Richard Adams - The Plague Dogs

“I’m someone else, Mr. Wood.”

“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 you out and I’ll drive you up there as fast as I can. This is 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 his very self. Only he could have pulled it off. Heracles would have owned the Alcestis operation a right doddle in comparison. Twice he almost came to actual grips with 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 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 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 they really have got there since last night? It must be all of eight miles, even in a dead straight line.”

“That’s what the paratroop officer said, sir. Seems one of the helicopters actually saw the dogs on the beach. Anyway, that’s where the soldiers went, and all the newspaper men have followed them; and the Secretary of State too, in his car. They’re all down there.”

“Good God!” said Digby Driver to Mr. Wood, who was half-lying on the back seat and biting his lip at each spurt of pain in his leg. “This seems incredible! Are you all 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 afloat in the tank, you know.”

“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?”

“‘Fraid 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.”