Page 66 of Against the Wind

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.”