The Plague Dogs (57 page)

"You really think there might be a chance of saving Snitter?"

"I think there's a sporting chance that we might be able to do something, though I'm damned if I can see what, just off the cuff. And I'm afraid it's more than likely that it may be too late. I can only repeat, I'll help to get pou out and I'll drive you up there as fast as I can. This one hell of a story, you see, and of course it's the story I'm after—I'll be frank about that. But I'm on your side, too, Mr. Wood

—I genuinely am. Come on, where are ; your clothes—in that wardrobe? Right, here we go. Once

[we're in the car I'll tell you all about the whole thing."

To pilot Mr. Wood out of the hospital did indeed prove a task almost beyond the power of Digby Driver I his very self. Only he could have pulled it off. Heracles I would have owned the Alcestis operation a right doddle tin comparison. Twice he almost came to actual grips with f members of the staff. Telephone calls were made to consultants, but these Digby Driver ignored. The summoned house surgeon on duty, a pleasant enough young man, he invited to send for a policeman, sue the London Orator or IE; jump into Wastwater, as preferred. The hall porter (Africa; Star with 8th Army clasp) was told that if he laid a hand on the patient or his escort the London Orator would " have his guts for garters. At the door, however, all resistance suddenly evaporated and the resolute, hobbling pair, watched with uncomprehending astonishment by the early visitors, festooned with dire warnings and leaving; behind hands, both black and white, emphatically washed of them on all sides, reached the green Toledo and set off for Eskdale by way of Broughton and Ulpha.

The wind, veering round into the east, carried to the sleeping Rowf's unsleeping nostrils the smells of rifle oil, leather and web equipment. A moment more and his waking ears caught the sound of human voices. He stared in terror at the extended khaki line across the sands.

"Snitter! The red-hat men are here—they're coming!"

"Oh, Rowf, let me go to sleep—"

"If you do, you'll wake up on the whitecoats' glass table! Come on, run!"

"I know they're all after us—I know they're going to kill us, but I can't remember why."

"You remember what the sheep-dog said. He said his man believed we had a plague, a sickness or something. I only wish I had—I'd try biting a few of them."

In and out of the undulant dunes, the marram, gorse and sea holly, dead trails of bindweed and dry patches of clubrush. Down winding, sandy valleys doubling back on themselves, catching sight once more of the soldiers now horribly nearer; dashing through deep, yielding sand, over the top and down; and so once more to the sea—wet shore, long weeds, gleaming stones, flashes and pools; and beyond, the breaking waves.

"Snitter, I won't go back in the tank! I won't go back in the tank!" Rowf ran a few yards into the waves and returned, a great, shaggy dog whining and trembling in the wind.

"What's out there, Snitter, in the water?"

"There's an island," said Snitter desperately. "Didn't you know? A wonderful island. The Star Dog runs it. They're all dogs there. They have great, warm houses with piles of meat and bones, and they have—they have splendid cat-chasing competitions. Men aren't allowed there unless the dogs like them and let them in."

"I never knew. Just out there, is it, really? What's it called?"

"Dog," said Snitter, after a moment's thought. "The Isle of Dog."

"I can't see it. More likely the Isle of Man, I should think, full of men—"

"No, it's not, Rowf. It's the Isle of Dog out there, honestly, only just out of sight. I tell you, we can swim there, come on—"

The soldiers appeared, topping the dunes, first one or two, here and there, then the whole line, red berets, brown clothes, pointing and calling to each other. A bullet struck f the rock beside Rowf and ricocheted into the water with a whine.

Rowf turned a moment and flung up his head.

"It's not us!" barked Rowf. "It's not us that's got the plague!"

He turned and dashed into the waves. Before the next shot hit the sand he was beside Snitter and swimming resolutely out to sea.

"To Ravenglass?" said Digby Driver. "Are you sure? Can I they really have got there since last night? It must be all f of eight miles, even in a dead straight line."

"That's what the paratroop officer said, sir. Seems one 'I of the helicopters actually saw the dogs on the beach. Anyway, that's where the soldiers went, and all the news-I paper men have followed them; and the Secretary of State 1 too, in his car. They're all down there." V "Good God!" said Digby Driver to Mr. Wood, who was; half-lying on the back seat and biting his lip at each spurt j of pain in his leg. "This seems incredible! Are you all i right? D'you want to go on?"

"Yes, if that's where Snitter is, I can make it. It's very good of you, Mr. Driver—"

"Oh, bollocks!" said Digby Driver, letting in the clutch with a jerk that almost drew a cry from Mr. Wood. "I'm as big a darling doggies sucker as any old Kilburn landlady. On we go! We were left galloping, Jorrocks and I."

"Joris and I."

"Precious little the matter with you," said Digby Driver. "Don't exhaust yourself, Snitter; don't struggle so hard!

' Just keep afloat."

"I can't seem—to manage it! Why have we gone such a long way already?"

"There's a current carrying us along the shore and away from it as well. Is it far to the island, Snitter?"

"Not very far, old Rowf."

"Bite on to my tail if you like. I learnt a lot about staying f afloat in the tank, you know." S

"Everything rocks up and down."

"Keep it up. We must get to the Isle of Dog!"

Splashing and struggling and choking mouthfuls of salt water. Tossing up and down, spray in the eyes. Bitterly cold now, and Horribly lonely and a sudden screaming of gulls, fierce and angry, but nothing to be seen.

"Rowf? There's something terribly important I've got to tell you; about the tod; but I've hurt my head and I can't remember it."

"Never mind. Just stay afloat."

"Dammit!" said Digby Driver, pulling up. "This isn't right. I'm afraid I've been concentrating on driving at the expense of map-reading. This obviously can't be the road to Ravenglass. Have you any idea where we are?"

" Traid not," replied Alan Wood. "I'm a bit done up, to tell you the truth— haven't been noticing much for a bit. I'll try and get myself together."

"That must have been Drigg we just came through," said Driver, looking at his map. "Yeah, and we've gone under the railway line, you see. I'd better turn round. Oh look, there's a chap just got out of that Volvo up there ahead. Let's go on up and ask him."

Jolting and swaying, and Mr. Wood clutching his plaster-of-paris leg and just succeeding in keeping quiet, with the sweat running down his white face.

"I say, excuse me, sir, we're looking for some soldiers—paratroopers—have you seen any? Can you tell us the way to Ravenglass?"

The burly, pleasant-looking, soldierly man in gum-boots and an anorak came up to the driving window.

"Looking for soldiers, are you? Well, as far as I can make out you've come to the right place—

or rather, the wrong place from my point of view. Just got back here from Gosforth and find 'em prancing all over my nature reserve, restricted areas and all. Never so much as a word of warning, let alone a request for permission to enter. And there's a helicopter up there, terrifying every bird for miles.

I've a damn good mind to ring up the War Office and ask them what the hell they think they're doing."

"I may be able to help," said Driver. 'Tm a newspaperman. That's why I'm after the soldiers.

And the soldiers are after the so-called Plague Dogs, if you know about them. D'you mind telling us where you fit in?"

"My name's Rose—Major Rose. I'm the warden of the rigg nature reserve. That's all this peninsula, as far as it s down—about two miles of dunes. Well, what the hell 9o the soldiers think they're doing, can you tell me? Fortunately it's a slack season now, very few migrants about, but dammit all, it's bad enough. My wife's told me she heard a couple of shots fired. I ask you! Shots!" Mr.

Wood could not suppress a cry of anguish.

As quickly as possible, Digby Driver explained the position. Major Rose listened with evident sympathy and understanding.

"Well, we might just be in time to do something yet. For one thing, no one can legally use a firearm in the, nature reserve, and I don't care who the hell they are. Come on, let's get down there in the car—or as far as we can. I'm afraid the track doesn't go anything like as far down as Drigg Point, but it'll take us a good bit of the way and after that I expect we'll be able to manage some-thing. Can I hop in beside you, Mr. Driver? Splendid. You all right, Mr. Wood? God, you've got some guts! Walked out of the hospital, did you, just like that? Good for you! Sure to be a blessing on that." They had not gone far down the peninsula when they observed two red berets stumbling their way towards them over the undulant dunes. They could be seen pausing, looking out to sea through binoculars and pointing.

Major Rose got out and went briskly to meet them, while Digby Driver helped Mr. Wood out of the car and gave him his shoulder to do the best he could to follow. It took them several minutes to reach the soldiers. When they finally did so, Major Rose seemed to have calmed down a little.

"Mr. Driver," he said, "this is Major Awdry, who tells me he's in charge of this dogs' exercise, and oddly enough we've both been in the same regiment—before he transferred and started jumping out of aeroplanes, that is. He tells me they haven't shot your dog, Mr. Wood, but I'm afraid it's a bad prospect for the poor beasts, all the same."

"What's happened?" cried Mr. Wood. "Where are they?"

"They're out there," said John Awdry grimly, pointing and handing over his binoculars. "I'm afraid you can hardly see them now. The tide's taken them out pretty far and there's a north-setting current that's sweeping them up the coast as well."

"They might come ashore on Barn Scar," said Major Rose. "That's a sandy shoal, you know, that stretches out quite a long way about a mile and a quarter north of here. Tide's on the turn, too. If only they can stay afloat," he added. "Your chaps won't be shooting any more,. will they? Where are they, by the way?"

"I left them down by the point," replied Awdry, "while Mr, Gibbs here and I came up the shore to try and keep the dogs in sight. No one's authorised to fire except officers, and we won't, of course, so don't worry about that."

Mr. Wood, having been helped to sit down, remained staring out to sea through the binoculars without a word. There was, however, nothing now to be seen between the tossing waves and the grey, November sky.

"Can't—any more—Rowf."

"Bite on to me, Snitter. Bite!"

"Cold."

"The island, Snitter—the Isle of Dog! We must get there!"

"Cold. Tired."

No feeling in the legs. Cold. Cold. Longing to rest, longing to stop, losing two gasps in every three for a lungful of air. The stinging, muzzle-slapping water, rocking up and down. This isn't a dream.

It's real, real. We're going to die.

"I'm sorry—Snitter, about—about the tod. All my fault."

"That's it! Remember—tod—tell you—reel mazer—"

"What?"

"Reel mazer—yows—"

Cold sinking. Bitter, choking dark.

(HERE ENSUETH THE COLLOQUY BETWEEN THE AUTHOR AND HIS READER) COLLOQUY

THE READER: But are the Plague Dogs, then, to drown

And nevermore come safe to land?

Without a fight, to be sucked down

Five fathom deep in tide-washed sand?

Brave Rowf, but give him where to stand—

He'd grapple with Leviathan!

What sort of end is this you've planned

For lost dogs and their vanished man?

THE AUTHOR: It's a bad world for—well, yon know.

But after all, another slave—

It's easy come and easy go.

We've used them now, like Boycott.

They've Fulfilled their part.

The story gave amusement.

Now, as best I can, I'll round it off, but cannot save

The lost dogs for the vanished man.

THE READER: Yet ours is not that monstrous world

Where Boycott ruled their destinies!

Let not poor Snitter's bones be hurled

Beyond the stormy Hebrides!

Look homeward now!

Good author, please

Dredge those dark waters Stygian

And then, on some miraculous breeze,

Bring lost dogs home to vanished man!

THE AUTHOR: Reader, one spell there is may serve,

One fantasy I had forgot,

One saviour that all beasts deserve—

The wise and generous Peter Scott.

We'll bring him here—by boat or yacht!

He only might—he only can

Convert the Plague Dogs' desperate lot

And reconcile bird, beast and man.

CONDENSED EXTRACT FROM THE BRITISH WHO'S WHO SCOTT,

Sir Peter, Companion of the British Empire: Distinguished Service Cross.

Chairman of the World Wildlife Fund. Director of the Wildfowl Trust. Wildlife Painter.

Ornithologist, naturalist and international wildlife preservationist.

Born 1909, son of Captain Robert Falcon Scott [of the Antarctic]. Exhibited paintings at the Royal Academy, London, since 1933. Specialist in painting birds and wildlife.

Many lectures and nature programmes on British television since World War 2.

Winner of the international 14-foot Dinghy Championship, 1937, 1938, 1946.

Bronze medal, single-handed sailing, Olympic Games, 1936.

Royal Navy, Second World War. Awarded M. B. E., D. S. C. and bar. Three times mentioned in despatches while serving in destroyers in the Battle of the Atlantic, President of the Society of Wildlife Artists.

President of the International Yacht-Racing Union, 1955-69. President of the Inland Waterways Association. President of the Camping Club of Great Britain. Chairman of the Survival Service Commission.

Chairman of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources.