27. Arrangements

September 25, 1392

By the evening of the third day after the party, life at the Hill was essentially back to normal. In Number 3, Bagshot Row, thoughts turned once more to Hamson’s departure, for the eldest Gamgee child was expected in Tighfield by early October.

Hamfast Gamgee paused in the doorway of Number 3, Bagshot Row, smiling fondly at his eldest son. He was terribly proud of the lad, although he would never dream of saying so. The Gaffer took care not to spoil any of the children, never mind Bell’s exasperated insistence that none were likely to spoil, and Hamson least of all.

The Gaffer grinned to himself, thinking of the wry amusement in Bell’s voice whenever she scolded him for his ‘ridiculous’ notions. A grand lass was Bell Goodchild. He had scarcely believed his good fortune when she’d declared she would have him. Always had seen through his gruff exterior, had Bell.

“Something the matter, Da?” the object of his earlier musings interrupted him. Hamson was staring curiously as he hefted the axe with which he had been chopping firewood.

“Nay, Hamson,” Hamfast replied, chagrined at being caught wool-gathering. He was a plain, sensible hobbit, and he didn’t hold with daydreaming. Such things were best left to the gentlefolk, like Mr. Bilbo, bless him.

Hamson grinned and wisely said nothing. He set another log upon the block for splitting and wielded the axe with the ease of long practice.

The Gaffer watched approvingly. Hamson was too serious for his own good sometimes, but he was a sensible and reliable lad. He had grown big and strong, and he was more than ready to learn a trade. Hamfast had delayed as long as he could sending Hamson to Tighfield—the apprenticeship had been arranged nearly three years ago—although he would certainly never admit to being influenced by anything so foolish as sentiment. But perhaps he could be forgiven a trifle of regret at the imminent departure of his first-born...

“I had a message from your Uncle Andwise today, lad,” Hamfast said after a few moments. He had gone to the postmaster to have it read that very morning.

“Oh, aye?” Hamson swung his axe again, and another log split neatly in two. The tweenager nodded to himself in satisfaction. “What does he say, Da?”

“All is set for your arrival,” Hamfast said with a sigh. “Andy and Emerald are expectin’ ye within a fortnight. Your cousin Anson has been ill, seemingly, but all’s well now.”

“How shall I get there, Da?”

“I expect I can get ye passage with the post, or perhaps one o’ the merchants, Ham,” the Gaffer replied. He stepped fully outside and settled on the bench for a smoke. Dusk was deepening rapidly, but Hamfast did not fail to notice the slight smile that Hamson wore. The lad was happy to be going, that was clear enough. And why not? He was young and active, nearly of age and eager to make his own way in the world.

Hamson put away his axe and stacked the week’s firewood neatly beside the door.

“That’ll suit me fine,” the tweenager said, still wearing that far-off smile. The Gaffer could not say the prospect pleased him, but he was glad to see his son so ready to embrace new challenges.

“I know ye’ll work real hard for your uncle, and do me right proud,” Hamfast said gruffly around the stem of his pipe.

Hamson sat down beside his father. “I won’t disappoint you, Da,” he said seriously.

“Ye never have, lad,” the Gaffer muttered aloud, without quite meaning to.

Father and son sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. They could hear Sam and Marigold playing in the sitting room, and Bell telling them it was bedtime.

“I do wish—” Hamson burst out suddenly, then stopped, fingering the cuff of his sleeve awkwardly.

“Aye?” the Gaffer prompted when the tweenager did not continue. Hamson was a quiet lad, and when he spoke his words tended to be well thought-out.

“I do wish ye’d reconsider lettin’ Master Bilbo learn Sam his letters,” Hamson finished softly.

Hamfast glanced at his son in surprise. “No good comes of getting’ mixed up in the business o’ your betters, Ham. I thought ye knew that. Sam’s business is taters and cabbages, and that’s a fact.”

“I know, Da, but I wish—” Hamson broke off.

“It’s the way o’ things, Ham,” the Gaffer said with an air of finality. “It’s no use wishin’ things were different. Sam-lad learnin’ ta read from fancy books wouldn’t do anyone no good, himself least of all.  We Gamgees have gotten along just fine so far, and I won’t have Sam gettin’ above his station with such notions. Goodness knows it’s hard enough keeping that lad’s head outta the clouds as it is, with Master Bilbo and now young Mr. Frodo filling it with tales o’ dragons and such.” Hamfast shook his head exasperatedly at the thought of his eccentric masters up the hill.

Hamson grinned and got to his feet, hastily straightening the cuff he had been fidgeting with. “Well, I shan’t change me mind, Da. I still wish it ta be different. But good luck to ye keepin’ Sam’s head out o’ the clouds!”

The Gaffer chuckled and followed his eldest son into the smial. Hamson would certainly be missed.

September 28, 1392

On a bright, busy morning nearly a week after the party, Hamfast Gamgee found himself standing awkwardly in the Hobbiton dry goods shop, speaking with one Largo Bracegirdle, a merchant from Waymoot.

“Aye, I pass right through Tighfield,” Largo said, eying the Gaffer speculatively. “I’m away to Bywater on the morrow, but I’ll be back this way in four days’ time.”

“And do ye take passengers very often, sir?” Hamfast inquired, trying to ignore how the merchant’s gold buttons shone importantly on his waistcoat.

“Oh, certainly,” Largo assured him with a wink. “I often have two or three at a time. I’ve plenty of room for your boy, and I’ll give you a fairer price than the post will.”

Hamfast had already inquired and found that sending Hamson to Tighfield by post would cost three silver coins, a significant sum even for a hobbit of some means, which Hamfast was certainly not. The postmaster himself had suggested one of the local merchants. Largo Bracegirdle was not very well known in Hobbiton, but he had been doing business in this part of the Shire for many years and was known to take passengers fairly often. He had a reputation of safe and timely delivery of both goods and passengers, and the postmaster had known of no complaints.

“Right then,” Hamfast replied. “What of the fee, Mr. Bracegirdle?”

Largo fingered the chain of his pocket watch thoughtfully. “Shall we say... two silver, five copper?”

“I’m not a wealthy hobbit, sir,” the Gaffer replied, continuing the age-old tradition of hobbit bargaining. “I’ll give ye two silver even.”

Largo nodded and gave a slight bow. “Very well, sir, I accept,” the merchant said. “I’ll have a contract drawn up and bring it by early in the morning before I leave. I’ll come for the boy October the 3rd. Will that suit?”

“Aye, I reckon it will, thankee,” Hamfast answered. It was still a considerable expense, but the Gaffer had known it would be.

Hamfast and Largo parted company, and Hamfast headed out of town, for he was due to start work up at Bag End in a few minutes.

September 29, 1392

Sam was just rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he heard the sounds of a wagon coming to a halt in front of Bagshot Row. He hurriedly finished dressing and ran out, past his noisily chattering siblings in the kitchen, to press his nose against the round window in the front room. The little boy squinted into the fresh dawn light. He could just make out a squat, hobbit-shaped figure hopping down from the wagon, holding something in his hand, seemingly. The stranger came a little closer to the window when he walked around to tether his pony, and Sam saw that he was quite old, perhaps nearly middle-aged, and rather well dressed.

“Who’s that, Mum?” Sam called, finally giving in to his curiosity.

“Get your nose off the glass, lad, or it’ll stick there,” Bell admonished him. Sam hastily pulled his face away from the window. Once he had gotten over his relief that his nose was still firmly attached to his face, he realized that his mother had not answered his question.

“Mum?”

“I don’t know him, love. Now come help me put breakfast on the table.” Bell had come up behind him and was peering out the window herself, although Sam noted that she did not risk her nose by leaning too close to the glass.

The strange hobbit outside had finished tethering his pony by now, and to Sam’s amazement he made straight for the door of Number 3.

“He’s come, Hamfast,” Bell said quietly, for Sam’s father had just come in to the front room.

“Aye,” was the Gaffer’s only response.

Sam looked curiously from his mother to his father. They both looked a little sad, he thought. He didn’t see any reason why they should be, really. The arrival of a visitor was a terrifically exciting event, after all; Sam could barely contain himself, hopping from foot to foot in anticipation.

The chatter in the kitchen died down as a resounding knock at the door echoed round the smial.

The Gaffer opened the door, and the intriguing stranger stepped inside.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Gamgee,” said the visitor. “Mrs. Gamgee,” he added, catching sight of Bell. He did not acknowledge Sam, half-hiding behind his mother’s skirts.

“Thankee for comin’, Mr. Bracegirdle,” was the Gaffer’s polite reply.

“Can I get ye a cup o’ tea, sir?” Bell inquired courteously.

“Thank you, no,” Largo Bracegirdle answered. “I’ve only got a minute, only a minute; I’m due in Bywater by second breakfast, but I have your contract right here.” He motioned to the official-looking roll of parchment in his hand.

Hamfast led Largo to the kitchen table, where the document was soon laid flat. Bell went to stand by the stove, her expression unreadable. Sam joined his brothers and sisters, crowded against the opposite wall, watching wide-eyed as their father sat down in front of the sheet of cream-coloured paper covered in little black marks. Sam thought he recognized the snake-shaped one that Frodo had told him was the first letter of his name, all those months ago when Frodo had been ill.

“I think you’ll find this is all in order,” Largo said cheerfully. “Two silvers even, as we agreed, and I shall convey your lad safely to Tighfield. Just make your mark here” he pointed to a long line at the bottom “and you may pay me the 2nd of Winterfilth, the evening before the journey.”

Sam was startled by Largo’s words; he hadn’t realized before that this was all about Hamson’s departure. Was that why his mother looked sad? Sam wasn’t really sure what it all meant, but it seemed terribly serious and important. Marigold and May looked as confused as he felt, but Daisy and Halfred wore the same guarded expression as Bell. Hamson was the only one who seemed himself, Sam decided. His eldest brother looked quiet and calm as always.

Largo had removed a pen from his coat pocket, and dipped it swiftly in the inkwell he had just unstoppered. The Gaffer accepted the proffered pen and made a broad “X” on the line Largo had indicated.

“Excellent,” Largo said, smiling. He put away his pen while the ink dried, then rolled up the parchment again and bowed to Bell. “Thank you for the use of your table, ma’am. Pleasure doing business with you, sir, absolute pleasure.” And Sam thought he did indeed look quite happy.

Largo made a hasty exit, muttering again about needing to get to Bywater, and Bell silently resumed setting out breakfast. Proper hobbits through and through, the Gamgees set about demolishing their food as usual, but Sam couldn’t help but notice everyone was unusually quiet. He supposed it was because Hamson was going away soon. But Sam couldn’t imagine what life would be like without Hamson, and he quickly gave up trying, focusing instead on buttering his sixth slice of toast.