Disclaimer: see chapter 1
Author's note: Thanks to ErinRua for horsey advice! Thanks to reviewers for encouragement.
----
"You'll be able to leave the nag in York," Thornton said, "and get the stagecoach down south. You won't wait for a ship?"
"I need to be moving again," Jack returned, patting the nose of his hired horse, "heading back for blue water. Can't be doing with this cold grey stuff you have up here."
"Ah, it's proper sea up here," said Thornton, exaggerating his accent somewhat. "None of your warm Caribbean water, not in Yorkshire."
"Besides," Jack said, taking the reins and climbing on to the horse's back, "I've seen a lot of the world, but not much of old England. Time I set that right, I reckon."
Thornton nodded. "Mebbe you're right, lad, mebbe you're right. Well, I'm told you need to ride to York, and the coach leaves from the Black Swan on Coney Street at five on Thursdays. You've enough money?"
Jack patted his pocket, which jingled. "Plenty."
"Watch out for highwaymen," said Thornton, passing up a leather pouch of food. "They do say there's a deal of them about."
Jack looked hopeful. "Bit of excitement wouldn't go amiss."
"Mad. Absolutely mad," opined Thornton, shaking his head.
"Not mad. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?"
"Eh, you'll always be that cheeky cabin boy to me," Thornton said. "Look after yourself, Jack. Don't do anything daft."
Sweeping off his hat, Jack bowed to his old friend. "Thanks, mate." He leaned down to his horse's ear. "Now, I want to get to York, nag, so giddy up and get me there."
The horse neighed, reproachfully, but did lift its feet in a slow walk. Jack turned, and waved at Thornton, who waved back. Then the horse was off, hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles of the street.
Three weeks of fishing with Thornton had been enough for Jack, and he had quickly grown tired of early mornings and days spent bobbing on the sea pulling in the catches. He had grown tired of fish scales in his wild hair too, though Thornton had sensibly pointed out that he should tuck the long braids up underneath a headscarf. And Whitby, pretty though it was, was simply too quiet for the adventure-loving pirate. After some thought and a little investigation, Jack had discovered that a stagecoach rattled its way from York to London every week for a reasonable price. The journey was fraught with danger - the roads were bad, and haunted by daring robbers - but it would get Jack south to somewhere where he could find a larger ship bound for warmer climates.
He and the horse were quickly out of the town, following the road inland towards the moors. The horse was not the most comfortable of seats, but it was docile and kept moving, and that was all Jack really wanted. He let the animal have its head, and holding the reins loosely in one hand he took the time to look about him as they came on to the moors. The sun was rising and the wind was blowing quite strongly. Jack pushed his hat further on to his head. All around him were swathes of heather, blooming deep purple as far as the eye could see. As the wind blew, it rippled across the moor, reminding Jack of nothing so much as a gentle swell on the sea. He breathed in the sweet, heady scent and smiled. Maybe this being ashore thing was not so bad after all.
Three hours later, he was less enamoured of the moors. They had been going on forever, it seemed, endless rolling hills of the same low plants. The horse plodded on, pausing now and then to nibble a bit of vegetation. Jack yawned, and bent down to pull some food out of the pack at his side. He pondered, briefly, getting off the horse for a rest, but decided it would be best to press on if he wanted to reach York by nightfall.
The land flattened out as the afternoon grew on, the moors giving way to green farmland, and as the sun began to set Jack rode in to the ancient city of York through one of its many gates. He dismounted with a grimace, and staggered as his feet hit the ground.
"Bloody hell!" he swore. The horse whickered reproachfully. "Not your fault, nag," Jack told it. "Just not used to riding, is all. C'mon, let's find us a place to sleep the night, eh?"
He tugged at the reins, and the horse followed him docilely. Jack was unsure where to go, but looking up he could see the tall towers of a huge cathedral, and he headed in that direction. The street he was wandering down led into an open green space, with buildings looking out over the cathedral. Looking up, Jack whistled.
"That's a sight and no mistake, innit?" he said to the horse. The horse shook its mane, and Jack grinned. "All right, you want something to eat, and so do I. On we go!"
He followed the road around the cathedral, pausing to admire it at intervals. Built with pale stone, it towered above him, set with elaborate windows and carved intricately with statues, curlicues and weird heads. It was unlike anything Jack had ever seen before, though he had travelled halfway around the world.
Turning away from the cathedral, he pulled the horse down a narrow cobbled street where the buildings seemed to lean in on either side. A stream ran down the gutter at the edge of the street. Various signs swung above doors - a wooden book, a plaque with a pair of shears - and Jack also marked a grinning red devil above a shop that looked like it might be a printer's.
His legs were really aching now, and the horse was dragging its feet morosely. But to Jack's joy, on the other side of the street from the red devil there swung a more welcome sign. "The ... Starre Inne," he read to himself. "Wonderful."
In the innyard, a lad came hurrying forward. "Hired horse from Whitby," Jack told him, putting a shilling into his palm. "Needs some fodder. So do I."
"There's food and drink inside, sir," the lad said, taking the horse's reins.
"Rooms?"
"Aye, we've a few."
"Good lad," Jack said. "Ta." He unfastened his pack from behind the saddle and followed the boy's pointing finger into the inn.
Inside, it was busy and warm, the air filled with a buzz of chatter. Jack made his way through the crowds to the bar and ascertained that there was a room free for the night. Telling the innkeeper that he would eat before going up to sleep, he ordered a meat pie and sank gratefully into a chair in a quiet corner. His hat, pack and sword belt off, Jack leaned back and closed his eyes.
The pie, and a pint of good ale, were quick to come, served by a buxom but sour-faced wench who did not return Jack's smile. He shrugged at her retreating back and set to. When the meal was finished, he stood (his legs protesting) and slowly made his way to his room. He threw himself down on the bed, and slept immediately.
In the morning Jack discovered that he could barely walk. He hobbled downstairs and had some breakfast; the same serving girl plonked a plate of porridge down in front of him and stalked off. Once he had eaten, Jack stood up and painfully went out to explore York.
He had spent little time in cities since his boyhood in Portsmouth. None of the Caribbean towns were as large as York, with its narrow, bustling streets and busy market. Jack wandered at random, the ache in his legs gradually dissipating as he strolled down cobbled snickelways and along by the river. He went into the cathedral, and discovered it was even more beautiful inside than out. Just as interesting were the people - ordinary folk, tradesmen and farmers, butchers and bakers. Jack himself cut an unusual, outlandish figure amongst them in his hat and sash and jingling beads, and he received many stares as he walked the streets. But they did not bother him, and he simply tipped his hat to the pretty girls, sending them into fits of giggles.
By the evening, Jack's limbs were telling him they had had enough exercise, and so he went slowly back to his own inn to get some sleep before the journey that awaited him.
In the morning he found his way to the 'Black Swan' inn, where the stagecoach was already waiting. An assortment of travellers stomped their feet in the early chill - an elderly couple, a priest, a respectable-looking mother with a child, and three other men on their own. Jack nodded a friendly good morning to them, and paid the driver his five-shilling fare. Soon, with baggage piled high on the back of the coach, and Jack and the other younger men perched on top, they were off.
Nobody spoke much, and for once, Jack was quite pleased of the fact. He spent the time alternately watching the countryside go past and observing his fellow-passengers, sizing them up. None of the men riding with him seemed very interesting, or very wealthy.
They stopped at midday for lunch and to change the horses, and during the afternoon some sporadic, polite conversation was made. Jack discovered that two of the men were going to London to find work, whilst the other was on his way to take up a scholarship at Oxford. For himself, he said merely that he had sailed from Jamaica aboard a merchant ship and that he was seeking another vessel in the capital.
Their journey continued in the same, rattling way for another three days. It rained on the third day, and those on the roof huddled under coats looking miserable. Jack allowed the water to drip off the brim of his hat philosophically - this was nothing compared to a tropical storm, and he let himself drift away imagining the Black Pearl driving her way across mountainous waves.
On the fourth day, the rain stopped. They were quite far south now, and the local accents were changing together with the countryside. The road was flatter, and better, and the coach bowled along making good time. The young student started singing folk songs, and everything was cheerful and good-natured.
Jack was travelling backwards, facing the road they had come from, and so it took him a moment to realise why the student had suddenly stopped singing and the coach had lurched to a halt. He twisted around, and saw in the middle of the road three masked horsemen, pistols drawn. One of them rode forwards, and, in a light, cheerful tone, said: "You know what to do, ladies and gentlemen. Stand and deliver - your money, or your life."
Author's note: Thanks to ErinRua for horsey advice! Thanks to reviewers for encouragement.
----
"You'll be able to leave the nag in York," Thornton said, "and get the stagecoach down south. You won't wait for a ship?"
"I need to be moving again," Jack returned, patting the nose of his hired horse, "heading back for blue water. Can't be doing with this cold grey stuff you have up here."
"Ah, it's proper sea up here," said Thornton, exaggerating his accent somewhat. "None of your warm Caribbean water, not in Yorkshire."
"Besides," Jack said, taking the reins and climbing on to the horse's back, "I've seen a lot of the world, but not much of old England. Time I set that right, I reckon."
Thornton nodded. "Mebbe you're right, lad, mebbe you're right. Well, I'm told you need to ride to York, and the coach leaves from the Black Swan on Coney Street at five on Thursdays. You've enough money?"
Jack patted his pocket, which jingled. "Plenty."
"Watch out for highwaymen," said Thornton, passing up a leather pouch of food. "They do say there's a deal of them about."
Jack looked hopeful. "Bit of excitement wouldn't go amiss."
"Mad. Absolutely mad," opined Thornton, shaking his head.
"Not mad. I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?"
"Eh, you'll always be that cheeky cabin boy to me," Thornton said. "Look after yourself, Jack. Don't do anything daft."
Sweeping off his hat, Jack bowed to his old friend. "Thanks, mate." He leaned down to his horse's ear. "Now, I want to get to York, nag, so giddy up and get me there."
The horse neighed, reproachfully, but did lift its feet in a slow walk. Jack turned, and waved at Thornton, who waved back. Then the horse was off, hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles of the street.
Three weeks of fishing with Thornton had been enough for Jack, and he had quickly grown tired of early mornings and days spent bobbing on the sea pulling in the catches. He had grown tired of fish scales in his wild hair too, though Thornton had sensibly pointed out that he should tuck the long braids up underneath a headscarf. And Whitby, pretty though it was, was simply too quiet for the adventure-loving pirate. After some thought and a little investigation, Jack had discovered that a stagecoach rattled its way from York to London every week for a reasonable price. The journey was fraught with danger - the roads were bad, and haunted by daring robbers - but it would get Jack south to somewhere where he could find a larger ship bound for warmer climates.
He and the horse were quickly out of the town, following the road inland towards the moors. The horse was not the most comfortable of seats, but it was docile and kept moving, and that was all Jack really wanted. He let the animal have its head, and holding the reins loosely in one hand he took the time to look about him as they came on to the moors. The sun was rising and the wind was blowing quite strongly. Jack pushed his hat further on to his head. All around him were swathes of heather, blooming deep purple as far as the eye could see. As the wind blew, it rippled across the moor, reminding Jack of nothing so much as a gentle swell on the sea. He breathed in the sweet, heady scent and smiled. Maybe this being ashore thing was not so bad after all.
Three hours later, he was less enamoured of the moors. They had been going on forever, it seemed, endless rolling hills of the same low plants. The horse plodded on, pausing now and then to nibble a bit of vegetation. Jack yawned, and bent down to pull some food out of the pack at his side. He pondered, briefly, getting off the horse for a rest, but decided it would be best to press on if he wanted to reach York by nightfall.
The land flattened out as the afternoon grew on, the moors giving way to green farmland, and as the sun began to set Jack rode in to the ancient city of York through one of its many gates. He dismounted with a grimace, and staggered as his feet hit the ground.
"Bloody hell!" he swore. The horse whickered reproachfully. "Not your fault, nag," Jack told it. "Just not used to riding, is all. C'mon, let's find us a place to sleep the night, eh?"
He tugged at the reins, and the horse followed him docilely. Jack was unsure where to go, but looking up he could see the tall towers of a huge cathedral, and he headed in that direction. The street he was wandering down led into an open green space, with buildings looking out over the cathedral. Looking up, Jack whistled.
"That's a sight and no mistake, innit?" he said to the horse. The horse shook its mane, and Jack grinned. "All right, you want something to eat, and so do I. On we go!"
He followed the road around the cathedral, pausing to admire it at intervals. Built with pale stone, it towered above him, set with elaborate windows and carved intricately with statues, curlicues and weird heads. It was unlike anything Jack had ever seen before, though he had travelled halfway around the world.
Turning away from the cathedral, he pulled the horse down a narrow cobbled street where the buildings seemed to lean in on either side. A stream ran down the gutter at the edge of the street. Various signs swung above doors - a wooden book, a plaque with a pair of shears - and Jack also marked a grinning red devil above a shop that looked like it might be a printer's.
His legs were really aching now, and the horse was dragging its feet morosely. But to Jack's joy, on the other side of the street from the red devil there swung a more welcome sign. "The ... Starre Inne," he read to himself. "Wonderful."
In the innyard, a lad came hurrying forward. "Hired horse from Whitby," Jack told him, putting a shilling into his palm. "Needs some fodder. So do I."
"There's food and drink inside, sir," the lad said, taking the horse's reins.
"Rooms?"
"Aye, we've a few."
"Good lad," Jack said. "Ta." He unfastened his pack from behind the saddle and followed the boy's pointing finger into the inn.
Inside, it was busy and warm, the air filled with a buzz of chatter. Jack made his way through the crowds to the bar and ascertained that there was a room free for the night. Telling the innkeeper that he would eat before going up to sleep, he ordered a meat pie and sank gratefully into a chair in a quiet corner. His hat, pack and sword belt off, Jack leaned back and closed his eyes.
The pie, and a pint of good ale, were quick to come, served by a buxom but sour-faced wench who did not return Jack's smile. He shrugged at her retreating back and set to. When the meal was finished, he stood (his legs protesting) and slowly made his way to his room. He threw himself down on the bed, and slept immediately.
In the morning Jack discovered that he could barely walk. He hobbled downstairs and had some breakfast; the same serving girl plonked a plate of porridge down in front of him and stalked off. Once he had eaten, Jack stood up and painfully went out to explore York.
He had spent little time in cities since his boyhood in Portsmouth. None of the Caribbean towns were as large as York, with its narrow, bustling streets and busy market. Jack wandered at random, the ache in his legs gradually dissipating as he strolled down cobbled snickelways and along by the river. He went into the cathedral, and discovered it was even more beautiful inside than out. Just as interesting were the people - ordinary folk, tradesmen and farmers, butchers and bakers. Jack himself cut an unusual, outlandish figure amongst them in his hat and sash and jingling beads, and he received many stares as he walked the streets. But they did not bother him, and he simply tipped his hat to the pretty girls, sending them into fits of giggles.
By the evening, Jack's limbs were telling him they had had enough exercise, and so he went slowly back to his own inn to get some sleep before the journey that awaited him.
In the morning he found his way to the 'Black Swan' inn, where the stagecoach was already waiting. An assortment of travellers stomped their feet in the early chill - an elderly couple, a priest, a respectable-looking mother with a child, and three other men on their own. Jack nodded a friendly good morning to them, and paid the driver his five-shilling fare. Soon, with baggage piled high on the back of the coach, and Jack and the other younger men perched on top, they were off.
Nobody spoke much, and for once, Jack was quite pleased of the fact. He spent the time alternately watching the countryside go past and observing his fellow-passengers, sizing them up. None of the men riding with him seemed very interesting, or very wealthy.
They stopped at midday for lunch and to change the horses, and during the afternoon some sporadic, polite conversation was made. Jack discovered that two of the men were going to London to find work, whilst the other was on his way to take up a scholarship at Oxford. For himself, he said merely that he had sailed from Jamaica aboard a merchant ship and that he was seeking another vessel in the capital.
Their journey continued in the same, rattling way for another three days. It rained on the third day, and those on the roof huddled under coats looking miserable. Jack allowed the water to drip off the brim of his hat philosophically - this was nothing compared to a tropical storm, and he let himself drift away imagining the Black Pearl driving her way across mountainous waves.
On the fourth day, the rain stopped. They were quite far south now, and the local accents were changing together with the countryside. The road was flatter, and better, and the coach bowled along making good time. The young student started singing folk songs, and everything was cheerful and good-natured.
Jack was travelling backwards, facing the road they had come from, and so it took him a moment to realise why the student had suddenly stopped singing and the coach had lurched to a halt. He twisted around, and saw in the middle of the road three masked horsemen, pistols drawn. One of them rode forwards, and, in a light, cheerful tone, said: "You know what to do, ladies and gentlemen. Stand and deliver - your money, or your life."