But there was plenty of alcohol to be had on the journey, and so long as the ship was sailing neither Marks or Charter seemed to care that the men spent their days in consuming it. Many a day the men abandoned their tasks half way through as soon as they knew the drinks were available. This meant most of the simple tasks of maintenance which are inconsequential in the short run but vital in the long run to a ship's well-being fell to the young cabin boy.

If Jack had had a choice he would have been drinking with the men even if they did think he was Charter's boy despite his sleeping down below with them every night. But where Charter was lackadaisical with everyone else's time, he took a special and malicious pleasure in assigning Jack all the tasks that were left undone on top of the ones Jack had to do as part of his normal duties.

Jack scrubbed the deck at all hours, trying to meet impossible deadlines; when he failed, he was punished with either blows or lack of food. He mended rope and sail, watching with a weary fascination as his hands blistered, bled, blistered then finally callused over. It was always him being sent to repair a leak, or to retrieve a flying piece of rigging, never mind that the ship was tilting near horizontal in the rough water. He stood day long watches with no food and no water. He helped the cook and worked over the guns to keep them fire worthy. He shifted cargo or ballast for no other reason then Charter wanting him to, and what did it matter that he had no sleep, his body was beginning to fail, and he was slowly starving to death?

This is what Davis had meant by breaking him, and he had been right. Jack, who rarely found himself without a word or comment to say, slowly fell silent.

He tried not to. He really did, but the crew wouldn't talk to him. Oh, they had at first even if they were wary of him and thought him Charter's. Any man will talk if you just find the right thing they're willing to talk about, and with nothing to do other than work, Jack took advantage of any of his downtime not spent sleeping to find out what the crew liked to talk about.

Except Charter had noticed and threatened them all if they said a word to him again. "You'll save that sweet tongue for me, lad," he had said, then walked off; no doubt sure Jack was close to breaking. The Captain was locked in his cabin with his drink most of the time – not that Jack was allowed in there – and he would rather swab the decks three times a day then make pleasant talk with Charter. Which left Davis to talk to since the man was exempt from every rule of the crew due to his relationship with the first mate. Not that it seemed to bring him any pleasure.

Davis had a prettier face than many a lady, but the effect was marred by the way he wandered around the ship frowning or smiling cynically. He was attentive, almost embarrassingly so when Charter was around, but he treated Jack as an annoyance at best and as a rival at worst despite Jack's assuring him to the contrary.

But still, he did talk to Jack on occasion and it was a single conversation with Davis that reminded Jack that there was something beyond the ship and his continual slavery.

They had sailed through the Channel and around Spain and Portugal without incident. Supplies were refilled at the Cape Verde islands, though Jack was tied below deck for the duration of that visit. Now they were sailing along the Ivory Coast, always keeping it in sight as they attempted to catch the most favorable local winds. They had been sailing for four months now, and despite the lack of effort on the crew's part, Jack had been assured by a proud Charter that the Thrush was making good time.

Jack was repairing sails in the shelter of the foredeck, enjoying the salt spray that blew up from the bow, though not the wind that rippled through his hair. Without his mum to attend to it, his hair was getting too long to stay out of his eyes, but wasn't long enough to tie back. He was also trying to squint against the increasingly hot sun as he drew a thick needle through the canvas. In short, he needed a hat. It was a pity that his bastard of a father hadn't arranged to have him shanghaied with one.

He tried sewing for a bit longer, but gave up after stabbing himself for the second time. Sucking on the finger, he looked around surreptitiously to see if Charter was on deck. If the first mate wasn't around, he could change to another task for awhile without recrimination. A few sailors were lazing about deck, taking afternoon naps judging by the snoring, with the only one awake being the man at the helm: Davis.

Jack embedded the needle deep into his pile of sail canvas and made his way across the deck. He had picked up on the peculiar way the other sailors walked to stay upright, and hadn't fallen on deck for months now. He liked to think he could stay standing no matter what the conditions topside, but had yet to test his theory in anything other than a light squall.

The bucket of slush was where he had left it earlier near the capstan. He dropped the slimy rag he had been using before into it with a plop and brought the pail up to the area around the helm. Davis' face was fixed in a grimace as he held tightly onto the spokes of the wheel, so Jack started rubbing the slush into the railings and waited for the man to become used to his presence before starting a conversation.

"Stop staring at me, Jack. I can't help you," said Davis after a little while.

"‛Course you can help me, mate. You don't want to. You got a good place on this ship, though I imagine you do a lot of work at night…"

For once, Davis didn't take offense. "Charter's getting impatient. He's been enjoying watching you work and suffer, but yelling your name into the night isn't going to comfort him much longer."

Any composure Jack had been maintaining was shattered by that statement. "You mean he really…?"

"Aye."

Jack scrubbed hard at the railing, appalled by the extra information. Charter wanted him willing and submissive, and was willing to wait for Jack to reach that state. But if the first mate gave up on the willing part, Jack was in a lot of trouble. "Maybe you should dye your hair black, mate."

"Maybe you should throw yourself overboard. No wonder Charter's forbidden you from talking," said Davis.

"Charter didn't buy me for my talking," Jack reminded him. He hated the fact that no one was allowed to talk to him though. He was acutely aware that this was his first real conversation with someone since Davis had been on deck three days ago. "I can still talk to myself," he declared, though he hadn't been. At some point life had narrowed down to going from one hard task to another, with talking a luxury only normal people were allowed.

"Until Captain Marks throws you overboard for being delirious, or the crew decide they'd rather not have a madman on board and do the same." That sardonic smile was back on Davis' face.

"Anyone ever tell you you're obsessed with throwing me overboard?"

"Shut up!" And that was that. No more conversation until the next time 'Lord' Davis deigned to speak to the peasant Jack Hatter. Jack resolved that he would get back in the habit of conversation, even if he did have to start talking to himself. Mum had done it all the time after all, and it hadn't harmed her. Well, other than the mad part.

And on that thought, he did start up a conversation with himself that involved him trying to name every sail and rope on the ship.

"Take the wheel, Jack," said Davis into his thoughts.

"What?" As far as Jack knew, he wasn't allowed near the wheel unless to waterproof it.

"I need to go leeward," Davis elaborated impatiently. "Just hold the wheel where it is and don't go spinning it about."

After a self-conscious glance around for Charter, Jack took the wheel. He immediately had to brace himself as it was nearly pulled from his hand. The helmsmen made it seem almost effortless to keep the wheel in one place and the ship on course. But holding onto the wooden spokes, Jack could almost feel the steering column going down through the boat and touching the sea, a sea that was trying its damndest to force the ship off course. He replanted his feet wide, bracing himself against the deck and using both hands to hold the wheel with all of his thirteen-year-old strength.

Gradually, he got the hang of it. You had to give as much strength to the ocean as it was giving to you and let the ship ride out your fight. The sea would destroy a sailor, but with a ship and a helm to steer her, a sailor was free to ride the waves. He wondered why no one had ever described this experience for him before. If he had known, he might have signed on the Thrush and paid whatever price to helm her.

The wind whipped against his face and for one long moment, Jack was sure he could fly. He knew with an absolute certainty that this was where he wanted to be – at the helm of a willing ship, sailing free.

He nearly lost the wheel when a large hand grabbed the back of his head along with his hair and pulled. With his head bent back, he could just make out Charter's angry brown eyes behind him.

"What're you doing on the wheel?" snarled the first mate. "Are you drunk?"

Jack wondered what he meant, then realized his face was still stretched in an unconscious smile at the joy of the sea. He felt the smile broaden. "Aye, sir. Drunk as a man can be. As for the wheel, I thought it was in need of a polishin'."

Charter pushed him away in disgust, and caught the wheel before it spun round.

"I asked him to hold the wheel for me," called Davis as he joined them on the poop deck. "While I took a piss, sir." His hands were still fumbling with the buttons on his trousers in what looked like an obvious attempt at distraction, though whether it was to help Jack's or Davis' was beyond Jack's ken. Right at that moment, he decided to give up trying to understand the bitter, blond man, though he would thank Davis to his dying day for the opportunity he had given him.

Charter stared at Davis, his eyes on the man's fumbling hands and dryly ordered one of the lounging sailors to take the helm while motioning for Davis to follow him to his cabin.

"Join us, lad," ordered Charter, but Jack picked up his rag and went back to work, pretending not to hear him. Charter waited for an answer, but Jack kept his head down until the first mate moved onwards. When he did look up, it was to check the helm and to wonder when next he could get his hands on it.

+++++

            The helm remained out of reach for a very long time, nigh on two months to be exact, but its solid presence was a comfort to Jack in his misery. And misery it was. Charter, as if sensing his renewed spirit and determination, gave tasks to Jack that even the hardened sailors threw lots to avoid. He was given the job of coating the rigging with tar, dangling from the masts or a line with only a pot of hot tar and a brush. He lost all sense of smell, and all hope that the watery salt beef stew they ate near all the time would taste of anything but tar. With only Jack working on it the task took a long time, and when it was finished he was set to caulking, deep in the heart of the ship, and then hanging by a rope of the side of the ship to caulk the hull. Another task that the men avoided at all costs.

            It was strange, but in many ways Jack didn't notice. His thoughts were on the helm of the ship, the ocean and sailing. He imagined what he could do if the ship was his, sailing off into the horizon. He would find treasure or new lands if there were any new lands left in the world, and maybe fight a sea serpent or two. With a ship of his own his options were limitless.

            He also began talking again. To himself at first, and never in the presence of the Captain since he wasn't quite sure if Charter would follow through if Captain Marks ordered him overboard. Then he started talking to the crew again. They weren't stupid enough to speak back, but that wasn't the point. They were listening. Nor did he care if they believed him when he said he was the son of an Indian raja (and he was dark enough from the sun at this point that it was somewhat believable). What mattered is that there was something in this world beside his grueling work and his starving body.