally returned to his introductions. Draping his arm around the shoulders of the young man sitting next to him he said, “Meet my good friend Jeremiah Brandreth,” a man whom he thereafter referred to as their “Nottingham Captain.” Brandreth was young, maybe in his late twenties, with curly brown hair not unlike John’s, but his piercing black eyes now glaring at Martin over that tankard of ale reminded Martin of a cornered animal. Though his complexion was sallow and his shoulders slight, there was something of the air of command about him. From his bearing and manner, Martin thought perhaps he had been in the militia. The designation of captain, though clearly unofficial, suggested as much.

Martin and John shook each man’s hand, Martin telling them how glad they were to have the opportunity to meet those seeking reform, especially since he was the product of a family that advocated liberté, égalité, et fraternité in France. That he was glad of the opportunity was no lie. What better way to spy on Sidmouth’s conspirator than appear to be joining him?

When the introductions were complete, the door opened and a young man in his twenties entered with a tray carrying more tankards of ale.

“Ah,” said Oliver, “’tis our young friend George Weightman, son of the proprietress of the White Horse and a supporter of our revolution. Come in, lad! Are ye serving here, now?”

“Nay, I just offered to bring up these drinks for Mrs. Onion who is busy waiting on patrons below. I cannot stay for long. Me mother requires me services today but she wanted to be sure I was here to at least meet with ye.”

Martin recognized the strapping blond man as the one who’d fetched him wine at the White Horse. He could see by his face that George was not eager to follow the older men into a losing cause, and a sudden pang of regret seized Martin. How many would Oliver lead to destruction if this absurd venture were not stopped before it began?

The other men welcomed George warmly, and the young man, nodding a greeting to Martin, said to Oliver, “Have I missed much, sir?”

“Not at all. I’ve just been saying that everyone in the south is ready to rise, but the folks in London I represent will not be satisfied unless Nottingham is secure, for there can be no denying that it is the rallying point for Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and Leicestershire, essential to our cause.”

Jeremiah Brandreth was quick to give assurance. “Aye, and the men of Nottingham are with us, Oliver.”

“’Tis good they are,” replied Sidmouth’s spy. “In my travels around the Midlands, I see thousands of men ready to join us in demanding Parliamentary reform. Why, the lads of Yorkshire and Lancashire can hardly be kept down they’re so anxious to begin. From Nottingham we must press on to London, joining with those in the south who are ready to fight. Ye’ll find London ripe for revolution. I am only here to see that all is ready before I meself return.”

Martin and John exchanged a look. Neither was surprised to learn Oliver would soon leave for London. Having stirred the embers of rebellion in the Midlands, he would want to be gone when they finally caught and flamed into a full-scale insurrection.

Before Martin could think of how to inject some sanity, Isaac Ludlam raised a reasonable question. “Are ye certain the Midlands are ready for this, Oliver?”