ON THE DROVE
There is not in all England—there is hardly in the world—any tract
of country more depressing to the spirits, more void of elements of
loveliness, than the Cambridgeshire Fens as they now are.
In former days, when they were under water—a haunt of wildfowl, a
wilderness of lagoons, a paradise of wild-flowers—when they teemed
with fish and swarmed with insect life of every kind—when the _eys_
or islets, Stuntney, Shipey, Southconey, Welney, were the sole
objects that broke the horizon, rising out of the marshes, rich with
forest-trees—then the Fens were full of charm, because given over to
Nature. But the industry of man has changed the character and aspect of
the Fens. The meres have been pumped dry, the bogland has been drained.
Where the fowler used to boat after wild duck, now turnips are hoed;
where the net was drawn by the fisherman, there wave cornfields.
In former times, for five-and-twenty miles north of Ely, one rippling
lake extended, and men went by boat over it to the sand-dune that
divided it from the sea at King's Lynn. To the west a mighty mere
stretched from Ely to Peterborough. To the east lay a tangle of lake
and channel, of marsh and islet.
Until about a hundred years ago, men lived in houses erected on
platforms sustained upon piles above the level of the water. Walls
and roofs of these habitations were thatched and wattled with reeds.
From the door a ladder conducted to a boat. In these houses there were
hearths, but no chimneys. The smoke escaped as best it might through
the thatch, or under the gables. During the winter the fen-men picked
up a livelihood fishing and fowling. In summer they cultivated such
patches of peat soil as appeared above the surface of the water. There
were no roads; men went from place to place by water, in boats or on
skates.
In the reign of James I. Ben Jonson wrote his play 'The Devil is an
Ass.' Into this play he introduced a speculator—a starter of bogus
companies, by name Meercraft, and one of this man's schemes was the
draining of the Fens.
The thing is for recovery of drown'd land,
Whereof the Crown's to have a moiety,
If it be owner; else the Crown and owners
To share that moiety, and the recoverers
To enjoy the t'other moiety for their charge,
* * * * * * which will arise
To eighteen millions, seven the first year.
I have computed all, and made my survey
Unto an acre; I'll begin at the pan,
Not at the skirts, as some have done, and lost
All that they wrought, their timberwork, their trench,
Their banks, all borne away, or else filled up
By the next winter. Tut, they never went
The (right) way. I'll have it all.
A gallant tract of land it is;
'Twill yield a pound an acre;
We must let cheap ever at first.'
Jonson introduced this Meercraft as a caution to the people of his day
against being induced to sink money in such ventures, which he regarded
as impossible of realisation. Nevertheless, what Jonson disbelieved in
has been accomplished. The work begun in 1630, was interrupted by the
Civil Wars, resumed afterwards, was carried on at considerable outlay
and with great perseverance, till at the beginning of the present
century the complete recovery of the Fens was an accomplished fact.
Great was the cost of the undertaking, and those who had invested in
it wearied of the calls on their purses; land, or rather water, owners
were discouraged, and were ready to part with rights and possessions
that hardly fetched a shilling an acre, and which instead of being
drained itself seemed to be draining their pockets. Long-headed fen-men
saw their advantage, and bought eagerly where the owners sold eagerly.
The new canals carried off the water, the machines set in operation
discharged the drainage into the main conduits, and soil that for
centuries had been worthless became auriferous. No more magnificent
corn-growing land was to be found in England. None in Europe might
compare with it, save the delta of the Danube and the richest alluvial
tracts in South Russia. The fen-men made their fortunes before they had
learned what to do with the fortunes they made. Money came faster than
they found means to spend it.
To this day many of the wealthiest owners are sons or grandsons of
half-wild fen-slodgers. There are no villages in the Fens apart from
such as are clustered on widely dispersed islets. There are no old
picturesque farmhouses and cottages. Everything is new and ugly. There
are no hedges, no walls, for there is no stone in the country. There
are no trees, save a few willows and an occasional ash, from whose
roots the soil has shrunk. The surface of the land is sinking. As the
fen is drained, the spongy soil contracts, and sinks at the rate of two
inches in the year. Consequently houses built on piles are left after
fifty years some eight feet above the surface, and steps have to be
added to enable the inmates to descend from their doors.
The rivers slide along on a level with the top storeys of the houses,
and the only objects to break the horizon are the windmills that drive
the water up from the dykes into the canals.
There are no roads, as there is no material of which roads can be
made. In place of roads there are 'droves.' A drove is a broad course,
straight as an arrow, by means of which communication is had between
one farm and another, and people pass from one village to another.
These droves have ditches, one on each side, dense in summer with
bulrushes. No attempt is made to consolidate the soil in these droves
other than by harrowing and rolling them in summer. In winter they
are bogs, in summer they are dust—dust black, impalpable. Wheeled
conveyances can hardly get along the droves in winter, or wet weather,
as the wheels sink to the axles.
The canal banks, however, are solid, compacted of stiff clay, and as
they are broad, so as to resist the pressure of the water they contain
between them, their tops make very tolerable paths, and roads for those
on horseback. But no wheeled vehicle is suffered to use the bank tops,
and to prevent these banks from being converted into carriage roads,
barriers are placed across them at intervals, which horses with riders
easily leap.
At one of the Cambridge Assizes a poor man, a witness in court, when
asked his profession, answered,—'My lord, I am a banker.' The judge,
turning very red, said, 'No joking here, sir.' 'But I _am_ a banker and
nothing else,' protested the witness. He was, in fact, one of the gang
of men maintained for the reparation of the canal banks.
The reader must be given some idea of the manner in which this vast
level region is drained. It is cut up into large squares, and each
square is a field that is surrounded by dykes. These dykes are in
communication with one another, and all lead to a _drain_ or _load_,
that is to say, to a channel of water of a secondary size, that lies
at the level of a few feet above the dykes. To convey the water from
the ditches into the drains, windmills are erected, that work machinery
which throws the water out of the ditches up hill into the loads. These
loads or drains run to the canal at intervals of two miles; and when
the drain reaches the canal bank, then a pump of great power forces the
water of the load to a still higher level, into the main artery through
which it flows to the sea. On the canals are lighters, and these,
rather than waggons, serve for the conveyance of farm produce to the
markets. Water is the natural highway in the fen-land.
The short October day had closed in. The fen lay black, streaked with
steely bands—the dykes that reflected the grey sky.
On the right hand was a bank rising some fourteen feet above the
roadway; it was the embankment of the river or canal that goes by the
name of the Lark. Above it, some wan stars were flickering. On the left
hand the fen stretched away into infinity, the horizon was lost in fog.
The Cheap Jack's horse was crawling, reeling along the drove under
the embankment, the van plunging into quagmires, lurching into ruts.
The horse strained every muscle and drew it forward a few yards, then
sighed, hung his head, and remained immovable. Once again he nerved
himself to the effort, and as the van started, its contents tinkled and
rattled. The brute might as well have been drawing it across a ploughed
field. Again he heaved a heavy sigh, and then finally abandoned the
effort.
The Cheap Jack had got out of the conveyance. He was unwell, too unwell
to walk, but he could not think of adding his weight to that the poor
horse was compelled to drag over what was not the apology for, but the
mockery of a road.
'I say, Zit,' muttered he hoarsely, 'I wish now as we'd a' stayed
overnight in Ely.'
'I wish we had, father. And we could have afforded it; we've made fine
profits in Ely—tremenjous.'
The man did not respond. He trudged and stumbled on.
The drove was as intolerable to walk on as to drive along.
'Well, I never came along roads like these afore,' said the girl, 'and
I hopes we may soon be out of the Fens, and never get into them again.'
'I don't know as we shall ever get out,' said the man, reeling as one
drunk. 'It seems as if we was sinking—sinking—and the black mud would
close over us.'
'Come along, Jewel!' said Zita to the old horse. 'I'd put the lash of
the whip across you, but I haven't the heart to do it.'
'This is going like snails,' groaned the man.
'It's going worse than snails,' retorted his daughter. 'Snails carry
their houses safely along with them, but I doubt if we shall convey
our van out of this here region o' stick-in-the-mud, without all its
in'ards being knocked to bits. We'll have to yarn tremenjous, father,
to cover the dints in the tin and the cracks in the crocks.'
The man halted.
'I don't think I can get no forrarder,' said he; 'I'm all of a quake
and a chill.'
'Well, father, let us put up here. It's no odds to us where we stay.'
'But it is to the hoss. What's Jewel to eat? There's nought but mud and
rushes. If we do take him out of the shafts, he'll tumble into one of
the ditches.'
'I wonder what is the distance to Littleport?' asked the girl. 'But,
bless me! on these roads it's no calculating distances. There was a
man rode by us on the bank above. He had lanterns to his stirrups. I
wish I'd gone up the side and just asked him how far ahead it was to
Littleport. Now he's got a long way ahead, and it's no use to run after
him.'
'We must go on. I doubt but we shall sink in the mire if we stay.'
The man sighed and staggered forward. Then the horse also sighed and
endeavoured to move the van, but failed. It was fast.
'What is to be done now? There's Jewel can't stir the caravan. Did you
notice, father, how that man's horse jumped as he rode by? There is a
sort of a rail across, or we would have tried to get the conveyance
up on the bank. When the horse jumped, up went the lanterns also. I
suppose there is some farm near here where they'll let us put up Jewel
for the night. We needn't trouble then, as we have our own house on
wheels. But Jewel must have his food and a stall.'
At that moment a second rider appeared on the embankment, trotting in
the same direction as had the first. He had a single lantern attached
to one stirrup, whereas the first who had passed, and been noticed by
Zita, had two. The girl ran up the slope of the bank, calling.
The rider drew rein. 'What do you want?' he inquired.
'Oh, will you tell me where we can put our horse for the night and have
a little hay?'
'Who are you?'
Zita knew by the tone of the voice that the man had been drinking, and
that, though not inebriated, he had taken too much liquor—
'We are the Cheap Jack and his daughter. We cannot get along the way,
it is so bad—and the wheels are stuck in the mud. We want to go to
Littleport, and father'—
'You are a set of darned rascals!' interrupted the rider. 'I'll have
nothing more to do with you; and you, I suppose, are the gal as cheated
me—the worst of the lot you are.' He had a flail in his hand, and he
flourished it over his head. 'You get along, you Cheap Jackies, or I'll
bring the flail down about your heads and shoulders and loins, and make
you fish out that there guinea I paid—and more fool I.' Driving his
heels into the flanks of his horse, and slashing its neck with the loop
of his bridle, he galloped along the top of the embankment.
Zita descended.
The van was stationary. The horse, Jewel, stood with drooping head and
a pout on the nether lip, with legs stiff in the deep mire, resolute
not to budge another inch. Zita took the van lantern and went to his
head. Jewel had thrown an expression into his face that proclaimed his
resolution not to make another effort, whether urged on by whip, or
cajoled by caresses. The girl, still carrying the lantern, came to her
father. He was seated against the embankment, with his hands in his
pockets and his head fallen forward.
'Father, how are you?'
'Bad—bad—tremenjous.'
'Father, let us walk on and seek a house. Jewel will not stir; he has
turned up his nose and set back his ears, and I know what that means.
I don't think any one will come this way and rob the van. Let us go on
together. You lean on me, and we will find a farm.'
'I can't rise, Zit.'
'Let me help you up.'
'I couldn't take another step, Zit.'
'Make an effort, father.'
'I'm past that, Zit. I'm dying. It's o' no use urging of me. I sticks
here as does Jewel. I can't move. I'm too bad for that. O Lord! that I
should die in this here fen-land!'
'Let me get you some brandy.'
'It ain't of no use at all, Zit. I'm just about done for. 'Tis so with
goods at times; when they gets battered and bulged and broken and all
to pieces, they must be chucked aside. I'm no good no more as a Cheap
Jack. I'm battered and bulged and broken and all to pieces, so I'm
going to be chucked aside.'
Zita considered for a moment. Then she set down the lantern at her
father's side, ran up the embankment, ran along it in the direction
which had been taken by the riders, one after the other, crying as loud
as she possibly could, 'Help! help! Father is dying. Help! help! help!'