'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.

xxx

June 27, 1828, off the coast of southern Brazil

Former-captain Sparrow was crouched at the waist of the fragata León Del Oro, yanking a wide needle through tough sail fabric. Seething. Not so much at being forced to undertake this menial task, as at the unutterable wrongness of being pressganged at his age. It seemed the Spanish Navy, having taken serious losses during their (losing) war against the Argentine rebeldes some years back, was still in the process of replenishing it's numbers. To that end, it wasn't above borrowing a brutally effective 'recruitment' tactic formerly employed by their British counterparts.

"'Enganchar', these bastardos may call it. But for anyone on the receiving end, it's 'abducción'," Jack muttered angrily. He was sorely tempted to do a bad job with the mending, but decided it wasn't worth a flogging.

It had been two weeks now since his transport schooner had been overtaken and boarded, and himself seized and manhandled off... probably selected due to his less-than-intimidating size. So here his presumably-controllable self was, in the service of King Ferdinand VII. Said service being an endless succession of whichever monotonous, odorous, or degrading shipboard chores none of the Spanish crew wanted to do. Having had a cat o' nine tails shaken in his face to warn him of the penalty for noncompliance, Jack had remained meekly obedient, though it was grating on him worse every day. He rather worried his resentment was going to blow a hatch cover, before an opportune moment arrived for him to escape.

The ex-pirate kept his gaze down as a pair of Spanish tars slouched past him. When they were gone, he chanced shooting a smoldering glare up at the quarterdeck, where Capitán Sandino was conversing with the helmsman.

Conversing quite earnestly. That was interesting.

Sparrow's glare faded. He gathered up the mass of canvas, dragged it across the deck and knelt at the quarterdeck base. Any watcher would assume he was just seeking out the shade there. He bent to resume sewing, his ear trained on the discussion above. Within a minute, he heard something which made him suppress a hopeful smile.

Since being hauled aboard this fragata he'd been careful to conceal his command of Spanish. His captors assumed, since they'd wrested him off an Indian-crewed ship, that that was his nationality and language. Which made him no less useful- they only required him to understand a sharp push towards whatever demeaning job needed doing, accompanied by a barked "¡Consiga trabajar!"

The pretended ignorance had paid off. His well-honed orientation skills, learned from Polynesians over a century ago, had kept him attuned to the ship's locale. She was presently off the southeast coast of Brazil, heading south. Now, his eavesdropping had informed him of her destination and approximate arrival time.

Capitán Sandino, having delivered his instructions, stomped down from the quarterdeck and disappeared below decks, sparing no glance for the captive deckhand. Jack's mind was already busy plotting a dramatic exit. He continued to tug at the mending threads, as he carefully reviewed everything he knew, or had heard, about the port of Buenos Aires.

July 7, 1828, miles west of Buenos Aires

His threadbare sleeve served as an adequate sweat-mop as Jack hiked eastward across the Pampas- the vast grasslands of northern Argentina. Not the worst place to make landing, he supposed; gently rolling green plains with occasional trees and distant blue mountains. But it was much further inland than he'd intended to go. Though that might be for the best; he'd be well advised not to show his face near Buenos Aires' waterfront anytime soon. Those Marinas had pursued him in greater numbers, and far more persistence, than one escaped crewman seemed to merit. Who'd of thought they'd take such offense over a broken mast!

Actually three broken masts.

All right; maybe it wasn't so surprising.

To elude them Jack had concealed himself inside a loaded wagon, packed with sufficient provisions to suggest it was going someplace distant. It had been his plan to slip out as soon as it'd carried him well clear of the dock area. What he hadn't counted on was falling into a deep slumber (in his own defense, he had been sleep-deprived for some time.) By the time he awoke, the wagon had left the city behind and was deep into cattle-ranching country.

Ah, but his escape from forced servitude was what mattered. He should count it a less-than-terrible hardship that he now had to walk a fair distance to be somewhere other than Nowhere. And he'd not be in want of food anytime soon. He'd stuffed his pockets with edibles from the wagon, and this region was hardly arid. A watering hole, round and shiny as a coin, was coming into view on the left. As he neared it Sparrow noted the abundance of large hoof prints leading to the brink. Evidently this pond was used for watering livestock.

More encouraging was the scarcity of leaves growing out of the surface. At his previous watering stop, he'd gotten a bad scare from the sudden appearance of the biggest damned snake he'd ever laid eyes on. Already his planned narrative was exaggerating it's size and aggressiveness a bit- a narrow escape from a ferocious predator made a better story than the simple rearing of a scaly head above water weeds (irrefutably huge though that head had been.)

Jack knelt at the least-weedy bank he could find, and slurped his fill. He was just starting to get up, when he heard what sounded like a distant thunder roll. Looking in the direction of the rumble, he saw it was an approaching herd. Twenty or so horses- sturdy, thick-legged, with short tails and unkempt manes. Four had riders, obviously guiding the herd to this pond. These were dark mustached men, wearing wide-brimmed hats, ponchos, loose pale trousers and knee-high boots.

Sparrow hastened to step aside from the hoof-marked trail, but made no attempt to hide or flee. They'd surely spotted him already, and he had no chance of eluding them on this open grassland. Better to meet them straight on and hope their attitude was non-hostile. Or if it was, at least hope they spoke a language he knew.

The unridden horses proceeded straight to the pond, wading in to drink. The riders, as expected, peeled off and closed around the pedestrian. Jack held hands aloft to display his total lack of weaponry, trying to look as harmless as possible. Probably no great stretch, given his current state of bedraggledness. The weeks of slaving on the León Del Oro had left his breeches and shirt in a pathetic condition- the riders' dusty attire looked almost gentlemanly by comparison.

One horseman, with an impressively full mustache and a lordly air, reined in just in front of Jack. He leaned forward, studying the smaller man with neutral curiosity. "¿Qué usted está haciendo aquí, extranjero?" he inquired, in a tone to match.

Spanish, albeit with a regional accent. Jack reasoned he'd better not risk revealing he was a fugitive until he knew where their allegiances lay.

Lowering his arms, he replied, "Me pierden, buen Señor. ¿Puedo saber quiénes usted es?"

The big man straightened proudly, tugging his hat brim. "Somos gauchos."

Sparrow gave an inward cheer. He had heard of the gauchos (from the Quechua 'huachu', meaning vagabond); the semi-nomadic horsemen of the Pampas. Not exactly outlaws- most made their living working for cattle barons- but said to live by their own rules, valuing their independence above all else. Quite likely to sympathize with a man seeking refuge from the authorities.

"Me he escapado de la Marina de guerra Española. Me secuestraron para ser un esclavo a bordo de su nave." He pointed to the brand on his right wrist, taking the chance that these inlanders would not recognize it's specific meaning, but would regard it as a great cruelty. Branding was for animals, not people.

The gamble seemed to work; there was a fast exchange of muted exclamations, and the gauchos started regarding him sympathetically. Jack sensed an opportune moment. "Necesito un lugar permanecer. Estoy dispuesto a trabajar. Mi nombre es Jack."

"Yo soy Ricardo Moreira," the apparent leader replied. "¿Puede usted montar?"

Not as well as he ought to, but this was no time to admit it. "¡Sí, Señor Moreira!"

"Usted puede venir con nosotros para ahora. Descubriremos si hay trabajo para usted."

One of the other gauchos produced an extra bridle from somewhere, dismounted, and approached the riderless horses. He selected a muted-gold mare with shaded black legs, bridled her, and led the animal beside an adequately-sized mounting rock. Jack cringed a bit at the prospect of riding bareback, but reminded himself he'd already had a great stroke of luck, encountering people who were able and willing to help him. And he did know the appropriate response to a gift horse.

The waiting gaucho looked straight at him, eye twinkling, and Jack had a bad moment. The man might have been a younger, swarthier, beardless Barbossa. Of course that was just coincidence.

The big bloke apparently detected Jack's apprehension. "Éste tiene buenas maneras. Su nombre es Perla."

"Oh!" Jack decided this would be an apt time to believe in good omens. He made a point of swaggering confidently, as he stepped onto the stone and swung a leg over the mare's dusty back. At least she wasn't as uncomfortably rounded as the last horse he'd mounted. 'Barbossa' handed him the reins with care that further reduced Jack's misgivings. "Muy gracias, Señor."

"Es nada. Soy Miguel Salas," the gaucho replied, before returning to his own dark-brown stallion.

The horsemen let their mounts drink, before rounding up their sated charges and herding them across the grasslands. To somewhere.

Sparrow was careful to keep to the rear, so as not to interfere. He had to hastily reacquaint himself with a method of gripping with his knees, to reduce the bumping to a tolerable level. Fortunately the mare was patient with his inexpertize, and he was soon comfortably matched to her gait.

Señor Moreira glanced over at him periodically, eventually favoring him with a smile that clearly said, 'Needs work, but has potential.' Jack's confidence soared. Though he could tell he'd be plenty sore tomorrow, the fugitive decided he was willing to remain in this region for a while. He'd long intended to learn better horsemanship, and now he had the means, the opportunity, and a very solid motive.

September 15, 1831, another area of the Pampas

Jack was racing between wind-blown grass and twilight sky, towards distant campfires. Riding fast- Perla was eager for her feed. His loose-fitting bombachas trousers flapped above molded calfskin boots, the tirador sash waving from his waist, his hair streaming like Perla's black mane. Despite a touch of melancholy over his recent decision, he was happy overall.

Once he'd gotten past the Perpetually Sore initiation period, his muscles had hardened and he'd come to enjoy the speed and mobility a horse afforded. Moving fast and free over open country compensated for the less agreeable aspects of ranch work. Notably the near-fatal stupidity of cattle, and unreasonably demanding ranch owners. It was a fine thing that, when dealing with the latter, he generally had the option of turning his mount and galloping off.

Horses were far more agreeable company. None more so, than his bonnie gold-and-black mount. He was definitely going to miss Perla.

Jack reached down to pat the sweaty neck. "We've had a hard day's work, lass, but it's almost over now! You've definitely earned an extra ration of oats."

Reaching the outskirts of the camp, he slowed to pick a path among the clusters of stacked equipment and groups of dining men. He guided Perla to the picket line, dismounted and tethered her to the stretched rope. A young gaucho boy approached, ready to tend to her needs. Jack gave the lad a smile & request for extra oats, and the mare an affectionate stroke on the nose. Then he hurried towards the inviting scent of asado- meat grilling over open fires.

Having grown up in London, where regular consumption of beef was a hallmark of the rich, Sparrow couldn't get over how readily available it was on the Pampas. Leather was this region's mainstay commodity; as far as the ranch owners were concerned, the beef carcasses they grew on were practically byproducts. Their workers were allowed to slaughter all the cattle they could eat so long as they delivered the hides to the ranchers.

Jack eagerly joined the line of coworkers near the cooking fires. He collected his share- a fine dripping hunk of beef- and moved off to find a place to consume it. He spotted Miguel Salas, seated on a felled log with his own portion. When the larger man waved him over, Sparrow did not hesitate to join him.

The dimming light might have accentuated Miguel's resemblance to Hector to an alarming degree, if not for his genuinely friendly expression. The man was a naturally gregarious sort who had done more than anyone to help the fledging gaucho adjust to his new situation.

"Come, my friend- there is plenty of room for you!" (Jack had been hearing and speaking Spanish for so long, he no longer noticed it.)

The former pirate settled himself, reaching to the back of his belt to draw his facon- a long sharp knife with a worked silver handle. It was a mandatory commodity for any gaucho; Jack had bought this one with his first earned pay. Both men got to work slicing their meat chunks and eating it directly off their blades.

A number of minutes passed before Miguel spoke. "We completed nearly all the brandings today, so we can go into town tomorrow afternoon. Juanita Almirón will be at the malambo dance." Miguel's eyebrow hopped suggestively. "You know, she likes you very much. I've heard her say you are very fine company."

"I enjoy her company as well." Sparrow smirked lecherously around a beef slice, his untrimmed mustache soaked with juice.

"You should play the boleadoras for her again. You're good at that."

Jack looked sheepish. "Better at playing 'em, than throwing."

The boleadoras- three leather-bound rocks tied together with yard-long braided straps- was used as a percussion instrument at these dances; bounced at high speed in time with the bombo drum. Jack could do this quite well; it was the object's primary function that he had trouble with. A boleadoras was a hunting weapon, thrown from horseback to entangle the legs of animals such as deer, or rheas- those large Pampas running birds resembling mid-sized ostriches. Though he'd learned to swing the thing without clobbering himself, Jack had never got the knack of tossing it accurately. Not much past twenty feet, anyway.

"You will improve after another year of practice. Maybe two."

Jack lowered his facon, regarding his friend with special somberness. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be here that long."

Miguel rolled his eyes in a 'oh not, not this again' manner. "Always the sea with you! What is so wonderful about the sea? What can you do there, that a man on a horse can not do here? We have space to ride as far and fast as anyone could want!" He waved his arm about. The wide plains around them were now dark green, bounded only by a distant range of pointy mountains.

Jack examined the gently rolling pampas, untrammeled wind tugging at his hair. Beautiful as this landscape had appeared when he'd first arrived, it looked better to him now. "I understand why the gauchos feel that way, Miguel. I have become very fond of this place. But I loved the sea first."

Miguel leaned forward, resting elbows on his knees. "So you keep saying. Have you decided to return to this First Love?"

Jack gnawed off the last bit of beef and tossed the bone aside. "I've been here for over three years. My flamboyant escape from the León Del Oro must now be a standard barroom yarn, not an offense screaming for vengeance. Furthermore, I have learned to speak Spanish with a regional accent. I should be able to inquire about a berth with no suspicion I'm anything other than an actual gaucho."

"You are an actual gaucho!"

Jack grinned, almost shyly. "Not the way you are, who have always lived this life."

Miguel grimaced, as if he'd bitten into gristle. "I suppose not that way."

"As you were born for the grass plains, I was born for the ocean. Lately, my dreams about her have become very intense... she is calling me back. Following our next payday, I shall make my way back to Buenos Aires."

"Are you going to tell Juanita?" Miguel's tone was just slightly accusing.

"When we go into town tomorrow. She'll soon get over me. I have never deceived her about my intent to someday leave."

Miguel looked wistful, minimizing his resemblance to any traitorous first mate. "Will you ever come back here?"

"I would like to, but can't promise. You know how it is. Our lives are blown like foam, or chaff, on the wind. None of us can be sure where it will take us next. My coming here in the first place is proof of that." Jack shut his eyes for a few seconds. It was one of those moments when it seemed to Miguel, Jack's face had no age at all. "I can promise I will not forget my years here. Or you. For reasons you couldn't possibly suspect, you have made a number of bad memories much easier to live with."

Miguel didn't ask him to clarify; his friend often said peculiar things he claimed he couldn't explain. The big gaucho just assured, "I will not forget you either, Jack."

The older man turned his head, gazing fondly towards the picket line, where his pretty blonde horse was munching on her oats. "There is one thing I would like you to do, after I leave. Please make sure Perla goes to someone who will treat her well."

The other nodded. "I will. Perla is a most useful horse. She made a decent rider out of you, eh?"

Jack grinned wryly. Then he emitted a loud yawn. Half the sky was now star-spangled.

"A day spent rounding up stupider-than-average strays is particularly exhausting, so I am going to go to sleep now. Good night to you, Miguel."

"And to you, my love-sick friend." To himself, the gaucho muttered, "It must be true what they say; that love will make a man do crazy things."

Sparrow moved to collect his effects from Perla's back, then found an unoccupied space in the grass, not too distant from a banked campfire. He spread out his saddle-blanket and lay down, resting his head on his saddle and pulling his poncho over himself.

When he stared straight up, the glittering night sky looked the same as it did over the ocean. Only the sensation of rocking beneath him was missing. Soon he would feel that again, and be glad of it.

But he'd told Miguel the truth. He would always remember the Pampas, and the admirable residents who, though landlubbers, valued their freedom as much as any seafarer. Jack let his eyes shut, falling asleep within minutes.

For the first time in a very long while, it was not the sea he dreamed of.

xxx

FINIS

xxx

Translations from the Spanish:

Fragata - frigate

Enganchar- to hook something (slang for pressgang)

Abducción - abduction

¡Consiga trabajar! - Get to work!

¿Qué usted está haciendo aquí, extranjero? - What you are doing here, stranger?

Me pierden, buen Señor. ¿Puedo saber quiénes usted es? - I'm lost, good sir. May I know who you are?

Somos gauchos. - We are gauchos.

Me he escapado de la Marina de guerra Española. Me secuestraron para ser un esclavo a bordo de su nave. - I have escaped from the Spanish Navy. I was kidnapped to be a slave aboard their ship.

Necesito un lugar permanecer. Estoy dispuesto a trabajar. Mi nombre es Jack. - I need a place to stay. I am willing to work. My name is Jack.

Yo soy Ricardo Moreira. ¿Puede usted montar? - I am Ricardo Moreira. Can you ride?

Usted puede venir con nosotros para ahora. Descubriremos si hay trabajo para usted. - You can come with us for now. We will find out if there is work for you.

Éste tiene buenas maneras. Su nombre es Perla. - This one has good manners. Her name is Pearl.

Es nada. Soy Miguel Salas. - It's nothing. I'm Miguel Salas.

x

Historical Notes:

The Argentine War of Independence was fought from 1810 to 1818, and resulted in Argentina becoming a country independent from the Spanish crown.

In 1814, the British Navy formally banned impressment, aka press-ganging- kidnapping or coercing men into shipboard service. The Navy had long used this method to keep their ships adequately manned.
Informal versions, such as 'shanghaiing', continued until the early 1900s, when labor laws finally made the practice entirely illegal.