The Squire of Milpond

The Squire of Milpond
In his ancient woollen cardigan, he certainly was a vision of agrarian gentility, unless you observed closely his upright carriage and quiet confidence; then, surely, you would guess at his soldierly past. As our story finds him, Soldier had laid down his sword, and taken up his ploughshare as Squire some time ago; however, it will be observed by our reader that a man truly a soldier will remain so whether he be on the field or on the land.

Our setting is the quiet hamlet of Milpond - a sleepy place it was, home to decent, hardworking souls. Its name derived from the flour mill, which harnessed the power of the pond as it tumbled into the Black River, bringing regular commerce to the few local shops. Its main renown, however, came from the hops grown in the fields outlying its borders, and the resultant beers and ales. It may be for this that our Squire chose this part of the country for himself upon giving up his uniform, but he always said it was the land which drew him here.

Squire took up residence in a tidy farmhouse, well constructed and proof against the elements. It sat protected by a hillock within a small garden beyond which stretched his land. He kept some few chickens and a cow, and had plans to graze sheep, but his main delight lay in the fruit orchard and vegetable garden. Squire was partial to pickles and preserves, and his pantry was richly stocked with the bountiful gifts of his harvests.

His property was overlooked – as if guarded – by the tall spire of the Church of St. Phillip, just visible over the top of the hill at the back of his garden. His neighbours were on one side a somewhat elderly couple whose son recently married and moved into the city; and on the other, a Town doctor and his wife who had bought a country property to play at being Land Owners but spent all their time attempting to cure the local populace of their simple ways.

Milpond, though small, was thriving in its quiet way. On market days vendors enjoyed a bustling trade on the fairgrounds. There was a Musical Society and frequent Amateur Theatricals for the artistically inclined. A small and somewhat unreliable restaurant owned by a temperamental chef who relied on whim for inspiration, and an even smaller though happily reliable pub addressed the gustatory needs of the people.

All in all, it was a happy place to enjoy peaceful years – so thought our Squire each night as he looked over his land from the fence dividing garden from field. Being a sensible man, and one of extensive reading, he realized he had much to learn about his newly chosen life. Would he, for example, have to construct a ha-ha if he did acquire sheep, to keep them from intruding on his vegetables? Was it expected that he would attend every church fete in the district? And just how often must he have the Reverend to the house for sherry? Country ways were very different, it seemed than what he’d been used to. This brought to his mind the fact that country folk enjoyed their victuals at an early hour; and even now his plate was most likely waiting for him alongside a tankard of his favourite ale.

How he loved this time of the day best of all: his labour was done till the sun rose again, and now as that sun slowly drooped below the horizon, his home glowed with the warmth of lamp light and happy souls. As St. Phillip rang out the hour, Squire left his fence perch and walked with eager stomach to his supper which tonight was surely going to be the rabbit promised by cook.

Scraping loose dirt from the bottoms of his boots, he stepped over the threshold of his back door, fully prepared to enjoy his meal and the book which arrived today by the afternoon mail. He’d ordered it months ago from a book agent who specialised in military history – an area of interest not well stocked in Milpond’s small lending library. Trading boots for slippers, he called a welcome into the house to signal his arrival and the need to have both meal and beer ready.

While our Squire had been bestowing his evening blessing on his land, his household had received a quite unexpected visitor. “The young sir just helped himself to the fireside, and took a glass of your port besides. As I didn’t think it right to toss him out, I’ve let him be, but I don’t like to see the young lads take advantage of you, sir.” Ever on guard of his master’s consequence and privacy, Joseph could be counted on to halt those whose encroaching ways presumed an intimacy with the Squire; the young men of the neighbourhood, however, conspired with the Squire himself to elude Joseph’s defences.

And so it was that on this night, when Squire anticipated tranquility, rabbit, and the company of a long-awaited book, he found young Matthew Gage sitting at his fire, sipping his port and sniffing appreciatively at the aroma of roasted rabbit in the air. He’d wrinkled the evening paper too, Squire noticed with chagrin. There was a great deal he could forgive army-mad juveniles – he’d been one himself, after all – but it really asked too much of a man to share his newspaper with someone who mangled it in such fashion. That Joseph was put out was very clear. Like most faithful retainers of longstanding, he had a way of communicating his opinions without resorting to words; which ability could at times disconcert his master.
Now, in order to offset the slight aloofness of Joseph, Squire entered his snug study and smiled at the young man sitting with such self-assurance in another man’s private room. That confidence must be the country-bred habit of believing one man equal to another -- if both worked equally hard. Not that Matthew was known to work hard for his bread, but he was willing to lend his weight when needed.

“Good evening, Matthew. I see you’re already quite at home, so I won’t offer you a drink. Does your father know you indulge in spirits?” While Squire sometimes sounded gruff, one needed only to note the twinkle in his eyes to know he was not really a harsh man. Military life had taught him decision and leadership, but he was by nature ever ready to see the joke; at this moment, the joke was the lad – all of 14 years old – sitting at his leisure by the fire, sipping port and looking for all the world as though he were about to light a pipe.

Matthew grinned at the older man, and drained his glass before getting to his feet and extending his hand in welcome. “Well sir, leastways he never said directly that I couldn’t. I enjoyed the port, and I don’t deny it, but I’ll admit to you I took it to annoy the stuffed shirt who didn’t want to let me through your door. I was just wanting to have a chat with you sir.”

This of course was the signal to invite his guest to stay for dinner, which Squire obediently did, not entirely regretting his lost solitude and book. During his short time in Milpond he’d come to like the people, and never minded when they showed up at his door ‘for a chat’. It was bound to be an entertaining evening.

Joseph unbent enough to share the information that “Dinner is served, sir. I’ve taken the liberty to provide lemonade for Mr. Gage.” Squire very nobly controlled his grin in order to preserve the dignity of both men, merely acknowledging Joseph’s announcement with a nod of his head, and with another directing Matthew to precede him into the dining room.

Pleased, he noticed that cook had provided well: there was plenty of rabbit for two. He settled in to enjoy his meal with deep contentment, and waited for the boy to reveal the real purpose for his visit. ‘Just a chat’ usually turned into a favour of some sort, such as the use of Squire’s barn as a shelter for the hunting dogs he planned to train and sell as a way to ‘make his fortune’. As he knew Matthew had experience in neither hunting nor dog training, Squire was able to resist the heady promise of riches and declared his barn off limits to the enterprise.

When glasses had been drained and plates were scraped clean, the men pushed their chairs back from the table in order to slouch with comfort. Getting down to business seemed to be taking longer than usual this night, so a direct question seemed to be in order. “Now, Matthew. What great plans have you got for my property this time?”

“Oh, none at all, sir; it’s not your land I’m interested in. Well...not this time anyway.” This was said with a grin, revealing to Squire that Matthew did indeed have schemes, but was willing to wait for a more propitious time to advance them. “It’s nothing really, only I was wondering, Sir, if you happened to have an old uniform around the place that you would be willing to let me have? You see, Thomas Redknapp and George Giggs have fathers who served, while my own dad was a farmer. When we act out the battles, there’s me in my usuals, while they drill in proper uniforms. I’d dearly like to see their faces when I show up next time in an officer’s colours with them dressed as enlisted men.”

“Matthew, there’s no pride to be had in a man’s rank unless the man has honour and courage. Those qualities are found in the enlisted ranks as commonly as among the officers. It doesn’t do to measure a man based on his rank or status. ” Realizing he was in danger of delivering a lecture, he answered the question: “I don’t believe I’ve kept anything from those days, but I’ll set Joseph to see what he can find laying about in the attics”

“That’s very good of you, to be sure. I’ll call back in a few days, shall I? I’ll leave you to your peace now, and I think you for a truly delicious meal. Good night!”

And so Squire was left to his pipe, his long anticipated books, and the opportunity to reflect on the goodness of his life on the land.