Disclaimer: see chapter 1
Author's note: Timecheck: it's now 1678. Many thanks for the continued support and encouragement. It really is very much appreciated.
----
Jack looked up and down the Portsmouth street, and raised his eyes above the door once more. There was no sign. There should have been a sign, a faded wooden one bearing the sign of a small bird in flight, a tree and an axe.
There was nothing.
He took off his hat, rubbed his brow, and put his hat back on again.
"Are you looking for something?" A man paused on his way down the street.
Jack looked upwards again. "Michael Sparrow's carpenter's shop."
"Sparrow's? Closed five year ago."
"Closed?" Jack said.
"When the carpenter died," the man elaborated. "Drink, they said. Never really got over his lad running away to turn pirate."
"Oh." Jack looked up at the space where the shop sign used to swing. "Drink?"
"So they say." The man shrugged. "Left a load of debt."
"Doesn't surprise me." Jack stuck his thumbs in his sash. "Don't s'pose you know where they put him, do you?"
"Old Sparrow?" Scratching his head, the man thought for a moment. "St Mary's, I reckon." He shot Jack a curious look. "Why?"
Jack cast a last glance at the shop. "Just wonderin', mate, just wonderin'. Thanks for the help. Much obliged."
He touched a hand to his hat, and walked off.
He knew the way to St Mary's church, of course. As a boy, he had spent a little time there; the vicar, a decent man, had taught him to read and write, and Jack and his father had gone to Sunday services from a sense of duty. It was not far from the harbour, and his feet took him there automatically, as he mulled over the news.
If Jack were being honest with himself, he had half-expected to find that his father was dead. The two had not spoken since Jack had returned to Portsmouth fairly early on in his piratical career - blows were exchanged, and they parted on bad terms. The meeting was simply a continuation of years of anger and complaints between the two of them. Michael Sparrow was a hard man, bitter with grief at his wife's death, resentful of his son's lively wit and intelligence. Jack's childhood was a storm of disputes, arguments, and unpleasantness. Yet, as he entered the churchyard, automatically taking off his hat, there was an ache in his heart.
He walked up and down the rows of gravestones until he found a small, plain, modest headstone marked with the words "Michael Sparrow, 1621 - 1673. Requiescat in pace."
"Well," said Jack, "least they gave you a stone." He paused. "You'd be pleased, father. Not doing so well, now, me. Lost my ship. Lost my crew. About to sail south on yet another bloody merchant ship." He bent, and pulled up some dandelions that were pushing their way up around the edge of the gravestone. "The shop's sold, though. Doesn't seem to be a shop now. All that work you put in - made me put in - building it up, for nothing. Wasted it on drink, apparently. Nice work, father. Very nice work."
He stood and stared at the gravestone for a while, but he had run out of words.
Eventually, Jack turned and began to make his way out of the churchyard, uncharacteristically staring at the ground. Close to his father's grave were a number of other small, plain headstones - marking the last resting places of those who could not afford grander monuments. One of them caught Jack's eye, and he paused, turned, and went back to look at it.
"Elspeth Turner," he read. "Beloved mother." The stone said nothing more.
Jack read the words through another time. "Blast!" he said, his voice breaking the silence of the graveyard.
"You knew her?" Jack had not heard the footsteps come up behind him, and he swung around, one hand going automatically to his sword hilt.
The vicar, leaning heavily on a stick, smiled back at him in a benign sort of way. Jack let his hand fall away from the sword and float languidly into the air.
"Aye, Reverend, I did. Knew her husband better."
"William Turner? Then perhaps you'd know what became of him. Their son sailed to find his father a year ago."
"Dead too," Jack said, looking back at Elsie Turner's gravestone. "There'll be no-one for the boy to find."
"Poor lad." The vicar seemed sad to hear the news. "Ah well, maybe he can start a new life. I am sorry for the loss of your friends."
"Thanks, Reverend," Jack said.
The vicar nodded, and began to turn around. "Come into the church with me - I have something to show you."
"I have to get back to my ship."
"Ah, you can spare a few moments for an old man, now, can't you?"
Faced with that, and with memories of this same man bending patiently over a Bible, spelling out words, Jack shrugged. "Aye, reckon I can."
He followed the vicar into the old church, quiet and peaceful and cool. The sun slanted through the two stained windows, sketching coloured patterns on the flagstones of the floor. Nothing had changed since Jack was a boy - the font stood in its old place, the pews ranged neatly in the nave.
The vicar led him to one of the pews and sat down stiffly. He pointed to a corner, the place where the end of the pew met the narrow shelf to rest books and elbows on. "Remember that, Jack?" he asked.
Jack, about to enter the pew and sit down next to the vicar, eyed him narrowly. "Eh?"
"I never forget a face," the old man said mildly. "Though yours is older now, and you've done something odd with your hair, I still recognise you. Jack Sparrow. Used to practise your carpentry on our pews." He ran gnarled fingers over the wood. "Look."
Sliding into the pew and sitting down, Jack looked. A smile crossed his face, and he reached out to touch the small carving. Chiselled into the wood by inexpert hands, a little bird was taking flight, wings spread as it soared towards a crudely-sketched sun. He had a sudden memory of himself, bored by a sermon, kneeling for prayers, scratching away with a tool purloined from his father's workshop.
"Took me weeks," he said. "Every Sunday, I chipped away at it."
"I chose not to get it sanded away," said the vicar, resting his hand on his stick. "I was sorry when you left, Jack. You may have been a little rascal, but you were bright."
"Still am both," Jack said with a grin.
"I don't doubt it." The vicar looked hard at him. "What we heard was true, then - you ran away to become a pirate?"
Jack stroked the sparrow carving. "No. I ran away to sea. Didn't rightly realise they were pirates, then. I needed that freedom, Reverend. I'd have been a very bad carpenter." He paused, thinking back to the moment he decided upon the Black Pearl as his vessel of choice. "And I fell in love, with a ship."
"But piracy - it is not an honest trade," the vicar said, slight disapproval in his voice. "We hear bad things about pirates."
"Well, you'd not hear the good stuff," Jack pointed out. "I'm a thief, 'tis true; I've stolen and looted and lied. But I've got me sense of honour, Reverend - savvy?"
"I am glad to hear it," said the vicar. He leaned back in the pew. "So what brings you to Portsmouth, Jack? Did you come on this ship you fell in love with?"
"No. No, she's not here. I'm ..." Jack hesitated. "I'm with a merchant ship, and that's all I'm willin' to say. Nothing personal, Reverend, but I've learned not to trust too many folk over the years. I'd be obliged if you forgot you met me. Jack Sparrow's not in town."
The vicar raised bushy eyebrows. "Is he not?"
"James Swift. Jim. For the moment." Jack glanced at his childhood carving. "Just for the moment." He rose. "Better be off. Tide to catch."
"I'm glad I bumped into you," the vicar said. "Take care, and God's blessing be upon you, Jack. Though you may have chosen a path of ... of dubious morals, He'll still be looking out for you."
"I'm glad you think so, Reverend," Jack said. He nodded at the old man, and quickly left the church.
He walked quickly now, back to the harbour and the merchant ship he was sailing on. Not the first that had caught his eye along the Thames, but a fair vessel nonetheless and a decent enough crew. They were taking a cargo of delicate porcelain, crated and packed with straw, and a number of other items south to Spain and North Africa. The destination did not really concern Jack - he had simply had enough of England, and longed for warm skies and blue water once more. And maybe, just maybe, a glimpse of the Pearl at some point, and a chance to take her.
His ship was moored alongside the harbour - no need to take a rowing boat out to her. The gangplank was down, and supplies were still being taken aboard. Jack turned, and took a last look at the town where he had grown up. It was bustling, busy, lively, but he found he had no love for it any more. His home was far from England now, upon the wide open seas with the wind in black sails and a rich prize to catch. The small boy who had whiled away hours vandalising a church pew was gone. In his place, the seasoned sailor bent to pick up a cask of salted meat and carry it on board the ship. He was eager to be off, to get back to where he truly belonged.
And when the ship sailed, drifting out of Portsmouth harbour with the evening tide, Jack Sparrow was aloft with his face turned towards the open sea. He gave the town no further thought.
Author's note: Timecheck: it's now 1678. Many thanks for the continued support and encouragement. It really is very much appreciated.
----
Jack looked up and down the Portsmouth street, and raised his eyes above the door once more. There was no sign. There should have been a sign, a faded wooden one bearing the sign of a small bird in flight, a tree and an axe.
There was nothing.
He took off his hat, rubbed his brow, and put his hat back on again.
"Are you looking for something?" A man paused on his way down the street.
Jack looked upwards again. "Michael Sparrow's carpenter's shop."
"Sparrow's? Closed five year ago."
"Closed?" Jack said.
"When the carpenter died," the man elaborated. "Drink, they said. Never really got over his lad running away to turn pirate."
"Oh." Jack looked up at the space where the shop sign used to swing. "Drink?"
"So they say." The man shrugged. "Left a load of debt."
"Doesn't surprise me." Jack stuck his thumbs in his sash. "Don't s'pose you know where they put him, do you?"
"Old Sparrow?" Scratching his head, the man thought for a moment. "St Mary's, I reckon." He shot Jack a curious look. "Why?"
Jack cast a last glance at the shop. "Just wonderin', mate, just wonderin'. Thanks for the help. Much obliged."
He touched a hand to his hat, and walked off.
He knew the way to St Mary's church, of course. As a boy, he had spent a little time there; the vicar, a decent man, had taught him to read and write, and Jack and his father had gone to Sunday services from a sense of duty. It was not far from the harbour, and his feet took him there automatically, as he mulled over the news.
If Jack were being honest with himself, he had half-expected to find that his father was dead. The two had not spoken since Jack had returned to Portsmouth fairly early on in his piratical career - blows were exchanged, and they parted on bad terms. The meeting was simply a continuation of years of anger and complaints between the two of them. Michael Sparrow was a hard man, bitter with grief at his wife's death, resentful of his son's lively wit and intelligence. Jack's childhood was a storm of disputes, arguments, and unpleasantness. Yet, as he entered the churchyard, automatically taking off his hat, there was an ache in his heart.
He walked up and down the rows of gravestones until he found a small, plain, modest headstone marked with the words "Michael Sparrow, 1621 - 1673. Requiescat in pace."
"Well," said Jack, "least they gave you a stone." He paused. "You'd be pleased, father. Not doing so well, now, me. Lost my ship. Lost my crew. About to sail south on yet another bloody merchant ship." He bent, and pulled up some dandelions that were pushing their way up around the edge of the gravestone. "The shop's sold, though. Doesn't seem to be a shop now. All that work you put in - made me put in - building it up, for nothing. Wasted it on drink, apparently. Nice work, father. Very nice work."
He stood and stared at the gravestone for a while, but he had run out of words.
Eventually, Jack turned and began to make his way out of the churchyard, uncharacteristically staring at the ground. Close to his father's grave were a number of other small, plain headstones - marking the last resting places of those who could not afford grander monuments. One of them caught Jack's eye, and he paused, turned, and went back to look at it.
"Elspeth Turner," he read. "Beloved mother." The stone said nothing more.
Jack read the words through another time. "Blast!" he said, his voice breaking the silence of the graveyard.
"You knew her?" Jack had not heard the footsteps come up behind him, and he swung around, one hand going automatically to his sword hilt.
The vicar, leaning heavily on a stick, smiled back at him in a benign sort of way. Jack let his hand fall away from the sword and float languidly into the air.
"Aye, Reverend, I did. Knew her husband better."
"William Turner? Then perhaps you'd know what became of him. Their son sailed to find his father a year ago."
"Dead too," Jack said, looking back at Elsie Turner's gravestone. "There'll be no-one for the boy to find."
"Poor lad." The vicar seemed sad to hear the news. "Ah well, maybe he can start a new life. I am sorry for the loss of your friends."
"Thanks, Reverend," Jack said.
The vicar nodded, and began to turn around. "Come into the church with me - I have something to show you."
"I have to get back to my ship."
"Ah, you can spare a few moments for an old man, now, can't you?"
Faced with that, and with memories of this same man bending patiently over a Bible, spelling out words, Jack shrugged. "Aye, reckon I can."
He followed the vicar into the old church, quiet and peaceful and cool. The sun slanted through the two stained windows, sketching coloured patterns on the flagstones of the floor. Nothing had changed since Jack was a boy - the font stood in its old place, the pews ranged neatly in the nave.
The vicar led him to one of the pews and sat down stiffly. He pointed to a corner, the place where the end of the pew met the narrow shelf to rest books and elbows on. "Remember that, Jack?" he asked.
Jack, about to enter the pew and sit down next to the vicar, eyed him narrowly. "Eh?"
"I never forget a face," the old man said mildly. "Though yours is older now, and you've done something odd with your hair, I still recognise you. Jack Sparrow. Used to practise your carpentry on our pews." He ran gnarled fingers over the wood. "Look."
Sliding into the pew and sitting down, Jack looked. A smile crossed his face, and he reached out to touch the small carving. Chiselled into the wood by inexpert hands, a little bird was taking flight, wings spread as it soared towards a crudely-sketched sun. He had a sudden memory of himself, bored by a sermon, kneeling for prayers, scratching away with a tool purloined from his father's workshop.
"Took me weeks," he said. "Every Sunday, I chipped away at it."
"I chose not to get it sanded away," said the vicar, resting his hand on his stick. "I was sorry when you left, Jack. You may have been a little rascal, but you were bright."
"Still am both," Jack said with a grin.
"I don't doubt it." The vicar looked hard at him. "What we heard was true, then - you ran away to become a pirate?"
Jack stroked the sparrow carving. "No. I ran away to sea. Didn't rightly realise they were pirates, then. I needed that freedom, Reverend. I'd have been a very bad carpenter." He paused, thinking back to the moment he decided upon the Black Pearl as his vessel of choice. "And I fell in love, with a ship."
"But piracy - it is not an honest trade," the vicar said, slight disapproval in his voice. "We hear bad things about pirates."
"Well, you'd not hear the good stuff," Jack pointed out. "I'm a thief, 'tis true; I've stolen and looted and lied. But I've got me sense of honour, Reverend - savvy?"
"I am glad to hear it," said the vicar. He leaned back in the pew. "So what brings you to Portsmouth, Jack? Did you come on this ship you fell in love with?"
"No. No, she's not here. I'm ..." Jack hesitated. "I'm with a merchant ship, and that's all I'm willin' to say. Nothing personal, Reverend, but I've learned not to trust too many folk over the years. I'd be obliged if you forgot you met me. Jack Sparrow's not in town."
The vicar raised bushy eyebrows. "Is he not?"
"James Swift. Jim. For the moment." Jack glanced at his childhood carving. "Just for the moment." He rose. "Better be off. Tide to catch."
"I'm glad I bumped into you," the vicar said. "Take care, and God's blessing be upon you, Jack. Though you may have chosen a path of ... of dubious morals, He'll still be looking out for you."
"I'm glad you think so, Reverend," Jack said. He nodded at the old man, and quickly left the church.
He walked quickly now, back to the harbour and the merchant ship he was sailing on. Not the first that had caught his eye along the Thames, but a fair vessel nonetheless and a decent enough crew. They were taking a cargo of delicate porcelain, crated and packed with straw, and a number of other items south to Spain and North Africa. The destination did not really concern Jack - he had simply had enough of England, and longed for warm skies and blue water once more. And maybe, just maybe, a glimpse of the Pearl at some point, and a chance to take her.
His ship was moored alongside the harbour - no need to take a rowing boat out to her. The gangplank was down, and supplies were still being taken aboard. Jack turned, and took a last look at the town where he had grown up. It was bustling, busy, lively, but he found he had no love for it any more. His home was far from England now, upon the wide open seas with the wind in black sails and a rich prize to catch. The small boy who had whiled away hours vandalising a church pew was gone. In his place, the seasoned sailor bent to pick up a cask of salted meat and carry it on board the ship. He was eager to be off, to get back to where he truly belonged.
And when the ship sailed, drifting out of Portsmouth harbour with the evening tide, Jack Sparrow was aloft with his face turned towards the open sea. He gave the town no further thought.