The Plague Dogs: A Novel

by Richard Adams

  “You were disturbed inside your head,

  And thought to clean the cobwebs out.

  There will be none when you aredead—

  The skull untroubled, have no doubt.

  And you will learn to do without

  This flesh and blood quotidian:

  Refined to nothing, bleached to nowt,

  Need seek no more your vanished man”

  “I suppose not,” said Snitter, torpid with starvation and half-asleep on the spongey peat. “One ought to try not to mind too much, I suppose. We’re only dogs, and it’s a bad world for animals, as Rowf’s always saying. After all—why, it’s getting positively crowded up here! Who’s this coming now? Oh, no—it can’t—it can’t be—”

  The mist swirled, the wet grass tugged in the wind, and now Snitter felt sure that he must indeed be mad and, as so often in the past, the victim of delusion, for up through the mist and wind came the tod. Limping it was, its breath coming in great, steaming gasps, brush trailing, eyes staring, belly caked with mud. Its teeth were bared above and below its lolling tongue and it turned its head this way and that, continually listening and sniffing the air. As Snitter jumped up, it snapped at him and made as if to run away, but he had no difficulty in overtaking it.

  “Tod! Tod! It’s me, it’s Snitter! Tod, don’t you know me?”

  The tod halted, staring round at him with a kind of slow, glazed recognition. It reeked of a deadly fear.

  “Oh, ay, it’s th’ wee fella. Ye’d best boogger off sharp, hinny, unless ye fancy th’ Dark wi’ me.” As he made no answer it added more urgently, “Go on, kidder, haddaway!”

  It sank down on the turf, panting convulsively, rubbing its spattered mask on the grass.

  “Tod, what—oh, what is it? What’s happened?”

  “Can ye not hear them bastards ahint? A puff o’ wind into yon mist an’ ye’ll sharp see them forbye; ay, an’ they’ll see ye. Shift yersel’, marrer, haddaway hyem!”

  “Tod, come back with me! Come on, run! Rowf’s down there-whatever it is, we’ll save you! Quickly, tod!”

  The many-mouthed barking and yelping broke out again, louder and nearer, and now could be heard also a man’s voice hollering and other, more distant human voices answering from further off. The tod grinned mirthlessly.

  “Can ye not hear what the bastards is yammerin’ on aboot, one to t’other—’Ah’ll have first bite at his belly’? Ah’ve browt them siven mile, but Ah’ll nivver lose them noo. Ah thowt last neet th’ frost wad cum doon an’ they’d not be oot th’ morn. Ah wez wrong. A tod only hez to be wrong once, ye knaw.”

  “Oh, tod, tod! There must be something we can do—”

  “Divven’t fash yersel’, hinny! Ah ken weel where Ah’m goin’. It’s akward eneuf noo, but there’ll be ne akwardness i’ th’ Dark. It’s not th’ Dark that frightens me, it’s their rivin’, bloody teeth. Have ye nivver hord say, ‘Ne deeth over bad fer a tod’? Mebbies it’ll soon be done. Ah’m not whinjin’—Ah’d rather go te th’ Dark like a tod than in yon whitecoat dump o’ yours. Tell th’ big fella taa taa from me. He wez a grand lad—reet mazer wi’ yows, tell him.”

  It was gone like smoke into the mist, down over the edge, down the north-western slope of Brim Fell, making for Tarn Head Moss and Blake Rigg Crag beyond. Snitter ran after it a few yards, then pulled up and lay shivering in the gloom. Some overwhelming thing was taking place—something old and dreadful, something which he remembered to have happened before in this very spot. About him was flowing a rank, feral scent, savage, and blood-seeking. Big, shadowy creatures were approaching, voracious and intent, running swiftly up out of the mist, lemon and white, black and tawny, noses to ground, sterns feathering, long ears swinging as they came loping over the top; some running mute, others giving tongue in fierce excitement. Hounds they were, great hounds shouldering past him where he crouched on the verge of the steep, heedless of him, paying him no attention in the heat and concentration of their pursuit. Behind them, on foot, ran the lean-faced huntsman, red-coated, horn clutched in one hand, almost spent with the long chase but still finding voice to urge them on. Over, the edge they went, tumbling and jostling, each eager for his share, and were lost to view among the boulders. Yet still from a thousand feet below rose up their excited notes, one under another like the sound of a river in flood upon the unseen valley floor.

  Snitter pattered in their wake. The wet turf and stones bore their clean, sharp smell—the smell of hunting, meat-eating animals in perfect health. It was as though a band of demi-gods had swept past him in fulfilment of their appointed function of pursuit and death; a ghastly, apocalyptic duty for ever carried out in some timeless region beyond, now—on this occasion—superimposed and enacted upon the bare hillside where he found himself, as in a dream, running alone through the clouds of swirling vapour.

  Suddenly the wind freshened, carrying a far-off smell of seaweed, the heavy-sweet odour of cows in a shed and, laid atop of these, an instant’s scent of the tod. The curtain of mist broke up into streamers eddying away across the fell, and now he could see clearly enough all that lay below him—could see the peat-hags and moss above Seathwaite Tarn, the sullen, black stream winding through them, the mouth of the cavern beyond; and the tod running, running, staggering over the moss, its brush a sopping weight dragged behind it. After it came the hounds, spread out, clamouring in frenzy to crush, conclude and quell, to dust the varmint and be done. Even as he watched, the foremost hound, on the very verge of the beck, reached the tod’s shoulder and, turning quickly inward, butted and rolled it over on the stones.

  He shut his eyes then, and scrabbled head-downward at the turf, for he did not want to see the pack close in, did not want to see the tod leaping, snapping and biting, outnumbered thirty to one, the blood spurting, the tearing, thrashing and worrying, the huntsman whipping his way into the turmoil and the tod’s body snatched, lifted high and knife-hacked for brush and mask before being tossed back-on, so merrily—among the baying, tussling foxhounds.

  Mr. Westcott pressed on up the northern ridge of Brim Fell. The mist was moderately thick, but he had known it worse and furthermore he had an intuitive feeling, born of wide experience of Lakeland weather, that it was likely to lift, possibly very soon and certainly before sunset. He came to the cairn on the summit, sat down on it and, having examined his map, took a compass bearing into the mist of 225 degrees. Then he made allowance for the magnetic variation, selected a rock on the bearing as far ahead as he could see and set off downhill to cover the six or seven hundred yards to Goat’s Hause.

  It was silent in the mist, and his solitude gave him a satisfying sense of power, integrity and self-sufficiency. Alone with his instruments, his fell experience and his health and stamina he, like a well-found ship in the Atlantic, was a match for his surroundings in all their wildness and adversity. In his mind’s eye he saw himself, purposeful, grim, intent, well-equipped and organized, moving through the fog like avenging Nemesis, deliberate and irresistible. The dogs, wherever they were, might as well give up now, for he, equal to all contingencies and possessed of the will and endurance of Spencer-Chapman himself, would get them in the end, if not today then later. He was retribution, timor mortis and the two-handed engine at the door.

  Once he thought he noticed some kind of furtive movement a short distance off in the grass, and turned his head to look. He caught a glimpse of something off-white apparently skulking in a peat-rift, but then concluded that it was nothing but a sodden paper bag blown there by the wind. As he strode on he could hear behind him, coming up from somewhere below Levers Hause, the cry of hounds and the hollering of the huntsman. It sounded as though they were approaching, and in full cry. However, that was nothing to do with him and his mission. Indeed it was, if anything, a nuisance, for, if the Plague Dogs were anywhere close by, it might alarm them and cause them to be off. By all that he had heard, they were as cunning as foxes and more like wild animals than dogs.

  Five minutes later
his boots squelched across the muddy, snow-patched wet of the saddle and began to climb the slope of Dow Crag. It was at this moment that the mist began to lift. He could hear hounds pouring down into the valley above Seathwaite Tarn, and went so far as to stop, focus his binoculars and look down at the Moss before calling himself sharply to order. There were only about two hours of daylight left and tomorrow he must be back at work. Since Seathwaite Tarn valley would now be an unlikely place in which to find the dogs, he would make the most of the remaining light by going along the tops as far as Walna Scar, descending into Goat’s Water valley (a remote place and as likely a hide-out as anywhere), up to the Hause again and so back to Wreynus by the way he had come. There was time enough for that, and he could safely come down Wetside Edge in the late twilight.

  He was well up on Dow Crag now and approaching the head of North Gully. Except for a patch on the summit the mist had cleared and it would, he reflected, be possible to see down to the valley floor on his left. With this purpose he left the path and struck off over the rocks, intending to find a place near the top of Easter Gully from which he could command a view of Goat’s Water and the screes at the foot of the Dow precipices.

  Suddenly he stopped dead, with a heave in his belly like that felt by an angler when a big trout rises to the fly. For an instant, through a cleft between two projecting rocks about thirty feet down in the gully, he had caught sight of a dog—a large, black, rough-haired dog—lying, apparently asleep, beside a heap of stones at the foot of the pitch. The field of view between the two rocks was so narrow that by the time he had taken it in he had walked past the line of vision which had shown him the dog. He hastened back, dodging about with his head like a man spying, from the street, through a chink in somebody else’s curtains.

  The dog came into view again and he got the binoculars on it. Yes: it was, unmistakably, one of the two dogs which had set upon his car near Thirlmere. The collar was half-buried in the rough, staring coat at the nape of its neck, but the dog was emaciated and beneath the chin, where it hung loose, the green plastic showed up as plainly as a necklace.

  “Steady, now, steady,” muttered Mr. Westcott. Clasping his hands to stop their trembling, he drew a deep breath and considered. The quicker he shot the better. To go down below would take the best part of an hour and the dog might well be gone. His very approach, which he could not conceal, would be enough to alarm it. The trouble was that his view down the precipitous gully was so awkward and so much restricted that probably he could get only a standing shot. He checked this. He was right. Lying down or on one knee, he could not see the dog. And he would have only one chance-that was virtually certain. If his first shot missed, the dog would be off into dead ground under the Crag. Considering that what he had was a rifle, not a shot-gun, and that he could not get a lying shot, he ought to try to find some sort of steady rest.

  He took the Winchester out of its bag and mounted the telescopic backsight. Then he removed the binoculars and compass from his neck and laid them on the ground. Scanning the top of the gully, he could see a way down to the cleft that was certainly feasible, if only he could get there without dislodging scree or pebbles and so alarming the dog.

  The Winchester had no sling and, gripping it in his left hand, he began the descent. It was a distinctly nerve-racking business and at each step he bit his lip, moving from one hand-hold to another and wondering how the hell he was going to get back. He would think about that later, when the dog was dead.

  Slowly, Snitter’s head cleared and he recognized once more his bleak surroundings. The tod—the hounds—the dreadful squealing of the tod—the huntsman and his knife—he himself must not stay here. The mist was almost gone. He would be in view. He began running back along the edge of Brim Fell, in the opposite direction from the terrible thing he had tried not to see.

  Soon he came round as far as Goat’s Hause. Here, on the track, he at once picked up the smell of a man, very fresh; a man who could, indeed, only just have gone by. A moment’s nose-reflection told him that this must be none other than the dark, burly young man from whom he had hid before meeting the tod; the man of whom he had felt so distinct a distrust and fear.

  But the man was alone and a long way from the hunt. Perhaps he was carrying food. Indeed, it was extremely likely that he was and to approach him would not really be much to risk. A sensible dog could keep at a distance and give the man no chance to put him on a lead; and the man might very well throw him some food, even if it was only a mouthful. Looking up and ahead, he could now actually see the man striding away towards the summit, not very far off.

  Snitter set off in pursuit, watching closely in case the man should turn round. Then there came a sudden swirl of mist and when it had blown aside the man had vanished.

  Puzzled, Snitter ran cautiously on. Could the man have hidden and now be lying in wait for him? But there seemed to be nowhere for him to hide. Nearing the top he went still more slowly, following the man by scent. The scent left the path and led away across the rocks. It seemed to be leading towards a steep gully, very like the one into which he, Rowf and the tod had hunted the yow by night.

  He came hesitantly up to the mouth of the gully and looked in. Sure enough, there below him, quite close, stood the man, peering down through a cleft between two rocks. It would be safe enough to attract his attention—in a place like that no human could possibly grab a dog. Furthermore, he was carrying food. Snitter could smell it. Yapping eagerly, he made a quick leap down to a convenient ledge below.

  Mr. Westcott’s bowels were loose and his breath was coming short with fear and excitement. The black dog had not moved and from moment to moment, as he clambered, he continued to catch glimpses of it. He estimated that it must be about three hundred feet below him—-a sure shot if only he could find the right point of vantage.

  He reached the cleft between the two projecting rocks. It was a frightening place, much less secure than it had appeared from above, with an almost sheer drop below and the smooth surfaces glistening with icy moisture. He had planned to lean against the left-hand rock and rest the rifle on its outer edge, near the centre of the gully. But now, at close quarters, this idea proved impracticable, for the rock was too tall and in any case projected downward, at considerably more than a right angle to the side of the gully. The opposite rock was better, its height diminishing to about four feet at the outer edge, but to use this for a support would, of course, involve a left-handed, left-eyed shot.

  However, thought Mr. Westcott, with the telescopic sight and at such short range a left-handed shot offered a good chance of success. Anyway, it was the only chance that was being offered. In spite of his determination he was growing increasingly nervous. The drop below alarmed him and a glance over his shoulder confirmed that, unless he was prepared to jettison his rifle, the climb back was going to be horribly precarious.

  With a thrust against the rock wall, he pushed himself across the breadth of the gully to the opposite side, leant forward, resting his weight against the right-hand rock, laid the barrel of the Winchester over its upper edge and eased himself into position. He was able to lean out towards the centre just far enough for the shot and no more.

  There was his quarry and no mistake. The dog showed up in the back-sight like a black haystack. He slipped the safety-catch, aligned the fore-sight on the dog’s ear and—awkwardly, with his left index finger—took the first trigger-pressure.

  At this moment, not twenty feet above him in the gully, there broke out a sharp, excited yapping. Mr. Westcott started and simultaneously fired. The shot severed the dog’s collar and as it leapt up he saw the blood spurt from its neck. In the same instant he lost his balance, clutching frantically at the icy top of the rock. The rifle slipped from his grasp, a stone turned under his foot, he grabbed at the rock again, found a slippery hold, retained it for one appalling, nightmare moment—time enough to recognize the dog looking down at him—and then pitched headlong.

  When Snitter had left him
, Rowf tried to return once more to his dreary sleep on the stones. Yet despite the feeling of exhaustion which seemed to permeate his whole body as the wind the hawthorn, he remained awake, gnawing on his misery like an old, meatless bone. Snitter had said that in the last resort he meant to go down into the valley and give himself up to the men. And it was this to which Rowf knew that he himself was not equal. This was the fear of which he was ashamed—the fear of which he had always been too much ashamed to tell even Snitter. In the instant after the electric light had filled the Glenridding farmyard, he had thought: What if they don’t shoot? What if they send for the whitecoats and take me back to the drowning-tank? The drowning-tank, he knew, was his and his alone. No other dog in the shed had ever been put into the drowning-tank. So it was a fair assumption that the whitecoats wanted him back to go on putting him in the tank. His fear of the tank knew no bounds and of that fear he was ashamed. The whitecoats, whom he could not help but think of as his masters, wanted him to go on drowning in the tank, and he could not do it. Once, long ago, he reflected, the poor terrier bitch whom Snitter had seen—the bitch that was now a ghost—must, to remain by her master and guard him, have faced protracted death from hunger. Yet the drowning-tank was the true reason why, after the Glenridding escape, he, Rowf, had refused to attempt another farm raid; and the reason why, though he shared Snitter’s despair, he had now let him set out alone.

  He remembered a dog called Licker, who had told him how the whitecoats sometimes killed animals instantaneously. “This other dog and I,” Licker had said, “were being restrained in metal harnesses. It was horribly painful, and suddenly this other dog stopped yelping and went unconscious. The whitecoats took him out of the harness and looked at him, and then one of them nodded to the other and just struck him dead on the spot. I tell you, I envied him.”

  And I envy him too, thought Rowf. Why couldn’t there be just a quick shot, now, and that would be that? The tod was right; you’d wonder why we take so much trouble to stay alive. The reason is that no creature can endure being hungry—as the tod very well knew. The bitch—how did she do it?