During the time that I lived in Essex, I had the pleasure of knowing
Major Donelly, retired on half-pay, who had spent many years in India;
he was a man of great powers of observation, and possessed an
inexhaustible fund of information of the most valuable quality, which he
was ready to communicate to his intimates, among whom was I.
Major Donelly is now no more, and the world is thereby the poorer. Major
Donelly took an interest in everything--anthropology, mechanics,
archæology, physical science, natural history, the stock market,
politics. In fact, it was not possible in conversation to broach a
subject with which he was wholly unacquainted, and concerning which he
was not desirous of acquiring further information. A man of this
description is not to be held by lightly. I grappled him to my heart.
One day when we were taking a constitutional walk together, I casually
mentioned the "Red Hills." He had never heard of them, inquired, and I
told him what little I knew on the matter. The Red Hills are mounds of
burnt clay of a brick-red colour, found at intervals along the fringe of
the marshes on the east coast. Of the date of their formation and the
purpose they were destined to discharge, nothing has been certainly
ascertained. Theories have been formed, and have been held to with
tenacity, but these are unsupported by sound evidence. And yet, one
would have supposed that these mysterious mounds would have been
subjected to a careful scientific exploration to determine by the
discovery of flint tools, potsherds, or coins to what epoch they belong,
and that some clue should be discovered as to their purport. But at the
time when I was in Essex, no such study had been attempted; whether any
has been undertaken since I am unable to say.
I mentioned to Donelly some of the suppositions offered as to the origin
of these Red Hills; that they represented salt-making works, that they
were funereal erections, that they were artificial bases for the huts of
fishers.
"That is it," said the major, "no doubt about it. To keep off the ague.
Do you not know that burnt clay is a sure protection against ague, which
was the curse of the Essex marsh land? In Central Africa, in the
districts that lie low and there is morass, the natives are quite aware
of the fact, and systematically form a bed of burnt clay as a platform
on which to erect their hovels. Now look here, my dear friend, I'd most
uncommonly like to take a boat along with you, and explore both sides of
the Blackwater to begin with, and its inlets, and to tick down on the
ordnance map every red hill we can find."
"I am quite ready," I replied. "There is one thing to remember. A vast
number of these hills have been ploughed down, but you can certainly
detect where they were by the colour of the soil."
Accordingly, on the next fine day we engaged a boat--not a rower--for we
could manage it between us, and started on our expedition.
The country around the Blackwater is flat, and the land slides into the
sea and river with so slight an incline, that a good extent of debatable
ground exists, which may be reckoned as belonging to both. Vast marshes
are found occasionally flooded, covered with the wild lavender, and in
June flushed with the seathrift. They nourish a coarse grass, and a
bastard samphire. These marshes are threaded, cobweb fashion, by myriads
of lines of water and mud that intercommunicate. Woe to the man who
either stumbles into, or in jumping falls into, one of these breaks in
the surface of land. He sinks to his waist in mud. At certain times,
when no high tides are expected, sheep are driven upon these marshes and
thrive. They manage to leap the runnels, and the shepherd is aware when
danger threatens, and they must be driven off.
Nearer the mainland are dykes thrown up, none know when, to reclaim
certain tracts of soil, and on the land side are invariably stagnant
ditches, where mosquitoes breed in myriads. Further up grow oak trees,
and in summer to these the mosquitoes betake themselves in swarms, and
may be seen in the evening swaying in such dense clouds above the trees
that these latter seem to be on fire and smoking. Major Donelly and I
leisurely paddled about, running into creeks, leaving our boat,
identifying our position on the map, and marking in the position of such
red hills or their traces as we lighted on.
Major Donelly and I pretty well explored the left bank up to a certain
point, when he proposed that we should push across to the other.
"I should advise doing thoroughly the upper reach of the Blackwater,"
said he, "and we shall then have completed one section."
"All right," I responded, and we turned the boat's head to cross.
Unhappily, we had not calculated that the estuary was full of mudbanks.
Moreover, the tide was ebbing, and before very long we grounded.
"Confound it!" said the major, "we are on a mudbank. What a fix we are
in."
We laboured with the oars to thrust off, but could touch no solid
ground, to obtain purchase sufficient for our purpose.
Then said Donelly: "The only thing to be done is for one of us to step
onto the bank and thrust the boat off. I will do that. I have on an old
shabby pair of trousers that don't matter."
"No, indeed, you shall not. I will go," and at the word I sprang
overboard. But the major had jumped simultaneously, and simultaneously
we sank in the horrible slime. It had the consistency of spinach. I do
not mean such as English cooks send us to table, half-mashed and often
gritty, but the spinach as served at a French table d'hôte, that has
been pulped through a fine hair sieve. And what is more, it apparently
had no bottom. For aught I know it might go down a mile in depth towards
the centre of the globe, and it stank abominably. We both clung to the
sides of the boat to save ourselves from sinking altogether.
There we were, one on each side, clinging to the bulwarks and looking at
one another. For a moment or two neither spoke. Donelly was the first to
recover his presence of mind, and after wiping his mouth on the gunwale
from the mud that had squirted over it, he said: "Can you get out?"
"Hardly," said I.
We tugged at the boat, it squelched about, splashing the slime over us,
till it plastered our heads and faces and covered our hands.
"This will never do," said he. "We must get in together, and by
instalments. Look here! when I say 'three,' throw in your left leg if
you can get it out of the mud."
"I will do my best."
"And," he said further, "we must do so both at the same moment. Now,
don't be a sneak and try to get in your body whilst I am putting in my
leg, or you will upset the boat."
"I never was a sneak," I retorted angrily, "and I certainly will not be
one in what may be the throes of death."
"All right," said the major. "One--two--three!"
Instantly both of us drew our left legs out of the mud, and projected
them over the sides into the boat.
"How are you?" asked he. "Got your leg in all right?"
"All but my boot," I replied, "and that has been sucked off my foot."
"Oh, bother the boot," said the major, "so long as your leg is safe
within, and has not been sucked off. That would have disturbed the
equipoise. Now then--next we must have our trunks and right legs within.
Take a long breath, and wait till I call 'three.'"
We paused, panting with the strain; then Donelly, in a stentorian voice,
shouted: "One--two--three!"
Instantly we writhed and strained, and finally, after a convulsive
effort, both were landed in the bottom of the boat. We picked ourselves
up and seated ourselves, each on one bulwark, looking at one another.
We were covered with the foul slime from head to foot, our clothes were
caked, so were our hands and faces. But we were secure.
"Here," said Donelly, "we shall have to remain for six hours till the
tide flows, and the boat is lifted. It is of no earthly use for us to
shout for help. Even if our calls were heard, no one could come out to
us. Here, then, we stick and must make the best of it. Happily the sun
is hot, and will cake the mud about us, and then we can pick off some of
it."
The prospect was not inviting. But I saw no means of escape.
Presently Donelly said: "It is good that we brought our luncheon with
us, and above all some whisky, which is the staff of life. Look here, my
dear fellow. I wish it were possible to get this stinking stuff off our
hands and faces; it smells like the scouring poured down the sink in
Satan's own back kitchen. Is there not a bottle of claret in the
basket?"
"Yes, I put one in."
"Then," said he, "the best use we can put it to is to wash our faces and
hands in it. Claret is poor drink, and there is the whisky to fall back
on."
"The water has all ebbed away," I remarked "We cannot clean ourselves in
that."
"Then uncork the _Saint Julien_."
There was really no help for it. The smell of the mud was disgusting,
and it turned one's stomach. So I pulled out the cork, and we performed
our ablutions in the claret.
That done, we returned to our seats on the gunwale, one on each side,
and looked sadly at one another. Six hours! That was an interminable
time to spend on a mudflat in the Blackwater. Neither of us was much
inclined to speak. After the lapse of a quarter of an hour, the major
proposed refreshments. Accordingly we crept together into the bottom of
the boat and there discussed the contents of the hamper, and we
certainly did full justice to the whisky bottle. For we were wet to the
skin, and beplastered from head to foot in the ill-savoured mud.
When we had done the chicken and ham, and drained the whisky jar, we
returned to our several positions _vis-à-vis_. It was essential that the
balance of the boat should be maintained.
Major Donelly was now in a communicative mood.
"I will say this," observed he; "that you are the best-informed and most
agreeable man I have met with in Colchester and Chelmsford."