I was the eldest child of James Wilkinson Eastwood and his wife, Louisa Mary, born on the Eastern Goldfields of Western Australia on the 12th of April, 1903. I was molded and made in Kalgoorlie, before any other place had opportunity to influence me, and its crisp winter sun and searing summer dust storms became the backdrop against which my first twenty years of life were spent. From that distance in Time and Place I set out to locate my Eastwood ancestors, and invite them to join one for a journey through the years.
The only surviving member of my paternal ancestors was Aunt Gladys Eastwood living in peaceful retirement in Douglas, the Capital of the Isle of Man in the Irish Sea. From her I learnt two or more generations of my Eastwood and Wilkinson ancestors were born in Castle Hill, near Huddersfield, Yorkshire, England, a prosperous City noted for its fine textiles, and with extensive railway connections to Northern England and Scotland.
With such information, and the inestimable help of my immediate family, I discovered Castle Hill was not a community in its own right but a steep mound of earth some 1,000 feet high in the heart of the historic Village of Almondbury, which in its turn is a delightful outer suburb of its larger neighboring City of Huddersfield.
In such circumstances, the Village Guide Book is a history buff’s greatest delight. Within its pages I found the exciting information that the quaint Village of Almondbury was catalogued in the Medieval Domesday Book, or Book of Doom and Judgment, commissioned by none other than William the Conqueror in the year 1086 A.D. Less intimidating that it sounds, that Book of Doom was a census of the landed gentry of England of that day, their estates, servants and personal wealth. It was doubtless a way of acquainting the usurping Norman King William of his newly won kingdom, soon spread thinly amongst his favorite barons across the British Channel. The venerable Book, originally written on cheap sheets of velum, was later converted to metallic plates and is now a treasured one-of-a-kind relic of Medieval England, housed in the offices of the Public Records in the heart of London. The Village Guide Book displays a justifiable pride in reporting that the Book of Domesday furnishes a valuable record for the investigation and study of many questions relating to the early history of Great Britain, and even today is quoted in lawsuit as an authority.
With such a slice of History to whet one’s appetite, it is titillating to toy with what might have been! But no! My family lines are not recorded on those historic pages! However, the Village of my forbearers, Almondbury, is still there, nestling in the shadow of its ancient Castle Hill, challenging the ghosts of the long Past.
The steep hill was an obvious place to fortify for refuge and protection. On its summit the Village remains of fortifications, earthworks and ditches, which became the substance of legends of “Roman Forts, Saxon strongholds and Norman castles, with knights in armor jousting in the Outer Bailey,” to quote the picturesque language of the Guide Book.
To put all such conjecture to rest, a Dr. W. J. Farley, over a period of twenty-three years, ending in 1972, conducted a series of excavations in and around the puzzling mound of earth. He identified three major periods of occupation, the dates of the two earlier ones based on radio-active dating tests submitted to laboratories in Harwell, England, and New Jersey, America. He proved that Castle Hill was occupied no less than 4,000 years ago, possibly by Germanic Tribes which roamed through Central Europe on the edges of recorded history.
English naval history recognizes no higher point than when the fleet under Admiral Francis Drake won a famous victory over the Spanish Armada of Phillip the Second in the year 1588. To honor so glorious an encounter with England’s implacable foe, a huge bon-fire was lit on the summit of Castle Hill, the first recorded of many such celebrations. In due time came the Diamond Jubilee of England’s Queen Victoria in 1899, which called for the erection of a high tower on the renowned summit. Later, that tower became a powerful beacon light, shedding its beams throughout the District of Almondbury and beyond. It remains today as a permanent welcoming light to all.
Such thoroughly researched facts of ancient, Medieval and modern history was an assurance that sooner or later we would come face to face with early members of the Eastwood and Wilkinson families. In the official Register of the Anglican All Hallows Parish Church in the year 1871 is entered the name of James Eastwood, of Kaye Lane, Almondbury. It is a long lane which wound its way through the Village, to finally describe a half-circle around the base of Castle Hill. In that lane, James Eastwood and his wife, Martha, my great-grandparents lived their lifespan, rearing their family of boys and girls in the midst of a prodigal, wool-producing countryside.
The times demanded that the astounding Industrial Revolution of past generations brought change and unrest to the quiet farmlands of a rural England. Steam driven wheels of industry replaced the one-time home-oriented occupation of spinning and weaving the locally produced wool. Gone for all time were the slowly-turning water wheels on the Colne and Holm Rivers bordering the Village.
I have no way of interpreting the events of past history as they concern my great-grandparents and their forebears, but there is no doubt whatsoever that they were aware of Britain’s loss of the American colonies across the Atlantic Ocean, accepting as their fair exchange that one of their own sons, Captain James Cook, son of a Yorkshire laborer, had discovered and claimed for Britain an immense continent in the Southern Ocean. That almost unknown land was being settled by a remarkable conglomerate of convicts from overcrowded English goals, their military guards, and enterprising free settlers bent on finding a new world of unlimited space and potential. This was history in the making.
On to the stage of action were stepping the children of James and Martha Eastwood. Enter their eldest son, Thomas. He had passed through the years of schooling in the Parish Church School of All Hallows, then the Free Grammar School established under the Charter of King James the First of 1608. Thomas was then ready to face the world of his day, with its ever-expanding network of railways, its steam-driven factories, woolen mills and steamships carrying merchandise from the main centers of industry throughout England to the farthest corners of the Earth.
However, after the universal fashion of youth, Thomas Eastwood’s heart held him captive to the community of ancient Almondbury and the friends of his boyhood. There was the Wilkinson family of three girls, Frances, Sarah, Jane, and Brother George. The head of the Wilkinson household, James Wilkinson, was a brewer by occupation according to an interest entry in the Almondbury Parish Church, dated August 1871. Apparently that profession covered a variety of complimentary interests and activities including the study of nature and all its charm and diversity. Each flower and leaf, each seed-pod and fragrant weed, was in his hand a possible panacea for the ills of mankind. That was a health concept held in great favor in that age, and confirmed by a remarkable array of pharmacopeia available to all. Such facts were given me by my Aunt Gladys, according to her memory of her grand-parents, and the times in which they lived. Well known and respected throughout the community, James Wilkinson’s home, also in Kaye Lane, was open to those in need of a word of helpfulness, or healing balm, and none was more welcome than Thomas Eastwood, an enterprising youth, who had left his parents’ home, and commenced work in the offices of the Liverpool Railways in the County of Lancaster. Frances Wilkinson had won his heart, and before the alter of the Parish Church of All Hallows, Almondbury in the year 1871 the young couple pledged their troth each to the other, the Church Register giving the age of Thomas as twenty-four, and his lovely bride twenty-one. They were my paternal grand-parents.
The wedded pair settled in the bustling Port of Liverpool, the most important shipping outlet in all England, and in that soot-laden center established a home for their eventual family of seven children, James Wilkinson Eastwood, who became my father, and Thomas, Frances, Ada, Martha, and Tamar. An infant named John died early.
Unfortunately, no facts concerning the home location of my grand-parents and their family in Liverpool have survived the passing of time. The only indication of a definite address has been provided by Sunday School awards made to the eldest son, James, wherein in the outer suburb of Kirkdale was mentioned. Naturally inquiries have been directed to the relevant offices in the Parish and Borough, but have failed to provide any information relating to the Youth or his parents. On the front leaf of a small edition of “The Book of Common Prayer, According to the use of the Church of England,” (a companion edition to a small Bible) is inscribed,
“Second Class Prize Presented to J. W. Eastwood. W. Bancroff, Superintendent, St. Mary’s Sunday School, Kirkdale, 1833.”
It is reasonable to assume the young folk of the family attended Government schools, and joined in the communal life of their surroundings growing in favor and stature with the passing years. During this time Grandfather continued with his program of work in the offices of the Liverpool Railways, a sure and steady occupation apparently to his liking. The only glimpse I have of this period has come to me from my Aunt Gladys born to my grand-parents after the family had moved to Douglas, Isle of Man. Writing to me several years ago, she told of the progress of her elder brothers and sisters; in particular, the eldest son, James Wilkinson. She wrote:
“Your father must have been an outstandingly clever boy, and could have gone to any of the Universities of his choice, but turned that down because he felt his parents could not afford to keep him there for three years. My father was only a clerk in an office, and would not be getting much money….”
Amongst other details of that period of family growth in Liverpool, I learnt my grand-parents often returned to the rural community of Almondbury, visiting members of the Eastwood and Wilkinson families.
Again quoting from my Aunt Gladys’ letters, she told of the times her parents were called back to their home Village to follow slow processions to the Churchyard of All Hallows where loved ones were laid to rest. At such times they carried back to their Liverpool home practical mementos of their background in the shadow of Castle Hill, things which would blend a happy Past with their progressive, active Present.
In the late eighties of the last century there was an unexpected stirring in the well-knit family nest, my grand-parents and the younger members of their family moving from the English mainland to the small Isle of Man, in the northern part of the Irish Sea, midway between Ireland, Scotland, and England.
Why had my grand-parents undertaken such a drastic change in their life program? There was a challenging appeal in facing a new line of work leading to promotion in the offices of the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company, a flourishing shipping line, which started operations in 1830 with one ship, “Mona’s Isle,” sailing between Douglas, Capital of the Isle and Liverpool. Built in advance of its time, it attracted considerable attention: A paddle steamer of a gross tonnage of two hundred tons, a tall funnel mid-ship, and the Manx emblem of the Three Legs of Man on its paddle boxes. Soon another ship was added to the line, the “Mona,” then a third, “Queen of the Isle.” The enterprising Company was on its triumphant way to claim the distinction of being the eldest and most successful fleet to serve the needs of the Isle, England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales.
More vessels were added, as tide and time took advantage of the passing years. The “Prince of Wales” and the “Queen Victoria,” were brought into service at the time Grandfather joined the company, and there is no doubt that my Eastwood ancestors settled into their chosen way of life with confidence in a rewarding future. In reviewing such happenings, I believe Grandfather had chosen well in moving from the smoky industrialized Port of Liverpool, settling the younger members of his family in a wind-swept Isle of Leafy Glens, green fields dotted with crofters’ white-washed cottages, and an indented coastline of small fishing villages.
Mossy ramparts of castles held fast the story of a land whose antiquity is unchallenged and partly unknown. Existing records, however, confirm that Suzerainty of Norwegian, Danish, Scottish and English rulers from the eleventh century A.D., which is far enough for most of to penetrate. Not so for daring antiquarians who have probed a much longer Past, and are bold enough to push history back to the times of roving Phoenicians, sailing their graceful ships into the harbors and streams of the Isle of Man, searching for salmon, cod and herring. We are told the mariners discovered more than food – they stumbled on remarkable deposits of silver, zinc and lead, trophies they carried back to their homeland on the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean Sea.
Those inquiring historians found confirmation in the writings of ancient men, notably a biblical scribe named Ezekiel, who, in the sixth century B.C. indulged a variable flood of words concerning the voyages of the Phoenicians in their quest for the merchandise of other lands. In the fascinating twenty-seventh chapter of the Old Testament Book of Ezekiel, we can read the precise lands to which these mariners traveled, and the wide range of goods and treasures they brought back to their homeland on the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean Sea. Though the British Isles are not specifically mentioned by Ezekiel the sturdy ships of which the men of Tyre sailed covered long distances, and, if the History books of my primary school days in West Australia can be trusted, they traded their purple-dyed cloth for the tin of Cornwall, England, close by the Isle of Man!
However one interprets past history, it is a proven fact that the deposits of silver, lead, zinc and perhaps gold were mined in the Glens of Laxey on the East Coast of the Isle. Existing records tell of the shipment of various metals to England hundreds of years ago. Early last century invading waters seeped into the shafts from cracks in surrounding rocks making mining impossible. In or about the year 1840 a local engineer designed the most ingenious water wheel, capable of pumping the water from the shafts, and diverting the over-flow down the near valleys until they met their Nirvana in the waters of the Irish Sea.
Early this century the mines were finally stripped of their treasure, and all but one of the deep shafts sealed for all time, sealed as securely as the mystery of their beginnings. However, the giant water wheel, called “Lady Isabella,” still stands athwart one functioning shaft. At the turn of a switch the wheel commences its old-time revolutions, rhythmically pumping water from the mine for the pleasure of thousands of tourists who today offer their tribute to the clever engineer, and indirectly to the first discoverers of the treasure trove of Laxey Glen.
The giant water wheel was an accepted tourists’ attraction in the days of my Eastwood ancestors, but whether they probed into the ancient story is open to question. There was more to life than delving into the mysteries of a day on the edge of recorded history. Grandfather became totally involved in his new field of work with the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company, honoring a new and whimsical flag, itself presenting a puzzle in its emblem of the “Three Legs of Mann,” the origin of which is thought to be a deadly spiked Roman weapon of War, and in battle impaling both man and beast. The unique design is incorporated into the logo of the Steam Packet Company, shown in a ring headed by a shield bearing the words: “Stabit Concunque Jerceris.” I leave it to others to provide a translation of this Latin motto, but the Manx people apply its meaning to the facts of history; “Whichever way you throw me I will land on my two feet.” Despite the invasion of roving Phoenicians, Vikings, Danes, Picts, Scot and English through long-past centuries, the Manx people are still standing on their two feet.
Two children were added to the family of my grand-parents, Uncle Douglas and Aunt Gladys, and it augured well for years of rewarding living. It was therefore tragic that Grandfather died in 1896 when his youngest child was only four years of age, leaving Grandmother the responsibility of rearing and guiding the growing family through their years of schooling and maturity.
Long before that time another generation of the Eastwood family had moved to center stage, James Wilkinson, generally called “Wilkie” by those who knew him best. He had early joined the officers of the Liverpool Railways, as his father had done before him. Whether under parental advice or the unpredictable impulses of youth I do not know. His apprentice years completed, he was ready to face the world of his day, at that time suffering the weight of a financial depression. He was present on the Isle of Man at the time of Grandfather’s death in 1896, signing the requisite certificate.
It was a year of decision-making for the young man, for he had received a contract offer of work in the Railway’s Department of Western Australia, a Colony endeavoring to cope with a phenomenal gold discovery in the semi-desert inland. Tens of thousands of excited men and women had traveled from other Colonies of Australia and from overseas, straining the limited resources of the Colonial Government. His friend, Harry Bennett, was likewise contracted and as speed was the essence of the contract, traveling plans were set in motion immediately.
None but the most blasé of travelers can resist the thrill and excitement of owning for the first time new portmanteaux and cabin trunks waiting to be filled with carefully chosen luggage. It is a time of anticipatory delight, a foretaste of adventure beyond the commonplace. I like to imagine my father and his friend savored to the full the irrepressible joy of purchasing a supply of new English tweeds with peaked caps to match, in that day a measure of modish dressing. With hindsight to aid me, I can vouch for such luggage. For long years two tweed caps lay on the top shelf of my father’s cupboard in the Goldfield of Western Australia – too odd to wear in a land of panamas and straw boaters; too cherished to discard!
Exercising that hindsight again, packed deep in the tin trunk was a small collection of books, a complete Shakespeare, sharing place with a number of novels of by Sir Walter Scott, holding fast the romance and action of Scottish Border history. In after years I read and re-read those novels: “Rob Roy,” “Antiquary,” “Ivanhoe,” “Waverly,” stories which have now passed from popular currency.
There were two companion reference books, “Bartlett’s Dictionary of Quotations,” and “Classical Names in Fiction, New Edition, 1887,” this last-mentioned still in my possession. In a different class was an unexpurgated copy of the “The Thousand and One Nights,” fanciful tales to captivate the heart of a child; enduring tales such as “Aladdin and his mystical lamp,” and “Sinbad the Sailor” – evergreen stories of my early school days, books stacked in what I always described as dad’s bookcase.
There was variety, such a large sepia lithograph of Lillie Langtry, “the Jersey Lily,” whose beauty of form and social graces provided for her a place in the heart of a nation, and in the affection of Edward, Prince of Wales. Spurned by the virtuous Queen Victoria, she never the less assumed a subtle royal status, her presence gracing the dining rooms of a Victorian England. Her picture was soon to decorate the wall of a home in the heart of an arid land more than half a world away.
Well remembered by me is the stereoscope, an instrument “to aid in attaining vision of a pair of properly-prepared pictures, which together compose the stereoscope.…” the less-than-lucid description of a gadget providing our household of many pictures of the Isle of Man and other notable places of England and her Islands.
A sample of the collecting fever to which all mankind is addicted were several neatly-packed cigar boxes holding sets of glossy playing cards, backed by pictures of sportsmen and women of father’s day, favorites of Vaudeville and stage; of exploration and sport. Young and old, and every age and clime, we still are fashioning our collections of knickknacks and treasures, even as was done in the days of our ancestors.
And so the tin trunks and portmanteaux were packed for a long sea voyage, taking two young Englishmen from the heart of the British Empire in the year 1896. They brought with them the way of life their century dictated, a sense of the pride and prejudice of the Victorian Era. A highly-respected queen was on the throne of England, reigning with the aid of astute counselors for almost fifty years to that time. Ignoring world crisis, rising above or part of foreign wars, and with its own quota of domestic strife, the Empire had ridden securely and haughtily, adding Colony to Colony, people to people, power and glory to the exalted name of Britain.
Our young travelers sailed by way of the P. & O. Line of ships. The Peninsula and Orient, heading South to Gibraltar, that famous bastion of Britain, thence onward into the slashed Land of Suez, cutting the world in half. They skirted the coast of India, their vessel swallowing fuel to breast the waves of the Indian Ocean. Gamefully, it crossed the Fiery Circle of the Ancients, then south-east into the sunlight of southern world. The sheer weight of an ever-changing scene eventually called for the benediction of rest. Eventually my travelers finally gazed on the thin, white line of Rottnest Island, guardian of the entrance to the small harbor of Freemantle, West Australia. It was Journeys End!
Progress in Australia has always been brittle, hard, involved, not a slowly-unwinding evolution as in most civilizations of the past. The young country had little to offer other than clean air, sunshine, and the wonder of unlimited land. That land was its main drawcard, bringing to Australia its most needed asset, people. Amongst them were my father and his mate, Harry Bennett, eager for a first penetrating view of their new homeland and its people, who would be their companions through the coming years, sharing in the efforts of developing a Colony on its way to nationhood.
