The barn was hot, the bread smell of hay mixing with animals and of sweat.
Forty men stood side by side, straight from the fields.
Two years had brought poor harvests, a paucity of jobs, and the thrasing machine had come last season, separating men from their livelihoods as surely as the chaff from the grain.
As Andrews arrived the discussion raged like hunger.
"One tenth we give them, and Lord knows where it goes."
"The parson knows" came a voice from the back. This last met with loud derision.
"Aye," said Gladwell, "blessings they offer us, then they take from us our work. Surely they should swing."
"Who here can write?"
Andrews was jostled to the front, where Gladwell handed him writing implements.
Putting pen to paper he heard the lighting of pitch-soaked torches, and it began.
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