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As the sun sinks, the trees cast long shadows across the countryside of Kent at the southeast tip of England.

Blackbirds, robins, songcrush and wood pigeons join the dusk chorus.

But they're not the only ones gathering on the evening of Sunday the 27th of May 1838.

Over a hundred people, all from nearby hamlets, are standing in the lane on the edge of a little village named Dunkirk.

Some climb onto fences and carts to get a better view. The air is electric with anticipation.

Earlier today, most of them stood at the rear of the church for the Sunday service, too poor and lowly to have a seat.

For two hours they stood. Men in clean white smocks or Sunday jackets, women

wearing their best shawls and bonnets, how their backs and feet ached as the Reverend Handley

vicar of Hearn Hill gave his uninspiring sermon.

And yet, here they are, waiting to hear from another man of God.

Health to the poor, toasts Sir William Courtney, as the crowd raises glasses of beer in return.

Dressed in sombre black, Sir William removes his wide-rimmed hat, ready to preach.

He's clutching a pocket Bible in his hand, not that he needs it to quote the epistle of St James.

Go to now, ye rich men, weep and how for your miseries that shall come upon you.

Court and his followers hang on every word, as he goes on to recite Job, chapter 20, from memory.

Because he hath oppressed and hath forsaken the poor,

because he hath violently taken away and house which he build it not,

God shall cast the fury of his wrath upon him.

The heavens shall reveal his iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him.

The audience of poor labourers, like the sound of that, they scrape a living from the earth,

while the gentry own it. In the fading light of that cool Sabbath evening,

...