When Leaders Fail, Someone Must Act — Far from the Madding Crowd

Late in August, married life still new and the weather ominously dry, Gabriel stands in the stockyard reading a sinister sky: cross-wind clouds, metallic moon, rooks confused, thunder imminent. Eight naked ricks hold half the year's produce, worth seven hundred and fifty pounds, and Oak gazes with misgiving at their massive unprotected bulk. In the barn Troy rules Bathsheba's harvest supper and dance, fiddles scraping, tambourine frenzied, The Soldier's Joy thundering under discharged Dragoon pride. Gabriel sends word the ricks need covering; Troy drinks brandy-and-water and answers through a messenger that it will not rain and Oak's fidgets can wait, comparing himself to gas beside Oak's candle. Stung, Gabriel nearly leaves but hears Troy announce a belated wedding feast and order treble-strong brandy though Bathsheba pleads the men have had enough. Troy sends women home for cockbirds to drink deeper. Outside Oak works systematically on the wheat ricks, knowing they may survive a week if wind stays low, then turns to barley thatching as the moon vanishes like an ambassador before war and a slow death-breeze stirs the thatch. Troy commands the revel inside; Gabriel alone in the yard treats the farm's wealth as real while dancers stamp above the coming ruin.