Chapter 10. Matters of Conscience
Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR, Middle-Earth, or the characters therein, and never will.
A/N: Thanks largely to the dedicated Goldie, I am back with another chapter. This chapter takes the story in a direction I hadn't originally planned, exploring problems of class prejudice and privilege (cautious as I tend to be in using the term), and the skewing effects they have upon justice even in the quiet, idyllic Shire. I have to thank Goldie Gamgee for her thoughts on this and her encouragement to take this story down a darker and more thoughtful road than I had planned when I went on hiatus over two years ago. Thank you for your review, Goldie - I felt very much welcomed back! This chapter is for you, and I just hope that despite my haste in writing it, and my limited sociopolitical knowledge it explores these issues in a somewhat satisfying way!
Frodo was already at the Bolgers' doorstep before he realised that, in his state of anxiety and restlessness, he'd forgotten that its inhabitants were likely to be still asleep. Once on horseback and trotting at a good pace along the smooth streets, bordered by well-kept hedgerows, he'd found himself shaking from a combination of fear for Sam, and a sense of disquiet, brought on by the dream, that no amount of resolute talking to himself could quell.
It was light now — a dog barked further along down the road, and a magpie squawked garrulously at him from the branches of a pear tree. He was about to remount and ride about Hobbiton for an hour or so to pass the time and get his nerves under control, when he heard the sound of running footsteps and someone struggling with the door from inside. The next minute the door was flung open and Sam stood there, shivering slightly, in a pair of Fatty's old pyjamas. There was a look in his eyes of desperate beseeching. Only all the Gaffer's drilling in propriety prevented him from flinging himself headlong into Frodo's arms.
Frodo's heart turned over. He had never seen the young hobbit so obviously distressed. Dropping the pony's reins entirely, he stepped forward and hugged Sam tightly. The child's entire body was shaking with the effort of holding back tears. But a moment later, Sam stepped back, seemingly composed once more, swiping a small but determined fist across his uncooperative left eye. "Ye've forgotten to tie your pony up, Mr Frodo," he reminded his master, in a voice smaller than usual and a little shaky.
"O dear!" Frodo exclaimed, dismayed. "You stay right here, lad — I'll tie her up and then we can talk."
Fortunately the pony had not wandered far — she was eating the new daffodils by the Bolger front gate. Cursing his own forgetfulness and her insatiable appetite, Frodo dragged her away and tied her to the side gate, where she could nibble the grass or the hedge without causing too much damage. Then he rushed back inside. Sam was standing where he'd left him, forlorn despite all his efforts to appear otherwise.
Frodo took him gently by the shoulder and led him to the sofa in the living room. Fatty was nowhere in sight, but there were bigger things on his mind than the fear of being a presumptuous guest. Sam sat bolt upright on the comfortable sofa, not meeting Frodo's eyes.
Frodo was starting to feel sick again, and not with worry so much as a growing sense of awfulness and shame. "Sam lad, what's wrong?" he asked.
A painful struggle passed across Sam's round features, before he blurted out, "You didn't ought to have helped me escape, Mr Frodo. Now Grelion's like to lose his job because of me."
"Grelion?" Frodo said in confusion.
"The guard. The young one. He's never been ought but kind to me, Mr Frodo. Talked to me of an evening, and even shared his cake with me once, he did. And now he's going to be dismissed, and…and it'll be all my fault." Sam sniffed.
Frodo put his arm around Sam's shoulders in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "No, it won't be," he said, with as much assurance as he could muster. "It will all be fine — and whatever happens, it won't be your fault. None of this is your fault, and I don't care what that idiotic tribunal said to the contrary. Remember that."
Sam digested this for a moment, but his small frame did not relax. "So what will ye do about Grelion, then, sir?" he said.
"I don't know," Frodo admitted. "I'll figure it out. But don't worry your head about it, lad. It's not your problem to solve."
"Ye can't let him be punished, sir! He didn't do ought!"
"I won't, Sam. I'll figure something out, I promise."
Sam looked at him, with that searching look Frodo still wasn't used to receiving from such a young companion. Attempts to hide his worry were useless in the face of that look, and Frodo knew it, with a sick, sinking feeling of failure.
"I'll give myself up," said Sam, seeing that his master was distressed. "The cell wasn't so bad, really. I had blankets and a bed and they gave me food and water, regular-like. I'll go back, and then you won't have to worry no more. I never meant to cause such trouble, Mr Frodo," he said, almost pleading.
Frodo felt that he couldn't stand it. A hot, helpless rage, as much at himself as at anyone, was rising within him. "Sam, you won't!" he exclaimed — then lowered his voice, so as not to frighten the young hobbit further. "Sam, if you go back there, I'll worry about you, same as before. I don't care about the bother. Sweet Elbereth! It's I should beg your forgiveness. I should've stood up for you better, Sam, and that's the truth, and I won't have you pay for my mistake." He stopped abruptly, fearing that he'd said too much. Sam's eyes were fixed on him, wide and somewhat uncomprehending. "Sam, I promise you, you won't have to go back to the Lockholes. And first thing I go back, I'll make sure Grelion is out of hot water." Though Elbereth knows how I'll manage that, he added internally.
There was a noise of rapid feet on the stairs (like many holes built into a hill, the Bolger home was a multi-tiered affair), followed by a noise as of a heavy object falling down them and a yelp. Fatty Bolger, roused by Frodo's exclamation and thinking immediately of breakfast, had taken the stairs too fast for his sleep-fuddled brain, and had consequently lost his footing and rolled down them — effectively murdering Frodo's tête-à-tête with Sam.
They breakfasted together. Frodo was eager to be off, with little stomach for food, but Sam gave him such a pleading look that he could not refuse. He hugged the younger hobbit twice at the door, half-sick with the fear that he might not, after all, be able to protect Sam as he had promised.
By the time he was back at Bag End, Frodo's fears had turned into steely resolve. A half-hour's hard reflection had not only formed the beginnings of a plan, but had brought into inescapable clarity a few things to which he had hitherto been blind. He had sometimes thought in passing that Sam was too sober and responsible for any hobbitling of his years, but somehow the façade of grave responsibility had still done its intended work. Angry as he'd been about the outcome of the trial, he'd still thought only of the Sackville-Bagginses' spite and not of the fact that a sentence of imprisonment had been passed upon a mere child — as little as Sam might act like one.
Of course, it was to be expected — Sam was a lowly gardener's son. But, he thought, with a sickness rising in his throat, had it been Merry, things would have been much different. The combined weight of the second most powerful family in the whole Shire would have come down on his side, and like as not, the Sackville-Bagginses would soon have been the ones apologising. Certainly his cousin would not have ended up in the Lockholes with a six-week sentence! No, the whole thing was unjust and awful, and the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that Bilbo must agree.
The three hobbits breakfasting quietly at Bag End looked up in astonishment as Frodo strode in, dark curls dishevelled, jaw set with a steel none of them had ever seen in him before.
Merry immediately turned to him a face that was eager and alert — and somewhat smeared with scrambled egg. Bilbo blinked sleepily. Rosalcia met his eyes briefly and quickly looked away. She had a curious expression on her pretty face. Truth be told, she had barely slept, but the skilful application of powder and rouge easily concealed the shadows beneath her eyes.
Frodo looked straight at Merry and declared, "I'm telling Bilbo. Everything." Then, rounding on his uncle — "A moment — your study?" He ignored Rosalcia, who sat still, too troubled to pout, and strode down the passageway towards the study without waiting for Bilbo to leave his chair.
"Well, my lad, this is a pickle and no mistake." Bilbo had reached for his pipe at some point during Frodo's story, and was blowing smoke-rings to soothe himself. They drifted up to the ceiling of the small study and, pulling apart slowly like the ripples in a pond, consigned themselves one by one to oblivion.
"But I can't see what can be done," he continued. "We did our best for Sam, and I feel responsible for the lad… but the tribunal made their decision, and we've got to stick by it. The Gamgees are law-abiding hobbits, same as you and me, and they'd say the same. I fear you've just made things worse now, Frodo. Sam will have to turn himself in — there's nothing for it, I'm afraid. They don't treat them badly, you know, my lad. He'll have adequate food, and warmth, and I know you'll visit him as often as you are able."
"Perhaps," said Frodo bitterly, "but he'll still be locked up in a cage for six weeks, won't he? Food and warmth don't take away the iron bars on the door! And he's just a child. How can that possibly be right, Uncle?"
"Frodo…wiser hobbits than you and me made the laws — " Bilbo began.
"You weren't so law-abiding when you were a Burglar!" Frodo cried. "If those hobbits were so wise, then how come even I can see that this is cruel and unjust?"
"I don't know." The older hobbit sighed.
"Think about this, Uncle. If I had done this when I was twelve — if Merry had been sitting there in the dock instead of Sam — we'd have got off. It would have been 'childish foolishness, and there's an end to it.' Most like, it wouldn't have come to trial. Remember how much was made of Sam's 'disorderly behaviour' — knocking over Miss Bracegirdle's flower stall, a few scraps and scuffles here and there, sassing a 'better' …. He's a child, Uncle. When I was his age I was pilfering mushrooms from Farmer Maggot and getting up to all sorts of trouble. I'm sure I must have knocked over a half-dozen market stalls. And what — just because I was rich — because the Brandybucks are rich — it was 'a young rascal, that Frodo, but there's no harm done,' while Sam gets six weeks in the Lockholes for defending me?!" He realised belatedly that he was shouting, for the second time that day. "I'm sorry, Uncle. I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but this isn't right, and if only you'd help us speak up, maybe it could be made right."
"I'm sorry, my boy. You're right." Bilbo drew his hand across his eyes. When had he started to look so strained? Not old — he was, as he had always been, remarkably well-preserved for a hobbit of his years — but thinly-spread somehow. Distracted. Frodo did not point out that it wasn't him Bilbo owed an apology to.
"And I owe an apology to the lad, too," Bilbo said, as if sensing Frodo's thoughts. "I've been…well, the truth is, my boy, I've been so caught up in foolish worries! About my translation work, and the book, and the Ring… I forget, half the time, that not everyone we know has a warm study and hours of leisure and shelves full of books. But we must make this right. I see that now. I see…." He trailed off, covering his eyes again. Frodo put a hand on his shoulder.
"It's not your fault, Uncle. I'm just glad you can help us. I've been at my wits' end to think how I can stop this whole foolish venture from hurting Sam further." He paused and drew a long sigh. "I feel like a fool. I saw what I chose to see. The lad is twelve, and he has more responsibilities than I do. And I have let him go quietly on serving me, with barely a word of real acknowledgement…. Not because I don't care, but because I didn't see…."
"So we have both erred," Bilbo acknowledged with a sad smile. "But I have less excuse than you. Having more years, I should have known better. So often it's the young who see with clearer eyes! I am glad you came to me, Frodo.
"But now," he cried, striding to the door of the study and flinging it open, "let us see about how to get justice for young Sam. Merry — Rosy — Come here a minute! We need to make a plan."
A/N: Thoughts? I'd love to hear them! Please leave a review :)