Chapter 15. In which a pursuit is interrupted

It was close to four o’ the clock when the babe stirred again. Meadowsweet picked her up at the first whimper, and when she was dry and wrapped warmly, she laid the little lass in her sleepy mother’s arms.

‘Oh,’ whispered Pimpernel, taking a shuddering breath. ‘Is it time... already?’

‘She’s still so little,’ Meadowsweet said, and then added, ‘It’s not yet struck four.’

Pimpernel nodded, but as the babe whimpered, she hastened to nurse. There was no need to cover herself; Meadowsweet herself had suckled a number of babes. The children were all sleeping, and no male hobbits were in the room, who might be embarrassed at the sight. Ferdi, in earlier days, took delight in watching his babes at Nell’s breasts, proclaiming his willingness to share their delights.

Nell sniffed at the memory, and a silent tear ran down her cheek. Meadowsweet wiped away the tear with a gentle finger, and then she turned away to pour a cup of sweet, fresh-drawn water. ‘You must keep drinking,’ she said, though there was a question in her eyes.

It was uncommon, nay, unheard-of, for a hobbit to marry again, and yet Ferdi was Nell’s second husband, though he’d been her first love, from their childhood, and he had never had eyes for any other. But Nell had come to love the husband her father chose for her, and she had nearly willed herself to die when he was taken from her in death. They’d had to force her to take life-sustaining food, even water, and even so, Eglantine had not been sure that they’d save her grief-stricken daughter.

But Nell had survived, and eventually she’d married again, in part through Pippin’s machinations. She had settled down to life with Ferdibrand with deep joy and thankfulness at this miraculous second chance. And now, cruel fate had crushed her heart a second time. Her friends and loved ones were anxious, once more, remembering...

‘Yes,’ Nell said, after a moment of hesitation. She took the glass and drank, and Meadowsweet suppressed a sigh of relief.

‘What are you going to name her, then?’ she asked softly, one hand going out to stroke the downy, baby-soft curls on the little head.

The babe made an especially loud smacking sound, and both mums smiled. And then Nell’s smile faded, and she wondered how she could have... and if somehow she bore Ferdi less honour than he deserved, to find comfort, even as she watched with him until the dawning.

‘Lass,’ she whispered. ‘It’s what he called her.’ And another tear trickled down.

***

It was close to four o’ the clock when the greater part of the muster reached the Weavers’ yard. I’ truth, they didn’t ride into the yard itself, but the Thain, Master of Buckland and the hunters dismounted and walked to where a circle of torches had been stuck into the ground.

Haldi rose from a crouch, where he’d huddled in his cloak against the bitter night, blowing on his hands and rubbing them together. He was guarding the traces he’d found, a clear print of a boot on the far side of the yard, leading away.

The hunters, the best trackers Tuckborough had to offer, moved to scrutinise the print, muttering amongst themselves. One of them lifted his cap to scratch at his head. ‘I dunno, Sir,’ he said. ‘ ‘Twill be a right muckle of a job to try to follow such i’ th’ dark and all. ‘Twould be better to wait until the dawning, I’m thinking.’

‘Lantern light?’ Pippin suggested. ‘Would that be better than torches?’

‘Better?’ the hunter said, and turned his head to spit. ‘Ah just said, didn’t ah, that ‘twould be better to wait until the dawning. We could wear oursel’ out, tryin’ to follow such a trail in the dark o’ th’ hard ground, we could, or we could go swift and sure in the morning light...’

‘If you please, Sir,’ came the humble voice of Percy the Weaver, standing just outside the ring of torch light. ‘There’s tea, nice and hot, just off the boil when we heard you ride up, and scones smoking out of the oven. You might do worse than to warm yourselves in our smial, and rest up a bit before following after.’

‘Rest!’ Pippin said. ‘Rest! When they’ve got...!’

Merry stopped him with a hand to his shoulder and a murmuring in his ear.

Pippin turned to his older cousin, saying in a tone close to despair, ‘Do you really think so, cousin?’

‘I do,’ Merry said, forcing confidence. He was more sure of himself as he added, ‘You do him no good, to wear yourself out. It’s a long chase, perhaps, when we don’t know where they’re bound.’

‘Gold mine, or silver,’ Pippin said heavily. ‘Or if they know we’re on the trail, likely they’re on their way out of the Shire completely. But which way? North? South? West?’

‘At least we can be fairly sure they’re not headed toward Buckland,’ Merry said.

‘The map might have been a trick,’ Pippin warned.

‘They’d have to find a way to cross the Brandywine,’ Merry said, ‘and that’s not so easy. The messengers I sent will make sure the Ferry stays tied up on the Buckland side, and the Bridge is heavily guarded. No, Pippin,’ he said, and he patted the younger cousin’s shoulder. ‘They’ll not go to the East. I’d be willing to wager all of Buckland against a thimble of spittle, that they won’t.’

‘The Three-Farthing Stone is to the East,’ Pippin said.

Merry nodded. ‘I’ll grant you that,’ he said, ‘but even if they go there, they’ll turn South, then, or North, or even backtrack along to the West, thinking to throw us off the trail.’ He gave the shoulder another pat. ‘Come now,’ he said. ‘No point in freezing your toes off, out here. Come in, take some tea, eat something, close your eyes and rest—I’m not saying “sleep” for I feel as if I could never sleep again, not until he’s safe once more, but rest, Pippin. Please, rest.’

Pippin stood a long time, looking down at the footprint, before he nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Nothing for it, I suppose.’

He allowed Merry to lead him to the weavers’ smial, while Haldi directed the hobbits of the muster around what they’d been able to find of the ruffians’ trail. Some of them would crowd into the smial, and some into the barn, and others would kindle fires in the yard, to warm their hands and while away what was left of the night hours, until dawn—and action—should come at last.

***

It was nearly four o’ the clock when the Shirriff pulled up his pony. ‘Three-Farthing Stone’s just up ahead, sir,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Samwise said. The bag of gold was tied to his saddle, and he was eager to place it atop the Stone in the darkness and give the Shirriff and the mustered hobbits who rode with him enough time to find places of concealment before the morning light came. It would be less likely that they’d be seen by spying eyes, if anyone were watching the Stone. When the sun arose from her sleep, she’d shine on the top of the Stone, showing off the burden of gold in its plain but sturdy bag, but with any luck at all, she’d be hard put to reveal the hidden hobbits ready to spring their trap.

He dismounted. It took two of them, himself and the Shirriff, to lift the heavy bag down. They carried it between them to the top of the rise, stopping several times to rest, and two more hobbits joined them to heave the heavy burden onto the flat top of the Stone. There it would stay, as required, until the ruffians came to claim their fortune and met, instead, their doom.

He wondered if Merry and Pippin were already on the ruffians’ trail, and if they would trap the rogues between them. He was not the vengeful sort, but he fingered Sting’s hilt, even so. If the ruffians should blunder into his party, and if young Farry should come to harm...

‘We’ll bake that bread when it’s risen,’ he muttered to himself, and with that he found himself a hiding place in a patch of brambles, not far from the Stone, and settled himself to wait.

***

It was nearly four o' the clock, but young Farry didn't know that. He knew only that they'd been travelling an interminable length of time. It seemed to his young mind that they must be nearly to the Bounds of the Shire, already.

They'd left the torches behind, hidden on the far side of the last great hill they'd skirted, and it seemed as if his last spark of hope faded with the loss of the dots of light.

He must hold on, with all that was in him. He had no leaf-shaped Elven-brooch to drop, to show the way; he could not guide Dapple out of the group of Men, out of the stream, to leave a clear trail, not without pulling the noose around his neck tight, stretching him in a dreadful game of tug between his hands, bound to Dapple's saddle, and the rope in the fat man's hand.

But he must believe, he must, that his father, and Uncle Merry, were on his trail. They must find him, for the alternative, being taken by the ruffians beyond the Bounds of the Shire, did not bear thinking about.