Chapter 8: Aiding Mr. Cotton

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cotton, but under no circumstance can I allow you to return home tonight."

Mr. Cotton scowled from where he sat enjoying a quiet smoke in the doorway of Bag End. At the foot of the stairs, two familiar hobbits sat tall on stout ponies ignoring the rain that beat around them. They looked less like travelers and more like generals. "Normally, I'd ask what authority you have to make such orders. But I trust you, Master Meriadoc, and Sam here. If you say it ain't safe, then it ain't safe. But I've got a family to worry about and stomachs to fill."

"Leave that to us," Sam said. "If you will, Sir. Merry and I will see you safe to the nearest inn, then we'll be off to fetch Rosie and the lads. We found Mrs. Cotton at the market already. She'll be waiting for you at the Green Dragon."

Merry nodded his agreement in silence. His gaze traveled past Farmer Cotton into the messy halls of Bag End. It was strange to see Frodo's home in such shambles. The floors were littered in wood and chips, walls were missing or riddled with holes, and it was unnaturally empty. Even the garden was barren with streams of mud and piles of wood and brick. Merry sat tall as he returned his attention to the hobbit on the doorstep.

"There's work to be done here, when the rain lets up," Mr. Cotton was saying. "I've given the lads a break, but they'll be back any time now. I don't want to leave them here alone, not with Ted Sandyman about."

"Sandyman!" Sam cried. "I'd almost forgot about him! What sort of trouble is that block-head up to now?"

"Not trouble, not yet. It was Frodo's idea, it was, having him help out. But I don't trust him."

"You mean he's helping out here?" Merry cried. "With Bag End? Doesn't Frodo realize he's probably the one who messed it up in the first place?"

"'Course he does," said Sam. "It's just like Mr. Frodo to go giving him a second chance. I'm just glad you're here, Mr. Cotton, to keep an eye on things incase they dosn't work out as they should."

Merry sighed. Frodo had a kind heart and he admired that, but sometimes it hurt him more than it helped. Sandyman had been given a second chance when they arrived and he had chosen to side with Saruman. He didn't deserve a third.

Mr. Cotton nodded as if he read this thought. "Me too. Which is why I can't just up and leave the place to go hide in an inn."

"No," Merry agreed. "That won't do. You should stay and supervise the progress. Sam and I will help. Just tell us what needs to be done and we'll do it."

Merry hopped off his pony and tied it to a crooked post that had once been part of a fence. The farmer frowned as he snuffed out his pipe and got to his feet. "Now wait just a minute, Master Brandybuck. You needn't help if you don't feel comfortable. I've got more than enough hands to handle it."

"Comfortable!" Merry scoffed. "Mr. Cotton, I assure you, I'd feel far more comfortable helping out than sitting here and watching. Now where did you leave off?"

"Well, the Shire certainly takes security seriously these days." Mr. Cotton shook his head, stepping into the rain and starting down the stairs.

"We're not here of behalf of the Shire," Merry said. "We're here as your friends. But let's get started before we drown in this miserable weather!"

Farmer Cotton could think of no protest. These hobbits, the three who'd run off with Sam about a year ago, were something special at no mistake. They weren't like any gentlehobbits he'd seen before, not afraid to get their hands dirty or do some heavy lifting. In fact, they didn't seem afraid of anything, not Ruffians or thunderstorms or a night out in the cold. Merry took everything in stride, calm and collected, with a steady plan for everything. Frodo had his moments of silence, but they seemed filled more with sadness than fear, as if he was grieving for some hidden loss. Even Sam had returned hardened. He was twice as strong as he used to be, and far less shy. If he did indeed marry Rosie as planned, he'd be honored to have the lad join his family. And that Peregrin Took, why, he wasn't even of age, but it was said he a knight among Men! While the thought was indeed bizarre, after watching him ride about the Shire driving out Ruffians and carrying messages, it wasn't so difficult to believe.

Mr. Cotton held the door open as the two drenched hobbits ran inside. If more folk started acting like them, he thought, the Shire would soon become twice what it used to be. He shook the thoughts from his head as he stepped inside and turned his attention back to the damaged walls. "Well now. Let's get to work."

Peregrin Took rode beside his father in silence. At first it had been easy, for his mind was alive with fear and anticipation, but after a while he began to realize even at the swiftest pace it would be late afternoon before they reached Hobbiton, and longer still before they reached the Cottons. He could only hope they wouldn't be too late.

"If refusing to talk to me is your idea of vengeance, Peregrin Took, this will be a long ride indeed. They say journeys pass quicker with company, but that's only if the company does more than slouch like a sack of potatoes."

Pippin felt the corners of his lips twitch towards a smile as he attempted to scowl at his father. "Oh that's nice, compare me to a bag of potatoes! That's sure to get me wanting to talk! But I haven't been giving you the silent treatment. At least, not intentionally. I've been going over everything in my head and realizing what a fool I've been."

"Being foolish isn't the worst fault one can have. You may be a fool, son, but you're a responsible one and that makes all the difference."

"Really?" Pippin stared at him blankly. "You think I'm responsible?"

"Of course! You survived a year on your own, through struggles and trials most hobbits could never imagine, much less conquer. You are, perhaps, one of the most responsible lads I know."

Pippin's jaw dropped. He stared at his father like the hobbit had sprouted leaves. "Then how come… how come you won't let me stay out late?"

"That has nothing to do with not trusting you, but for your own safety. It's for your mother's sake—and mine—more than your own. You were gone for over a year, Pippin. Do you know how worried we were? Until we received word from Elrond, we were out searching the streams and woods, worried we'd find you'd drowned or starved to death somewhere. Even then, we had little encouragement to expect you home safe. Too much meddling in the affairs of elves and men is dangerous, as this last year has proved. They are wild and power-crazed."

"Not all of them. If it weren't for elves and men, Saruman would still be here running things and that would be the least of our problems."

Paladin shook his head and gave a weary sigh. "Be that as it may, we were better off before these Ruffians brought their war here."

"Perhaps so, but we can't place all the blame on them. Not all hobbits were as stubborn as you, Da. Some were more than happy to join Saruman for their own selfish gain."

"I never said we weren't selfish, but I've yet to see an evil hobbit and I hope it stays that way. Now hurry up! In all this talking, we've forgotten the need for haste. Ride fast and tell me who this Mr. Cotton is and just what you think you've done to get him into trouble.

For the next hour, Pippin told his father all about his folly at the pub and the discovery of the snooping wonky-eyed hobbit and his mysterious companion who had gotten away. He retold the events of the Battle of Bywater with a focus on Mr. Cotton's role and the slaying of the red-haired man as best he could remember. By the time he'd finished, the air had grown cold and filled with rain, leaving him damp and miserable.

"It's all so vague now!" He swallowed. His mouth was going dry from the endless stream of words spilling from his lips. "I can't even remember if Farmer Cotton was the one who killed him, or if I just made it up thinking so much about it. He fought him, alright, but did he strike the final blow? You would think, something like that, something like a battle, would stick with you for life. But the details are all washed out. It's all just one blow after another. One strike in defense, the next to maim or kill—what difference does it make if you hit the throat or the shoulder?"

"All the difference. The throat keeps him down and the shoulder fills him with vengeance." Paladin's face went grim. "Yet even a strike to one man's throat may strike another man's vengeance."

Pippin sighed. "For someone who has been in multiple battles, I know very little of war."

"There are few who do, and they are rarely found in battle."

Pippin was still considering these words when he heard someone shouting. He saw a young hobbit maiden running towards them in a hurry. He slowed his pony and squinted through the rain. He couldn't say for certain, but the lass looked an awfully lot like Farmer Cotton's daughter, Rosie, whom he knew Sam was quite fond of.

Of course, it was Rosie. He realized this when he heard her shouts of "Meriadoc!" and "Peregrin!" over the wind. When at last they were near enough to see one another, their gazes met and she stopped in her tracks. She looked from Pippin to his father and her face palled. "Oh, Master Took, I'm so sorry!" She fumbled in what vaguely resembled a curtsey. "I mistook you for Master Meriadoc, what with your pony and fancy armor and riding with Peregrin and all. But I'm just as relieved to see you."

When she paused, gasping for breath, Pippin cried, "And I as well! For it's you we are looking for, or rather, your father. We—"

"We have to find him!" Rosie's voice trembled. Her dress was wrinkled and damp, her apron muddied. Tears glistened in her eyes. "He has to come home within the hour, or they'll kill Mr. Frodo!"