The Plague Dogs

"Rowf, can you smell the salt?"

"I can hear gulls calling. How quickly they've changed it all, haven't they?-- even the hills."

Along the estuary we go, black-and-white oyster-catchers flashing rapid, pointed wings and peeping off their alarm notes as they fly, and an old heron flapping slowly away by himself. Can that be the tod I see, with Kiff, up on a cloud? No, I beg your pardon, must have got some hairspray in my eyes, but let's raise a cheer all the same. Never again, hide in a drain, ride in a train, died in the rain--it's not raining yet, anyway.

"Houses, Snitter! Look! Oh, Snitter, real, natural houses!"

As the River Irt came steaming into the Ratty terminus and depot, Snitter cocked his ears and looked cautiously out through the door. Seagulls he could certainly hear, and distant, breaking waves. Everything around seemed flat and open, smelt salty, stony. Sand and grass. Houses, smoke and dustbins.

"They've put the houses back, Rowf. I knew they'd have to, sooner or later."

"The trees and things have stopped flying-past. AH blown away, I suppose."

"I know. But there's the wall we jumped ov»r, look--over there. I can recognise that all right. Well, obviously they'd want to keep that."

"What shall we do?"

"Stay here until everything's quiet. Then we'll run off among the houses."

"D'you think it might be a change for the better at last?"

"I don't know. It can hardly be a change for the worse."

"I'd like to be sure of that."

The letter was written in pencil and a shaky hand, and Digby Driver was obliged to take it over to the window.

21st November

Barrow-in-Furness Dear Mr. Driver,

Although I do not know your address in the Lake District, I very much hope that you will receive this letter. I am seeking information on a matter of importance to me--though perhaps to no one else--and do not know from whom to obtain it if not from yourself.

I am at present in hospital, recovering--rather slowly, I'm afraid--from a traffic accident. My injuries were fairly serious and for the past few weeks, during which I have undergone three operations, I have read very little and have not been in touch with the news at all. Consequently it was only today that I saw, in the "Sunday Orator," an account by yourself of the dogs who apparently escaped some time ago from the Lawson Park Research Station, near Coniston.

With the article were two photographs, taken, as you will know, by a motorist whose car was raided by the dogs somewhere near Dunmail Raise.

I am writing to say that I believe, on the evidence of the photographs, that one of these animals is, or used to be, rny own dog. Indeed the markings, as they appear in one of the photographs, seem unmistakable. I should explain that I am a bachelor and live alone, so you may perhaps understand that I have been much attached to the dog, which I acquired as a puppy some three years ago and trained myself. I was told by my sister, after the accident, that the dog ran away from her house and that all efforts to find it had proved unsuccessful. This, while it greatly grieved me, came as no surprise, since the dog had known only one home and no other master.

I am hoping that you may be able to give me some help and information on this matter which, as you will now appreciate, is of considerable personal concern to me. If you could possibly spare the time to come and see me, Mr. Driver, however briefly, I would be most grateful. Is it possible that in some way or other the dog might be found and returned to me?

I'm not back to anything like fit yet and I am afraid that writing this letter has proved tiring. I only hope you can read it. Yours sincerely, Alan Wood "Oh, boy!" cried Digby Driver, aloud. "Now he tells me! But what the hell to do about it?" He took out his car keys and swung them round and round his index finger. After a few moments they flew off and landed on the linoleum on the other side of the hall. Mr. Driver, retrieving them, suddenly addressed his reflection in the still-dark window-pane.

"The bloody cow!" he said aloud. "Good God! What did she--? Well, Christ, I'll see her for a start, anyway."

He turned up the collar of his duffle-coat, poked two of the toggles through the loops and pulled on his gloves.

"A line, a line, I gotta think of a line! The good journalist ignores no event that takes place, but turns all to his advantage.' Yes, but what the hell can I do with this?" He stamped his foot on the floor in frustration, and once again the dog barked in the basement. A female voice called soothingly, "Lie down, Honey. Wassa fuss-fuss, eh? There's a girl!"

"Darling doggies!" yelled Digby Driver, in inspiration and triumph. "Stares you in the face, dunnit? And with just a bit of luck it's got everything, Harbottle and all! O God, give me time, just time, that's all! What ho for the great British public!"

He dashed out into the winter dawn. Two minutes later the tyres of the green Toledo were sizzling down the wet road to Dalton-in-Furness. :. Ravenglass, on the coast south-west of Muncastcr Fell, has a railway station (other than Ratty), a pub, a post office, two to three hundred inhabitants and a single street two hundred yards long. All round it lie the sands and channels of the estuary of the Irt, Mite and Esk, and it is sheltered from the Irish Sea outside by the low, sandy peninsula of the Drigg nature reserve--two miles of dunes and marram grass--which covers the estuary as its flap a letterbox. As long ago as 1620 the place was noted for gulls' eggs and for the numbers of waders and sea-birds attracted to the feeding-grounds of these shallow, tidal waters. It is not a spot where strangers can expect to go unremarked for long--not in winter, not in the early morning, not if they happen to be plastered across the newspapers and wanted in three counties. Was it Harold Tonge, perhaps, the landlord of the Pennington Arms, who first saw Snitter dancing in the street at sight of a real lamp-post? Or his trusty henchman Cec., having a look up and down the windy, gull-tumbled street, who recognised the grim shape of Rowf lifting his leg against a white wall below a fuchsia hedge? Or perhaps Mrs. Merlin, the postmistress, emptying a metal waste-paper basket doing-doing against the rim of a dustbin, caught sight of a black-and-white, cloven head looking perplexedly at the stony beach and seaweed-strewn pebbles (442) below the houses? Before the outgoing tide had laid bare the sands of the estuary, conviction and consternation had flooded the village. Incredible as it might be, these were the Plague Dogs, walking the street in bewilderment and broad daylight. Fasten your gates, lock up the stores, bring all the cats and dogs indoors. Get on the qul vive, the telephone and the stick. Grimes is at his exercise. Those who despise us we'll destroy.

The instant Annie Mossity opened the front door, Digby Driver had his foot in it. At the look on his face she started back. "Mr. Driver--what--what--you're very early--I--"

Digby Driver pushed past her, turned, slammed the door and stood facing her in the hall.

"Mr. Driver, what's the meaning of this intrusion? I can't talk to you now. I'm just going--"

Without a word, Digby Driver drew out the letter and held it up. For a moment she caught her breath and her eyes opened wide. The next, she had recovered herself. Her hand moved towards the Yale lock.

"Mr. Driver, will you please leave my house at--"

Driver put his two hands on her shoulders and spoke quietly.

"You can scream the bloody place down, you cruel, cold-hearted bitch! Now get this--I'm not going to be lied to and messed around any more, see, whatever you do to other people. I haven't got much time; and you're not dealing with a gentleman now, either, so just watch it, because I'm angry. If you try fainting or throwing hysterics, all that'll happen is you'll wish you hadn't, got it? Now, listen. Your brother knows that that's his dog, and he knows that it's alive. You didn't tell him you'd sold it, did you? You told him it ran away. Why did you let me think your brother was dead? Why? Come on, Mrs.

Bloody Moss, you dirty, lying cow, tell me the truth or I'll break your neck, so help me Christ I will! I'm angry, see, and I might forget myself!"

"Mr. Driver, don't you dare to lay hands on me! You'll regret it--" He stood back.

"Are you afraid of me?"

She nodded, staring.

"So you damn' well ought to be. Well, the remedy's in your own hands. Tell me the truth and I'll go. And mind it is the truth this time. Because if it's not, I'll make the whole blasted country loathe the name of Mrs. Moss, you see if I don't!"

When one rogue has been found out in the deception of another, the scene is seldom an edifying one. Mrs. Moss, sobbing, sank down on a hall chair, while Mr. Driver stood over her like Heathcliff getting to work on Isabella Linton.

"I--I--always ha-ated the dog! I hoped--hoped my brother would get married--he used to make use of the dog to tease me--I know he did--the house always so untidy and--and mud all over the floor--my. brother didn't care! The dog caused the accident--people saw it--they told me--the dog ran on the crossing and my brother ran out after it. I hated the dog--why should I be expected to keep it-- oh!--oh!--"

"Come on," said Driver. "What else?"

"I sold the dog to the research people. They promised me I'd never see it again! They said it would never leave the station alive."

"You took it up there yourself? And you took the money and spent it on yourself, didn't you? Keep talking."

"When you came to see me, I knew that if I told you my brother was--was alive you'd go and see him and he'd get to know what had happened. And then I realised you thought he was dead, so I let you go on thinking--why shouldn't I?--oh, hoo, hoo! I'm frightened, Mr. Driver, I'm frightened of you--"

"You needn't be, Mrs. Moss, you rotten, spiteful sow, because I'm leaving your shit-house now. You'll be delighted to know I'm on my way to see your brother in the hospital. And I can let myself out, thanks."

He left her drawing shuddering breaths where she sat on the chair, closed the front door behind him and strode swiftly down the path to the gate. He was surprised to realise that not all his indignation was for himself. lilt's not possible," said Major Awdry. "Ravenglass? There 'must be some mistake. Two other dogs. Fog of war and that."

"How about asking one of the 'copters to go down, sir?" 'suggested the R. S. M.

"He can be there in a few minutes and report to us on the R/T. Then if necessary we can call both companies straight in. If it really is our dogs at Ravenglass, they can't 'ardly run no further, and we could be down there by eleven-thirty at latest."

"Yes, good idea," said Awdry, putting down his teacup. "How far is it to Ravenglass by road, Mr. Gibbs?"

"About ten mile I make it, sir," answered the sergeant-major, consulting his map.

"Twenty-five minutes, then, once they're embussed. Sergeant Lockyer, can you call up Lieutenant-Commander Evans, please? I'd like to have a word with him myself."

"That was one of the flies out of my head, Rowf."

"Scared me stiff. I thought it was going to come down and crush us. The noise alone's enough to--"

"There's nowhere to hide--nowhere to go. What'll we do?"

"Snitter, it's coming back! Run, run!" Bushes flattened in a tearing wind, all else blotted out by the smacking blat-blat-blat of the blades. Terrified, aware of nothing but fear, all senses--smell, sight, hearing--overwhelmed with fear like green grass and branches submerged in a flooding beck, Snitter and Rowf ran across the shifting stones and shingle, on to the pools and brown weed of the tideline and down to the bare ebb-tide sands. "Over here, Snitter, quick!"

"No, not that way! This way--this way!"

"No--that way!" Rowf voiding his bowels with fear. "Away from the people! Look at them up there! They're watching us! I won't go back in the tank! I won't go back hi the tank!" From the shore of Ravenglass across to the Drigg peninsula is a quarter of a mile of water at high tide, but at low tide the Mite and Irt flow in a narrow channel down the centre of the sands and it is possible to cross almost dry-shod. As the helicopter turned and remained hover- ing a hundred yards away, Rowf, with Snitter hard on his tail, raced down the sands and plunged into the outfall, found a footing, lost it again, struggled, flung up his head, scrambled, clawed and dragged himself out on the further side.

Shaking the water out of his shaggy coat, he looked about him. The sodden body of a dead gull, evidently left by the tide, was lying a few yards away. He himself was bleeding from one hind paw. Snitter, carried down with the current, had fetched up against a rock and was clambering out. The helicopter had not moved. Ahead rose the smooth, sandy dunes, one behind another, tufts of marram grass blowing against the sky. "No men up there, Snitter! Come on!"

Running again, wet sand cold between the claws, dry sand blowing into eyes and nostrils, sound of-breaking waves beyond the hillocks; raucous cries of gully. "Rowf! Look!"

Rowf stopped dead in his tracks, hackles rising.

"It's the sea, Rowf--the sea the tod told me about that day, after I'd come out of my head! I remember what he said. He said, 'Salt and weeds. It's all water there.' I didn't understand how a place could be all water. Look--it's moving all the time."

"It's not alive, though. It's another of those damned tanks. They've turned the whole world out there into a tank! I wouldn't have believed it."

"The sand's nice and warm, all the same," said Snitter, lying down at the foot of a dune. "No men. Out of the wind."

He curled himself up as the song of the waves stole gently along the shore and through the whorls of his broken skull.

"You have licked clean the bitter bowl And now need wander on no more. The charm's wound up and dosed the scroll, For you have reached the furthest shore. Lie down and rest, poor dog, before Your great sea-change cerulean, ; And sleeping, dream that we restore The lost dog to the vanished man,"

"I wish--I wish I could see my master just once again,". murmured Snitter. "We were always so happy. That poor terrier--I'd have tried to help her if I hadn't been so frightened. I wonder what'll happen to them all now--the terrier and the lorry--the mouse and all the rest of them? I'm afraid they won't be able to manage without me. They'll disappear, I suppose. But I must go to sleep now--I'm so tired. Good old Rowf--I must try to remember --remember what the tod said--"

Rowf, too, had lain down in the sand and was sleeping as a dog sleeps who has wandered for two nights and a day. The tide was still ebbing and the sound of the waves receding, gentler and softer.

The helicopter remained where it was, poised above Ravenglass, for the dogs were in full view through binoculars and there was nothing to be gained by disturbing them as the soldiers drove up, got out of their buses and fell in outside the Pennington Arms.

Major Awdry, having located the dogs, was half of a mind simply to take a rifle and cross the estuary by himself. On second thoughts, however, it seemed best to send a platoon across in extended order, for the dogs had already shown themselves remarkably resourceful and even now might try to escape northward towards Drigg. No .7 platoon, swearing at the prospect of more wet feet and wet boots, crunched down the shingle, deployed on the sands and began crossing the estuary. Awdry and the platoon commander carried loaded rifles.

It was too early for visitors at the hospital and Digby Driver, in the hall, was referred to a notice confirming the hours; however, as the reader will have no difficulty in believing, he knew a trick worth two of that. He spoke forcefully of urgent and pressing business, flashed his press card and offered, if desired, to bring Sir Ivor Stone in person to the telephone. The West Indian sister, an Orator reader, knew his name and found his check rather attractive. The hospital were not altogether unused to bending the rules for visitors on a Saturday and anyway the nurses felt sorry for the nice, gentlemanly Mr. Wood, who had suffered such dreadful injuries and had so few visitors. He was, Digby Driver learned, at present convalescent in a small post-operational ward of only two beds. The other bed was empty at the moment, the patient having been discharged on Friday. Putting out his cigarette and following the directions he had been given, Mr. Driver walked, breathing the familiar hospital smell, along numerous corridors, went up in a lift, and upon getting out found himself opposite the right door.

Mr. Wood, who had ceased to expect any reply to his letter, was surprised and gratified to find Digby Priver at his bedside. He looked wretchedly ill and explained that he still had a good deal of pain in his left leg, wliich had been broken in two places.

"It'll never be as good as it was, I'm told," he said. "Still, I shall be able to walk again--after a fashion--and drive a car; and I'll be able to get back to work, of course, which'll be everything. But Mr. Driver, kind of you as it is to come here, I'm sure you didn't make the journey simply to hear about my health. Can you tell me about the dog in the photograph? Is it my dog?"

"You tell me," answered Driver. "There are the originals." And he laid them on the sheet before Mr. Wood's eyes.

"Why, that is Snitter!" cried Mr. Wood. "There's not a doubt of it!" He looked up with his eyes full of tears. "Good God, what have they done to him? However could he have fallen into their hands? I can't bear to look at it. Mr. Driver, please tell me at once--where is the dog? Have they killed him or what?"

"Look," said Driver, "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid the truth is that they may have. The two dogs were seen in Eskdale late last night and soldiers are searching the valley for them at this moment, with orders to shoot on sight. They certainly wouldn't listen to anything I could say, but if they'll let you out of here, I'll drive you up to Eskdale myself and give you all the help I can."

"Well, they can't legally stop me discharging myself.

Tou're most kind. But it's going to be a hell of a business, can only walk with someone else's help. I can stand e pain, but I get very tired."

"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 ible 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 con-k sultants, 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 re-:,sistance suddenly evaporated and the resolute, hobbling ipair, 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 Rowfs unsleeping nostrils the smells of rifle oil, leather and web equipment. A moment more and his wak-I ing 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 t&e 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 V 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.

I "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. j. "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?" I "Not very far, old Rowf."