Sometime around the 1700's
The fading black eye looked out of place on the little blonde boy. With his stiff, spotless white shirt tucked tightly and perfectly into his stiff spotless black pants, the boy looked every bit the perfect little boy the orphanage wanted to present to the public. With his hair combed and slicked to be parted to the side without a single strand daring to slip out of place, the black eye looked truly out of place on the little proper nine-year-old boy.
That was until one caught sight of the look in his eyes. The glint in his eyes was a clear indication of where the black eye came from. The little boy was a troublemaker and from gleam in his eyes, it was very clear that he enjoyed it.
But at the moment he was tugging at the collar of his shirt, certain that it was going to strangle him if he didn't get it to loosen just a little bit.
"Mr. Cromwell, you leave that alone." The headmaster of the orphanage slapped the offending hand away. The headmaster insisted that each of the ruffins that he had the misfortune of bringing into his orphanage was referred to by mister, hoping that it would encourage them to act like gentlemen.
The little boy shot the man a look that could have killed if such powers existed. "That's not my name."
The heavy-set man slapped the little boy across the ear. "You will not correct your elders. Your name is Oliver Cromwell."
The little boy clenched his fists by his sides. He knew that if he were to contradict the headmaster would only lead to more punishments.
The headmaster ignored the boy's visceral response and kept speaking.
"You have one thing going for you, Mr. Cromwell. Your unfortunate heritage," that's how every adult at the orphanage referred to the little boy's Irish background, "is hidden by your white blonde hair. Clearly someone in your past had the advantage of being English. You will adopt the name Cromwell because he was a great English statesman. You should be grateful I'm allowing such a name to be used by an Irish dog."
The little boy clenched his fists tighter. He could feel his nails bite into the flesh of his palms. His hair may have been white blonde, but the fire in his blood was all red. He allowed the anger to ripple through him, but even at nine, he had learned to control his reaction to it. The headmaster had insisted that he had managed to beat the Irish temper out of him, and he took credit for the control the little boy showed.
"Leave that collar alone." The headmaster insisted again.
The little boy hadn't even realized that he had once again reached up to loosen the tightening noose around his neck. He hated things around his neck. It made him feel like the dog the headmaster and other adults often referred to him as. He hated that feeling.
The boy sighed and dropped his hands.
He would obey the headmaster for now. It was almost noon and that would mean that they would eat soon. The little boy wasn't looking forward to missing another meal. He would eat first and then he would rip off the collar and accept the punishment in the evening.
Deciding that he needed to focus on something else to get his mind off the suffocating collar, he looked around the market. He had been dragged to the town square because the headmaster decided that he was old enough to become an apprentice and start providing for his board in the orphanage. That's why the boy was all dressed up. It was a ploy to trick the masters of the trades into thinking he wouldn't rob them blind the moment they turned his back on them.
The market was busy with everyone preparing for the beginning of the day. The carts were pulling into the square with the produce from the outside farms. The shops were opening preparing for the customers that would be arriving soon. But none of that interested the little boy. He wanted to be free and run in the fields outside the town. He wanted to be climbing the trees that grew thick to the north of the town.
He didn't give a two-pence for the stories of all the threats that would happen to little children who wandered into the forest. He was a boy. He could protect himself. He was sure of it.
He took a step away from the headmaster, ready to bolt for the forest he had been thinking about. He had heard the legend of Robin Hood and though he knew that the man wasn't real, he figured he would go to the woods and start a band of warriors himself. He would fight for those who were being hurt and oppressed, he decided.
He tugged on the collar again.
And he would free anyone forced to wear a collar.
Then he saw her.
The little girl caught his attention and the little boy couldn't seem to pull his eyes off of her.
Suddenly every part of the boy wanted to show off for the girl. Frantically he thought about what he might be able to do to show her how cool he actually was.
He could do a handstand. He was actually really good at a handstand, he had even been learning to take a couple steps with his hands. He could do that.
Or he could whistle. He could whistle something fierce.
Or perhaps he could run. He could show her how fast he could run.
"Mr. Cromwell, focus." The headmaster ordered, turning the boy's head away from the girl and back to the master blacksmith they were currently visiting.
The little boy felt the blood flush his cheeks as the embarrassment hit him. He didn't want the little girl to hear that name. He hated that name.
The little boy stared straight ahead for a moment, before risking a quick look back. The little girl was still there and this time she was looking at him.
The boy turned back quickly, not sure what to do, but after only a few seconds he stole a second look and then a third.
The headmaster suddenly gripped the little boy's shoulder, inflicting pain as he practically pulled the boy away from the blacksmith.
Once away from the blacksmith, the headmaster cuffed the boy on the ears, over and over until the boy was forced to react and try to protect his ears from the buffets of the older man.
"I told you to focus, you Irish cur." The headmaster always resorted back to the little boy's heritage when he needed to inflict severe punishment on the child. The headmaster boxed the boy's ears, waiting for the child to apologize for being an inconvenience. "I will hear your apology." The headmaster demanded.
The boy tried to be brave and tried to hold out, but the pain became almost unbearable.
He didn't know that his bravery and strength were not weakened by caving into the demands of an abusive adult. All he knew was that he had lost because he could not hold out.
"I'm sorry, headmaster." The little boy finally choked out.
"You will be." The headmaster boxed the child's ears one more time, before straightening up and turning around. "Come along."
The boy, with his ears still ringing, stuck his tongue out at the back of the headmaster.
A light giggle bubbled out of the eight-year-old's mouth. She covered her mouth quickly when the little blonde boy looked at her. He knew the girl had seen what had happened, and he could feel the heat rising on his cheeks. Even with the embarrassment, the boy liked the response he got from the girl.
He started to follow the headmaster, mocking the way the older man walked, and being rewarded with another laugh from the little girl.
Sensing something amiss the headmaster turned around, but the little boy snapped back into the perfect posture. Carefully studying the boy to see if he was somehow misbehaving, the headmaster stood still for a moment before finally spinning around.
The boy turned to the girl and lifted his finger to his lips, asking for her silence. And then he slowly winked, not being aware that he was even flirting with her. It was simply the most natural reaction for him.
The little girl pressed her hands against her mouth trying to suppress the laugh that was attempting to escape. She was laughing. The boy smiled. He had made her laugh again. Even when the headmaster grabbed his shoulder to pull him into another artisan shop, the little boy didn't care. He could only see the happy eyes of the girl.
The girl watched the boy disappear before turning around and racing back to her father.
"Papa?" The girl tugged on the older man's shirt sleeve.
The man placed the yew wood down and looked at his little daughter.
"Hey, Buttercup." Samuel tapped his sweet girl on the nose. "Why aren't you outside playing?"
"There's a boy out there, Papa. I think he might need some help."
Samuel wasn't really surprised to hear that. His daughter was forever finding strays that needed help. If it wasn't puppies, it was street urchins.
"And why does this boy need help, Cassie?"
"He has a mean papa who hits him in the ears." Cassie's eyes went wide as she relayed the information. "He hit him," she whispered the words in shock.
Samuel wasn't as surprised at the news as his daughter was. He knew that many fathers raised their hands against their children. Samuel took a knee so that he would be eye to eye-with his daughter.
"Cassandra," Samuel started to speak, but Cassie covered his mouth with one of her little hands.
"Papa, he's a nice boy."
"They are all nice boys," her father said.
Cassie put her hands on her hip and cocked her head to the side.
Samuel laughed at the serious look his daughter gave him. She took after her mother with the ability to scold him with only a look.
"All right, Cassie, where is this boy? I'll talk with him and his father."
Samuel was rewarded with an instantaneous smile. Cassie excitedly clapped her hands before grabbing her father's hands and pulling him outside. She didn't know and would never know how fortunate it was that she was able to get her father outside at that very moment. All she knew was that the moment she stepped outside, she saw the headmaster once more beating the little boy.
Samuel noticed the same thing, but he focused first on his daughter. He wasn't surprised to see her little fists form by her side. He knew that she would fly at the man in an attempt to protect the little boy. Samuel leaned down and spoke to Cassie.
"Cassie, go back inside."
"But Papa--"
"No," Samuel interrupted his daughter. "You will obey me, go inside. I will take care of the boy."
The promise by her father was all that Cassie needed. She glanced at the boy one more time before turning around and running back into the shop. She would look out the small window and watch her father.
Samuel waited for his daughter to disappear before heading over to the two males. He didn't want his daughter to be exposed to the evils of the world. To her, it was simple that adults should not hit children, but in this world, adults often saw children as their personal punching bags, especially when needed to release stress and tension.
"I told you to focus." The headmaster wasn't even paying attention to Samuel or anyone. He was only focusing on the little boy. Every word was accentuated with the headmaster hitting the boy in the head again.
The boy attempted to dodge the blows, but the headmaster held him in place, keeping the boy's head in his reach. Samuel could see that there were tears in the little boy's eyes that he was fighting to keep hidden.
"William," Samuel spoke as he reached the pair, "another problem?"
He knew who William Cole was. He was the head of the boys' orphanage. Everyone in the town knew William. He took in the boys forgotten by society. Samuel wasn't surprised to see William beating the young boy. William had a short fuse. And since the boys in the orphanage were already not wanted by society, there was no one to step in and protect the children.
"Mr. Young." William pulled himself upright as he spoke. He stopped the blows to the boy but he didn't release his shoulder.
Samuel looked at the boy who was still trying so hard to stop the tears that were biting the back of his eyelids.
"Who do you have here?" Samuel asked.
William tightened his hold on the boy's shoulder. "This is Oliver Cromwell."
Samuel watched as the tears in the boy's eyes were replaced with anger.
William continued talking, ignoring the reaction of the boy.
"Sometimes the challenge is for the boys to see that all I want is the best for them."
"And this boy?"
Suddenly William remembered that Samuel was an artisan as well. He might be able to pawn the boy off today as planned.
"Mr. Cromwell has turned nine years old. He's a good worker and bright."
Samuel looked at the boy. He knew better than to let William know that he was interested in the boy. William was a hard bargainer; he would sell his mother for a price. This boy meant nothing to him unless he thought he could get a higher price for him.
"What's the price?"
"Ten shillings a week," said William in a decisive tone. He knew the ins and outs of trade.
"For a nine-year-old?" Samuel scoffed. "I don't need a water boy that badly."
William kept his scowl hidden. "You drive a hard bargain. Seven shillings then."
Samuel stroked his chin. "How about 5 shillings a week for the next year, and I'll take him off your hands. He can sleep in the shop. I'm sure a growing boy like him, you would be happy to not have to feed him anymore."
William paused to think and calculate the profit he could make.
"Six shillings," he countered.
Samuel held out his hand, signifying the acceptance of the deal. With a smile, William shook the man's hand.
"Oliver," William turned to the boy, gripping his shoulders hard to get the young child to focus on him, "Mr. Young has agreed to take you and train you in his craft. You have a chance to make something of yourself. I expect you to succeed with this potential I have given you and that Mr. Young is offering you. Do I make myself clear?"
The little boy nodded.
William straightened up. "You're getting a good deal, Samuel."
Samuel looked at the young boy in front of him. He knew that he had to help the boy get away from the orphanage. He would have paid the ten shillings a week for the little man. Besides, his daughter would never look him in the eye again, if he let this little boy go back with the man who hit him.
"Thank you, William," Samuel said in a slightly curt tone. "I think I'll show the boy what I need him to do."
Samuel waited for William to leave the pair, before turning to the young boy who had not moved.
"Little man?" Samuel prodded the boy to meet his eyes with only speaking.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm starting to think that Oliver Cromwell is not your real name, is it?"
The little boy looked over his shoulder to where William had left only a moment ago.
Samuel smiled to put the little boy at ease. "He's gone, and I will never hit you."
The kindness of Samuel caused tears to slip out of the boy's eyes as he hung his head. He was going to have to share with Samuel the worst news in the little boy's whole world.
Samuel notices the action but doesn't say anything. He heard the boy mumble something but he couldn't catch it at first.
"Little man," Samuel spoke softly, "tell me."
"I'm Irish." With the two words out, the boy scrunched up to brace his little face for the fist that was surely to come.
Samuel sighed. He was well aware of the hatred that often existed between the English and the Irish. He couldn't understand it, but he knew it existed.
Samuel knelt in front of the boy and gently took his shoulders. "I have a secret to share. I'm Irish too. My great-grandfather was Irish."
The boy's eyes widened in complete surprise. "You're Irish?"
Samuel nodded. Reading the boy's eyes, he asked him one more time. "What is your name? I'm sure no self-respecting Irish lad would choose the name Oliver Cromwell."
The little boy whispered, "My name is Cu."