Times of Destiny

By Geoff Cumbley

It was by pure coincidence that the writing of Times of Destiny was completed at the same time as many countries ceremonies of remembrance on the one hundredth anniversary of the start of the First World War. Life in and out of the trenches is portrayed in a series of historic events that had distinct effects on the security of the United Kingdom.

Three boys reach manhood, and they and their descendants form a military line. Their contributions to the United Kingdoms history begin in the seventeenth century and continues to the present day. The men and women of Times of Destiny become involved in dangerous situations, and love, romance, and adventure find their way into these peoples lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504934909

Geoff Cumbley

Geoff Cumbley was born in Worcester at the beginning of the Second World War. Following his education in the city he was employed in industry for just over a decade. He then served for a period of twenty-two years in the Royal Air Force. On the completion of his Service he entered a career in security. He has travelled to the United States, Canada, the Middle and Far East, numerous resorts on the Mediterranean, and in the United Kingdom itself. Now retired, he resides in Worcester with his wife Patricia. They have two daughters and three grandchildren.

Book preview

JACK WILDSMITH

The Wildsmith family lived in a ramshackle house with a small untidy garden at the front on the edge of a Hampshire village. The building had three rooms to house a family of nine. One bedroom held four children, and a thick curtain divided the remaining children from their parents’ bed in the other. A small wood-burning fireplace provided the only heat in the place, and a solitary table occupied the centre of the downstairs room. There were only two chairs, so the children sat on the floor. A wash house and lavatory occupied a yard behind the house. The whole family’s bathing in a tin bath in front of the fire proved a major undertaking, so they embarked upon it only four times a year. They had no carpets, and the windows, wiped over sometimes, had thin grubby curtains.

The man of the house, Daniel Wildsmith, was a bull of a man with a protruding belly and flabby muscles. Bushy eyebrows topped his brown eyes below which were an aquiline nose, a cruelly twisted mouth and a chin rarely without stubble. His skin was rough and his black hair greasy. Employed as a labourer, he clothed himself in worsted fabric, thick collarless shirts, and dirty grey breeches pushed down into his boots, for which thin hemp rope served as laces. His companions, all similarly clothed, worked for the same company. Most evenings they gathered at the Broken Anchor Inn. The sessions followed a usual pattern, starting quietly with a game of cards but slowly dissolving into a cacophony of raucous jokes and howls of laughter. At around eleven o’clock Daniel would stagger home to his wife, who waited with her usual apprehension.

Rose Wildsmith was a mousy, emaciated woman with pale features and prematurely grey hair. Her blue eyes were dull and her mouth, usually set in a thin line, rarely showed a smile. Her life was dedicated to raising the children on the pittance her belligerent husband provided. When he was drunk, he sometimes beat her with his fists without remorse. Acquaintances who saw fresh bruises on her face asked why she didn’t leave him, but her answer was always the same: I have to take care of the children.

The youngest of the seven children was called Jack. Though thin in body, he grew wiry and strong. Throughout the eight years of his life he had felt that his father resented him and found him a burden, so his outlook on adults was far from happy.

Rose encouraged his attendance at the village school, but from the outset, Jack rebelled against authority and was no stranger to standing in the corner of the classroom and to the stick the teacher wielded across his bare buttocks. He got into fights in the playground, and his teachers despaired of him, however, by the end of his third year his reading and writing improved, as did his school attendance. Great credit for this transformation was owed to a new schoolmaster, John Newman. He saw something in Jack’s character that drew him to bring out the best in the boy. Most of the children were afraid of Jack and left him out of their playground games, but Newman persuaded groups to admit him into their circles, and Jack began to enjoy playing hide-and-seek, tag, cricket and football games. Newman also had Jack’s teacher keep him back at the end of the school day for extra tutelage, and slowly but surely, Jack’s academics rose to the level of the other children in his class.

At home, Daniel’s drunken rampages and assaults on Jack’s mother continued. Then, one night, during an excessively brutal attack, Jack tried to intervene. Daniel snorted and, yellowed teeth bared, chased Jack until he cornered the boy and beat him senseless.

Let him be, Daniel! You’ve killed him, Rose said.

So what? Daniel growled before he stumbled up the rickety stairs.

Slowly Jack regained consciousness, his head aching, his body bruised. He rose and looked at a cut above the left eye and a swollen lower lip in a fragment of mirror by the light of a candle. He cleaned himself up as best he could, and then he quietly gathered together his few belongings, wrapped them in an old tablecloth, and left the house. His family never saw him again.

The ship was short of crew. A dozen seamen slipped into Portsmouth harbour. The hour was late, and drinkers were unwary as they made their way home and vulnerable to impressment as used by the Royal Navy to top up ships’ crews. One particular night, a gang spotted Jack, and three members approached him with clubs raised. Their leader, a man named Garcia with a thin face and slight body, wore a red bandana and a patch over his right eye. Unafraid, Jack simply stepped past Garcia and joined the group. The gang captured another six men, all terrified. To maintain their freedom, some offered money and others pleaded with Garcia, but all in vain.

Later that night, at the dockside where several ships were anchored, the gang herded the captives aboard the largest vessel, the Somerton. On deck they came under the scrutiny of a broad-shouldered man wearing a frock coat over a waistcoat, breeches thrust down into high laced boots, and a tricorn hat. He always dressed well compared to his motley crew. His hair was long, black, and wavy. He sported a large, neatly trimmed beard, and what little flesh was visible was deeply tanned. His blue eyes moved over the men before him.

Any trouble, Garcia? asked Neil Somerton, owner and captain of the ship.

No, Captain.

Good. Somerton turned to another seaman. Edwards, take these men below and find them some food and a place to sleep. Leave the boy.

Yes, sir.

Somerton examined the young lad before him. You have a name, boy?

Jack Wildsmith.

"Jack Wildsmith, sir!" Somerton commanded.

Jack Wildsmith, sir.

That’s better. Do you live here in Portsmoth?

No, sir. I ran away from home because my father beat me and my mother.

Somerton paused to think. Some moments later, Garcia returned, and Somerton looked up. Take him below, Garcia. He starts duty tomorrow. Teach him well.

Sir, the bosun said with a nod.

Jack suffered a restless night below decks in a hammock before Garcia came for him just after dawn. They breakfasted together. Conversation was light, and Jack found Garcia to be quite friendly. He then gave Jack a tour of the ship, pointing out where the cargo was stacked, it’s content,the navigational instruments and the armament.

The day was warm, the sky blue. What clouds there were moved lazily on a light breeze. Black-and-white timbered buildings pressed close to the quay and leaned towards the water. The harbour was lively. Men and women of all ages, creeds, and colours moved over the cobblestones in large groups; a troop of soldiers marched by, their rifles gleaming in the sunlight. There was movement aboard the ships, too, as they took on cargo. Small boats scurried about in the dirty water. All this activity created a constant noise which eased only when one of the ships, now fully loaded, pulled away from the quay.

Are we sailing today, sir? Jack asked.

Aye, on this afternoon’s tide, Garcia said.

Jack waited impatiently for the moment of departure.

The time was well past noon when Jack heard someone call his name. He looked up; the captain was waving to him from the quarterdeck. Jack made his way over.

We are about to cast off, Somerton said. You can watch from here.

The captain waved again, and Garcia shouted orders. Chains rattled, the anchor was raised, ropes were untied ashore, and crewmen pulled them in. Slowly, the Somerton eased away from the quay and cleared the harbour. For the first time in his life, Jack enjoyed the thrill of freedom.

Garcia looked at his captain, who nodded, so the bosun shouted more orders. In a flurry of movement, the crew clambered up the masts and spread out along the yards. At Garcia’s next signal, the sails dropped. Almost at once they let out loud cracks and billowed as they took on a fresh breeze. Jack watched the English coastline diminish, and he felt the increasing swell under the ship as it moved further into the open sea.

Garcia joined him at the railing. Do you have a head for heights, Jack?

I don’t know, sir.

Garcia looked up at the crow’s nest. We’ll soon find out.

Jack followed his gaze, and his heart missed a beat, but he managed to conceal his alarm.

Jack went below to his bunk for a one hour break. As soon as he sat, a man in the next bunk leaned over.

Oh, hello, young man, and what is your name?

Jack, sir.

Do you know how old you are?

Nearly nine, sir.

Right. You can drop the ‘sir’. I’m Jacob, Jacob Thorn.

Have you been on this ship long … Jacob?

Nearly three years. Seems a lifetime, Jacob said. I was caught by a gang the same as you. The soft-spoken man had long, straggly grey hair and a heavily wrinkled face. His watery blue eyes looked at Jack over a pince-nez perched at the end of a long, narrow nose. Over his slim body he wore a grubby,once white shirt, breeches, and boots.

I was a teacher. Have you been to school, Jack?

Yes.

Did you get to read and write at all?

Yes, Jacob.

That’s good. Do you want to continue learning?

I would like to.

Then I can help you. I have some books and a small collection of writing materials. When we have some free time, we can get together and study a little, all right?

Yes,that would be good. I would be happy to read better. I was doing well when I left the school, Jack said.

A moment passed.

Where are we going Jacob?

To a place called Angola in Africa to pick up slaves. We’ll then take them to America.

Slaves? Jack said aghast.

Yes. If you go to the hold, you will see timbers lashed to the bulkhead. These make two decks for the poor wretches, and they are the lucky ones. Captain Somerton is a kindly man and prefers to get as many as possible to the New World alive. We encroach on Portuguese territory, which is dangerous. I’m sure a law will end slavery one day.

Jacob held out a bony hand, and Jack shook it. He had met his first real friend.

The following day, Jack looked out at land from the starboard side of the Somerton when Garcia approached him.

Time to relieve the lookout, Jack.

Garcia led him to the rigging, where Jack watched with apprehension as a seaman climbed down from his perch. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he jumped to the deck.

There you go, lad, the lookout said gruffly.

Jack looked apprehensively at Garcia, who nodded.

The youngster climbed to the foot of the rigging, looked up at the approximately one hundred feet high main mast and began