Souvenir of London: A Young Jack Sparrow Fanfic

Souvenir of London

 "I thought I was to take this little bag of sparkly stones round to your London friend Rigby and make a good market," Jack protested. He stuffed the bag into his breeches pocket. "And now I'm to be lumbered with her? A seven-year old? You must be joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking, boy?" Teague's intense stare proclaimed that there would be no further discussion of the subject. Jack rolled his eyes; his London trip was becoming a chore, between delivering gems to old Rigby, and then escorting the daughter of Teague's closest friend to her ex-army captain father. He didn't usually mind the little lassie's company, but damned if he was going to waste precious time in London amusing her at marionette shows when the charms of the town's lovely ladies beckoned. There must be a way by which he could still enjoy all the pleasures London offered a footloose young man on his own. By the time Jack and his small companion reached Wapping, he was ready to put forward his scheme.

"Now here's the plan," he said to her, "We can both have fun in London as long as we work together." He checked the knots in the long cord that tethered her to him for security. "We help each other. Right, Brat?"

The Brat nodded. "Right. Together," she repeated. "And Isa can help." She smiled at the doll he had bought her as a bribe.

Jack explained his plan. He would untether her, they would eat supper at the Prospect of Whitby, and he might invite a friend to join them. "Then," he instructed, "if you see me do this" – he jerked his head to one side – "that means that you're to leave Jack and his friend for awhile, and sit by the fire until called for. Savvy?"

"You said 'together'," the Brat replied accusingly.

"Aye, together! We'll work together . . . apart," he told her. She nodded again, but seemed unconvinced.

It appeared to Jack that his plan had worked, as far as he could remember; but in the morning light, as he slowly awakened with a massive headache, he was less certain. At first, all had gone well as suppertime brought the company of pretty, merry Cecily, whose black hair and velvet brown eyes were set off by her milky skin, rosy cheeks, and the low cut of her crimson dress. 

After the second bottle of rum, however, things had gone a bit pear-shaped. He remembered motioning to the Brat, who had been swinging her legs restlessly, but the remainder of the evening was a blur. Jack had an impression of staggering up the stairs – and falling, he reckoned, as he felt the painful bruise on his shin – and enjoying several enlightening hours under Cecily's expert ministrations before passing out.

All at once he heard the rustle of someone rummaging through clothes, then light footsteps and a door opening. Alarmed, he sat up quickly, just in time to see Cecily dart out of the room, the bag of gemstones in her hand.

"Oi! You!" Jack yelled. "That's mine!" He ran to the window, only to glimpse Cecily legging it up the street. Jack began to dress, but he knew she had disappeared by now. 

He groaned inwardly. Teague would kill him. Or Rigby might do the honours first. Or . . . Jack went pale. Now he thought of it, the Brat's father would jump straight to the head of the queue, unless he could remember where he had left her.

"Now I'm for it," he muttered under his breath. "I'll have all dad's crew plus a company of bloody Light Infantry chasin' me."  He made his way unsteadily down to the taproom. To his great relief, the Brat was curled up asleep in a chair before the fireplace, still holding her doll.

"Oi, mouse!" he said, gently shaking her shoulder. "Did you see my lady friend come runnin' through here?" From the way she glanced up, he saw that the Brat had only been shamming sleep.

"Of course, I did," she replied. "I liked her. She was fun." Then she added, "I didn't know you could dance."

"Dance, did I?" repeated Jack, holding his forehead.

"Yes, there," she informed him, pointing at a table.

"I'll wager that was a treat," Jack sighed. "What else did I — never mind," he added, thinking better of the question. "Well, I may as well deliver you to your dad and face the music. Rigby won't half lose his rag."

"I'm sorry about his rag," replied the Brat, not understanding. "Then perhaps you should give him Isa?"

"Ta, love, but she's your souvenir, and I don't think he really fancies a poppet. We're off, then." He walked towards the door, holding out his hand.

"I think you should give him Isa," she repeated, not moving from her seat. A moment later she remarked, "Last year, you put thistles in my hair."

Jack turned back to her wearily. "And never, ever did I think they'd be so hard to get out," he explained, not for the first time. "Honest mistake. Apologies all round. Off we go." He beckoned again.

"It's alright. We're square now," she said, using the expression he had taught her, "because I had to trip you up a bit on the stairs last night to put the bag back in your pocket."

"That's – you what? Why, you cheeky little diver!" Jack reached her chair in two long strides. "What have you done?"

Beaming, the Brat held out her doll. As Jack put his hand around its cotton torso, he felt the lumpy gemstones shifting about. "You said we should help each other," she said. "I was trying to help. I put little rocks in the bag for Cecily."

"Are they all here?" he asked her, hardly able to believe his luck. She nodded, and he gave a deep sigh of relief.

"I've to take you to your dad," he said, after a further moment's reflection, "but first we're going to Covent Garden, to the marionette show. Together." He took her hand and they set out through the busy streets of London.