Chapter Eight - Famous Raider

It was nearing twilight when the three hobbits approached Paladin’s apple orchard. It lay on the western edge of his farmland. Nearby, the hobbits waited under a cluster of walnut trees for the cover of complete darkness. After nightfall, Pippin instructed his friends to wait among these trees.

Merry never intended to stay behind while his young cousin went ransacking his father’s crops armed only with a sack. If he mentioned it to Pippin, it would only cause more arguing. Merry let his young cousin think he was in control.

Frodo watched with trepidation as Pippin disappeared into the pitch dark, “I don’t like this, Merry. Pippin isn’t as accomplished as we are.”

Merry raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but nodded, “I’m going to follow him. You’ll be all right?”

Frodo called softly, “Be careful!”

Merry smiled furtively, “Always, cousin.”

As he drew near the familiar stone hedge, Pippin took a running jump and dragged himself over the top. He landed soft on the other side, keeping a wary eye on the north gate. That is where the night watcher usually guarded, being that it was closest to the road…and wandering vagrants. Paladin never kept dogs, but as Merry said, he did employ a couple of field workers to mind the fields at night from the local truants. Pippin never imagined that he would be one of the truants his father wanted to keep out.

Pippin was now in the vineyard. Crouching between the rows of white grapes, Pippin peered over the edge to better see where the other night watchman would be. The second watchman wasn’t sitting in his usual spot on the market wagon that was always situated about fifty feet back from north gate. No one was stirring about; that was odd. Wait until I tell father!, he thought to himself, The watchers are slacking!

Pippin casually plucked a grape off of the vine and tasted it. Not ripe enough. He made a face at the sour sensation in his mouth, but swallowed it nonetheless. Further he crawled on his hands and knees, looking about just in case the watcher was indeed doing his duty. Pippin again peeked around the vines to find no one walking around the area. He got up to his feet, still hunched, he scrambled over a dozen or so rows to find yet another delicacy; carrots. Poor Pippin was so hungry by now that he pulled up on a handful of green stems and cleaned off as much earth as he could before sinking his teeth into a carrot. Not forgetting his cousins, he held the carrot in his mouth as he pulled up on a few more and threw them into the sack. On to the next pillage. The teen was on his way to the tomato vines at the west end of the field when he stepped on something round and firm. The potato patch! He sat down on his haunches and took up a bunch of these.

~ ~ ~

Merry hated slinking around in his uncle’s fields. He followed his young cousin from a short distance; just far enough away so that he wouldn’t suspect anything. He, too, took a running jump and hauled himself over the stone hedge. For his part, Merry kept pace with his cousin and watched Pippin from his spot near one end of the row of grapes. Merry crawled on all fours just as Pippin was doing at the upper end. He, too, tasted a wickedly sour grape, and promptly spit it out. He followed further as Pippin hurried over to the carrots and then to the potatoes. Merry couldn’t help himself as he stuffed a couple carrots into his shirt. He anticipated that Pippin would next make his way over to the tomato vines. There is where he would wait for Pippin to arrive and thought to surprise him. However…Pippin never came.

~ ~ ~

Silently Pippin counted, eight, nine, ten....eleven…twelve! A full dozen! Surely that will be enough. Holding onto his half eaten carrot with his teeth, Pippin stood up to move on towards the tomatoes.

“How does it taste?” Bellowed a voice behind him.

Pippin froze. That didn’t sound like Merry--or Frodo. He slowly turned around to face two tall and ominous Shirrifs...for hobbits, that is. He vaguely knew the elder First-Shirrif, but the younger, Second-Shirrif Pippin didn’t recognize at all. No sweet-talking him! Why were Shirrifs here? “What are you doing here?”

“Catchin’ vermints like ye,” said the Second-Shirrif. “What’re ye doin’ in Mr. Paladin Took’s crops, eh?”

“I am his son--Pippin Took.”

Both Shirrifs had a hearty laugh. “That’s what they all claim!”

“My father will be very angry when he learns you have hindered my efforts.” Pippin’s statement garnered even more laughter from the big hobbits.

Could it be that these two truly did not recognize him? Pippin backed up slowly, hoping to escape graciously. “I--I was only....only...,” Pippin didn’t know what else to do but run. He broke out into a sprint as fast as he could, backtracking towards the grapevines hoping to make it to the gate before they caught him.

The First-Shirrif was older and slow, but the younger Second-Shirrif was on Pippin like a cat. And unfortunately, Pippin was not known to be a fast runner; that would require healthy lungs to accomplish. Pippin went down like a sack of...potatoes, and squirmed under the weight of the younger Shirrif until he broke free. He quickly got up and flew in the direction of the market wagon to hide underneath. Clouds of dust rose up into the darkness as he slid beneath it. The Second Shirrif wasn’t hindered in the least; he slid under the same wagon with greater speed, sending a larger dust cloud about the area.

Rolling out the other side, Pippin gathered himself and ran full speed towards the stone hedge he initially crawled over. Again, the younger Shirrif was quicker. He grabbed the small teenager by his shirt, jerking him backward to the ground just shy of hedge.

“Get off me!” Pippin gasped.

“Who are ye?”

“No one!” yelled Pippin, coughing amid the dry, dusty earth. “Get off me--you…you’re crushing me!”

“I won’t get off ‘til ye tell me who ye are!”

Out of breath, Pippin squirmed some more. “No one, I said!” He already tried telling the truth, so he lied.

The elder Shirrif came up, roughly grabbed Pippin up by the back of his shirt collar and yanked him up. Pippin nearly choked, then started swinging at the air with his fists. The First Shirrif held onto the shirt collar in his fist, keeping the lad at bay, “Now there’ll be no more o’that, ye lit’l thief! Who are ye? Speak!!”

Pippin fell silent and still. He was not about to get his cousins into trouble. The Mayor and the Shirrifs were not very kind to adult--or even near adult hobbits who went about the Shire raiding farms. Children and Teens were usually forgiven with restitution rendered to the landowner, and then escorted directly to their parents for further discipline.

The First Shirrif demanded, “Where’s yer helper?”

Pippin said nothing.

Then the First-Shirrif added, “Not in the mood for talkin’, eh? Mister Took’s strap ought to make ye sing like a robin in spring!” Both Shirrifs laughed, trying to frighten the boy into talking, but Pippin remained silent. Seeing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the lad, the First-Shirrif let go of Pippin’s collar shoving him back to the ground with force.

The Second-Shirrif grabbed the sack out of Pippin’s hands, “What do we ’ave ’ere? Carrots? And a sack full of taters!” He hauled Pippin up again by his upper arm, “Get in the cart!” They tied (not too tight) Pippin’s wrists to the seat behind them and set off in the direction of Great Smials.

The Second-Shirrif turned to face Pippin, “Seems there’s a Famous Raider going from the South Farthin’, and now through to Tuckborough here lootin’ all the crops and orchards. Mister Took don’t take nice at all to Raiders!” Then he turned back around in his seat to face forward. “Thanks to ye, yer family will be payin’ the Thain’s heir for ye spoils ‘til their dyin’ days!”

Pippin knew his father wasn’t anything like what these Shirrifs were playing him out to be. “My fa--!” Pippin started to defend his father then stopped himself. It seemed they didn’t know who they had just picked up, and he would at least stay silent now for the sake of his father.

The younger Shirrif turned round and asked, “Yer what?”

Pippin said nothing.

“I thought as much,” he replied. “Now keep silent, knave, since that’s what ye’re good at.”