Chapter 22. In which a fever is interrupted

Sam was glad for his Elven-cloak. Not only was it soft and warm, so that he scarcely noticed the damp chill of the morning, but he knew that he blended well into the cover where he crouched. He could only hope that the other hobbits were as well concealed, to a ruffian’s eyes. He could pick out several, but of course he had directed them to their places, and knew where to look. The proof would be in the tasting of the pudding, he supposed.

Beside him the Shirriff spoke in the barest whisper. ‘Nearly three hours past the dawning.’ Jay was his name, and he was relatively new at the job, but his eye was bright and keen, and his spirit as bold as his namesake, even if he was somewhat shorter than the average hobbit.

Pippin had spoken well of him, when Sam had been considering old Dob’s replacement, saying that stature was not necessarily the best indication of greatness of heart. Seeing that Pippin had been the smallest of the hobbits on the Quest, until the Ent draught, that is, Sam was inclined to agree.

‘Do you see anything?’ Sam mouthed.

Jay swept his keen gaze all around them, and shook his head with a wry expression. The waiting was the hardest part, they’d agreed on the hurried journey here. Jay had been a tween at the Battle of Bywater, a pitchfork in his hands, and well he remembered the nerve-wracking wait there at the barricades, wondering if the Tooks or if the ruffians would come upon them first.

Sam nodded, and cocked his hand so that he could see the face of the fine pocket watch that Merry had presented him, on his election to Mayor. It was so quiet there, that he fancied the ticking of the watch could be heard for yards around, but Jay said nothing.

Sam had checked the watch twice more, when the Shirriff suddenly stiffened, though of course he didn’t move or point or even whisper, not wanting to flush their quarry.

Sam barely turned his head to follow Jay’s line of sight. Yes, the brush was moving... and then he saw a head. The ruffian was dressed in drab hunters’ colours—clothing that blended into the winter landscape, and his face and hands were smeared with dirt. He moved cautiously, and perhaps another man might not have marked his passing.

He crept from one place of concealment to another, circling ever closer to the little hill on which the Three-Farthing Stone stood, as cautious as a cat on the hunt, but at last he reached the hill and crouched behind a rock, peering upwards. Of course the concealed hobbits behind him could see him clearly. From where Sam and Jay lay hidden, they could see only his shadow.

At last, satisfied that he was alone in that place, the ruffian made his way to the top of the slope, hauling himself atop the Stone. Sam, listening intently, heard the man give a muffled exclamation. Raising himself slightly, he saw the man crouched atop the Stone, saw the gloating expression on the man’s face as he stirred the gold coins with his hand, and his own countenance hardened. Blood money, that’s what it was, paid for with the blood of a young hobbit, a child, Farry...

Jay turned slightly toward Sam, his hand on his horn, and Sam nodded.

At the sound of the horn, hobbits erupted from their hiding places, and the ruffian jumped upright, the heavy bag in his arms, teetering on his precarious perch.

The hobbits were mostly armed with clubs. A few held bows, arrows at the ready, but they had firm orders not to shoot, for the man must be taken alive. Somehow they must make him tell where Farry was to be found. Somehow...

***

The fat ruffian had filled Farry’s plate three times, somehow understanding a young hobbit’s appetite. He even patted Farry gingerly on the head, the last time, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like “good lad” though Farry could scarcely credit his ears.

When Farry finished his second plateful, the fat man untied Farry’s ankles and directed the youngest ruffian to take Farry out “behind a bush, to take care of any business that might need taken care of”, and for this Farry was doubly grateful, even as he was somewhat red-faced about having to “take care of business” under the young ruffian’s watching eye, as if he were a dog on a lead. The young ruffian was patient, and his eye did not quite stare at Farry, but rather past him somehow, and eventually Farry was able to do what was needful. The ruffian even poured water over the little hobbit’s hands, from a waterskin, to Farry’s bashful gratitude, almost as if he knew what Farry’s mum always said at such times.

And so he was almost comfortable, settling back on his soft “bed”, shyly returning the fat man’s smile as he accepted his third plate of food, and another cup of the fresh, cold water.

‘Good spring, that,’ the fat man said in a jovial tone. ‘I could almost settle down here, just to drink that water every morning.’

The young ruffian chuckled at this, and Farry smiled uncertainly. He didn’t know what had changed, why they were treating him so nicely after the rough treatment and threats of the previous night. Perhaps it was because he was cooperating. Perhaps just so long as he proved tractable, did as he was bidden, offered no trouble, they’d offer him no harm.

He’d continue to watch for a chance to escape, of course, but he’d have to be very cautious. Things were not so bad when Red was sleeping, but Farry feared what might happen if Red were the only one left awake, left to guard him, should he give Red even the slightest excuse...

Replete with food and drink, he put his plate aside at last and snuggled into the cloaks, falling asleep once more. Young hobbits need a great deal of sleep, as well as food, and Farry’s sleep the previous night, in the saddle, had been uncomfortable and interrupted. With his fear temporarily abated, and a full stomach, and warm covering, he was soon deep in slumber.

He did not even feel the fat man draw his covering aside, to bind together his ankles once more.

***

At last the procession exited the Great Smials proper, having collected most of the Tooks and servants who’d lined the corridors, a very long procession it was, indeed. As a matter of fact, the “head” reached the burial ground when the tail was still inside the Smials, and the bearers laid Ferdi gently on the rope-lined boards straddling the grave, stepped back, rubbed their aching backs, and waited for the crowd to gather.

Nell and the children, of course, stood directly at the head of the grave, huddled together. Regi, who’d say what needed saying, stood close by them with his wife, Rosamunda, who was, most conveniently, a healer. Should Nell show any signs of collapsing under the strain, well, Rosamunda was on the spot, as it were.

It took an eternity, seemingly, but at last the hobbits at the end of the procession arrived. The crowd was too large for the burial ground to contain, spilling out through the wide gateway, standing around the neat white-painted fence, and yet it was eerily silent. No one spoke a word. Regi’s murmur to the bearers was clearly heard, all the way to the back of the crowd. ‘Time,’ he said.

Nell gave a gasp and pressed her handkerchief against her mouth, while her children huddled closer, if possible. All these were weeping (all who were awake, that is, for babe and faunt still slept sweetly, well-wrapped against the chill), but their mother stood dry-eyed and wan, looking as if at any moment she might swoon. In point of fact, Laura, Haldi’s wife, felt compelled to take the babe from her, that the little lass not be accidentally dropped into the grave should Pimpernel’s senses fail her.

The bearers took up the ends of the ropes, pulling to take up the slack, lifting slightly, and the two gravediggers hastened to drag the boards out from under the shrouded figure. And then the bearers paid out their ropes slowly, ever so slowly, for it would not do to tip Ferdi such that he landed on his feet—or his head for that matter. That would not be an auspicious beginning, and would upset his mourners no end. No, they lowered him gently, slowly, until he came at last to rest, and then they drew the ropes out with great care, and stepped back.

Nell stood, staring at her Ferdi, lying in the soil of the land he loved so well, and gave a sad little hiccough.

Regi squeezed her elbow. ‘Are you ready?’ he said softly.

Something inside her screamed that never would she be ready, and what kind of daft question was that, and other such nonsense, but she pressed the handkerchief more firmly to her mouth, closed her eyes, and nodded.

***

Woodruff had dozed again, astonishing that, for she was used to being awake for long stretches. But Ted’s hand on her arm wakened her. ‘Sweetie?’

‘Um. Hum,’ she said, struggling to open her eyes. ‘Yes, herm, er... Ted?’ Joy flooded her, to see him looking at her earnestly, but obviously in his right mind. ‘Ted! My love!’

‘Sweetie,’ he said, but the urgency didn’t leave him. ‘Was it a fever dream? I have to know!’

Woodruff was grinning in relief. ‘The fever’s broken!’ she said, taking his cool hands in hers. ‘Ah, Teddie-lad, you don’t know what a relief...’

‘Was it but a fever dream, Sweetie,’ her beloved broke in, ‘or was it real?’

Woodruff was ready to assure him that whatever troubled him was just a dream, for he’d been raving in delirium for the previous two days, maybe three, she’d lost count, but he gripped her arms, pulling himself upright, fighting his exhaustion.

‘Are they truly burying Ferdi?’ His expression turned to a mix of guilt and dread. ‘Or did they bury him already?’

‘Why, Ted, dear,’ Woodruff said.

‘Is he in the grave?’ Ted insisted. ‘Or was it a mere fever fancy?’

‘I’m sorry, my love, but it’s true.’

Ted fell back on the pillows, and in his weakness he wept. ‘No,’ he whispered, while Woodruff tried to comfort him. And then he turned haunted eyes to his healer-wife, and whispered, ‘He’s not dead... or he wasn’t. They’ve buried him alive.’