Page 58 of Against the Wind

Chapter 20

Kit stretched and yawned, the soreness in her body reminding her of the previous night. She had known Martin was a wonderful lover, known he could be tender and gentle, but this time he had been so much more. He had murmured French words of love as he made love to her again during the night, like a man long without food finding himself at a banquet. She had never felt more desirable.

As she lay next to him, she thought about how intimately they shared their bodies and how eloquently he spoke of his love while sharing nothing of his work. Perhaps that would soon change.

“Martin, how much longer will we be here?”

“Ah, Kitten.” He gave her a squeeze. “I see you grow tired of this village life. I do not blame you. So do I. It won’t be much longer that you’ll have to endure this slow pace.”

“It is not the pace I mind. I rather enjoy the calm of village life. But it’s not our life, is it? I trust we have a future that is not here in the Midlands.”

“We certainly do. And I am anxious for it to begin, to sweep you away on a wedding trip we’ve yet to take. Trust me, it won’t be long now. But stay close to the inn and the village.”

Always there was that caution. He worried about something that was coming, a dark cloud on the horizon. The uprising, she supposed. Again, for the hundredth time, she wondered how involved he was, and whether the disgruntled workers would truly march on London. At times it all seemed like a dream. The Midlands were so beautiful the idea of any kind of revolution beginning here seemed impossible.

On the eighth of June they attended services at the ancient St. Matthew’s church. In a bizarre turn of the weather it had snowed the day before and, though much had melted, white patches remained in shadows under the trees. Stepping out of the church at the end of the service with Martin at her side, Kit gathered her cloak more tightly around her and stopped to talk to Lydia Moore, the cobbler’s wife, wondering aloud how the weather would affect the local wheat crop. Only yesterday the tender green stalks had been blowing in the breeze.

Martin excused himself, saying he and John needed to speak to the curate. Kit half listened to Mrs. Moore speak of how well her young son Johnnie was doing, half watched Martin and John walk to where Mr. Wolstenholme stood bidding his parishioners good-day. The three men stepped aside and huddled together to talk. Kit wondered if the curate was involved in the planned insurrection. His views seemed more those of a revolutionary than a man of the cloth, but if he was involved it was surely because he cared about the people and wanted justice for them. What a strange place Pentridge was.

Later that day, after they’d shared a meal, Martin excused himself again to leave her alone in their rooms. Kit could sense something was afoot and was curious to know what it was. She allowed some time to pass then started downstairs. Nanny Weightman was welcoming a score of men through the front door, urging them quickly into the back room. A few allowed their gazes to drift to where Kit stood on the stairs, but none paused as they strode to their destination. From the looks of them, they were from the ironworks, large muscular laborers with rugged features dressed simply in brown woolens as she’d observed the day she and Martin rode to the factory.

As Kit descended to the base of the stairs, the one they called the Nottingham Captain walked through the door. Her drawing of him was nearly done, and she could see it was a good likeness. It depicted the man’s thin face, thick curly hair, intense dark eyes and the scraggly dark beard and mustache that cried for a trim. His shoulders were slight but he stood erect.

Only when he joined the others assembling in the back room did Kit approach the proprietress. “Mrs. Weightman, may I ask, do you know that man who just passed by?”

“Why, yes, that’d be Mr. Brandreth, m’dear. He once destroyed those infernal textile machines, but he’s taken on a greater role now for the good of the cause. He’s arrived in Pentridge for some final planning with the men of the village, including me own sons. Did ye know me boys are to have positions in the new provisionary government? And me brother Thomas has been participating in the meetings in Nottingham. He believes, as I do, ’tis time the workers have their say.”

Kit could hardly believe the pride shining in the woman’s eyes as she spoke of her sons and family rebelling against the Crown. “I see,” she said, still shocked by the possibility the townsfolk could endorse the man known as the Nottingham Captain and think a revolution likely to succeed, even encouraging their sons to join. Kit would have considered persuading her to see reason, but the conviction in Mrs. Weightman’s voice did not invite debate.

“Why, yer own husband Mr. Donet be with them!”

“Yes…yes, of course.” Kit shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that, but she was. She decided to pretend Martin participated with her knowledge, certain it was the only reason the woman was sharing information so freely.

Nanny Weightman turned to greet more men entering the inn, and Kit wandered toward the back listening for voices. She paused near the doorway, hearing the large room crowded with men, and slipped along the back wall to sit on a keg behind a stack of crates. Through an opening she saw Jeremiah Brandreth at the front of the crowd.

Gesturing to the man on his right Brandreth announced, “The rising is nearly here. Meet my good friend from South Wingfield, Isaac Ludlam. He lost his farm to bad times and has been using his stonecutting skills to develop weapons. Thanks be to God he escaped the scrape with General Byng!”

Ludlam rose from his chair. Tall and powerfully built, the man had hair the same tan color of the stones of the Pentridge inns. “I’ve some pikes stored at my quarry on the way to South Wingfield not two miles away. They’ll arm some of us at least. My friend William Turner here”—he gestured to a man next to him—“has more.”

The thin and wiry Turner joined his friend at the front of the crowd. “I can get us weapons, but they be of little use if’n we don’t first get rid of the magistrate, Colonel Hatton. He’s the one who had those boys arrested that even now rot in gaol, waiting to be hung for the hayfield burning. I’ve a plan to lure Hatton out of his house by setting fire to some straw on his doorstep, and then we can shoot him as he comes to investigate. ’Twill be easy.”

The men seemed to consider Turner’s idea, some shaking their heads, some nodding. Kit was horrified. The man openly urged murder! She remembered what the curate had told her of the four young men whose bodies he expected would soon be buried in the church graveyard, and she regretted that their lives might be forfeit, but revenge such as this was appalling. She was relieved when, after some discussion, most of the men dismissed the idea of killing the magistrate.

“I be John Onion”—a man rose from the barrel upon which he rested—“and I speak fer the Butterley Ironworkers here. Six of our men were just sacked because they are members of the Hampden Club led by our friend Thomas. They argued for reform of Parliament and the vote for all men, but the factory manager claimed they were rebels and troublemakers and threw them out. I say they are men we should follow!”

Listening, Kit wondered if that was the reason Martin had taken her riding near the ironworks. Somehow she felt certain their ride and the involvement of the men from the factory were two threads in the same twist. Why else would Martin want to see the ironworks? Did he plan to return with these men?

“Aye, you’re right, John,” called Brandreth. “You mention my friend Thomas Bacon. I met with him in Nottingham just a day ago. He thinks Pentridge should be our base of operation for the rising and I agree. Great events will shortly come to pass, and the countryside is only waiting for the men of Pentridge to join.”

“We’re with ye!” a man shouted from the back of the room. Raised voices began a chorus of agreement.

Brandreth calmed the men with raised arms. “It makes sense to me we begin here. Pentridge is near the ironworks, where John Onion has assured me hundreds will rise with us.”

“Aye, Capt’n,” said Onion. “Some I know were none too happy about the sacking. Those were men with families to feed. ’Tis only right that the iron bars lying about the factory should be given to us as weapons when we come a-calling.” The big man gave Brandreth a knowing smile, as if they shared some secret. Kit decided the ironworks must be the key to their success.

The Nottingham Captain drew a large map from the floor behind him and set it on a crate in the middle of the room, and the crowd drew close, straining to see. It looked to Kit like there were more than thirty of them gathered around.

“Oliver tells me the whole country is ready to rise. This is the route we’ll take to join the others in Nottingham. We’ll travel the few miles south from Pentridge to Ripley and then east the fourteen miles to Nottingham. And from there to London! Along the way we shall gather more men and weapons.” Brandreth picked up a stack of circulars and began to pass them around. “I’ve written some verses to inspire ye,” he said, then he began to recite: