Chapter Three: And Whither Then? I Can Not Say

Tongues began to wag in Hobbiton and Bywater; and rumour…travelled all over the Shire. The history and character of Mr. Bilbo Baggins became once again the chief topic of conversation. – The Fellowship of the Ring, A Long-Expected Party

Setting: Hobbiton, the Green Dragon; October 3, 1418

It had been a few days since Gandalf’s visit; a few days in which the Gaffer had been able to wallow in misery as he reflected on his conversation with Gandalf.  He came up with several possible scenarios about what that Black Man could have been there for. None of them, of course, were any good.  Finally, enough had been enough, and his son-in-law, Tom Cotton Jr. had insisted that he visit the Green Dragon for a good ale: something to clear his mind. So there he was, reclining as though he was in the comfort of his own home. But the bartender didn’t mind, so long as the coins kept coming his way. And come they would, so long as he had the best storyteller – or gossiper, depending on how you looked at it – to rely a first hand account of the mysterious Black Man. It was all they wanted to hear about and many were willing to pay a pretty pence to hear it straight from the source.

 “Did he say what he wanted?” Sandyman inquired. “I’ll bet you he was after old Bilbo’s foreign gold! He always was an old fool to leave for lands over yonder. I’ve always said it would lead him into trouble and it looks like I was right!”

The Gaffer shook his head. “I’ve said it many a time before, Mr. Sandyman, there ain’t no hidden gold in Bag End. It weren’t on Mr. Bilbo’s pony when he came back 77 years ago and he sure didn’t find any here in the Shire. Besides,” he continued before a word could be offered to the contrary, “if it was gold he wanted, he would ‘ave knocked me aside and had his way. No, he was after a Baggins – not the gold.”

“But what could he have wanted with Frodo Baggins?” Hamfast did not need to look up to recognize the voice of Old Daddy Twofoot. The old hobbit had been rather fond of Frodo despite his oddities as a born and bred – downright queer – Bucklander. He had always been one of the few to insist that Frodo had far more sense than most of the local folk gave him credit for.

The whole bar fell quite. The Gaffer hadn’t quite realized what a vast audience he had until then. Now that was the question. Everyone in the Shire was convinced that Old Bilbo had been cracked for years before he finally had his memorable farewell.  But there had appeared to be a glimmer of hope that Frodo would lead a somewhat ordinary life in his later years. He had never been out of the Shire before to anyone’s knowledge, though he had taken to wandering about the woods in search of Elves.  What had convinced everyone of his sanity – and therefore, lack of wanderlust as well - was that he had had plenty of opportunity to leave, but had not taken it. Some had said that he was bidding his time – and now it would appear that they had been right all along. That still, though, did not answer the question of what the Men wanted with Mr. Frodo. If he had never been beyond the Shire, then how could he have gotten into trouble with them?

No one in the room spoke. But the Gaffer knew it would never last. Tongues would begin to wag once they loosened up and their owners found their misplaced voices. There was one thing, though, that no one knew about. That was Gandalf’s visit. Hamfast knew what would happen then, if anyone ever did learn about that. The wizard would never be trusted again. If he could convince a Gamgee to leave the safety of the Shire, then there really must be something to his “magic” and no one would be able to stand the sight of the wizard’s face. The Gaffer for one, had no real desire to see the old Conjurer (or whatever he was) again, but he had said that night that he was going to help Sam. Help with what the Gaffer couldn’t rightly imagine, but if Gandalf was up to something good, then the Gaffer had the sense not to send the entire Shire population after him for trickery. No, Gandalf’s involvement had better be kept secret for as long as possible.

“Can’t say that I know. He might’ve been wanting old Mr. Bilbo, not knowing that Mr. Frodo was in charge of the place.” That was as good a guess as any had and he knew they would never buy it. But for the life of him, he couldn’t think of any other likely scenario.

“But Mr. Bilbo’s dead, he’s got to be. He’d be nigh on 130 now. And there’s only one other Hobbit who’s lived that long. Surely Men know that Hobbit’s don’t have Elvish immortality. Not even the Baggins’.” There was a murmur of approval. Even the Gaffer’s superior, first-hand knowledge, would not take precedence over Sandyman’s – for once – undeniable common sense.

If the folk had thought they would be getting answers from Hamfast that afternoon, they were sorely mistaken. They knew about as much as he did. Well, in the case of the Black Rider, they knew everything. Gandalf hadn’t exactly said who they were. As soon as he had mentioned them, he had made a run for it: that in and of itself was unusual. He had never seen a wizard panic before. It had always been said that there was a first time for everything. Well now he believed it. Men in the Shire and a panicky wizard!  If the absurdities kept up, the King would come back escorting his Sam!  The Gaffer just rolled his eyes. No, that would never happen. Not while the Third Age lasted.

“What do you make of the attack, Gaffer?” It was a new voice that now intervened: new, but not unfamiliar. The whole crowed forcibly withheld their groans. One would think that by now Lotho Sackville-Baggins would know when he was not wanted, and they would be wrong.

The Gaffer abruptly snapped out of his reverie. “What attack, sir?” He added this last almost as an afterthought.  Strange as things had been in the past few days, one thing that had not happened, was an attack. Or at least, that’s what he had thought. Besides, he wasn’t sure if he believed it.

“The one on Frodo’s home in Buckland, of course!”

Now he certainly did not believe it. Lotho had never been one to associate with the Brandybucks of Buckland. Quite the contrary, he had spent most of his childhood making Mr. Frodo’s life miserable just because of birth-place. He had once said that no one could pay him to associate with “the River Folk” as he liked to call them simply to grate on young Frodo’s nerves.

“I was over in the East Farthing not 2 days ago on business,” Lotho continued.  “The Master was in quite a sullen mood and when I inquired he said that his son had vanished with that fool cousin of mine and that the house had been broken down and ransacked. You mean you haven’t heard of it?”

The Gaffer slowly shook his head. Well he would believe that money had taken Lotho over Buckland way, certainly nothing else ever would.  “No, I’ve been keepin’ inside lately,” he answered quietly.  He was not about to mention that he had been avoiding his former master’s kin.

“Well, I heard – mind you, straight from the Master himself! - that Fredegar Bolger, one of Frodo’s fool friends, was covering up for him at the cottage. But then some Black folk came but before they could get there, Fredegar ran to the nearest home and fell on the floor screaming that he didn’t have it. No one could get any sense out of him and when he finally calmed down he refused to talk. The Master himself went to the house and found it ransacked. Some other Hobbits saw the Black Folks too, but no one stayed around long enough to get a good look at them.”

“What about my Sam?” The Gaffer had enough sense to know that Lotho wouldn’t give a care about a lowly gardener’s son, but it was worth a try at any rate.

“Now that’s the tricky part. No one knows where they are. Fredegar wouldn’t say. Just that he was sworn to silence until they got back and he wouldn’t say when that was supposed to be.”

“Strange as news from Bree, that’s what it is,” Sandyman mumbled, taking another swig of his ale. He was starting to look a little tipsy and the Gaffer was going to have to split soon. A conversation about Mr. Frodo with one of them S.B.s and a slightly drunk Sandyman, never made for a good combination.

It rarely happened that the audience knew more than the story teller, but that appeared to be the case.  “But my Sam,” the Gaffer all but stuttered to no one in particular, unwilling to give up straight away. “What’s happened to my Sam-lad? Surely someone must’ve seen ‘im an’ the others! Hobbits don’t just…” He had been about to say that ‘Hobbits don’t just disappear’, but he had seen evidence to contrary with his own eyes while waiting on the tables at the Farewell Party that was already becoming a legend amongst they youngsters.

“No one knows, Gaffer,” the despicable Sackville-Baggins continued with nonchalant tone. The Master’s wife remembers hearing her son and nephew speaking about Rivendell, wondering what the weather was like there. She thinks that’s where they may have gone. But where that is no one rightly knows, probably nothin’ more than a fairy-tale place Old Bilbo made up and the kid swallowed the story: rick, cot and tree!They could be anywhere, Master Gamgee!” He added this last with a sarcastic tone and a cheeky grin before tipping his hat. He then threw a few coins at the bartender before swaggering out of the pub.  He had not said it, but everyone present had learned to read what was not said when the Sackville-Bagginses were involved. He had no idea where Frodo and his companions were and they could starve in the wild for all he cared. As long Bag End remained his, he didn’t give a rip about what happened to that lot of fools.

Hamfast Gamgee had been able to hold his ale amongst large crowds and through several drinking games for many a’ year.  But this was the last straw. All he was aware of was, well nothing. His mind had gone numb and he was barely aware of several panicked voices and breaking glasses before a sharp pain grabbed his head and he knew no more.

* To Be Continued *