A few days ago, the farmers who were still yoked together in front of Henry Benson, struggling to pull the ropes and crawling through the fields like snails, were now feeling extremely pleased.

The strength of oxen far surpasses that of humans. With two oxen yoked together, they strode forward with ease, and the large iron plow behind them had already sunk deep into the earth. The plowshare ruthlessly turned over the hard, compacted soil, making it loose and soft, suitable for wheat to grow.

No wonder that, whether in the Former Han or the Xin Dynasty, there were strict laws forbidding the slaughter of plowing oxen, and the common people held these big fellows in great respect—almost to the point of worshipping them as divine oxen. However, things like drinking ox urine or bathing in ox dung were still beyond them.

Since the order of borrowing was decided by drawing lots, those who were later in line had nothing to complain about. While using the oxen, the villagers were also extremely careful, not daring to swing the whip too hard, for fear of injuring or exhausting the oxen.

Just then, Robert Benson happened to pass by. Seeing how lightly everyone was working, he was extremely displeased and stopped to shout, “Didn’t you eat enough? Put some effort into it! My oxen are strong, but they won’t ruin the fields!”

Only then did everyone loosen up a bit. If someone accidentally hit a stone and damaged the plow blade, they would nervously bring it back. Although Mark Benson, who was in charge of the tools, glared at them fiercely, he didn’t make them pay for it.

Now the villagers were at ease. They all marveled at how the usually indifferent head of the household had changed his ways this year. Upon hearing that this was the young master’s idea, they all secretly gave a thumbs-up to Henry Benson, who was squatting by the field doing calculations.

Henry Benson was calculating how much time lending out oxen and plows could save for everyone in the village. With one person and two oxen, ten small mu of land could be plowed in just a few hours—a rate several times faster than yoked labor with wooden or stone tools. After autumn plowing, before the community festival, the farmers would have seven or eight days of free time. If he summoned them to work then, they probably wouldn’t object.

During a break, Henry Benson announced the plan to use the slack farming season to renovate the village shrine. The farmers were silent at first, then all responded enthusiastically: “The autumn festival hasn’t been properly held for years—this really is a big deal! Only by entertaining the gods can we ensure good weather and harvests next year.”

“As soon as we finish sowing in a few days, we’ll go help right away!”

“I’ll go up the mountain to cut wood.”

“I’ll dig earth by the canal.”

“I’ll fire tiles in the kiln!”

After all, they had nothing else to do. Although there was no pay, The Benson Family would provide meals. Many hands make light work, and now that they had benefited greatly from borrowing the oxen, anyone who slacked off would be looked down upon by the whole village.

Even a half-grown, scabby-headed child clamored to help pass bricks. In the child’s memory, the autumn festival was the most fun time of the year—dancing and making the gods happy, and having fun themselves. What could be better?

Now Henry Benson was reassured. Meanwhile, the “new implement” he had asked the blacksmith Stephen Price to make a few days ago had also completed its first field test.

……

“Clan grandfather, why have you called for me?”

The one summoned was the middle-aged villager who had fallen from the pear tree the other day, whom Henry Benson had sent home by horse. His name was Paul Benson.

Henry Benson had remembered incorrectly; this man was not his nephew’s generation, but his grandson’s—he couldn’t help it, as he had at least a dozen grandsons in the village, and even some great-grandchildren older than himself.

A man in his forties, yet he called the 17-year-old Henry Benson “clan grandfather” at every turn. It was awkward at first, but he got used to it.

“Is your foot better?”

Henry Benson glanced at his injured foot. The man was lucky—the wound hadn’t become infected. If it had festered, the mortality rate would have been very high.

“It’s better now, thanks to the medicine you sent, clan grandfather. I don’t know how to repay this kindness.”

To prove it, Paul Benson even stomped his foot on the ground.

Henry Benson quickly stopped him: “Take it easy. When you work in the fields from now on, remember to wear shoes. Don’t go barefoot again.”

This made Paul Benson a bit embarrassed. He was too shy to say that his wife had died the year before last, and there was no one at home to weave shoes, so he had to make do with straw sandals. He was clumsy, and the sandals he made were loose and fell apart in a few days. The only good pair of shoes in the house had to be shared by his two sons when they went out.

Having heard that Paul Benson was one of the best farmers in the village, Henry Benson had specially sought him out to try the new plow.

Over the past few days, Henry Benson had observed the villagers plowing and noticed that their plows were quite different from those he had seen in the south in his later life. Although they had all the parts—plow tip, plow body, plow beam, and plow handle—the biggest difference was that the beam was long and straight, making it hard to turn. It was best operated with two oxen yoked together.

In later times, however, there was the curved-beam plow, which was a bit shorter and could be pulled by a single ox.

Based on his memory, Henry Benson had the blacksmith make one. He wasn’t sure if it was accurate, but after having Paul Benson try it out, the feedback was quite good.

“Not only is it much lighter and more convenient, but it’s also easier to turn—perfect for small, irregular plots of land.”

Indeed, the heavy straight-beam plow seemed designed for the The Benson Family family’s fifty-plus connected hectares of flat land. The self-tilling farmers’ plots had long been less than a hundred mu per household, and due to inheritance and division, were scattered in small patches. The big plow was hard to use, but the small curved-beam plow was just right.

So Henry Benson, delighted, took the new plow to report his success to his grandfather, who was basking in the sun on the field ridge, hoping to have a dozen or so curved-beam plows made for the villagers before spring plowing.