Author's Note: This is a work of "fanfiction", a reflection of admiration for the original authors. This author owns no rights to this material, save perhaps the imagination used to take existing yarns and weave them into a new pattern, and a few original characters.

Introductory Notes:

Chronicler's Note:

The following is a grim account indeed, detailing as it does a terrible time in the history of the Shire. Although the difficulties undergone by the Halflings do not begin to approach the sufferings of the prisoners of Dol Guldur or Barad Dur, still, the cruelties of renegade Men are well known to the citizens of Gondor.

The purpose of this account is not to describe in detail the sufferings of a gentle, inoffensive folk, but rather, to celebrate the triumph of the spirit in the face of overwhelming adversity.

In this time of relative peace, the King has commanded this copy to be made for his annals, from the Thain’s Book, lest we forget the entire price paid by the Ring-bearer and his people.

Faithfully transcribed and submitted for the record,

L. 

Historian's Note:

Looking back through the lenses of hindsight and history, we can only echo the warning of the chronicler who transcribed this from the Thain's Book for the official record of the King of Gondor and Arnor, etc. This account is mild, compared to those from our own time, e.g. a survivor of the Holocaust, or an American POW during the Vietnam War, or other troubling accounts from more modern days.

We must never forget the horrors that renegade Men can perpetrate on those in their power, and be ever vigilant to protect the ones who have no protector.

Chapter 1. "Then I Would Like Supper First, and After That a Pipe"

The rebel leader concentrated fiercely upon the task at hand: scratching another mark upon the heavy walking-stick to mark the passage of yet another day since the Troubles began. Well, perhaps that was not wholly accurate; the markings actually reflected how long they’d been here in the hills of Scary.

Once he had, with careful precision, made the mark the same size and depth of the others, he sat back and sighed. How many more marks, before the end?

His sharp ears heard a soft comment. ‘D’you think they’ll starve us out, then?’

A snort. ‘What do you think? We’re on our last meal as it is. Naught more where this came from, and I doubt they’ll let us sneak out to fetch supplies.’

‘What’ll we do? Surrender?’ came the worried voice.

‘You afraid you can’t live without vittles?’ There was a sneer in the tone.

‘You know what they say about hobbits that don’t eat,’ another put in.

‘That’s sick hobbits, y’know,’ said a fourth. ‘Hobbits survived famine before this, y’know, or there wouldn’t be no Shire today.’

‘Is that a fact?’ the sneerer said. ‘You been studying up on your history, eh, Budgie?’

‘There ain’t no Shire today,’ the worrier whispered.

‘There’s a Shire, yet,’ Budgie Smallfoot said stoutly. ‘As long as Tookland holds out, there’ll be a Shire.’

The rebel leader arose from his rock and limped over, leaning heavily on the walking-stick. ‘Are you afraid of hunger, Robin?’ he said quietly. ‘You may have my portion.’ He nodded to Stonecrop, who was carefully portioning out the last loaf of bread. All they’d had the past four days had been one loaf a day, since the ruffians had caught them short, just before the next planned raid. Each loaf had been divided amongst twenty, and after today even that smidgen would be missing. At least there was a natural lake, deeper within the cave, ice-cold and fresh-tasting, probably spring-fed, though no hobbit would care to dive under to find its source.

In the flickering light of the lamp, turned low to conserve oil, Robin could be seen blushing furiously. ‘No sir, Mr Bolger, sir,’ he mumbled, ducking his head. ‘I couldn’t conscience taking your portion, sir.’

‘Freddy,’ Fatty Bolger corrected. ‘We’re all equal here.’

‘Freddy, sir,’ Robin said, even lower. Had he a cap, he’d have fingered the brim and bobbed his head.

Stonecrop finished cutting the loaf into ten slices, and then each slice in half. He portioned out the bread, and all stood or sat and ate in silence, perhaps thinking of merrier meals a lifetime ago, before the ruffians came.

***

‘Six places set! Six places!’ little Freddy Bolger caroled as he skipped around the table.

‘That’s right, my love,’ his fond mother replied, lighting the candles in the silver holders. She stepped back to admire the effect: snowy linens, silver polished to a high sheen, candles of the finest quality casting a lovely glow over all.

‘Who’s coming to dinner? Who’s coming?’ Freddy sang. He began to count. ‘Six dinner forks, six salad forks, six fish forks, six dessert forks... that’s four-and-twenty, mamma!’ His eyes shone.

‘There’s my bright lad,’ Rosamunda Bolger nee Took said with a smile. ‘Can you not guess? I shall give you a hint. A little cousin... and a big one.’

‘Merry!’ Freddy shouted in excitement, ‘And Frodo!’

‘Yes,’ his mother laughed, ‘But hush, you’ll waken your sister, and you know how Estella is when she wakens too soon from her nap.’

Freddy resumed his dance around the table and began to count the spoons. ‘Six teaspoons, and six soup spoons, and six...’

***

‘What’ll happen to us?’ Robin said softly, when he’d made his portion last as long as he could, and licked his fingers for any lingering crumbs.

‘Aw, I imagine it’ll be the Lockholes for us, lad,’ Budgie said cheerily. ‘We’ll be in good company, at least, what with Mayor Flourdumpling gone before to prepare our places for us.’

‘But... they’ve started hanging folk up from trees,’ Robin whispered. ‘My auntie told me, last time I visited, when she begged me to stop at home and not go raiding no more.’

‘Hanging folk up,’ Rocky Furrytoes mimicked. ‘Whate’er do you mean, Smallfoot? Like cloaks on pegs? That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Hanging them up, with ropes around their necks,’ Freddy said quietly.

‘But that would kill them!’ Rocky protested, shock in his tone.

‘I do believe that is the intended result,’ Freddy said. ‘However, I don’t think any of you need to worry. They only serve that particular dish to certain troublemakers.’

‘Leaders?’ Stonecrop asked. A silence fell. Freddy led this particular band of rebels, and none of them wanted to see him hanged by his neck from a tree.

Finally, Budgie spoke. ‘Look at the bright side!’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll starve to death before that happens.’ There was a grim laugh, which the hobbits didn’t bother to stifle. The ruffians knew they were there, after all.

‘Next time...’ Stonecrop began.

‘Eh? What was that, Stony?’ Freddy said, settling down and putting his pipe in his mouth. It was empty of course, there’d been no pipe-weed to be had for months, but he still liked to suck on the stem and think. No ideas for escape came to mind; none had presented themselves since the ruffians had taken up camp outside the front and back entrances to the cave. He thought of Estella, safe in Tookland, he hoped, and his parents, still stubbornly staying in Budge Hall. When Pimple Baggins was able to positively identify one Fredegar Bolger as a leader of rebels, he’d feel justified seizing all Freddy’s family owned and turning them out into the street. Would anyone dare to take them in, or would they become wandering beggars as so many before them, hiding in caves in the hills of Scary north of Budge Ford, or living in hollows of trees in the woods south of the Great East Road, coming out after dark, dodging ruffians and begging a bite at the back doors of those not yet dispossessed?

‘Next time, let’s look for a cave with more than two openings,’ Stonecrop said. ‘That way, if the ruffians discover the back door—‘

‘We can go out the side door,’ Rocky said. ‘I’ll second that motion!’

‘All in favour, say ‘Aye!’ said the irrepressible Budgie.

A chorus of “Ayes” reached the ears of one of the ruffians watching the cave mouth. He sent word back to his chief, who soon came up.

‘What is it, Bent?’ he said.

‘Something’s happening,’ Bent said. ‘They’re laying plans, or something. I just heard a shout within, sounded as if they’d decided something.’

‘Perhaps they have,’ the leader said, ‘but it’ll be of no avail. Word’s come from the Boss that he’s tired of us sitting on our tails doing nothing. He wants the leader of this particular band, and he wants him now. He’s left one tree standing in Bywater, a good hanging tree, and he wants to make an example for the hobbits there. They’ve been getting restless of late.’

‘What of the others? Will it be a wholesale hanging?’ Bent asked, feeling a bit queasy over the prospect. Sure, the Little Folk were nuisances, and he could see setting an example, but since the Boss had come to Bag End, things were getting nastier, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

‘Naw, we’ll just march ‘em off to the Lockholes, stopping off at Bywater so they can watch their chief learn to dance at rope’s end, give them a bit of a breather.’

‘Haw, that’s a good one, Chief!’ Bent’s fellow watcher Jock guffawed. ‘A breather! While they’re watching a hanging! Haw!’ Bent looked at him with dislike, then hooded his eyes before either of the other Men noticed. If things kept on like this, he was going to slip away at first opportunity, unofficially resign his position amongst Sharkey’s Guards, find better pickings.

‘All right, you just settle down and keep your watch,’ the chief said. ‘We don’t want any of these rats to slip away and miss the fun, now, do we?’

 ‘Haw,’ Jock chuckled, more softly. He settled down on a rock, and after a sharp glance from the chief, Bent followed suit. The chief was watching for deserters, he realised. Two Men had disappeared over the past week, two who’d grumbled over the lean pickings now that the Boss had nearly sucked this land dry. No escape tonight, he thought morosely. He’d have to bide his time and watch for his chance.

Chapter 2. A Great Smoke Went Up

The rebel leader awakened suddenly, startled out of sleep by a soft voice. ‘Tea, Freddy-lad?’ It was Old Oakleaf, his family’s gardener. Fredegar suspected the old hobbit had followed him on his father’s orders, but he’d proven a loyal companion. The younger hobbits looked up to him, especially the Smallfoot cousins, and he’d taken Robin Smallfoot, the youngest of the band, under his wing, keeping him from the bullying of some of the rougher members.

He took the proffered cup of icy water with a smile. ‘Thankee, Gaffer,’ he said, and sipped. ‘My, the tea gets finer each day.’

‘Trick is to catch the kettle just on the boil, and steep the leaves just the right number of minutes,’ the old hobbit said. ‘Some folk let all the life boil out of the water, and then the tea tastes flat.’

‘Real pity, that,’ Freddy agreed with another sip. He tried to persuade his stomach that each sip of water was a part of a very pleasant feast, in fact, an engrossing entertainment: rich, abundant, varied, and prolonged. By the time he reached the bottom of the cup, he’d be as full as he was at Bilbo’s Birthday Party, when the Speech began.

***

‘Peregrin Took, do you mean to say you went out the back way and came through the gate again?’ Fatty scolded. ‘Merry, I thought you were keeping an eye on him!’

‘Lobelia S.-B. grabbed my arm to give me a piece of her mind,’ Merry said in self-defence. ‘It wasn’t so bad when Pip was standing behind her, mimicking her every move, but then he slipped away, and Mistress Lobelia fixed me with that eye of hers and said, “And where d’you think you’re going off to, young hobbit? I haven’t finished with you yet!” and it was all I could do to stand there and nod upon occasion.’

‘I got two presents!’ Pippin announced proudly. He had come through the front gate twice, where Bilbo was handing out birthday presents to the arriving guests, and Bilbo hadn’t seemed to notice that the young Took had already been through one time. ‘This one’s magical, look! You put a coin in front of the dragon’s mouth... d’you have a coin, Merry?’ he asked, all innocence.

Knowing better, Merry nevertheless fished a coin out of his pocket, feeling the various discs until his fingers distinguished a copper penny, slightly larger than a silver penny, but not as valuable. ‘Here you are, Pip.’

‘Put the coin on the stone in front of the dragon’s mouth,’ Pippin said importantly. Merry obeyed. A puff of steam came from the dragon’s mouth, and when it cleared, the coin was gone.

‘Where did it go?’ Merry said.

Pippin laughed with delight. ‘It’s in his hoard!’ he said. He turned the box over, worked a latch, and opened a small door to show several coins inside. When Merry reached for one of the coppers, Pippin closed the door. ‘No you don’t!’ he said. ‘Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons! You know what might happen!’

‘But my penny—‘ Merry protested, more bemused than upset.

‘How does it work?’ Fatty asked. ‘I’d like to see that again.’

‘Do you have a coin?’ Pippin asked ingenuously.

Fatty fished a coin out of his pocket; a silver penny this time, and Pippin’s eyes gleamed.

‘Fatty,’ Merry warned. Fatty turned his face towards Merry and winked the eye that Pippin couldn’t see.

‘Put the coin on the stone,’ Pippin said, and Fatty complied. There was a puff of steam, and the coin was gone. Fatty’s eyebrows went up, and he said, ‘A neat trick, cousin. You ought to make a good haul if you go round the party and show off your new toy.’

‘I will!’ Pippin said, and soon was to be seen showing off his new toy to another gaggle of cousins.

‘What--?’ Merry said.

Fatty turned a bland eye on him. ‘At least he won’t go out the back way and come through the gate a third time,’ he said.

There were songs, dances, music, games, and of course, food and drink. Fatty was able to eat all he wanted, for the first time ever, without his father complaining that the Bolger hoard would be seriously depleted by the cost of the food. Of course, he sat down together with all the other guests at luncheon and tea, but in-between-times he didn’t stop eating. As a matter of fact, he ate continuously from elevenses until six-thirty, when the fireworks started and the display made him stop, for of course one can hardly chew and swallow food when one’s mouth is wide-opened in wonder.

Of course, Merry and Frodo procured for Pippin the brightest of the dwarf-candles and elf-fountains, and the loudest of the squibs, crackers, goblin-barkers and thunder-claps, and the young Took made quite a nuisance of himself at one point, nearly setting fire to the fur on old Odo Proudfoot’s right foot when he lit off a string of crackers without checking to see if the area around him was clear. However, old Odo was so busy watching glowing flowers dropping from the sky at the time, smelling their sweet scent as they disappeared before his nose, that he didn’t notice any smell of singed hair and only the next morning wondered what had happened to the fur on his right big toe.

Fatty saw Estella and some other little girls her age waving sparklers and moved away before his mother could collar him to watch his sister. Just then, the lights went out. A great smoke went up and formed itself into a mountain, out of which a small but very realistic dragon emerged and whizzed over the heads of the crowd. Though Fatty’s mind told him that a real dragon would be much bigger, he ducked with the rest when the dragon flew over, turned a somersault, and burst over Bywater with a deafening explosion.

‘That is the signal for supper!’ Bilbo said, and Fatty cheered with the rest. He sat by Merry, with Pippin between them. Lovely crackers graced each plate. The guests sat down, crossed arms, and took hold of the crackers between them, and as everyone chanted together, “One! Two! Three!” they pulled. With a pop, the crackers opened. The guests examined the contents, many of which were small musical instruments, of perfect make and enchanting tones, marked “Dale”. There was a murmur of pleasure, but more important matters took precedence (food). The guests put on their colourful paper crowns and settled down to the feast. What a feast it was! Fatty ate more in one sitting, if possible, than he had the whole day up to that point. He was practically in a daze, but still sipping at a sweet beverage of mixed juices and nibbling at dainties when Bilbo stepped up to give his speech.

It started out conventionally enough, all obvious stuff, and Fatty applauded with the rest, shouting when he thought it appropriate. Pippin had fallen asleep with his head on the table partway through the feast, and now he blinked, sleepy-eyed, as his relatives shouted, ‘Hear! Hear! Hear!’ at the commencement of the Speech. Merry put a reassuring hand on Pippin’s shoulder, and he stretched and snuggled close, watching with wondering eyes as the Speech progressed.

Finally, Bilbo said, I am eleventy-one today!

‘Hurray!’ Merry shouted, and Pippin added his young voice. ‘Hurray!’ They both waved their serviettes in celebration.

‘Many happy returns!’ Fatty shouted, not to be outdone.

I hope you are all enjoying yourselves as much as I am. Fatty, Merry, and Pippin joined in the deafening cheer. Pippin seemed thoroughly awake, now, and ready for mischief. He picked up the flute from his cracker and blew an ear-piercing trill, while Merry picked up his horn and practically blasted Fatty’s ears out.

Some young Brandybucks and Tooks, off in one of the corners, supposed Bilbo to be finished. After all, he had plainly said all that needed to be said. They struck up a merry dance tune, and one dashing young Took began to dance the Springle-ring upon a table-top with a pretty young Brandybuck.

Bilbo deftly seized Merry’s horn and blew three loud hoots. The noise subsided. Fatty wasn’t really paying attention, now, for he was feeling rather sleepy himself, and for the first time in his life he was perfectly sated and satisfied, though he nibbled at a biscuit out of habit. He paid Bilbo no mind until the old hobbit shouted ANNOUNCEMENT, and then, really, he was more annoyed than anything else, for he was drifting happily on a dream of loaded platters and never-empty plates.

Fatty became slightly more alert when Bilbo shouted, END, and he was nearly paying attention as the Speech came to its conclusion. I am going. I am leaving NOW. GOOD-BYE!

Bilbo stepped down and vanished. There was a blinding flash of light, and Fatty blinked. When he opened his eyes, Bilbo was nowhere to be seen. There was a deep silence, lasting several breaths, and then every hobbit in the place was trying to talk at once.

‘What in the world?’ Fatty breathed, fully awake.

‘I think I know,’ Merry said.

‘What, then?’ Fatty insisted, while Pippin pulled at Merry’s arm demanding not to be left out.

‘Tell you later,’ Merry said, and they could not get him to say any more for the nonce.

***

‘Something’s happening,’ Robin said nervously. He was watching from inside the cave mouth. The rebels had been able to hold off the ruffians with well-aimed stones, of which there was no dearth in the cave, and a few well-placed arrows, though obviously they were much more careful with these. The cave did not provide more arrows, of course, and they did not want to run short.

His older cousin squeezed his shoulder. ‘Keep watch,’ Budgie said firmly. ‘I’ll let Mr Freddy know.’

Before he got halfway to where the entrance opened into the main room, there was no need to inform Fredegar. Smouldering bundles were tossed into the cave entrance, letting off rank smoke. The choking hobbits at first tried to run forward, to grab the bundles and toss them back, but arrows fired into the cave drove them away from the entrance, and they retreated towards the back door, only to encounter more smoke.

Fredegar, thinking quickly, soaked a handkerchief in a bucket and covered his mouth, shouting orders to the others to do the same. He couldn’t do anything about the stinging of his eyes from the acrid smoke, however, and even through the wet handkerchief, breathing was difficult.

‘What are we going to do?’ Rocky shouted.

‘I’m open to suggestions,’ Freddy returned, and then went into a coughing fit. The rest were coughing as well, strangling on the smoke.

‘D’you want to die sooner, or later?’ Old Oakleaf choked. ‘Iffen we stay in here, it’ll be sooner, is my way of thinking!’

 He was right. Though it was difficult to admit defeat, Freddy raised his voice. ‘Everybody out!’ he shouted. ‘Out right now!’ Coughing, choking, blind and gasping, the hobbits stumbled from the cave.

Chapter 3. “I Think I Could Help You”

The rebel leader stood surrounded by his hobbits, all doubled over, gasping in air. A ring of tall ruffians loosely encircled the rebels, but it didn't appear that the little rats would be trying to slip away. It was taking all they had just to draw breath. The Men would give them just enough time to catch their breath before putting a noose around the leader's neck to take his breath away again.

‘All right, you rats,’ the ruffian chief called when the coughing and gasping had died down and the rats began to lift their heads, to gaze at the giants surrounding them, expressions ranging from defiance to despair. ‘Which one’s your leader?’

Freddy straightened with difficulty, saying, ‘I—‘ but Old Oakleaf, going into a violent coughing spasm, grabbed wildly for support and pulled Freddy off balance, so that both sprawled on the ground.

‘Got no leader,’ Budgie choked.

‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ the chief snapped. ‘Your leader is one Fredegar Bolger, also known as “Fatty”, and I want him—now!’

‘He’s dead,’ Stonecrop said, wiping tears from his eyes. Of course, the tears came from the smoke, but he managed a convincing break in his voice.

‘Dead? What do you mean, rat?’ the chief said.

‘That raid, last month, the one where you ruffians nearly caught us,’ Budgie said. ‘He took an arrow and died.’ It had been difficult to leave Jay behind, to gasp out his life in the company of ruffians, but they'd had no choice. As Budgie tried to lift him, his brother had pushed him away, saying, 'Go! I'm done for!' Healer's sons, they'd both known the truth. Budgie had helped Old Oakleaf take up Mr Freddy, and they'd run for their lives. As it was, the ruffians' trap had nearly netted the entire band; they'd got away by the skin of their teeth, and several hobbits had been borne away with wounds.

‘There was a hobbit shot and left for dead,’ Bent remembered, rubbing his chin. ‘We never did get a name out of him, he died before we could get him to answer any questions.’

‘He wasn’t fat!’ the chief said irritably.

‘None of these is fat,’ Bent said reasonably.

Old Oakleaf saw him looking closely at Fredegar, and quickly broke in. ‘Hobbits has been on short commons these past months, with your thieving Boss stealing all the food.’

‘Gathering,’ the chief said. ‘Get it right, old gaffer.’

Oakleaf pretended to quail. They’d heard of hobbits being beaten as they were hauled off to the Lockholes, and his bones were old. ‘Gathering,’ he conceded. ‘Fatty wasn’t fat anymore, when he met his end.’

‘So who took over from him, as your leader?’ the chief pressed. The hobbits looked at one another, and several shrugged.

‘Ain’t got no leader,’ Robin said bravely.

‘Yeah, why else d’you think we were stupid enough to let ourselves get caught?’ Rocky snarled.

‘He has a point,’ Jock said. ‘So what do we do, hang all of them? Or just pick one out?’

Again Fredegar tried to speak. ‘I—‘ he said, climbing to his feet despite Oakleaf's restraining hand, though the old hobbit disguised the matter, as if he were pulling at the younger hobbit in an ineffectual effort to get up.

Bent broke in. ‘You start hanging common hobbits, you’ll have a riot in Bywater for sure,’ he warned. ‘They don’t like the hangings, for certain, but the little folk live by some sort of order, and they can understand punishing the leaders. If you start hanging ordinary rats, you’ll scare them too much!’

The Man was helping them for some reason, Old Oakleaf realised. They might survive this yet, if they kept their wits.

‘Please, sirs,’ he quavered, cowering on the ground, drawing their attention away from young Master Fredegar. ‘Have pity on an old hobbit!’

Jock nodded slowly. ‘They’ll fear for their own lives and rise up, and Sharkey will take a dim view,’ he said. ‘And don’t you know who he’ll blame for it?’

‘But they conspired against the Boss!’ the chief said.

‘So throw them in the Lockholes,’ Bent said. ‘Pretty hard to maintain any kind of conspiracy there.’

***

‘Merry!’ Fatty said sharply. ‘That’s the third time I’ve spoken! What’s the matter with you?’

Merry came back to himself with a start. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he said, pulling in his fishing line and re-baiting the hook. Fish had nibbled away the worm as he’d sat deep in thought.

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Fatty mocked. ‘You’ve been someplace else this entire day, and I want to know where! I don’t even know why I teased Father to have you come to Budge Hall for a visit. The only one you talk to is Pippin, anyhow.’

‘Pip knows how to listen,’ Merry said absently.

‘Does he?’ Fatty said sarcastically. ‘And I suppose these things on either side of my head are there just for show.’

Merry awoke to the fact that his cousin was upset. ‘I’m sorry, Fatty,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking.’

‘Silver penny for your thoughts,’ Fatty said after a pause.

‘I’m afraid they’re not even worth a copper,’ Merry said.

‘It’s about Frodo, isn’t it?’ Fatty prompted.

Merry started. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

Fatty laughed. ‘I’ve eyes, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘I’ve seen how restless he is since Bilbo went away, and it’s worse every year.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Merry said.

‘What’s the matter?’ Fatty asked. ‘D’you think he’ll be off to find Bilbo without a word to anyone?’

‘Yes,’ Merry said frankly. ‘That’s exactly what I think. There’s something else, but I don’t know what it is. Even Pippin hasn’t been able to find out anything, and you know what a snoop he can be when he decides to stick that long nose of his into someone else’s business.’

‘I know,’ Fatty said wryly, and Merry smiled in spite of himself, for Pippin had told him a few things about Fatty one time, and Merry had chided him for gossiping.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Merry said at last. ‘I can’t be there watching him all the time, and even if you watched him part of the time, and Folco took a turn, and Pippin stuck to him like a cockleburr on a pony’s tail, we cannot be at Bag End all the time!’

‘I know someone who’s on the spot,’ Fatty said after a moment of consideration.

‘Who?’ Merry asked. He looked over at Pippin, who seemed to be asleep, his hat over his eyes, his fishing pole propped in a “V” formed by a tree branch growing up from a sapling near the stream.

‘That gardener fellow, the one that’s always around Bag End,’ Fatty said.

‘The Gaffer?’ Merry said sceptically.

‘No, his son, what’s-his-name, Ham, Fam, Bam—‘

‘Sam,’ said Pippin from under his hat. ‘Short for Samwise.’

‘Is he some sort of half-wit?’ Fatty asked. ‘Why would he have a name like that?’

‘Ask the Gaffer,’ Pippin said practically. ‘I wouldn’t know. But I will tell you this, he’s got more than half a wit.’

‘You’ve spent time talking with him?’ Merry said sternly.

‘Why not?’ Pippin answered. ‘He always answers my questions.’ He pushed his hat back from his eyes and gave his cousins a cool look. ‘That’s more than I can say about some people.’

‘He’s not of your class, Pip,’ Merry said.

‘You’re such a prig, Merry,’ Pippin said irritatingly.

‘No I’m not!’ Merry said angrily. ‘You’ll get him in trouble, Pip. The Gaffer’s not above taking a strap to his son if he thinks Sam’s put his foot wrong.’

‘Steady, Mer,’ Fatty said soothingly, but Merry shook off his arm.

‘I cannot abide beatings,’ he snapped, ‘especially unjust ones.’

‘Sam’s a bit old for the Gaffer to be taking him over his knee,’ Fatty said.

‘There’s things worse than a strap,’ Merry said grimly. ‘The Gaffer also knows how to tear strips off his sons with the rough side of his tongue. Why do you suppose the older ones moved away, anyhow?’

‘Steady, Merry,’ Fatty said. ‘You’re no knight, riding out on errantry, so you might as well not try to redress all the wrongs in the world.’ Merry was silent, and Fatty waited until his younger cousin had taken a few deep breaths before continuing. ‘Still, Samwise is on the spot, and he sees and hears more than he lets on, I warrant. If you can get a talk with him, next time you’re at Bag End, I think you might find him willing to aid us. Frodo helped him out of a difficulty, once, and he worships the ground our illustrious cousin walks upon.’

‘How do you know?’ Merry said.

Fatty smiled. ‘I’ve eyes,’ he said once more.

‘What difficulty?’ Pippin asked.

‘Never you mind, young’un,’ Fatty said blandly. ‘It wasn’t any trouble worth gossiping about. You just listen to the Gaffer talk to his son sometime, you’ll see what’s-his-name—Sam? —has plenty of troubles. Frodo helped him out once, when old Bilbo nearly discharged him for something that wasn’t his fault.’ *

‘Nearly discharged him?’ Pippin said, pressing for more details, his eyes bright with interest.

‘Never you mind,’ Fatty said firmly. ‘I’ve said all I’m going to say on the matter.’ And they got nothing more out of him on the topic of Samwise Gamgee.

***

‘All right, then,’ the ruffian chief said at last. ‘We’ll march the whole band to the Lockholes. By the time they’re through, they’ll likely wish they’d met a quick, clean death at the end of a rope.’

Freddy exchanged glances with Old Oakleaf. He didn’t like the sound of that.

***

* For details, see Jodancingtree's story "The Shaping of Samwise"

Chapter 4. “Shall I Ever Look Down Into that Valley Again, I Wonder?”

The rebel leader marched along with his hobbits, leaning heavily upon the old gaffer as his half-healed leg threatened not to bear him much farther. It was a long march from the Brockenbores to the Great East-West Road. The ruffian chief was taking them through the heart of Bridgefields, towards the little community of Budgeford next to the Ford from which it drew its name. He figured that most of these rebels came from hereabouts, and it would be a nice shock to their families to see them stumbling off to the Lockholes in misery and degradation.

‘Keep your head down,’ Old Oakleaf whispered into Freddy’s ear.

‘No hobbit would give me away should he know me,’ Freddy protested under his breath.

‘None would betray a hobbit to his death, not a-purpose, mind, but some might speak without thinking and rue the consequences afterwards,’ Oakleaf maintained. Freddy nodded.

‘Hey, there! No talk in the ranks!’ a ruffian shouted, prodding Freddy in the ribs with his club. Freddy fell, and the ruffians laughed.

‘He can walk along by himself,’ the ruffian chief said when Old Oakleaf and Stonecrop would have helped Freddy to his feet. The club nudged Freddy again, not gently.

Freddy managed to gain his feet, though he’d left his walking-stick in the cave. He had also taken a ruffian’s arrow in that ill-fated raid the previous month, through the calf of his leg, and walking was difficult. He staggered a few steps while the ruffians watched and shouted mocking encouragement.

They were approaching Budge Ford, and there wasn’t much chance of hiding his face; keeping his balance was hard enough as it was. However, the ruffian chief’s impatience saved him; the Man growled, ‘It’ll take a week to get to the Lockholes at this rate.’

‘Two, more likely,’ Bent said helpfully.

‘All right,’ the ruffian chief grumbled reluctantly. ‘Help him along.’ Old Oakleaf and Stonecrop sprang to Freddy’s sides, taking his arms upon their shoulders.

Freddy waited until the ruffians were distracted, then whispered to Oakleaf, ‘Someone’s got to warn my parents. When Lotho gets word that our band’s been taken...’ he’d seize Odovacar’s property, and his person, most likely, and throw Freddy’s father into the infamous Lockholes, but Freddy didn’t have time to finish the thought before the ruffians were once more attending them.

Old Oakleaf nodded, winked his near eye, and said under his breath, ‘Grace go with you, young master.’ Suddenly, he let go of Freddy, clutched his chest and fell to his knees. The ruffian following behind them stumbled over him in the road, and both of them went sprawling.

‘You’ll get a beating for that,’ the ruffian said, coming up raging, club lifted, but Oakleaf lay crumpled, unmoving, in the cold mud left from the previous day’s rain.

‘Uncle!’ Stonecrop gasped, releasing Freddy to drop to his knees beside the still figure. ‘Uncle!’ he sobbed convincingly, though he was no more related to Oakleaf than to Freddy. He raised a tear-streaked face to the ruffians. ‘It’s his heart,’ he gulped. ‘It were giving him a bit of trouble before, but now—‘

‘Seems as if it’s given him more than a bit of trouble,’ the rebel chief said, nudging the old hobbit’s body with his toe. ‘Leave him lie. Rats can bury him, or dogs can have him for their dinner.’ Stray dogs were all too common in the Shire these days, wandering hungry, their masters taken away to the Lockholes. ‘Come along, you rats, and look lively!’

Rocky stepped up to support Freddy’s other side as Stony rose from the gaffer’s body, whispering a tearful farewell. They shouldered Freddy again, and commenced their painful progress.

Just before coming into the little community by Budge Ford, the road passed through a low-lying spot, still muddy, though the day was warming rapidly. Odovacar Bolger, in another time, would have had several waggonloads of gravel from the Quarry spread there, but roads were sadly neglected of late, and the hobbits slogged through mud to their ankles while the ruffians walked on firmer ground next to the road and jeered.

Freddy stumbled, pitching headlong into the mud, taking Rocky and Stony down with him. As they came up covered in mud, their faces mud-smeared, the ruffians jeered at the “dirty little rats.”

Stony sneaked a look at Freddy as he took his arm again, and nodded in satisfaction. Rosamunda Bolger herself would find it difficult to distinguish her son from the common hobbits to his right and left.

Sober-faced hobbits peeped from their windows, then came slowly out of their doorways to watch the sorrowful procession, old gaffers removing their hats, hobbit mums and lasses weeping into their aprons. ‘This here’s Fatty Bolger’s band!’ the ruffian chief announced cheerily. ‘The Bulge himself is dead, sad to say, but we’ll make do with this ragtag bunch. Got plenty of little rooms in the Lockholes yet, anybody want to join the parade?’

‘Bless you, lads,’ an old gammer whispered in defiance of the ruffians, and a hobbit mum balancing a dirty-faced child on each hip raised a song, soon joined by many of the watchers. The ruffians glared, but they couldn’t very well arrest the whole town of Budgeford, now, could they? Heartened by the small gesture, the rebels lifted their heads and marched on, even the muddy threesome in the centre of the group.

They went as far as Whitfurrows that day, staying the night in the Shirriff house, welcoming the poor fare as if it were a feast, which it was to them, poor fellows. Freddy’s rebels maneuvered him into a dark corner and then settled themselves all around him, keeping any inquisitive Shirriffs from too close a look.

They were up early the next morning, for the ruffian chief wanted to make Bywater by teatime that day, it being a market day when the most hobbits would be about despite the lack of offerings in the market square. After feeding the prisoners some watery gruel, while the ruffians themselves feasted on savoury-smelling bacon and eggs, they started off, reaching Frogmorton around the time elevenses would have been, had there been anything proper to eat for elevenses. Here the prisoners were treated to stale bread and mouldy cheese. They picked the mould off as best they could, paying no mind to the ruffians’ jeers. ‘You’ll eat it, mould and all, ‘fore we’re through with you!’ Jock shouted cheerily.

Bent went to the town well and pulled up a bucketful of water. After the ruffians quenched their thirst, he passed the bucket with its dregs down the line of prisoners. There was perhaps a mouthful for each, but the hobbits were grateful, for the weather was warming again, that dry, hot spell that often comes after a summer rain, and their mouths were parched.

Silent hobbits watched as the ruffians prodded their prisoners to their feet. ‘No singing now,’ the ruffian chief snarled, brandishing his whip threateningly. ‘I’ll beat this little one, give you a nice show, I will,’ he said, aiming a blow at Robin Smallfoot, ‘if any one of you lets out a peep.’ The hobbits of Frogmorton took his threat seriously, and watched in silence as the group marched away.

***

Rosie Cotton was in Bywater for market day, escorted by her oldest brother Tom. She’d argued with her father over it; he preferred to keep his wife and daughter at home on the farm, out of the casual view of any ruffians. Unexpectedly, Mrs Cotton had sided with her daughter.

‘Old Hamfast Gamgee could use a basket of food, I’m thinking,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t been around in a week, and I’m sure they’ve used up the last of the food you brought them, Tolman.’

‘All right,’ Farmer Cotton agreed reluctantly. ‘But you’ve no call to look so pretty, Rose, it’s just asking for trouble.’

‘I’ll take care of that,’ Mrs. Cotton said, taking her daughter in hand. By the time they came out, Rose was in a shapeless dress, colourless from too many washings, soot streaked her face, one tooth was blacked somehow to make it look as if she’d lost it, and her hair was a tangled mess under a dirty kerchief. Farmer Cotton hardly knew his daughter. ‘You look a sight,’ he said approvingly.

She took up the heavy basket, filled with cold chicken, jars of jelly and pickles, a few potatoes and wrinkled apples hoarded from the previous year's harvest in the bottom, the whole covered with a clean cloth. There were scraps of dirty rags atop all, as if she were bringing a basketful of rags to the rug-maker for a copper ha'penny or two.

‘I’ll take that,’ Tom said, ‘at least until we get close to town.’ She gratefully surrendered the basket to him. It was easier for him to carry it along, making it look as if it held nothing any heavier than rags, but she was a good, strong girl and would manage it the rest of the way when need be. They walked down the lane, for driving a waggon these days drew attention, and the ruffians were as likely as not to seize the ponies for work in the mines.

‘I’m glad we left early,’ Rose said, wiping her forehead, but careful not to wipe away the soot. ‘It looks to be a scorcher this day.’

‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘We’ll get this basket to the Gamgees before elevenses; you can have a nice little chat with Marigold before you leave, and then we’ll stop by the market on the way home, see if we can pick up any news.’

‘News is about all we’ll pick up,’ she said. ‘We’ve more on the farm than they have in all the market stalls, put together.’

‘Don’t go saying that too loud,’ her brother warned. Obligingly, she shut her mouth and said no more until they were safely inside the Gamgee’s ramshackle new house, one of those built by the ruffians to house those displaced when Bagshot Row was dug up.

Rose and Marigold had a nice chat over cups of what they called “tea”, though it was really only a few weeds picked from the roadside and steeped in boiling water. The Gaffer was gruffly thankful for the basket of foodstuffs. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you,’ he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. ‘I hope you find a good husband some day, Rosie, as good as my Sam would have been.’

Rose thanked him with a tear of her own. She’d been confident since Spring that Sam would be returning to her soon, but no one believed her, and she’d learned to keep her hopes to herself. She wondered, not for the first time, what was keeping her Sam this long? Here it was, Summer already, and no sign of him!

All too soon, it was time to go. Marigold added a generous double handful of dirty rags to the basket, to take up the space where the food had been, and Rose and Tom Cotton took their leave, reaching the market square just after teatime.

Rose was right, there was nothing on offer worth the copper she received for her rags, though she and Tom went from stall to stall exchanging greetings. Market day was about the only time hobbits could gather to talk, anymore, and some wondered just how long it would be before the ruffians closed down the market the way they had the inns.

Rose was just talking to the weaver’s wife when a shout arrested their attention. The weaver hurried up to them, not long after, out of breath. ‘They’re marching prisoners off to the Lockholes,’ he said grimly. ‘At least a score of them.’ He eyed Rose. ‘You’d better take yourself off home, missie,’ he said. ‘There’s sights not fit for seeing.’

‘I’ll go find Tom,’ she said obediently, but instead of seeking out her brother, she went towards the Avenue, once lined by graceful trees. Only one tree stood there now, left for some reason when the ruffians cut the others down, though she’d never heard why. It was one of the things that her father and Tom whispered about in the depths of middle night, when the rest of the Cottons were abed.

With the rest of the hobbits that gathered there, as if against their will, she watched the dusty prisoners marching slowly up the road, goaded by grinning ruffians. One ruffian jogged ahead, a rope over his shoulder. He quickly formed a noose and threw it over the lowest branch which was above hobbit-head height. Rose gasped as she realised its meaning. This was a band of rebels. She’d heard that the leader of each band brought in lately had been executed, but not how. Suddenly, overheard whispers came together in her head to make a perfect, and awful, whole.

The ruffians stopped the parade before they’d reached the hanging tree, waiting for the good citizens of Bywater to gather. The prisoners were panting, their heads hanging, leaning upon each other for support. One was a little taller than the others, Rose saw; he must be the leader, then, for he was obviously from one of the great families, taller and fairer (though under his coating of dried mud, this was hard to distinguish) than a common hobbit.

Moved by an impulse she did not understand, Rose whirled and ran to the trough by the side of the road, there for farmers to water their beasts on the way to market. Picking up a bucket, she filled it from the trough. Carrying her basket in one hand and the bucket in the other, she hurried back to the group of ruffians and prisoners as quickly as she could bear her heavy load.

Picking out their chief, she bobbed a courtesy and gasped, ‘If you please, sir, I’ve brought water, it’s that hot today.’

As he stared at her, bemused, she fished a tin cup from her basket and dipped it in the bucket, holding it up to him.

A sardonic smile crossed his lips, and he bowed to her. ‘My thanks, little missus,’ he said, taking in the gap-toothed mouth and tangled hair. Hardly a looker, this one, and not worth a second glance. His hand dwarfed the hobbit cup, and it took three cupfuls to satisfy him, but finally he handed the cup back to her with another bow.

‘Would your men care for some water?’ she asked boldly.

‘Have at it,’ he answered, and she took the bucket and cup to each ruffian in turn, finally returning to the leader.

‘My thanks, little missus,’ he said once more, reaching into his pocket for a copper.

She shook her head, then dropped her eyes.

‘You won’t take payment?’ he said, undecided whether to be amused or offended.

‘If you please, sir,’ she said, her eyes still on the ground.

‘What payment would you like,’ he said, ‘a kiss, perhaps?’ The ruffians shouted with laughter at this. Tom Cotton had come up in the midst of this, but dared not interfere. He stood with the rest of the crowd, watching, his hands clenching into fists and his heart in his throat, cursing his helplessness.

‘If you please, sir,’ Rose said again, after shaking her head to deny the offer of a kiss.

‘What would you like for payment?’ the ruffian chief repeated jovially.

‘May I give the prisoners some water?’ she asked, raising her eyes to meet his.

He started to refuse, but something about the tears in her eyes stopped him. Dratted women, little or otherwise, he fretted. Always using tears to get their way! And you give it to them, every time, he chided himself. ‘All right,’ he said aloud. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm.’

‘Thankee, sir,’ she said breathlessly, with another bob, then took the bucket around to each dusty, dirty, exhausted hobbit in the group. She ended with their leader, blessing the fact that there was still water in the bucket for him. At least he will not hang with a dry mouth, she thought sadly.

‘My thanks,’ he murmured, and as his hands met hers on the cup, she suffered a shock of remembrance...

***

‘A whole waggonload of apples!’ Rose said breathlessly to her father. ‘How rich we shall be!’

‘Perhaps, Rosie-lass,’ he answered dryly. ‘But only if they all sell at market this day.’

‘O but they will sell, Father, they will!’ Rose affirmed. ‘And then perhaps I can have a new ribbon for my hair?’

‘I dunno, Rosie,’ her father said, looking fondly at his only daughter with a sigh. ‘There’s the new roof to put on, you know, before the fall rains come, and...’

‘I beg your pardon,’ a well-bred voice broke in. A gentlehobbit had come up to their waggon and was fingering the apples. ‘Nice, plump,’ he said, ‘and juicy, I’d warrant.’

He was nice and plump himself, Rose thought to herself, then blushed for the thought. She was growing old enough to notice well-favoured hobbits. Soon she’d be old enough to start walking out, and though a gentlehobbit was beyond her, she could still appreciate the looks of one, couldn’t she?

Now he turned to Farmer Cotton, with a polite nod. ‘How much for an apple?’ he asked.

‘Two for a penny,’ the farmer answered. ‘Or a ha’penny each.’

‘I’ll take two,’ the gentlehobbit answered, his eyes twinkling at Rose, ‘if your daughter will select them for me. I’m sure she knows which apples have the most flavour in them.’

Farmer Cotton’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t dare offend such a well-dressed hobbit, who might complain to the Shirriff and have him ejected from the marketplace, so he simply said, ‘Rosie, pick out two good apples for the gentlehobbit.’

‘Fredegar Bolger, at your service,’ the hobbit said with a sweeping bow, graceful for all his bulk. Rose picked out a fat red apple and shined it with her apron, holding it out to him, eyes cast down, and as he took it, she turned to reach for another. She heard the crunch of his first bite, and the sigh of satisfaction.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I do believe your apples excel even the ones we grow in Eastfarthing.’

‘My thanks,’ the farmer said dryly. He had not given his name in return, nor the proper response to the greeting, both of which omissions did not escape the gentlehobbit. He did not take offence, however, simply smiled as he watched Rose pick up one apple, discard it, and yet another.

‘That’s right, lass,’ he said jovially. ‘Take your time. I only eat the very best.’

It must cost an awful lot to feed you, then, she thought to herself, and as if he caught the thought from her glance, he laughed aloud.

‘I like a saucy apple,’ he said, while Farmer Cotton quietly steamed.

‘Here you are,’ Rose said, extending the apple, meeting his eye this time. Their hands touched, and she felt a shock...

...of recognition, for though she’d never touched the hand of a gentlehobbit before, she’d noticed them. Mr Bilbo, for example, had had long, slender fingers, with inkstains on the right index finger from much writing. Mr Frodo’s fingers were of the same sort, and she’d noticed the same of master Meriadoc and master Peregrin when they’d been at Bag End, one day that she’d been sent with a basketful of jellies for Mr Frodo.

‘Hurry up there!’ the harsh voice of the ruffian chief broke into her thoughts. ‘We’ve a hanging to finish here.’

They were the same slim fingers, she realised, and looking up she saw that the face that had been round then was thin, the merry eyes sober, though they retained their keenness. He took the cup from her now and gulped the contents thirstily. Quickly, before the ruffian chief could order her away, she scooped up another cupful and thrust it into his hands. He must not go thirsty to his death, she thought desperately as he drained the cup.

‘That’s enough,’ the ruffian chief said, seizing her arm and pulling her away. Her backwards glance showed her Fredegar Bolger’s grateful nod, and then Tom had her by the arm.

‘What’re you about?’ he hissed into her ear. ‘I’m taking you home; you mustn’t see this.’

‘No!’ she said, pulling free. ‘If you take my arm again I’ll scream and make a scene,’ she warned.

That was the last thing he wanted, more attention from the ruffians, so he desisted. ‘Just you wait until we get home,’ he said under his breath. ‘I’ll tell Dad...’

‘You go right ahead,’ she hissed back, then was shushed by another hobbit in the crowd.

‘Good citizens of Bywater,’ the ruffian chief was shouting. ‘You see before you the band of rebels led by one Fredegar Bolger, late of Budgeford in Bridgefields. As you can see, there is no point in resisting the benevolent rule of the Boss. Those who do resist shall be put down, swiftly, and unpleasantly.’ The other ruffians laughed.

‘As you know,’ the ruffian chief continued, ‘we hold you little folk no ill will, but we must punish those who have the temerity to lead others astray. Therefore, regrettably, we must hang the leader of any band brought to justice.’

The watching hobbits stiffened, but could not turn away, waiting in fascinated horror for what was about to unfold.

Freddy’s band crowded closer together, putting him in their midst, for all the good it would do. Somehow the ruffians had discovered their lie.

The ruffian chief nodded to two of his fellows. ‘Go fetch him,’ he said, but to the astonishment of the hobbits, he waved to a scarecrow in the field beyond. They waited in silence to see what kind of trick this was.

The ruffians came puffing up, bearing the scarecrow between them. ‘Lay him down,’ the ruffian chief said. He fished an arrow from his quiver and jammed it into the scarecrow’s breast. ‘All right, now,’ he said. ‘Hang him!’

The hobbits gasped, not sure what they’d see next, still anticipating a trick, expecting the ruffians to lay hands on the tallest of the rebels, an aristocrat to any hobbit eye, but no, instead they put the noose around the scarecrow’s neck and hoisted the thing into the air.

‘You see before you one Fredegar Bolger!’ the ruffian chief announced. ‘It seems he was killed by an arrow last month, so we do not have him handy for hanging. This effigy,’ and he sent the scarecrow swinging with a nudge, ‘will have to hang in his place, a reminder of what happens to rebels!’ He glared at the surrounding crowd of hobbits. Hobbit mums and lasses broke down in reaction, weeping on the shoulders of their husbands, or fathers, or brothers, or sons.

‘Leave him hanging there for a day,’ the ruffian chief instructed the watching Shirriffs, ‘as a warning. Then cut him down and throw him in a ditch, or whatever you like.’

Tom nodded grimly to himself, his arm about the sobbing Rose. There’d be more than a scarecrow cut down this night, if he and his father had their way. By tomorrow morning, the last tree on the Avenue would be lying in the dust, and no more hobbit hangings would take place on the Bywater Road. This he swore to himself, a solemn oath. Ruffians weren’t the only ones who could fell a tree.

Chapter 5. “Courage is Found in Unlikely Places”

The rebel leader and his band stumbled into Waymeet sometime after middle night. The march from Bywater had been slow, weak as they were from hunger, thirst, and marching in the heat of the day. Some were reeling, heads pounding, near to dropping from the exhaustion resulting from the earlier heat, but their fellows, fearing the beating that might result, dragged them along.

They came to the trough in the town square, filled fresh each morning and at need until the waning of the day meant no more thirsty animals passing by. The ruffian chief held back his Men, watching tolerantly as the hobbits fell to their knees around the trough, scooping up stale water, with its bits of hay and other debris floating atop, from the few inches left in the bottom.

Finally, he said in a bored tone, ‘That’s enough.’ The ruffians prodded the hobbits away from the trough with clubs and the butts of whips, forming them to march again to the Shirriff house. Pounding on the door, the ruffian chief shouted, ‘Open in the name of the Boss! We’ve got prisoners here to house, and hungry guards to feed!’

The door was opened by a weary Shirriff, obviously awakened from sleep, and the ruffians shoved the hobbits inside, telling them to sit down in the corner of the room. ‘You’re too late for supper,’ the chief told them nastily. ‘Too bad you couldn’t march a bit faster.’

Turning to the Shirriff, he said, ‘We’ll be wanting bread and cheese, freshest you got. If the bread’s stale, you’ll lose your feather, and maybe more.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the Shirriff stammered. With a regretful look at the prisoners, he hurried off to the storeroom where the ruffians’ rations were stocked.

The ruffians fell to hungrily, with a great smacking of lips, loud remarks on the quality of the food, sighs of satisfaction, and calls for more. Their prisoners sat silent in their shadowy corner, huddled together for comfort. Freddy noticed Robin weeping silently, and reached out to squeeze his hand. When the tween looked at him, shamefaced in the dim lantern light, he smiled and nodded encouragement. Robin wiped his eyes on his sleeve and tried to sit a little straighter.

‘This apple’s wormy!’ one of the ruffians erupted with a curse. He threw the offensive apple at the prisoners, half expecting them to fight over the prize, but they sat without apparent reaction (though the apple disappeared quickly from sight under someone’s leg). He grunted, dissatisfied. The little rats must be too drained to provide any entertainment.

After eating to repletion, the ruffians rolled out their blankets on the floor, all but the two that would take the first watch, and began to snore.

The hobbit prisoners sat silent a long while, and then the apple slowly began to pass from hand to hand. There was perhaps a nibble for each, maybe as much as a bite, large, glossy apple that it was, of the kind that had filled Farmer Cotton’s waggon on a long-ago market day.

***

‘Good apple,’ Fredegar Bolger said, continuing to enjoy his purchase. He could tell that the farmer wished to speed him away from his pretty daughter, and he took a perverse pleasure in standing there, savouring each leisurely bite. When he’d finished the first apple, he tossed the core towards the farmer’s ponies and laughed to see one of the beasts stretch his neck to seize the treat from the dusty ground.

With a wink at Rose, Fatty fished the second apple out of his pocket and nibbled delicately at the skin. Farmer Cotton glared, but the gentlehobbit looked up at the sky and remarked on the fineness of the weather. The farmer maintained a stony silence.

Finishing the second apple, after he’d drawn out the eating as long as possible, Fatty fished out a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and delicately wiped his fingers. Gentlehobbits, after all, possess manners, and do nothing so indelicate as licking one’s fingers after eating.

‘How much?’ he said.

‘Eh? What’s that?’ Farmer Cotton said, blinking.

‘For the waggon?’ Fatty said, with an expressive gesture.

‘I don’t take your meaning, young sir,’ Farmer Cotton replied.

‘I’ll take the whole waggonload of apples,’ Fatty said with a grin. ‘Wonderfully fine they are, sweet—‘ his eye caressed Rose’s blushing cheek, ‘and ever so juicy.’

What Farmer Cotton really wanted was to flatten the impertinent tween, but that would be an imprudent move, since the Shirriff had just walked up and was buying an apple from Rose.

Farmer Cotton named an impossible figure, at least four times what the apples were worth. Without batting an eye, Fatty took his purse from his pocket and paid the farmer. ‘Just the apples, mind,’ he said, ‘and a bargain at that price! You can have the waggon back after you deliver the contents.’

‘And where shall I deliver them?’ Farmer Cotton said. ‘Cartage is extra.’ He remembered that the Bolgers lived in Eastfarthing, nearly to the Brandywine Bridge.

‘Not far,’ Fatty said thoughtfully. ‘Only as far as Bag End, you can take them there, can’t you? Up the Hill from Hobbiton.’

‘I know where Bag End is,’ Farmer Cotton said through his teeth.

‘Very well, old fellow,’ Fatty said lazily. ‘Here’s a little extra for your trouble,’ and he dropped a golden sovereign into Farmer Cotton’s hand, enough to pay for the repairs needed for the farmhouse roof, and then some. ‘O, and buy a new hair ribbon for the lass, or ten of them,’ he said generously, adding a handful of silver. ‘There’s a good hobbit.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Farmer Cotton gritted.

Fatty turned to walk away, but then looked over his shoulder to say, ‘O yes, I nearly forgot. The apples are for one Meriadoc Brandybuck, who is staying with his cousin Frodo Baggins at the moment. He’s extraordinarily fond of apples, you know.’

Leaving the open-mouthed farmer and daughter behind, he chuckled as he walked away, swinging the heavy walking stick that went everywhere that he did. He wished he could see Merry’s face when the apples were delivered.

***

When the apple finally came to Freddy, he hefted the remnant thoughtfully for a moment, then passed it on to Robin. ‘You take my portion,’ he said in a tone too low for the drowsy guards to hear.

‘I couldn’t!’ Robin whispered, trying to push Freddy’s hand away.

‘No, really, lad,’ Freddy insisted, placing the bit of apple in the tween’s hand and closing Robin’s fingers about it. ‘You finish it off,’ he said kindly. ‘I couldn’t eat a bite, really I couldn’t.’

Robin hesitated, but Budgie hissed at him to obey, and so he took that last bite that was left, and proceeded to eat the core, worm and all, more than likely, in the darkness.

Chapter 6. “I Wish I Could See Cool Sunlight and Green Grass Again!”

The rebel leader’s leg ached abominably as he trudged along. It had taken them nearly two days to walk the distance from Waymeet to Michel Delving, more of a shamble than a walk, actually, he thought to himself.

They’d stopped halfway between Waymeet and Michel Delving where a road ran southwards from the Great Road, towards Hardbottle in South Farthing. There was a small cluster of dilapidated buildings there, a few farmers’ houses and outbuildings clustered together with the fields spreading out on all sides. Again the ruffians tolerated the prisoners’ desperate crowding round the trough, though when one of the farmers would have refilled it with fresh, cool water, the ruffian chief held up a restraining hand.

‘No need to stir yourself,’ he said to the farmer. ‘Dregs is good enough for the likes of these. They’re rebels, you know.’

When the farmers’ sons (the daughters stayed in the houses, of course, out of sight) came out with basketfuls of fresh-baked bread, originally meant for the farm families’ dinners, the chief intercepted them before they reached the place where the prisoners sprawled on the ground.

‘Many thanks!’ the ruffian chief said effusively, taking a loaf and breaking off a piece, stuffing it into his mouth and speaking around the mouthful. ‘We do appreciate the cooperation of our little friends.’

‘It’s for them,’ the eldest lad said with a resentful nod towards the prisoners.

‘For them?’ the chief affected astonishment. He made a show of lifting the cloths from several of the nearest baskets, inhaling the aroma of the still-warm loaves. ‘I should say not!’ He eyed the lad narrowly, a rebel in the making if ever he saw one. ‘Have you already slopped your pigs this evening?’ he said.

‘No, sir,’ a younger lad piped up. Evidently this was his chore.

‘Well, that’s fine,’ the chief smiled. ‘If you’ve any to spare, you can just slop those porkers over there,’ he said, waving in the direction of his prisoners.’ Several of the ruffians laughed at this, and the chief made a great show of consideration. ‘Say,’ he said, ‘are you sure you’ve enough for your pigs?’ he said, pretending concern. ‘If you don’t, then you needn’t bother feeding those fellows over there,’ he said. ‘They’ll get a bellyful when we get to Michel Delving, you know.’ There was another guffaw from the ruffians.

The little lad spoke bravely. ‘There’s plenty of slops, and then some,’ he said. He bowed, then tugged at his big brother’s sleeve. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got to slop the pigs, you know.’

‘As do I,’ said another little lad. The young hobbits returned to the cluster of houses, heads together, then broke apart to enter their various dwellings. Inside, out of sight of the ruffians, the families’ own dinners were scraped into buckets, concealed under peelings from potatoes and carrots, soggy pieces of stale bread soaked in sour milk, and other unsavoury-looking scraps.

The ruffian chief checked each bucket, chuckling. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Pig slops. Better’n what they’ll get at Michel Delving, anyhow. A veritable feast!’ He fixed the hobbit lads with a stern eye. ‘Are you sure your pigs can spare this, now? I wouldn’t want them to squeal with hunger all night and keep me awake.’

‘We fed the pigs first; this is the leavings,’ one boy said furiously. It was a lie, of course, but the ruffian believed it. He reached out to ruffle the lad’s hair.

‘Smart lad,’ he said. ‘You’ll go far someday, mark my words.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the boy said. ‘May we take the buckets to them now?’

‘Go ahead,’ the chief said, ‘but don’t talk to them.’ He raised his voice, turning his head towards the prisoners. ‘Any talking at all, and the feast will be cut short. Do you understand me?’

Not wanting to risk a word, the prisoners nodded, at least those who were not too dazed to comprehend what was happening around them. The hobbit lads picked up their buckets and silently brought them to the prisoners, waiting until the ravenous rebels emptied them before taking the buckets back home.

Once inside, they closed and bolted the doors, and hobbit mums lighted the lamps, turning them up high despite the extravagance and the cost in lamp oil. Warm yellow light spilled from the windows, and inside the houses, hobbit voices were raised in song, much as the ruffians heard on any pleasant evening, passing by a hobbit abode.

Song followed song, serenading the prisoners, huddled together for warmth in the chilly air of the autumnal evening. It was funny, how it could get so cold after such a day of heat. There were no blankets, of course, and the ruffians had taken their cloaks from them. They shivered in their thin shirts, but the still-warm, delicious food soothed their ragged stomachs as the music soothed their spirits, and somehow they found rest.

***

O! Water cold we may pour at need
down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed;
but better is Beer, if drink we lack,
and Water Hot poured down the back.

Merry slapped Fatty’s hand away from the platter of mushrooms. ‘You’d eat the lot before they even get out of the bath!’

‘You know it!’ Fatty laughed. ‘Maggot’s mushrooms, and we didn’t even have to steal any this time!’ He could have afforded to buy them by the basketful without a dent in his pocket money, but raiding Maggot’s fields was a tradition of sorts amongst mischievous tweens of the upper class. Fatty felt no compunction; he knew for a fact that his father sent fat purses Maggot’s way on a regular basis, not only to pay for the family’s fare, but for the depredations of his son and young cousins.

There was the sound of a great splash coming from the bath room, and Merry went to investigate. Fatty took advantage of his absence to nab a mushroom or three, but there were still plenty to go round as the cousins settled around the table, and many other things to follow, and when they had finished eating even Fatty heaved a sigh of content.

The conversation that followed as they slouched in chairs drawn round the fire was not half so satisfying nor comfortable. There was talk of Black Riders on black horses, evidently very frightening indeed to have scared the doughty Maggot, by Merry’s report.

In the end, they pried the secret out of Frodo, though it took Merry’s confession of the conspiracy and their knowledge of the Ring, and the unmasking of Sam as chief conspirator, before the eldest cousin’s resistance collapsed.

Fatty gave Merry a satisfied nod. ‘Putty in our hands,’ he whispered. Merry pulled one side of his mouth down in annoyance.

A moment later, Frodo said, ‘You are a set of deceitful soundrels!’ and then laughed, ‘But bless you!’

Fatty turned to Merry and said, ‘See?’ He got up and joined hands with Merry, Pippin, and Sam, and they danced round Frodo while Merry and Pippin sang a song they’d been working on in recent weeks, when it became evident that the plan was going forward at last.

They might have sung and danced the night through, but Frodo had an attack of caution and decreed an early rising and departure.

‘At least I’m not departing,’ Fatty said with secret relief. Fond as he was of Frodo, he did not relish traipsing off into the wilderness, where there were wild beasts and irregular meals.

‘But you will arise to see us off?’ Pippin said gaily.

‘Gladly!’ Fatty said. ‘It will be a relief to have at least one mischievous Took out of my hair, if only for a short time. You will hurry back, won’t you?’

To his sorrow, he saw Frodo hesitate before answering, and he knew he was hearing a lie when Frodo answered. ‘Of course!’ Frodo said cheerfully. He added, more truthfully, ‘How could I stay away from the Shire for any length of time? There’s no place more beautiful in Middle-earth, and no place I would rather be in the entire world, Elvenhome included.’

‘I don’t know,’ Sam said slowly. ‘Elvenhome must be awfully beautiful.’

‘Come on, Sam,’ Frodo said fondly. ‘Knowing you, you’ll be up hours before the rest of us, and if we don’t seek our pillows soon, you’ll not see yours at all.’ With a laugh, the cousins went to their beds.

***

The ruffians had roused their charges early, with the first cockcrow, before even the Sun cracked her eyes open to throw a gleam into the air ere she rose from her rest. Two of the farmers were filling the stone trough with fresh water, preparatory to fetching the cows. The ruffian chief, in a good mood with but one more day’s slow journey ahead, allowed the prisoners to drink of the fresh, cold, clean water.

‘You ought to wash,’ he said, ‘bunch of dirty pigs that you are.’

‘Naw,’ another ruffian answered. ‘They’ll foul the water, and then what would the poor cows drink?’ The ruffians shouted with laughter and prodded their charges away from the trough. As they marched their footsore prisoners on down the road to Michel Delving, the farm families emerged from their houses to stare after them. Several of the lasses broke down weeping.

‘We did all we could,’ one of the farmers muttered. ‘We fed them, at least, and gave them fresh water.’

‘It wasn’t enough,’ another answered. ‘When are we going to rise up against these louts and their bullying ways? We gave them a good meal, ‘tis true, and sent them off to starve slowly to death, from all accounts.’

‘Do you want to go off to the Lockholes?’ the third said sharply. ‘Do you want your families turned out of your homes, your wives and daughters at the mercy of those...’ he could not come up with a word foul enough to describe the ruffians. Shaking his head sadly, he said, ‘Come along. There’s work to be done.’

Freddy’s band of rebels marched through the growing heat of another fine autumn day, without food or rest. The ruffians were tired of the wearisome journey, and found a way to keep the prisoners moving without inconvenience to themselves. At intervals, several ruffians would sit down, dig food out of their bags, take a meal and a breather, while the rest marched the hobbits on down the road towards Michel Delving. Finishing their repast, the ruffians left behind would jog to catch up with the group, and several more would drop out. Thus, the ruffians arrived in Michel Delving fresh, fed, and rested, while the hobbits had no food, no water, no rest on that daylong march.

Robin stumbled several times, was jerked to his feet by his fellows, until finally he went down and could not rise. The ruffians got in several good blows with their clubs and whips before Rocky forced his way in, ducking the slashing whips, and lifted the tween onto his own back. ‘Leave off,’ he snarled. ‘He’s not holding you up now.’

‘Don’t you tire yourself and hold us up, or you’ll get a taste of the same,’ Jock said.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Rocky muttered. He eased Robin’s weight on his back and trudged along without another word.

The stronger hobbits helped the weaker, and somehow they kept stumbling along, though thirst was a growing torture. One of the hobbits was beaten for falling face-first into a stream that crossed the Road, and none of the others tried that trick on any stream they crossed after seeing his punishment. Blind and stumbling, they reeled along under the warm autumn sun. About halfway to Michel Delving, Freddy’s bad leg failed him completely, and he fell beneath the clubs and whips before Stoney and Budgie were able to throw themselves in the way, covering him with their own bodies.

‘We’ll carry him!’ Budgie said desperately. ‘We won’t slow you down!’

‘See that you don’t,’ the ruffian chief growled.

They came into Michel Delving late in the afternoon. A herd of pigs was drinking at the town trough, and the ruffian chief held the hobbits back with his club. ‘Let the other pigs drink first,’ he said firmly.

After the pigs were finished, he allowed his prisoners to drink the leavings. ‘Don’t fill the trough again,’ he said to the Shirriff who stood by with brimming buckets of cold water, fresh from the well. ‘Wouldn’t want these critters to have too much cold water and founder, would we?’

When he’d judged that the prisoners had scooped up enough handfuls to sustain life, but not yet enough to satisfy thirst, he had his Men prod them away from the trough. ‘Come along, little piggies,’ he said. ‘It’s time to “wee” your way home.’

They marched the rest of the way through Michel Delving, past hobbit dads and tweens watching in silent rage and frustration, past weeping hobbit mums and lasses, past sober-faced children who went in to supper that night and pushed their plates away, untouched. They marched to the outskirts of town where the great storage holes had been dug, and there they stopped.

The chief used his club to separate Budgie from the rest. ‘Step forward,’ he said.

A Man with quill and ink sat at a little table just inside the entrance. ‘Name?’ he said in a bored tone.

‘Budgerigar Smallfoot,’ Budgie said. The ruffian wrote the name beside a number on a half-filled page.

‘Number seventy-three,’ he said.

‘That’s your name from now on,’ the chief said pleasantly. ‘You’ll answer to it, or suffer the consequences.’

‘My name is Budgie,’ the hobbit protested.

‘Not anymore, Number Seventy-three,’ the chief said, not so pleasantly. ‘If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you please show our guest to his new quarters?’ he said to a ruffian standing by.

‘My pleasure,’ that one said, and shoved the small hobbit before him.

The chief singled out Freddy.

‘Name?’ came the bored question.

Dazed and exhausted, he nearly made the fatal error of giving his real name, but caught himself just in time. ‘Sandy,’ he wheezed.

‘Sandy what?’ came the question.

‘Does it matter?’ he asked numbly, too tired to be cautious. A club caught him in the stomach, and he doubled over.

‘Answer the question!’ the chief barked.

‘Sandy Riverbottom,’ he gasped. Out of the corner of his streaming eye, he saw the name written upon the list.

‘Number seventy-four,’ the scribe said.

‘Right, number seventy-four, Gimp here will show you to your new home,’ the chief drawled. ‘We hope you’ll be very comfortable during your stay with us. If there’s anything at all that you might want or need, please be sure to ask.’

Freddy nodded, hardly comprehending the flow of words. He tried to take a step, only to have his leg fold up under him.

‘Don’t!’ the chief rapped out sharply, holding back Stonecrop and Beechnut with his club. ‘He’ll make his way to his new home, right enough, or he’ll have a nice beating to urge him along.’

‘Come along then,’ the ruffian called Gimp said. ‘Don’t keep me waiting.’ He slapped a stout stick against the palm of his other hand suggestively.

Number Seventy-four began to crawl after him, hearing a burst of laughter from the watching ruffians. ‘Nice little piggy!’ the chief called. ‘That’s the way. We ought to make them all crawl!’

‘They’ll crawl, soon enough,’ the scribe said. ‘Next?’

Gimp showed him to a dark, narrow cell not far from the tunnel entrance. ‘We’re filling up fast,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not too many rooms left before we have to open a new facility.’ He gave Freddy a shove with his foot. ‘Now get in there.’ Freddy crawled within and collapsed. From the light of the torches in the corridor, he was able to distinguish details around him. There was not much to see: a bare, dusty floor and a bucket in the corner.

He heard the other prisoners escorted to their new abodes, and when the last one was settled, the boots of the chief were heard clicking on the hard stone floor of the corridor. The footfalls stopped near the middle of the twenty newly-occupied cells, and he raised his voice.

‘Hear me, Numbers Seventy-three through Ninety-two!’ he shouted, his voice echoing through the bare rooms. ‘You’ll notice that our gaol lacks certain amenities, such as doors on the cells.’

Freddy had noticed that, and wondered. Why did they call them the Lockups? It seemed as if a hobbit could walk out anytime he had the mind to, were there no ruffians on guard.

‘Should you set foot outside your cell, for any reason, unless called forth by number by a guard,’ the chief continued, ‘the hobbits housed on either side of you will suffer a severe beating. Do you catch my drift?’

They didn’t catch his drift, not being wise in the way of boats and water, but they understood him.

‘We want you to feel welcome in your new home,’ he continued. ‘As you can see, we have provided buckets for your convenience. You’ll have regular, filling meals, plenty of rest, and peace and quiet. That means no noise, understand? Not a word, not a whisper, not a song.’

The hobbits listened in silence. Not a word, they understood well enough that none offered an answer.

‘If you cooperate, you’ll be fed. If you do not cooperate, we might just forget your food and water for a day or a week.’ There was a pause while he let the hobbits consider his words, then he lifted his voice again to shout, ‘Welcome to the Lockholes!’

The last word echoed eerily and died away as the hobbits sat in shadowy silence.

Chapter 7. “I am Tired, Weary, I Haven’t a Hope Left”

Prisoner number seventy-four sat gazing listlessly at the dry crust of bread on the floor before him. He looked up at a mocking voice.

‘What’s the matter, provender not to your liking?’ A heavy boot came down upon the crust, crushing it and grinding it into the dust of the floor. ‘We don’t like waste here, Number seventy-four; no we do not. That’s all you’ll get, and be glad of it, and you’ll have nothing else until that’s gone!’

After a day or three—how many, he had no way of knowing, for there was no day or night, only the steady flicker of the torches in the corridor—he picked up the crumbs, dust and all, and ate every one, licking his fingers to be sure he’d missed nothing.

Another day went by, and the thirst was maddening him, for he had nursed the water in the Man-sized cup they gave him with the crust on that first day, not knowing when he would get more, until it was gone—how long ago? Still the booted feet that occasionally passed in front of his door went by him, and did not stop.

He had curled up on the floor in an uneasy doze when he was wakened by the sound of trickling water. Opening his eyes, he saw a ruffian with a bucket, dipping his cup in the bucket and setting it down on the floor.

‘Look lively, next time, and I might let you fill your own cup,’ the Man snarled. With dread, the prisoner saw the cup had been filled only halfway. Remembering the injunction against speech, he bowed his head.

‘Well,’ the Man said, mollified. ‘I see you cleaned up the mess on the floor. Guess you’ll eat today.’ Casually, he pulled a crust from his pocket and dropped it on the floor, then stood back, watching. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Eat. Or do you prefer it crushed and mixed with dust? Does it have more flavour that way?’

Number seventy-four reached out, took the crust, and began to gnaw.

‘There’s a nice little rat,’ the Man said approvingly. ‘We like to see our efforts appreciated.’ He turned and walked out, and his voice was heard in the next cell, and then the next.

It appeared that when one was quiet and cooperative, one could expect at least a crust and a cup of water each day, and might perhaps call it “breakfast”. Another bucket was brought around the cells later, which contained lukewarm dishwater to all appearances, and this was called “tea”. Yet later, another bucket came, more dishwater, slightly stronger in flavour, with a few potato peels floating atop, and this was called “dinner” or, when a ruffian was feeling grand, “the soup course”.

If a hobbit hoarded his water, the tea and soup passed him by. The hobbits quickly learned to gulp their breakfast water at the approach of booted feet, just in case the bucket of “tea” was making its rounds.

Every few days, when the stench became offensive, the prisoners were called out of their cells, one at a time, to carry their waste buckets to the end of the corridor, dumping them down the hole that led, by ladder, to the next level. The guards liked to joke that if they filled up this level, they’d just send the rats down to clean things up for the next batch of prisoners.

The world could have stopped spinning, for all they knew. There was no day nor night, and no seasons, for the delved-out storeholes maintained a constant temperature, the same on the hottest day or the coldest night. It was too cool for comfort for a hobbit without a blanket or cloak, but the prisoners became accustomed to feeling slightly chilled at all times, and were even able to sleep, curled tightly in a ball, when exhaustion claimed them.

The wise ones paced, when ruffians were not about. They’d listen for the booted feet, and sit themselves down, to all appearances made of stone when a passing ruffian glanced in. Once the boots passed, they would rise and recommence their exercise. These stayed healthy longer than the ones who simply sat or lay in their cells.

Number seventy-four, with his half-healed leg aggravated by the forced march, knew what he ought to do. He forced himself to limp in a circle about his cell: six steps along the length, turn, three across, turn, six back to the door, turn... He would walk until he heard a guard coming, or until the leg refused to hold him. Sometimes both would happen at once, an irony of economy he appreciated. There was little enough to appreciate in that dismal place.

One day, or night, he knew not which, he heard the cheerful voices of several guards approaching, and stiffened. Cheery ruffians were dangerous ruffians.

‘I tell you, you won’t be bored for long,’ growled a deep voice. ‘I don’t know why I never thought of this game before. I tell you, it will be quite amusing.’

‘O, do tell. I can hardly wait,’ came the voice of the scribe from that long-ago day, the last day they’d seen the face of the Sun. Did she still shine in the world outside?

They stopped in front of the cell across from Number seventy-four’s, and he froze, not wanting to attract their notice.

‘There you are, little one!’ the deep voiced ruffian growled. ‘I tell you, I have a treat for you!’ He bent to lay something on the floor of the cell across the way.

‘Feeding the prisoner cake? That’s supposed to amuse me?’ the bored one said, and a third ruffian was heard to guffaw.

‘Just watch,’ Deep Voice answered. ‘Come on, little one! You’re a cute little thing, you know. They must have robbed the cradle to find you... are you sure you’re old enough to be a rebel? Come, child, take the cake.’ The voice sounded friendly, inviting.

There was a sudden whack and a hobbit cried out—Robin! Number seventy-four started forward before remembering the injunction against setting foot outside his cell.

The bored one laughed. ‘That was good,’ he said. ‘The rat reached for it and you gave him a stripe across his arm.’

Deep Voice resumed his coaxing. ‘Come along, little one, take the cake,’ he said. Robin gave no reply, and his former leader congratulated him silently on his courage in the face of what sounded like a painful blow.

‘Take the cake, I said,’ Deep Voice repeated, his tone growing more menacing. ‘It’s a game, you see. We’ll find out who’s the fastest, you or me. If you’re the fastest, you’ll get the cake before I strike, and I’ll even let you keep it for providing such entertainment and winning my bet for me. You see, my friend here has wagered that I’m faster and you cannot get the cake. Such faith he has in me, I’m touched, I’ll tell you. But I’m not so sure of myself, and I’ve wagered that you’re faster, and will get the cake in the end. Come now, take the cake.’

Robin must have shook his head at them, for Deep Voice said, ‘Do not say “No” to me, little rat. Play the game, or you’ll get the beating anyhow, on your back. Take it, I say.’

Robin must have given in, for several more whacks and cries were heard before Rocky shouted from the cell next to Freddy’s, ‘Enough! Stop it!’ He could not bear to hear the tween’s torment.

Bored Voice said, ‘What’s that, little rat? You dare to set foot outside of your cell? Looks as if you haven’t learned your lesson, now, doesn’t it?’

Blows resounded up and down the corridor as Freddy and the hobbit on the other side of Rocky’s cell received Rocky’s punishment. At last the only sounds to be heard were Robin’s sobs and Rocky’s broken-voiced repetition of ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...’

‘Quiet, you, or they’ll get more of the same!’ Deep Voice snarled, and all was silent once more.

***

‘Quiet!’ Fatty hissed again in frustration. Honestly, sometimes he wondered why he even bothered. But Estella was his sister, and he loved her, when she wasn’t being so irksome.

He put his hand over her mouth for good measure, and she bit him. He managed not to cry out, but gave her a good shake, and somehow the seriousness of the situation reached her at last.

He crouched lower in the underbrush, forcing Estella down beneath him, until the heavy footsteps passed. When he was sure they were well gone, he eased himself off of his sister and carefully took his hand away.

Gasping, she rounded on him. ‘You nearly crushed me, you great oaf!’ she whispered.

‘You nearly gave us away to that ruffian!’ he whispered back. ‘Do you know what he’d do, finding us out after curfew?’ She didn’t, of course. He didn’t either, as a matter of fact, but he’d heard rumours...

Since he’d returned from Crickhollow, things had gone from bad to worse. As if it weren’t bad enough to have those... things come after him; he’d sweated out many a bad hour under the combined questioning of Saradoc, Master of Buckland and Thain Paladin, who wanted, quite reasonably, to know where their sons were. His repeated denials sounded hollow to himself, and when they finally released him to the care of his exasperated father, he was glad to shut himself in his room, and didn’t even mind being on water rations as punishment for this evident prank.

The onset of the Troubles was so gradual that the hobbits didn’t even realise what was happening to their Shire until it was too late, and the ruffians too many to cast out again, except in Tookland, with the ever-suspicious and vigilant Tooks discouraging trespassing on principle. Even hobbits who weren’t Tooks were questioned when they dared to set foot in Tookland. Men were flatly denied access, and as things got worse in the Shire, the determination of the Tooks grew rather than diminished.

Fatty’s father took the view that if they all just sat tight, the storm would blow over and things would be as they always had been. The closing of the inns and Mayor Will’s arrest just after the New Year changed all that. Ever-lengthening lists of new rules and regulations were being imposed on the bewildered hobbits, and pretty lasses were being bothered, even accosted as the ruffians grew bolder.

Fatty, who’d seen evil creeping into the garden at Crickhollow, recognised its grip growing ever stronger on the Shire. He was the one who told his parents that it wasn’t safe for Estella any more, not even if she kept tight indoors.

‘Ruffians are going about gathering,’ he said, ‘and they can knock on any door, and knock down any door where they’re refused admission.’ He looked from his mother to his father. ‘If one of them takes a fancy to Estella...’

His father nodded. When the first tales of “gathering” came to his ears, he’d had the servants do a little of their own gathering. Family heirlooms, the silver, the jewels, and other treasures that could be spirited away under cover of darkness were taken out and buried or hidden in caves up in the hills of Scary. It was on one of these expeditions that Fatty discovered the ruffians were using caves in the area themselves, to store gathered food and supplies. He filed away that knowledge for future reference.

The grand house had a forlorn look now, with so much of its finery stripped away. The last batch of ruffians had been turned from the door with an explanation, but the next group might not be so easy to satisfy.

‘We have to get her to safety,’ Odovacar said, ‘if there is any place of safety left, these days.’

‘There are no ruffians in Tookland,’ Rosamunda said proudly.

‘Yes, but no one gets in or out of Tookland these days, what with the ruffians keeping watch on the one hand, and the Tooks on the other,’ her husband said glumly.

‘Am I a slice of cake, that you can sit there and discuss my disposition so calmly?’ Estella flared.

‘Hush, daughter, we are concerned for your well-being,’ her father said sternly.

In shock at her father being stern—to her! – a thing that had never happened before to that spoiled only daughter of a rich hobbit, Estella hushed. For the nonce.

So it was that Fatty found himself escorting his sister through the dark of the night, in the forest of Woody End, on his way to Hally the woodcarver’s house. Hally had married a Took, Fatty's cousin Rosemary as a matter of fact. To be truthful, she wasn't exactly a Took anymore, having been disowned by Ferdinand her father for having the temerity to marry a hobbit of her own choosing. Took or not, she was the one to help Fatty. Her brother Ferdibrand was rumoured to be “the Fox”, a Took who was able to get in and out of Tookland on a regular basis, gathering news for the Thain.

After several more close calls, they found the little house in the clearing. ‘Stay here,’ Fatty breathed, secreting Estella behind a fallen log. He crept to the door of the house, light on his feet despite his bulk (though thinner than he used to be, what with the difficulty getting food these days), scratched lightly on the door.

‘Who is it?’ came the call from within.

‘A Bolger,’ he answered. On earlier visits he’d said he was a Took, which was true—his mother was a Took, after all—but the way things were nowadays if any skulking ruffians heard, they’d haul him off to the Lockholes without delay.

The door opened slightly, and Hally Bolger peered out, then the door widened enough for him to draw Fatty—and Estella—within.

‘I thought I told you to stay put!’ Fatty hissed. ‘What if there were ruffians visiting?’ For all he knew, the ruffians bothered the inhabitants of Woody End just as often as they bothered the hobbits of Bridgefields, which was often, these days.

‘That’s a real worry,’ Hally said. ‘Ruffians often come to share a cup of tea and a bit of news.’ He looked Fatty up and down. ‘So the rich Bolger comes to call in the middle of the night, and brings his sister for a change,’ he said frankly.

He added sourly, ‘What brings you to visit your poor relations, and it not even teatime?’

Fatty looked to Estella, and the woodcarver nodded. ‘I see,’ he said, and Fatty had the feeling that he really did see.

‘What are you doing out after curfew, cousin?’ Rosemary said, coming out of the bedroom with a shawl thrown over her nightdress.

‘It’s too dangerous for my sister to walk about in daylight,’ Fatty said.

Rosemary looked at Estella and sighed. ‘Indeed,’ she said dryly. ‘You are much too pretty for your own good, my dear. A ruffian would eat you for dessert, and not bother with the main course at all.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Estella said haughtily, but her eyes were wide and Fatty could see that she was frightened.

‘In any event,’ Hally said, ‘if a ruffian passes by and sees the lamp burning, he’ll want to know why.’

Rosemary obediently turned the lamp down again, setting it in the window as was custom, a watch lamp to drive away the night and beckon to lost travellers looking for refuge. ‘I’m tired,’ she said, ‘as I’m sure these children are.’ Fatty stiffened at being called a “child”—he was nearly forty, after all! Rosemary noticed and said gently, ‘I meant no disrespect, it’s only that you’re about my baby brother’s age is all.’ Fatty nodded. It still amazed him that his cousin Ferdibrand could be “the Fox”. Not for the first time, Fatty wondered if he could be brave and bold and do daring deeds, strike a blow against the ruffians.  He wondered yet again what kind of ruffians his cousins and that gardener-fellow faced, if indeed they still lived at all.

‘Let us all seek our beds,’ Hally agreed. They made up a bed for Estella in their daughters’ room, and tried to give Fatty, as a “rich Bolger” their own bed, protesting that they could sleep easily enough on blankets before the hearth. Fatty would not hear of displacing them, however, and soon persuaded them to allow him to roll up in a blanket before the kitchen fire. Feeling the hard floor against his back, he wondered why he’d done such a stupid thing, but his fatigue from the nerve-wracking journey soon caught up with him and he slept deeply, and awakened refreshed, to tuck into the finest breakfast he’d enjoyed since the day his cousins had disappeared into the Old Forest. He gave Rosemary his mother's greeting, and her request that Estella be safely conveyed into Tookland.

After breakfast, Rosemary surveyed Estella once more, and sighed. ‘Entirely too pretty, my dear,’ she said.

‘What am I supposed to say to that?’ Estella snapped. She hated the helpless feeling of being considered “baggage”, to be lugged around by other people without regard to her abilities or feelings.

Rosemary fingered her hair, and Estella jerked away. ‘Still,’ Rosemary said slowly, ‘I think we can manage something.’ She looked to Hally. ‘Why don’t you take our cousin out in the woods and show him how to fell a tree.’

‘I’m sure you’d find it very interesting,’ Hally said promptly. ‘Come along, Fredegar.’ Fatty started to protest, but Rosemary put a hand on his arm.

‘We’re going to be quite busy, Estella and I,’ she said, ‘and cannot abide having you hobbits underfoot.’ He nodded, and after hugging his sister, followed Hally into the woods.

When they returned later, Estella was nowhere to be seen, and a strange boy was sitting at the table, sipping tea. His clothes were a little too big for him; the sleeves were rolled up, the trousers were a little baggy and hastily hemmed. He wore a hat over his short-cropped curls, and he evidently didn’t know much about washing his face.

‘I’d like you to meet my eldest son, Twig,’ Rosemary said. She gave the lad a nudge. ‘Mind your manners, lad, this here’s a gentlehobbit. Don’t act like you’ve never seen one before.’

The lad rose from the bench, giving an awkward bow. ‘At your service,’ he said in a husky voice.

‘And at your family’s service,’ Fatty returned correctly. The lad dissolved into laughter—Estella’s laughter, and Rosemary smiled.

‘You’ll do,’ she said.

‘You cut your hair?’ Fatty said to Estella in outrage.

She smiled complacently. ‘I always wanted to,’ she said. ‘I’m tired of tripping over gowns and having my hair come tumbling down at the awkwardest times.’ Maddeningly, her smile brightened. ‘I think this is going to be fun!’

‘You may leave her with us,’ Rosemary said. ‘Go back to Budge Hall, tell your parents all will be well.’

‘Leave her?’ Fatty protested.

‘My brother will not come around as long as you are here,’ Rosemary said practically. ‘He won’t fear Estella, she’s no more than a lad half-grown, but you, he’ll distrust.’

‘But—‘ Fatty said.

‘One day soon, he’ll slip out of Tookland and stop by for a bite and a bit of news,’ Rosemary said. ‘When he leaves, he’ll take... Twig... back with him. I have every confidence.’

‘Can you let me know when she’s safe?’ Fatty asked slowly.

Regretfully, Rosemary shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ she said. ‘That would be too dangerous. If something goes wrong, I’ll try to get word to your parents. Otherwise, just consider that no news is good news.’

That night, Fatty left just after middle night. He managed to evade ruffians, though he had to hide once in the hollow of a tree, and another time in a ditch half-filled with water. When he arrived home, he reported success to his parents.

Not long after that, he gathered some hobbits he trusted, and they began to raid the ruffians’ caves in the hills of Scary, bringing back foodstuffs to the hungry hobbits of Bridgefields. He was betrayed by a hobbit in the employ of the ruffians, one who’d been discharged by his father for negligent work, and escaped by the skin of his teeth, staging a bitter shouting match with his father before storming out of the house, for the benefit of his parents in the eyes of the watching neighbours, some of whom might be informants working for the favour of the ruffians.

Word went about that Fatty Bolger had been disowned by his father for his scurrilous, law-breaking activities, and Lotho Baggins chose to believe the lie, for the nonce. He could afford to wait before taking over Budge Hall, and in the meantime, the Bolgers would take good care of it. Once his Big Men were able to seize Fatty and his band of rebels, there would be time to see if Odovacar would save himself by denouncing his son, or if he would try to save his son and forfeit his fortune. Either way, Odovacar would lose his heir, and Lotho would gain the Bolger fortune...

***

Number seventy-four awakened at last from the beating, so stiff he could not move, and feverish in the bargain. A crust of bread lay before him, and the cup half-filled with water. With an effort, he reached out, but he was clumsy and the cup spilled. Desperately he tried to slurp the water from the floor before it could escape him, and then he laid his forehead upon the damp floor and wept silent tears.

Chapter 8. “Just Clean Water and Plain Daylight”

The hobbit who had once been a leader of rebels was now not even sure of his own name. He lay in a fever, shadows approaching and receding, sounds magnified, thoughts confused.

He thought he heard a scolding voice, much like that of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and the yelp of a ruffian in pain. It couldn’t be, of course. She was Lotho’s mother, after all, and what would she be doing in the Lockholes? She hadn’t been the type to visit those confined by illness or injury even in the good days, when there was a Shire, and he couldn’t imagine her charitably visiting those confined by ruffians.

‘Take your hands off me, you thieving scoundrel!’ he heard now, and smiled. This was the finest dream he’d enjoyed in his entire time in the Lockholes. Another yelp from the ruffian.

‘You dare to try to touch me again, I’ll serve you a double portion!’ Lobelia shrieked. Her voice came closer and stopped. ‘What’s this?’ she said, her voice shaking in outrage. ‘Hobbits sleeping on the floor, like dogs?’

‘You may have your own room, all to yourself, Mistress, and we’ll even bring a bed in for you,’ a ruffian said placatingly.

‘A bed!’ Lobelia shrieked, and the feverish hobbit could imagine the ruffian stuffing his fingers in his ears in self-protection. ‘A bed! Why not a bed for that lad in there?’

‘He’s rebel scum, Mistress,’ the ruffian said apologetically. ‘He’s being punished for being a law-breaker. Now come along, we’ll see what we can do to make you comfortable—‘ Whack! and another yelp from the ruffian.

‘Unhand me, you... you... what was that you called him?’ Lobelia said in tones that could have shattered glass.

‘Scum, Mistress?’ the ruffian said, sounding thoroughly cowed.

‘You SCUM!’ Lobelia shrieked. ‘A satisfying word,’ she muttered to herself, then raised her voice again, like fingernails against a smooth surface, setting teeth on edge. ‘If you touch me again, so help me, I’ll put your eyes out with the point of this umbrella. I had it made specially sharp to drive away stray dogs, I’ll have you know...’

The feverish hobbit had no doubt that Lobelia would put out the ruffian’s eyes. She was as fast as a striking snake with that umbrella. He’d seen her chase away a stray dog the size of Farmer Maggot’s biggest and fiercest, the one that had torn out the seat of Fatty Bolger’s trousers one day on a mushroom raid gone wrong. The feverish hobbit stopped to think: Fatty Bolger? Who was Fatty Bolger? The name sounded familiar, somehow.

In the midst of his pondering, he was distracted as he felt his head lifted and settled in a bony lap. Lobelia’s voice came again, very close now, soft, and—he must be delirious, that was the only explanation—soothing. ‘O lad,’ she crooned. ‘What have those despicable ruffians done to you, I’d like to know?’

The prisoner’s body jumped as Lobelia raised her voice again. ‘I want WATER, do you hear me, you imbecile, a CLEAN bucketful of CLEAN fresh water, mind, and I want it NOW. And CLEAN cloths, if you know what such a thing is, and a loaf of BREAD.’ She’d felt the feverish hobbit jump, and immediately her tone changed to softness and gentleness while her hand stroked the burning forehead. ‘It’s all right, lad, you’re safe now.’

‘Will there be anything else, Mistress?’ the ruffian... quavered?

‘That’ll do for starters,’ she snapped. ‘Some warm milk would not go amiss.’

‘Warm... milk,’ the ruffian stuttered.

‘And a proper cup of tea. A few eggs, lightly scrambled, and…’ Evidently the ruffian had crept away, for the voice rose again to a shriek. ‘Young MAN! YOUNG MAN! I haven’t FINISHED with you YET!’ The hand never paused in its caresses while the voice subsided into a grumble.

He must have fallen into a swoon, for he was suddenly roused by a cool, wet cloth on his face, washing away dirt that remained from the muddy road in Bridgefields, dust from the floor of the cell, and dried blood from the last beating. The hobbit tried to lift a hand, but it was held down by something rough and scratchy. In a panic he began to struggle feebly to free himself, only to hear the cracked old voice soothing.

‘There, there, it’s all right. No, don’t throw the blanket off.’ Blanket?

His hair was stroked back from his forehead as the voice muttered, ‘I ought to have a shears, you’re shaggier than a sheep in the springtime. Now we’ve washed the dirt away, let us have a look at your face.’

That was dangerous, he remembered dimly, though he did not remember why, but the fingers soothed his forehead again and the voice murmured reassurance.

‘There, lad,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’ The cloth finished its task and was taken away, and the old voice gasped. ‘A Took!’ she whispered, ‘but how do you come to be here? I thought they were hanging any Took they could get their hands on...’ She trailed off into mutterings and complaints, then said, ‘No, not all Took. There’s some Bolger in that face. Ah, lad, I can guess who you are. ‘Tis a wonder to find you alive at all.’

The hobbit half-wished to himself, despite the danger, that if she knew who he was, she’d share the information, but she did not speak a name.

‘Here now,’ she said, and he felt his head lifted. ‘It’s not proper bread at all, and it is only soaked in that travesty they call “soup”, but it’s food of a sort, and you look as if you haven’t eaten in days. Come lad, take a little sustenance.’

Something warm and crumbly was placed gently in his mouth, and he swallowed. ‘There’s the lad,’ the voice said, sounding pleased. The hobbit had heard similar tones when Lobelia had scored a point off Bilbo or Frodo in a dispute. ‘Take some more, now.’ Small amounts of soaked bread were placed in his mouth. He remembered his mother feeding him when he was very small, playing the baby bird game. He might well have been eating worms from the taste, but he offered no protest.

Some time later he was laid down with a pat on his shoulder. ‘There now, lad, you sleep a bit. I’m going to see who else is in this forsaken hole.’

It was not long before he heard the shrieks resume. ‘UNHAND me, you THIEVING vermin!’ There was another series of ruffian yelps, and the hobbit smiled as sleep crept over him again.

He was awakened by more cool water on his face, then his shirt was pulled open and the cloth gently dabbed at the half-healed slashes on his back and chest, the cracked old voice crooning reassurance whenever he winced away from the touch.

She raised her voice suddenly, saying sharply, ‘That had better be HOT.’ There was a ruffian’s rumbling response, and soon she was urging her charge to sip from a cup. He recognised the dishwater they called “tea”, but surprisingly, it was hot rather than lukewarm. The comforting warmth spread through him, and he sighed.

‘There’s a lad,’ the cracked old voice said. ‘They tell me you gave the name “Sandy”, so that is what I’ll call you.’

‘My name is Number seventy-four,’ he whispered.

‘Sandy,’ she said firmly.

He reached weakly to grasp her arm. ‘They’ll beat you,’ he said desperately. ‘My name is Number seventy-four.’

She snorted. ‘I’d like to see them try, the ninnies! Don’t you worry your fevered head about me, Sandy. You’d do better worrying about those louts of ruffians. Why, when I get through with them...’ her voice trailed off into mutterings, and he was reminded of a sunny day, hiding behind a hedge, while Lobelia passed by, waving her umbrella and complaining to Otho about this or that. He’d jumped into the hedge just in time to avoid her, but there didn’t seem to be any hedge around this place. Nor sun, either, for that matter. It didn’t seem important, somehow, and the muttering was comforting, he thought to his surprise, after the long silence broken only by ruffians’ snarls or sneers.

She came and went freely, unafraid, evidently feared by the Men who were twice her size. The hobbit she called “Sandy” heard her mutters and imprecations moving down the corridor outside his cell, but no longer feared the beatings that had always resulted from a hobbit setting foot outside his cell for any reason. These seemed to have stopped, though yelps were regularly heard from the throats of ruffians.

Only once did he hear her quail. She was sitting on the floor of his cell with his head in her lap, coaxing him to eat of the bread she’d soaked in “soup”, when she stiffened. A Voice was to be heard in the semi-darkness. ‘I’m told you do not care for the facilities here.’

She answered bravely, though her voice quavered with fear. ‘The food is abominable, not suitable for sustaining life, and your ruffians...’

‘The food is not intended to sustain life,’ the Voice said, amusement in its tone. ‘It is merely intended to prolong life, for a time, in the greatest misery possible. Death by slow starvation is exquisite torture, would you not say? And most suited to hobbits, in my opinion.’ Number seventy-four believed the Voice, finding himself in complete agreement. How could he not believe?

Her arms tightened about the hobbit she called “Sandy” as she sat tense and silent, evidently under the scrutiny of an intense gaze. The Voice must have gone away then, though no footfalls came to the ear, for she relaxed, bowed her head, and graced her patient’s face with warm tears.

When she found her voice again, all she said was, ‘Evil. Pure evil that one is. I pray he comes to a fitting end.’

She drew a shaky breath, and then said in her normal tones, ‘Come now, lad, this bread is going wanting.’ He felt her fingers against his lips. ‘Come, take another bite.’

He’d got used to the sound of her, the feel of her bony lap, the cool cloth on his skin, the fingers coaxing soaked crumbs into his mouth, and he missed her when she didn’t come. He didn’t know how long it was, but there was no Lobelia, no bread, no water... and oddly enough, after awhile, no sound of heavy boots or ruffians’ voices. Perhaps they’d been finally left alone to die. That was fine with him.

***

He didn’t know how much later it was that he opened his eyes to brightness. Not sunshine, no, that would be too much to hope for, and besides, he wasn’t sure the Sun still rose in the outside world, for he’d not seen her face in... how long? He didn’t know.

A lantern, it was, he decided, opening his eyes. And hobbits bending over him. They couldn’t be hobbits, they were too well-fed, he thought.

‘Who is it?’ one of them asked.

‘A Took, I think,’ another answered, then to the prisoner, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Number seventy-four,’ he answered. He could hear other hobbit voices moving down the corridor, calling out to one another in consternation and horror.

‘Number seventy—‘ one of them muttered, breaking off in a curse, milder than any he’d heard from a ruffian. It was nice to hear hobbits cursing, seemed homey somehow.

‘No, what is your name?’ came the question again.

The hobbit sighed. He’d already answered the question. He could tell from the quality of the echoes that his questioner turned away to speak to another, though it would take too much effort to move his eyes in that direction.

‘Go get one of the Tooks,’ he heard. ‘They ought to know their own.’ He kept his gaze fixed on the lantern one of them held, taking in as much light as he could before they took it away and left him in darkness again.

Another voice spoke from the doorway, rapidly approaching. ‘Freddy! Mr Freddy, can you hear me?’

‘Rocky, no,’ he muttered. Rocky would be beaten for saying his name, and it was dangerous for some other reason that he couldn’t quite remember. But then, he realised with a chill, he’d be beaten now for speaking Rocky’s name, in addition to the crime of having his own name spoken--a double beating. He closed his eyes in anticipation of the first blow.

‘You know him?’ the hobbit holding the prisoner demanded. ‘Who is he?’

‘Fredegar Bolger, of course, of Budge Hall!’ Rocky said, sounding insulted. He knelt by Freddy’s side. ‘Mr Freddy?’ he whispered.

Another hobbit in the room raised his voice to shout. ‘Frodo! In here! It’s Fatty Bolger!’

The prisoner remembered now the reason for caution. The ruffians would hang him when they heard his name. He waited for the end to come, but instead heard a voice out of the dim mists of the past.

‘Fatty?’ A hand gripped his shoulder.

‘Number seventy-four,’ he said, trying to redeem the situation. He opened his eyes to see Frodo kneeling on his other side. ‘They’ll beat you,’ he said. ‘Please...’

‘No more beatings, Mr Freddy,’ Rocky said reassuringly. ‘The ruffians are gone, chased away. There is a Shire again.’

Frodo looked up at the other hobbits who’d gathered round. ‘Let’s get him out of this place,’ he said.

The prisoner was eased onto a litter, lifted, and carried into the corridor, down a short way, around a corner, and out a door into drizzly daylight. He closed his eyes, the better to feel the rain, but opened them again quickly. He wanted to take in all the daylight he could before they turned around and returned to the cell.

He heard Rocky explaining to someone, ‘...we owe everything to Mistress Lobelia, she kept us going, badgered the guards into doubling our rations, poor as they were, made them stop beating us. They were afraid of her, if you can only imagine...’ He looked over to see Rocky walking alongside, leaning on Frodo. How did Frodo come to be here?

Frodo managed to sound grieved and amused at the same time. ‘I can imagine,’ he chuckled, but there were tears in his voice.

A tall hobbit who’d evidently stepped out of a book of tales came up to them, saying urgently, ‘They tell me you’ve found Fatty, where is he?’

The litter was laid down; it seemed they would not immediately return to the dark and stinking cell, so the prisoner closed his eyes again, drinking in the soaking mist.

‘Here,’ Frodo said quietly, his hand tightening on the prisoner’s. ‘He’s right here, Pippin.’ It began to sink in to the prisoner’s consciousness that he might be Fatty, or perhaps Freddy, by some miracle he could not yet comprehend.

‘Fatty,’ Pippin breathed, going to his knees beside the litter. ‘You would have done better to come with us after all, poor old Fredegar.’

He opened an eye and tried gallantly to smile. ‘Who’s this young giant with the loud voice?’ he whispered. ‘Not little Pippin! What’s your size in hats now?’

‘Where is Lobelia?’ Frodo said.

‘Lobelia?’ Pippin asked in astonishment.

Rocky shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen her in a few days,’ he said. ‘The one they called Sharkey came, and after that she disappeared.’

The Voice, Fatty realised. He shivered. He felt Frodo pat his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Fatty,’ Frodo said. ‘Sharkey’s gone.’

‘What if he comes back?’ Fatty asked. He cursed himself for sounding like a weak, shaky fool.

‘He’s dead,’ Frodo said firmly.

More hobbits were being helped out into the drizzle, and Fatty’s raiders gathered round him, laughing and crying at once. Little Robin was laid down beside him, and he pulled free of Frodo's grip to reach out a trembling hand. ‘Robin?’ he said.

‘Mr Freddy,’ the tween whispered back. ‘We came through.’

‘That we did, lad,’ Freddy said.

Frodo gave his shoulder a final squeeze, saying, ‘I’ll be right back.’ He rose, shouting orders. ‘Find Lobelia, she’s got to be here somewhere!’

Another tall hobbit in mail came up to them, saying ‘Hullo, Fatty, I’d hardly have known you.’

‘I could say the same, Merry,’ Fatty murmured.

‘I want healers!’ Frodo was shouting. ‘Fetch all there are in Michel Delving!’

‘Frodo,’ Merry broke in, ‘there’s a cell in there that’s had boards nailed over it. Of course there’s no hammer anywhere to be found, and a sword is a poor tool for prying nails...’

‘A boarded-up cell?’ Frodo said, then in the same breath he and Pippin said together, ‘Lobelia!’ Frodo disappeared into the Lockholes.

Odovacar and Rosamunda Bolger made their way through the crowd, Odo saying anxiously, ‘They say my son’s been found?’

‘He’s here, Odo,’ Merry said, and the Bolgers stopped still, shock and sorrow on their faces, before Rosamunda threw herself on Freddy, weeping, and Odovacar knelt down to embrace his wife and son. He rose again, tears on his face, and began to greet each of Freddy’s rebels in turn, and to hear bits and snatches of their story, and how they’d been saved in the end by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, of all hobbits.

Poor Lobelia, she looked very old and thin when they rescued her from the dark and narrow cell. She insisted on hobbling out on her own feet, leaning on Frodo’s arm, but still clutching her umbrella. When the prisoners saw her emerge from the entrance, they raised a great cheer, and the rescuers and townsfolk and anxious relatives who’d journeyed to Michel Delving after hearing of the ruffians’ defeat gave her an ovation that was heard all over the town.

She nodded uncertainly to right and left, trying to smile, but tears began to trickle down her wrinkled cheeks. Frodo handed her his pocket-handkerchief, and she dabbed away the tears, then held her head high. ‘Stop,’ she said to Frodo, with all her old imperiousness, when they reached Freddy’s litter.

‘Hullo, there, Sandy,’ she said pleasantly, ‘or is it safe to call you by your proper name, now?’

‘It’s safe,’ Freddy said, as the realisation struck him anew. He really was safe. This was not a dream. At least, he was fairly sure it was not. In a dream, the sun would have been shining as he was carried out of the Lockholes.

‘Lobelia, there are not enough words in all of Middle-earth to express my gratitude to you for saving our son, and these others,’ Odovacar Bolger said gravely. ‘If you would do us the honour of coming back to Budgeford with us, until Bag End is habitable again... We’re living on the sufferance of our gardener, at the moment, in his cot, but he and his family have been gracious in their hospitality and generous towards the dispossessed, and I am sure they would welcome you as well.’

‘Why, thank you,’ Lobelia said, blinking in surprise. She could not remember the last invitation she’d received to visit someone, since Bilbo’s infamous birthday debacle. She always imposed herself upon her relatives, not the other way around.

‘Come, let’s carry Freddy to the coach,’ Odovacar said. ‘It’s a long drive home.’

‘I’d like a healer to see to him first,’ Frodo said. ‘I know how eager you are to take him away from this place, but...’

‘Then let us at least get these hobbits in out of the rain before they catch their deaths,’ Rosamunda said.

‘No,’ Freddy protested. The rain felt so good on his face.

Frodo understood. ‘You’ll be taking walks in the rain before you know it,’ he said gently. ‘And walks in the sun, and sitting down to a groaning table and eating to your heart’s content.’

‘One thing at a time,’ Freddy said, overwhelmed.

 Frodo laughed. ‘One thing at a time,’ he agreed.

Still working on footnotes. All chapter titles are quotes from JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. I lay claim to none of the characters that appear in that work, and take credit only for the imagination to embroider upon that marvellous life-work, a few original characters, and scenes that came out of my own thought and are not directly referred-to in the original work.