The Old Squire: Voices of Pondicherry, #4

By Caroline D. Grimm

"He sat at his own table that night, a lonely old man, missing the spirit and the laughter that once filled his house—a house he'd built with his own hands all those long years ago. The quiet got to him at night when the wind came blowing strong down from the mountain above. He could hear the beating of his heart, a steady thump, thump, thump. The parlor clock with the family name etched upon its face ticked and tocked, reminding him that his time was running down."

In the tumultuous years that followed incorporation, the citizens of Bridgton, Mainefaced wars, famine, tragedy, disease, and weather disasters. Still, their accomplishments during the next thirty years left a lasting legacy for their descendants. From churches to schools to roads to businesses to farms, the little town's landscape was forever shaped by the sacrifices and dreams of those who carved a town from the wilderness.

At the Perley homestead, the years have taken their toll on the family. Crop failures, illness, heartbreaking loss, and financial troubles beset the family, leaving the Old Squire weary. But still driven by his indomitable will, he is determined to achieve his goals for the town and for all those who follow in his footsteps before he sleeps forever under the trees on the land he so loved.

Based on a true story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline D. Grimm
• Release date: Nov 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393409601

Book preview

Chapter 1

May 1842, South Bridgton, Maine

John Putnam Perley stepped through the door of his father’s study. He’d put off the task long enough. His father, John, had been dead now for nearly a year. Maybe he could handle the task now. Best to get it done if he could stand it. The room smelled of dried old papers and the rum his father was known to sip while he took care of the hundreds of details of running a prosperous farm. The air was stale after being closed up for so long. Putt unlocked a window and shoved it open, letting in the crisp Spring air. The fresh air came with the sounds and odors of the farm. Putt was so accustomed to the stench of manure and the sound of chickens clucking under the window that he barely noticed. He had lived nearly all his years since his birth in 1815 here at the farm. It was only because of his service in the military that he’d spent much time away.

Putt opened his father’s roll-top desk. Each pigeon hole was stuffed with papers. By turns, he pulled open each drawer on the sides of the desk. Full of paper. So much paper. Old letters, paid bills, property deeds, building plans. One whole drawer full of papers from his grandfather, the old squire, Enoch Perley. Putt glanced out the window at his grandfather’s house. It was empty much of the time now. Not much use for it now that the old folks were gone.

His mind turned toward his cousin, Sam Perley. They’d been inseparable as boys. Both second sons, at least second sons who survived childhood, they’d been more like brothers than cousins. Neither of them had ever expected to inherit their father’s farms. But Putt’s brother, Augustus, preferred town life and business activities, and Sam’s brother chose to study medicine. Now, here they both were, Putt and Sam, together in a new way. Putt’s father in his grave when Putt was just twenty-five, and now Sam at twenty-five knowing his father was not expected to live out the summer. Sam would soon be faced with going through his own stacks of old papers, trying to sort out what was important. In the end, was any of it important? Maybe the land deeds, but other than that the rest of it seemed like fire starters.

Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, Putt glanced up. His mother, Sally Perley, stood looking in the door of the study. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked around the room. So many memories there. So much sadness. Putt watched her for a moment. His lovely mother. She looked so drawn and sad, as if the consumption that had taken her husband had drained her own spirit as well. At sixty years old, she had survived much—the death of four of her children, including Putt’s twenty-year-old brother, Frederic, who died just five months before her husband. When Uncle Thomas passed, she and his Aunt Rebecca would be the last of the old folks left. How lonely, thought Putt, to be the last of a generation.

Marm, he said, speaking to her gently, would you like to join me in this work? He motioned to the chair at the front of the desk.

She came in tentatively, wary of the memories that lurked in every corner. She sat down stiffly. How quiet the house is, Putt, she said. So quiet since your dear father died.

Putt did not respond. It was true. The house was quiet now. But it hadn’t always been so. It was once filled with laughter and love. And tragedy. He stared out the window, remembering.

His mother spoke again, I want you to remember it all, Putt. I want you to be the keeper of the flame. So that, generations from now, they will know about us. They will remember we were here.

Putt looked at his mother, searching her face. Marm, what do you mean?

She responded, It matters, Putt. It matters that there once was a man named Enoch Perley who came from Boxford with his wife and a colored woman named Cloe. Enoch and Anna’s son was born in the little house, the same cabin that sits now out behind this house your father built for me. That son was your father; that little cabin his birthplace. They built all of this, Putt. It was wilderness before they came. Now, all that you see, all that you have, it came from them. It matters, Putt. Promise me you won’t forget.

Putt sighed. Why must the young be burdened with the past? Was the present not burden enough? Putt looked closely at his mother, saw the lines of grief and toil etched deep into her gentle face. How could he deny her anything? He nodded. I won’t forget, Marm. I won’t forget.

Chapter 2

September 1795

Squire Enoch Perley stood in the September sunshine, enjoying what might well be summer’s last hurrah. Breathing deep, he pulled in all the familiar scents of his prosperous farm: the rich loam, the dusty drying corn stalks, a waft of pig. But his keen senses separated out the scent of the apples. The trees were heavy with fruit still snugged tight to the branches. Not yet, he murmured. When it was time to harvest, he would know by the scent of the apples—the fresh, clean scent that spoke of warm days and cool nights, driving the crisp air deep into the flavor of the apples. When the fruit was just at its most perfect ripeness...that was the time to harvest. Too soon and the fruit would be tart. Too late and the harvest would be good only for cider making.

He plucked a red Baldwin from the nearest tree, shining it on his rough work shirt. He bit off a crisp chunk, savoring the tartness as he looked out over his land. He’d done well. Twenty years ago, this had all been forest, he mused. By the strength of his back, the help of his neighbors, and the goodness of God, he had prospered. His good wife Anne had worked with him, side by side. And with them, always willing, their faithful Cloe.

Those were hard times in the early days. He remembered well how he had slept with his musket leaned against the bedstead, always at the ready to defend his family, his home, his livestock, or his neighbors from the predations of wild beasts. How hard they had worked. He thought of Anne heavy with child that first autumn after their marriage. She worked long and hard harvesting their scant crops, salting down deer and rabbit meat, and laying by the wild foods they would need to survive through the dark, cold winter. Cloe had been just a slight girl then, but she did a woman’s work and did it with no complaints.

Enoch tossed the core of the apple toward the chickens pecking about the yard. They chased after it, squabbling like children. He smiled, thinking of his own brood. His oldest son and heir, John, was sixteen, and full of ideas for making the farm more productive. Young Johnny thought his father’s ways were old fashioned and wanted to employ scientific methods of farming. Enoch’s mouth twitched at the thought. Scientific methods, indeed! If John applied himself more to his labors, spent more time attuned to the land, walking it, sensing the natural rhythms, he would know all he needed to know. Still, Enoch admired his son’s studious nature. He did seem to be having some success with increasing the apple production.

Enoch’s thoughts turned to his second son, Thomas. At twelve, he was a promising youth, standing on the cusp of boyhood and manhood, anxious to prove himself. He was a good boy, not prone to rudeness as John had been at that age. He could stand to pay more attention to his books, and he sometimes teased his sister Rebecca until she cried from vexation. Still, all things considered, he was a son to be proud of. They both were. A man with such sons had much to be thankful for.

And then his two daughters, Rebecca and Nancy. He smiled as he thought of their sweet faces. The older of the two, Rebecca was so much like his own dear mother in form and face. At nine, she was learning the household tasks necessary to run a prosperous farm. She was proving to be a great help to her mother and Cloe. She was up in the kitchen with them now, getting the green beans ready for canning. The bean crop had done well this year. The seeds his brother had sent him from back home in Boxford, Massachusetts had proved well-suited for the climate in the province of Maine.

Pulling himself away from his thoughts, he headed back toward the house. No time for gathering wool with so much to be done. Sitting on the front doorstep was his younger daughter, Nancy. She was his pride and joy, though he would never admit it. She was studiously staring at the open pages of a book. As he drew nearer, he could see she held his much loved volume of Shakespeare’s plays, given to him as a parting gift so many long years ago by his dear Anne when he had headed to the wilderness to build her a home. Enoch dropped down next to his daughter. She glanced up at him with her brow furrowed. What seems to be the problem, Nancy? he asked the four-year-old.

She frowned deeper, a pout forming on her mouth. I do not know what it means, she said.

"What what means?" he asked her.

The words, she replied. I want to read like Rebecca and the boys.

Enoch stroked her dark hair. Daughter, you are only four. You have not yet started school. To everything there is a season.

She stamped her small foot. "But, Sir, I want to know what the words say, now!" He knew he should reprimand her for her impatient tone. He looked into the stormy eyes, grey-blue like his own. Anne would have him scold her, but somehow this little one had him quite tied around her pretty finger. Patiently, he took the book from her and, pulling her close, he began to read aloud.

Anne found them there later when she came looking for her youngest. Nancy, you were to be helping Rebecca with the green beans....

Nancy glanced up with a guilty expression. I’m sorry, Marm, she whispered. Sir was reading to me. She looked to her father for support. He grinned sheepishly at his wife.

"It’s my fault the child was not about her chores. I thought to read to her only a moment, and we got caught up in The Tempest."

Anne looked down at her errant husband and daughter and sighed with gentle exasperation. If I left it up to the two of you, we’d go hungry this winter while you read your stories all day long. Books! Books! Books! She smiled indulgently at Enoch. He worked so very hard all the year round. Harvest time was especially busy for him. It did him good to sit a moment in the sunshine in the company of their little girl.

Enoch rose to his feet, handing Nancy the precious volume of stories. She skipped into the house and headed for the kitchen where she could soon be heard merrily re-telling the beloved story to Cloe and Rebecca. Enoch ducked his head and glanced at his wife to determine if she was truly vexed with him. She put her hands on her hips and shook her head at him. Then he grinned, holding his arms open to her. She stepped in to his embrace and rested her head tiredly on his shoulder. He dropped a kiss on her hair and let her lean into him, pulling strength from his enduring energy. Standing on her toes, she kissed his lips and rested her hand on his face. With a smile, she returned to her duties, secure in his love and regard and strengthened by their partnership. With a spring in his step, he walked whistling to the barn to find the boys and move to the next task on his list.

* * *

Anna Perley sat slumped tiredly in the saddle. Mrs. Foster’s labor had been a long and hard one. The horse walked easily, sure of his way, steady as a farm horse should be. Anna’s body jerked back awake, swaying sideways in the saddle. She shook herself awake again. She was nearly home to her own fireside. Cloe would have breakfast ready for the family. She’d have a quick cup of tea, then nap in her chamber for a couple of hours. With luck, she’d be back at her household duties by noon day.

The horse worked his way up the final hill, coming to a stop next to the mounting block. As Anna pushed herself from the saddle, she stumbled off the edge of the mounting block in her tiredness. Instinctively, she threw her hand out to break her fall. As her hand hit the hard ground, she heard a pop that was followed by excruciating pain.

At the sound of her scream, the barn door burst open, and Enoch came at a run. Anne! Anne! He gathered her into his strong arms, cradling her while he examined her hand. The thumb stood out at an unnatural angle, and her wrist cocked in a way it was never meant to. It’s dislocated, Annie. Look away! Anna looked toward the mountain, knowing what would come next. Enoch took her hand firmly and giving a great yank to the wrist, he popped it back into place, as Anne let out a shriek.

He tenderly wiped the tears from her face. Better? he asked. She nodded, relieved. He helped her to her feet, leading her to the house. He called for Cloe to bring bandages for a sling. Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he left her with Cloe fussing over her. As he walked away, he thought of the dangers of this life he had brought her to. He was so proud of her courage. Many women would shrink from the challenges, but not his Annie. She could take the hardships and still smile. As good a wife as he could ever have hoped for.

* * *

Enoch sat at his desk, his brother Thomas’s letter unopened in his hand. He dreaded the news he was expecting the letter to contain. For months his dear father’s health had become increasingly fragile. Every letter brought a breath of the grave with it. Enoch broke the seal and cautiously opened the letter.

Oct. 12, 1795

Dear Brother,

From former information you must have been led to expect the Death of our Father. That event took place on the 28th of September. After you were here, he remained comfortable through the Winter and Spring. In June, his appetite became small, stomach very weak, unable to bear food and bodily strength failing. These complaints nonetheless without much pain until the middle of August when his feet and legs began to swell, and soon after his body, with considerable pain in the feet which continued most of the time during the remainder of his life. He had not any particular disorder but what arose from the decays of nature. These were gradually gaining ground. He went twice to meeting in May and June. Walked to the neighbour’s in July, and out of doors for the last time the 11th of September. His strength, fast failing.

On the 21st, he was unable to be taken out of bed. During his decline, his reason was clear, his mind composed and reconciled to his approaching change.

For several days before his death, a sore mouth and throat prevented him from speaking so as to be fully understood. At half past nine on the morning of the 28th there appeared an alteration in his countenance. The neighbours were called. Uncle Perley was at his bedside and noted that Father appeared to be just leaving this world. My father, with much exertion, speaking so as to be fully understood, replied that he hoped he was leaving, he had been wishing for it. Without much apparent pain Life was gradually extinguished. He lay toward the last as in an easy sleep and with a gentle gasp, expired at three o’clock from a scene so affecting and instructive from which I pray we may we learn true wisdom.

Yours as ever,

Thomas

Stoically, Enoch bore the news, letting it sink into his heart. His beloved father and teacher gone. A gentle, learned man. A strict but fair father, a strong provider for his family. His labors were now done. He could take his last rest, knowing he had lived his full purpose on earth.

Pushing back his chair, Enoch quietly left the house. He took up his gun as he left, whistled for his dog, and strode off into the woods up behind the little house. He climbed purposefully, scrambling over rocks and pushing through the underbrush. At last, he reached the highest spot on his land, looking out over the lakes and the land he loved so well.

He sat down on a large rock, his hands wrapped around the barrel of his gun where it stood between his legs, feet firmly planted on the land. He bowed his head, and let the sobs shake him, at once the strong man and the small boy he once was, adrift now in the world without the father who had so anchored him, protected him, and taught him to be a man. When his sobs subsided, he stood again, looking to the hills, pulling in their strength.

He looked long, remembering. Remembering. Scenes of his childhood flooding back, washing over him, laughter, tears, lessons, moment after moment, so much more precious to him now that the time was irretrievably gone.

After a time, he whistled for the dog, shouldered his gun, and began the return trip down the mountain with a heart lightened by the release of grief.

Later that night in bed, he turned to Anne, pulling her into his arms, loving her. Reaffirming the continuing of life, in the midst of loss. She held him tenderly when the loving was done, feeling his tears mingling with hers. Gently she kissed his brow, knowing what the tears cost him, this man who was so strong for all others. Only with her could he show his vulnerability, knowing she would guard him as fiercely as he guarded her. Entwined together, shared tears drying on their cheeks, they slipped into deep, restful sleep.

* * *

The Perley boys were at it again. The older boy, John, taunted his brother, Thomas, one too many times. Thomas hurtled into his brother’s midsection using his head as a battering ram. At sixteen, John should know better, but he seemed to like nothing better than to rile his brother to see how long it would take the twelve-year-old to lose his temper. The impact of Thomas’s hard head knocked John off balance. Thomas took his advantage to take his brother to the ground. There, they scuffled and rolled in the dirt, Thomas howling in frustration and John laughingly trying to fend him off. The more John laughed, the angrier Thomas grew.

The farm dog, Don, threw himself into the fray, barking and kicking up his heels as he raced around the boys. Intent on pummeling each other, they failed to hear the quick, determined steps of their father approaching. The shock of the cold well water dumped over them, left both of them gasping for breath. Looking up into the stern grey-blue eyes of their father, the boys lay quiet.

Reaching down, Squire Enoch