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Request Ficlet for Ballincolliq
A little of my version of Sparrow!History here, as requested by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ballincolliq. You might like to check out the wonderful site on the port cities of England I found while researching this.
Hampered by incessant rain and its attendant mud, the carriage ride to London had taken three seemingly interminable days. The boy, contrary to expectation, had barely uttered a word in all that time, save the minimal communications required by the dictates of common courtesy. Not at all as John had described him: a gregarious, half-grown imp, smart as a whip, and mischievous enough to warrant liberal application of same at regular intervals. He did, however, look very like his mother, that beautiful, unfortunate young woman, caught in Wainfleet’s toils at eighteen, and now dead at thirty, along with a second son. Both mother and infant brother buried not a week before. It had poured rain that day, too, John had said.
Not a week before. And then sent away with a virtual stranger. No wonder the boy kept silence.
The sodden countryside was finally giving way to signs of civilization again, outliers of the city, a graceless, unattractive change for the most part. The boy’s face grew pinched, and he turned away from the window and closed his eyes. Pretending to be asleep, poor lad. But then, after a while, pretense turned to reality, and the slight figure slumped into the corner, the fine brow temporarily smoothed of care.
o-o-o
“Jack! Jack, lad: wake up! We’ve arrived.”
The dark eyes with their too-long lashes fluttered open, and the boy sat up abruptly, shaken.
Hardison gave the boy a gruff pat on his shoulder. “We’re here. Come and see.”
They were at a height a little above the Thames, and Hardison had to smile himself at the view, as though it were new again. The docks were before them, bristling with masts, and humming with the activity of seamen and other laborers. There were vessels of all sizes on the wide river, as well, and the great ship Devon’s Pride was taking advantage of the freshening breeze and ebbing tide to edge away and begin its journey down to the sea. On the opposite bank, the city was laid out, fascinating and almost attractive at this distance. And the rain had stopped, the clouds were breaking, and the resulting gold of the westering sun laid a glow of magic over everything.
Bloody made to order.
Hardison glanced down to see what effect this was having on his companion. He was gratified to see that the boy’s eyes were round as saucers as he took it all in, and that an answering glow of amazed delight was dawning on the formerly somber countenance.
But then, remembrance prodded the lad, and he frowned, hesitating, though his eyes were still drawn outward.
“Jack,” said Hardison, sharply.
The boy dragged his troubled gaze from the alluring scene. “Sir?”
Hardison’s eyes held his companion’s with the ease of one long-used to command. He said, very seriously, “Your mother would want you to take happiness where you find it.”
The boy, swallowed hard, and then seemed to grope for words. Finally he found two. “I forgot.”
Hardison shook his head. “You won’t forget, lad. Not really.”
Jack looked away, back to the river, and after a time he saw again what was before him. He pointed, suddenly. “Is that your ship, sir?”
“Aye, it is. And it’s your ship, now. You ready to make her acquaintance?”
The boy straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Aye. And…and thank you.”
Hardison hid a smile, and said, “That’s 'Thank you, Captain', boy. And you’d best not forget that, either.”
~.~
ballincolliq. You might like to check out the wonderful site on the port cities of England I found while researching this.~ The Road to the Sea ~
Hampered by incessant rain and its attendant mud, the carriage ride to London had taken three seemingly interminable days. The boy, contrary to expectation, had barely uttered a word in all that time, save the minimal communications required by the dictates of common courtesy. Not at all as John had described him: a gregarious, half-grown imp, smart as a whip, and mischievous enough to warrant liberal application of same at regular intervals. He did, however, look very like his mother, that beautiful, unfortunate young woman, caught in Wainfleet’s toils at eighteen, and now dead at thirty, along with a second son. Both mother and infant brother buried not a week before. It had poured rain that day, too, John had said.
Not a week before. And then sent away with a virtual stranger. No wonder the boy kept silence.
The sodden countryside was finally giving way to signs of civilization again, outliers of the city, a graceless, unattractive change for the most part. The boy’s face grew pinched, and he turned away from the window and closed his eyes. Pretending to be asleep, poor lad. But then, after a while, pretense turned to reality, and the slight figure slumped into the corner, the fine brow temporarily smoothed of care.
o-o-o
“Jack! Jack, lad: wake up! We’ve arrived.”
The dark eyes with their too-long lashes fluttered open, and the boy sat up abruptly, shaken.
Hardison gave the boy a gruff pat on his shoulder. “We’re here. Come and see.”
They were at a height a little above the Thames, and Hardison had to smile himself at the view, as though it were new again. The docks were before them, bristling with masts, and humming with the activity of seamen and other laborers. There were vessels of all sizes on the wide river, as well, and the great ship Devon’s Pride was taking advantage of the freshening breeze and ebbing tide to edge away and begin its journey down to the sea. On the opposite bank, the city was laid out, fascinating and almost attractive at this distance. And the rain had stopped, the clouds were breaking, and the resulting gold of the westering sun laid a glow of magic over everything.
Bloody made to order.
Hardison glanced down to see what effect this was having on his companion. He was gratified to see that the boy’s eyes were round as saucers as he took it all in, and that an answering glow of amazed delight was dawning on the formerly somber countenance.
But then, remembrance prodded the lad, and he frowned, hesitating, though his eyes were still drawn outward.
“Jack,” said Hardison, sharply.
The boy dragged his troubled gaze from the alluring scene. “Sir?”
Hardison’s eyes held his companion’s with the ease of one long-used to command. He said, very seriously, “Your mother would want you to take happiness where you find it.”
The boy, swallowed hard, and then seemed to grope for words. Finally he found two. “I forgot.”
Hardison shook his head. “You won’t forget, lad. Not really.”
Jack looked away, back to the river, and after a time he saw again what was before him. He pointed, suddenly. “Is that your ship, sir?”
“Aye, it is. And it’s your ship, now. You ready to make her acquaintance?”
The boy straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Aye. And…and thank you.”
Hardison hid a smile, and said, “That’s 'Thank you, Captain', boy. And you’d best not forget that, either.”
~.~
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But, oh!
They were at a height a little above the Thames, and Hardison had to smile himself at the view, as though it were new again.
I alwaysfeel this way, flying home to Boston, coming in over the habour to land...and the sunlight and the ships, and everything new each and every time! So perfect!
The boy, swallowed hard, and then seemed to grope for words. Finally he found two. “I forgot.”
Oh, the universality of the feeling that we shouldn't, couldn't take pleasure in life after the death of a loved one...poor little Jack, so conflicted. We've all been there.
When my dear friend
I so loved this, GM. Thank you, thank you a million times. Off to read it again ;)
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I guess we all have our own ideas about Jack's history, but, like you and
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Glad you liked it.
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Me neither. And the stories where he's the son of a prostitute and grew up on the streets don't ring true for me either. His manners are too good (and I don't see them as being his way of manipulating people, as some have suggested, at least not usually), and there is a consideration and empathy for others, a desire to be a good captain, a good man that he had to have learned somewhere. People have to be taught that stuff, whether from decent parents, or from other fortunate and favorable interaction and experience.
I hadn't heard whether they'd worked out the financial arrangement with Keith. Last I heard he wanted some outrageous sum for doing what would be just a cameo, really. Personally, I was a bit leery of the idea, in the first place.
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I don't think they have, at least not yet. We'll have to wait and see what happens with that, as with everything else :-)
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Would it be terribly forward of me to ask about archiving it? I have the weest of (http://pirates.tehdarkangle.com) PotC 'fic sites out there, and with your permission, I would adore being able to add it to my collection.
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Love the icon, btw--simple, yet gorgeous.
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Bloody made to order.
You swept me up with this, just picked me up and transported me to that beautiful place. Lovely.
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These were written before the sequels came out and "Jossed" them; but as you say, this universe is plausible too. Jack's flexible like that. "Downright bendy," as he would say himself. Different stories, and all of them are true.
Thank you for reading and reviewing this and all the other drabbles -- it's wonderful to know they give pleasure, even after all this time. (And I will reply to the other comments you left, I just need to finish up some Christmassy work, here.)