FORTIETH CHAPTER: CELEBRATION! (Boogies like there's no tomorrow)

As the night grew later and the candles burnt shorter, Jack decided it was time to begin his 'interviews'. Did Jack have a name of a ship to go by? No. Did he have a name to enquire about? No. Did he have the faintest clue what he was going to ask around about? Not one iota. But he was Captain Jack Sparrow; not one for following rules or reason, he made things up as he went along. All he had going for him was a description of someone who looked like someone else, except…except for a diamond tooth…

Jack staggered out of his seat in the corner and began his drunken weave towards a table occupied by still-semi conscious patrons. As he passed a table consisting of slumped comatose drunks, Jack leaned over and picked up the two untouched jugs of ale that still sat on the table. Thanking you. Although his swaying totter may have appeared drunken and graceless, not one drop of ale was spilt from either brimming and foam-layered pitcher. Clutching the flagons of ale, Jack stumbled over to a promising-looking table and angled himself into the only unoccupied seat. The table consisted of ancient, leathery and withered sea-dogs - the real salt of the ocean – with their lined, craggy faces as tough as salted beef-jerky, bushy snow-white eyebrows, salt-and-pepper hair and wiry whiskers like rusted iron. They regarded Jack warily, until he produced the ale with a flourish. Then their faces lit up and they greeted him like they would a favourite son, with hoarse cheering and hearty slaps on the back.

"M'boy!" They greeted him. Jack waited until their cheers had died down.

"So tell me," he begun as he poured the ale amiably and steadily into their mugs on the table, "I saw this bloke with a diamond tooth the other day." Immediately the table was silent – even a blind man could see the tension, fear and mistrust on their faces. Perhaps Jack had foolishly jumped in too deep, too soon.

"And?" One finally said coldly. They think I'm a spy, possibly this Vice Admiral whatever-his-name-is, or the law. Jack took a calm gulp of his ale; he was no fool – he could pull this off. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, Captain of the Black Pearl, bar-frequenter, patron of the pubs, eternally inebriated and foremost for the moment: a Man on a Mission.

"And I was wondering where I can get one for me onsies, savvy?" He asked heartily, slamming his ale on the table energetically, so the brew sprayed all over himself and several others. They cackled drunkenly also, now figuring Jack was no longer a threat; just another drunken sailor looking for some gossip. The oldest looking sailor there, one with a straggly white beard that reached to the table and only a few wisps of hair on top of his scaly head motioned for the group to draw closer. Jack pulled at his own braided beard in interest, wondering if perhaps all the old man's effort had gone into growing hair on his chin, and thus he had lost the hair upstairs. Just to be on the safe side, Jack decided not to grow his own beard any lengthier; thus ending a notion he had been entertaining for quite some time.

The bearded sailor pulled his chair in close to the table, after glancing suspiciously around the crowded room for several moments. Already Jack was intrigued, and the tale hadn't even begun. Whoever this fake Vice Admiral Stone was, he seemed not to be crossed lightly. Either his mention or possible presence appeared to have these old sea-salts worried into a state. The old man leant across the table, drawing in all around him with his coarse whisper of advice.

"Laddie, you'd not want to be doing that, savvy." Jack raised an eyebrow.

"But I want one." Sparrow persisted stubbornly.

"M'Boy, that diamond be Captain Orion Peril's signature; his mark. If he hears there's another scallywag out there impugning upon his image…" Here the old sea-dog drew a finger across his liver-spotted throat. Jack skulled the rest of his ale in defiance. Slapping his grimy hands on the table, he declared loudly,

"What should I care what some two-bit bloody cockle-shell thinks?" Almost all the men at the table leapt at Jack, dragging him back down to his seat and clamping their withered hands over his mouth to stop him from having another outburst.

"Are ye as daft as ye are drunk?" Asked another, who vaguely reminded Jack of the blacksmith Brown from Port Royale, "Captain Peril's not to be messed with, nor joked about. Privateers and the Royal Navy alike refuse to even consider trying to capture him. He attacks pirates, merchant vessels, the Royal Navy, luxury cruisers, royal ships equally. They say he skins and flays most of his prisoners alive; his sails are made from their skins, and some he covers in tar and ties to the masts. If they don't die fast enough, or loud enough for him, he sets them alight and has a bonfire. The entire main mast, from top to bottom is covered in blackened and scorched skeletons, and heaven help ye if yer sailing in the same waters when he holds a bonfire night. A pillar of fiery corpses and skeletons, and the screams and the smells..."

Jack felt horror in the pit of his stomach – not from the stories of this Captain Peril's tortures, but the fact that he had willingly and spitefully handed Alex over to this Captain.

"And what does he do with his other prisoners? And royalty, for example? The women and children?" The assembled sailors looked dark.

"We dunno."

"As in he kills them?" Jack asked with a wave of icy horror seeping through his veins, and crashing into the pit of his stomach.

"As in they either disappear, or those that return refuse to talk about it. Some reckon he sells a few as slaves to plantation owners or at bridal auctions. Apparently they're the lucky ones; no slave-driver could be equal to or as worse as Captain Orion Peril. Rumour is he had many instruments and forms of torture, not just physical but mental. He feels nothing; fears nothing, and he has the Devil's own luck. They say," and here the old sailor's voice dropped so low that Jack had to strain to hear it, "he made a pact with the Devil; an accord. They say his crew and ship is none other than the Black Friday, and he made a deal with the devil and sold his soul to captain that same ship." The old seaman finished his tale with relish, and leaned back to observe the impact of his words. Jack and many others took a moment to refill their mugs and take a fortifying gulp of the liquid.

"The Black Friday?" Jack asked, "The ship they sent out to try to dispel the rumours that Friday's cursed, due to God's little wiper-snapper's crucifixion? The ship they laid the keel of a new vessel on Friday, launched her on a Friday and named her HMS Friday? The ship placed in the command of one Captain Friday and sent to sea on Friday the 13th? The ship that, to this day, has never been seen again?"

"Aye; that very ship." The seadogs agreed in chorus, taking a swig of ale and making the sign of the cross over their chests. Jack drew in closer, deciding to try his luck further,

"And what of this ship; The Drifting Maiden?" The seasoned sailors drew in sharp breaths and crossed themselves again.

"Who exactly are you, boy?" Asked one of the old men suspiciously, his dull eyes narrowed in mistrust.

"Smith by name, me father was a smith by profession. Smithy to the likes of these fine citizens hereby assembled." Jack replied regarding his rum offhandedly. Jack was angling for seeming like just a common, ordinary, down-on-his-luck sailor, "Me Dad disappeared when I was just a boy, and I've been trying my hand in every bar I come to on me travels, for any word of his fate or whereabouts. The most I ever got was this name; The Drifting Maiden." The men's faces softened in understanding and pity.

"Aye, lad, well, ye've been searching long enough. We'll put ye out of yer misery. Dirty Harold here will tell you the story; 's been passed down his family for over two centuries – his ancestors was royalty, they were."

Dirty Harry swelled up with pride and importance, beckoning with one crooked, broken finger for the assembled company to draw in closer.

Aren't you lucky; next chapter you'll find out about the legend of the Drifting Maiden in detail – on one condition; review and make me happy. I haven't blackmailed you guys for a while (save for a couple of days ago), so have we an accord? How badly do you want to find out the history of the Drifting Maiden? I've already told you (cryptically and abstractedly) why she pursues Jack so relentlessly.

Okay, I promised I'd reply to reviews:

Willowred and emina64 – wish granted :) Thank-you for reviewing and saving Jack. He says he is very, very grateful. 'The extent of which you have no idea, luv.'

Lonaargh – so it seems there are two sides for that previous chapter: those for Jack being a eunuch, and those for Jack being fully equipped. Unfortunately for Jasper (he's your boyfriend right – he was in that FF you wrote?) it was only him and the pissed-off eunuch for option A, against Willowred, you, me, emina64, cuilean uasal, DCoD, Jacquelyn Sparrow, crzywildchick804 and possibly many more Jack-loving fanatics/fanciers for option B. Tell Jasper better luck next time; Jack's luck has to run out sometime. There's gotta be another pissed of eunuch out there somewhere waiting to share his unfortunate fate with Jack. And thanks for the birthday message: I love sparkly things. And the cake. Can't forget the cake.

cuilean uasal – your name is really difficult for me to spell, do you know that? Trips me up every time. Lucifer is just another name for the Devil, aka Satan, Beezelbub (or something to that affect), and in his former life as an angel, 'Morningstar'.

DCoD – I hold midgets in great respect. It truly would suck not being able to go on carnival rides because of that 'you must be this tall to enter this ride' rule.

Crzywildchick804 – thanks for reading and reviewing, and the kind words! I hope your uni course/s work out for you! I don't know how things work over in the USA (right: George Washington University is in America? Geography lesson needed for me) but I assume it's on a similar basis to Australia, so good luck! Poetry, eh…good. There's not enough appreciation of poetry today, if you ask me (Geez, I sound like an old codger) I dabble in bush ballads, but I don't have the time at the moment. Unless there's a competition around with some cash prizes up for grabs. That incentive gets me all creative; money to buy books and CD's with. Yay! What sort of poetry do you write, if you don't mind my asking?

Jacquelyn Sparrow – Guess what? Your cameo (in which you are referred to by name, thus it's not really a cameo) should occur next chapter. You get to be a bar waitress that gets to sit on Jack's lap, you lucky thing. Only, your descent – you know, ancestry – might not be of English origins. I'm placing you more from the Spanish Isles; that area – Is that okay?

Sorry for any typos: rush to beat the 9:30pm deadline of the internet-shut-downy-thing.

Update 16/8, 4:32pm: Apologies: I missed the cut-off time by TWO seconds last night. TWO SECONDS. (Grinds teeth in anger and frustration).

Update 16/8 4:36pm: Stupid world hates me! Fanfiction won't let me update. Some stupid error. It'll give you 'error,' you pompous, self-righteous, smug grey little sliver of mutiny and misery. Gah!

Update 16/8 4:38pm - Ha. Haha. Ha, ha ha. Human: 1, computer: 0. Inanimate objects lose this round! haha