![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
While looking up yet another book I read when I was a kid while doing memoir rewrites, I finally figured out that the dead dog book which I had always remembered as Old Wullie is actually called Bob, Son of Battle. It's by Alfred Ollivant, and is the extremely-- no, EXTREMELY gory and tragic story of an old Scotsman and his killer dog, Red Wull, which people inexplicably thought was a nice rousing dog story for kids. And it's online via Project Gutenberg.
My cat-vacuuming did not extend to reading the whole thing, but I did go to the end to see if I'd embroidered its bloodiness in my memory. Nope. Turns out I understated it. Read-- if you dare-- what I read when I was nine, and share in my trauma.
Up and down the slope the dark mass tossed, like some hulk the
sport of the waves. Black and white, sable and gray, worrying at
that great centrepiece. Up and down, roaming wide, leaving
everywhere a trail of red.
Gyp he had pinned and hurled over his shoulder. Grip followed; he
shook her till she rattled, then flung her afar; and she fell with a
horrid thud, not to rise. While Grapple, the death to avenge, hung
tighter. In a scarlet, soaking patch of the ground lay Big Bell's
lurcher, doubled up in a dreadful ball. And Hoppin's young dog,
who three hours before had been the children's tender playmate,
now fiendish to look on, dragged after the huddle up the hill. Back
the mob rolled on her. When it was passed, she lay quite still,
grinning; a handful of tawny hair and flesh in her dead mouth.
So they fought on. And ever and anon a great figi~ire rose up from
the heaving inferno all around; rearing to his full height, his head
ragged and bleeding, the red foam dripping from his jaws. Thus he
would appear momentarily, like some dark rock amid a raging sea;
and down he would go again.
Silent now they fought, dumb and determined. Only you might
have heard the rend and rip of tearing flesh; a hoarse gurgle as
some dog went down; the panting of dry throats; and now and then
a sob from that central figure. For he was fighting for his life. The
Terror of the Border was at bay.
All who meant it were on him now. The Venus, blinded with
blood, had her hold at last; and never but once in a long life of
battles had she let go; Rasper, his breath coming in rattles, had him
horribly by the loins; while a dozen other devils with red eyes and
wrinkled nostrils clung still.
Long odds! And down he went, smothered beneath the weight of
numbers, yet struggled up again. His great head was torn and
dripping; his eyes a gleam of rolling red and white; the little tail
stern and stiff like the gallant stump of a flagstaff shot away. He
was desperate, but indomitable; and he sobbed as he fought
doggedly on.
Long odds! It could not last. And down he went at length, silent
still--never a cry should they wring from him in his agony the
Venus glued to that mangled pad; Rasper beneath him now; three
at his throat; two at his ears; a crowd on flanks and body.
The Terror of the Border was down at last!
"Wullie, ma Wullie!" screamed M'Adam, bounding down the slope
a crook's length in front of the rest. "Wullie! Wullie! to me!"
At the shrill cry the huddle below was convulsed. It heaved and
swelled and dragged to and fro, like the sea lashed into life by
some dying leviathan.
A gigantic figure, tawny and red, fought its way to the surface. A
great tossing head, bloody past recognition, flung out from the
ruck. One quick glance he shot from his ragged eyes at the little
flying form in front; then with a roar like a waterfall plunged
toward it, shaking off the bloody leeches as he went.
"Wullie! Wullie! I'm wi' ye!" cried that little voice, now so near.
Through -- through--through! -- an incomparable effort and his
last. They hung to his throat, they clung to his muzzle, they were
round and about him. And down he went again with a sob and a
little suffocating cry, shooting up at his master one quick,
beseeching glance as the sea of blood closed over him --worrying,
smothering, tearing, like foxhounds at the kill.
They left the dead and pulled away the living. And it was no light
task, for the pack were mad for blood.
At the bottom of the wet mess of hair and red and flesh was old
Shep, stone-dead. And as Saunderson pulled the body out, his face
was working; for no man can lose in a crack the friend of a dozen
years, and remain unmoved.
The Venus lay there, her teeth clenched still in death; smiling that
her vengeance was achieved. Big Rasper, blue no longer, was
gasping out his life. Two more came crawling out to find a quiet
spot where they might lay them down to die. Before the night had
fallen another had gone to his account. While not a dog who
fought upon that day but carried the scars of it with him to his
grave.
The Terror o' th' Border, terrible in his life, like Samson, was yet
more terrible in his dying.
Down at the bottom lay that which once had been Adam M'Adam's
Red Wull.
...
Over the dead body he stooped.
"What ails ye, Wullie?" he asked again. "Will you, too, leave me?"
Then Bessie, watching fearfully, saw him bend, sling the great
body on his back, and stagger away.
Limp and hideous, the carcase hung down from the little man's
shoulders. The huge head, with grim, wide eyes and lolling tongue,
jolted and swagged with the motion, seeming to grin a ghastly
defiance at the world it had left. And the last Bessie saw of them
was that bloody, rolling head, with the puny legs staggering
beneath their load, as the two passed out of the world's ken.
In the Devil's Bowl, next day, they found the pair: Adam M'Adam
and his Red Wull, face to face; dead, not divided; each, save for
the other, alone. The dog, his saturnine expression glazed and
ghastly in the fixedness of death, propped up against that
humpbacked boulder beneath which, a while before, the Black
Killer had dreed his weird; and, close by, his master lying on his
back, his dim dead eyes staring up at the heaven, one hand still
clasping a crumpled photograph; the weary body at rest at last, the
mocking face--mocking no longer--alight with a whole-souled,
transfiguring happiness.
The end
My cat-vacuuming did not extend to reading the whole thing, but I did go to the end to see if I'd embroidered its bloodiness in my memory. Nope. Turns out I understated it. Read-- if you dare-- what I read when I was nine, and share in my trauma.
Up and down the slope the dark mass tossed, like some hulk the
sport of the waves. Black and white, sable and gray, worrying at
that great centrepiece. Up and down, roaming wide, leaving
everywhere a trail of red.
Gyp he had pinned and hurled over his shoulder. Grip followed; he
shook her till she rattled, then flung her afar; and she fell with a
horrid thud, not to rise. While Grapple, the death to avenge, hung
tighter. In a scarlet, soaking patch of the ground lay Big Bell's
lurcher, doubled up in a dreadful ball. And Hoppin's young dog,
who three hours before had been the children's tender playmate,
now fiendish to look on, dragged after the huddle up the hill. Back
the mob rolled on her. When it was passed, she lay quite still,
grinning; a handful of tawny hair and flesh in her dead mouth.
So they fought on. And ever and anon a great figi~ire rose up from
the heaving inferno all around; rearing to his full height, his head
ragged and bleeding, the red foam dripping from his jaws. Thus he
would appear momentarily, like some dark rock amid a raging sea;
and down he would go again.
Silent now they fought, dumb and determined. Only you might
have heard the rend and rip of tearing flesh; a hoarse gurgle as
some dog went down; the panting of dry throats; and now and then
a sob from that central figure. For he was fighting for his life. The
Terror of the Border was at bay.
All who meant it were on him now. The Venus, blinded with
blood, had her hold at last; and never but once in a long life of
battles had she let go; Rasper, his breath coming in rattles, had him
horribly by the loins; while a dozen other devils with red eyes and
wrinkled nostrils clung still.
Long odds! And down he went, smothered beneath the weight of
numbers, yet struggled up again. His great head was torn and
dripping; his eyes a gleam of rolling red and white; the little tail
stern and stiff like the gallant stump of a flagstaff shot away. He
was desperate, but indomitable; and he sobbed as he fought
doggedly on.
Long odds! It could not last. And down he went at length, silent
still--never a cry should they wring from him in his agony the
Venus glued to that mangled pad; Rasper beneath him now; three
at his throat; two at his ears; a crowd on flanks and body.
The Terror of the Border was down at last!
"Wullie, ma Wullie!" screamed M'Adam, bounding down the slope
a crook's length in front of the rest. "Wullie! Wullie! to me!"
At the shrill cry the huddle below was convulsed. It heaved and
swelled and dragged to and fro, like the sea lashed into life by
some dying leviathan.
A gigantic figure, tawny and red, fought its way to the surface. A
great tossing head, bloody past recognition, flung out from the
ruck. One quick glance he shot from his ragged eyes at the little
flying form in front; then with a roar like a waterfall plunged
toward it, shaking off the bloody leeches as he went.
"Wullie! Wullie! I'm wi' ye!" cried that little voice, now so near.
Through -- through--through! -- an incomparable effort and his
last. They hung to his throat, they clung to his muzzle, they were
round and about him. And down he went again with a sob and a
little suffocating cry, shooting up at his master one quick,
beseeching glance as the sea of blood closed over him --worrying,
smothering, tearing, like foxhounds at the kill.
They left the dead and pulled away the living. And it was no light
task, for the pack were mad for blood.
At the bottom of the wet mess of hair and red and flesh was old
Shep, stone-dead. And as Saunderson pulled the body out, his face
was working; for no man can lose in a crack the friend of a dozen
years, and remain unmoved.
The Venus lay there, her teeth clenched still in death; smiling that
her vengeance was achieved. Big Rasper, blue no longer, was
gasping out his life. Two more came crawling out to find a quiet
spot where they might lay them down to die. Before the night had
fallen another had gone to his account. While not a dog who
fought upon that day but carried the scars of it with him to his
grave.
The Terror o' th' Border, terrible in his life, like Samson, was yet
more terrible in his dying.
Down at the bottom lay that which once had been Adam M'Adam's
Red Wull.
...
Over the dead body he stooped.
"What ails ye, Wullie?" he asked again. "Will you, too, leave me?"
Then Bessie, watching fearfully, saw him bend, sling the great
body on his back, and stagger away.
Limp and hideous, the carcase hung down from the little man's
shoulders. The huge head, with grim, wide eyes and lolling tongue,
jolted and swagged with the motion, seeming to grin a ghastly
defiance at the world it had left. And the last Bessie saw of them
was that bloody, rolling head, with the puny legs staggering
beneath their load, as the two passed out of the world's ken.
In the Devil's Bowl, next day, they found the pair: Adam M'Adam
and his Red Wull, face to face; dead, not divided; each, save for
the other, alone. The dog, his saturnine expression glazed and
ghastly in the fixedness of death, propped up against that
humpbacked boulder beneath which, a while before, the Black
Killer had dreed his weird; and, close by, his master lying on his
back, his dim dead eyes staring up at the heaven, one hand still
clasping a crumpled photograph; the weary body at rest at last, the
mocking face--mocking no longer--alight with a whole-souled,
transfiguring happiness.
The end
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
...my.
So...what's the plot, dare I ask?
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
It is very Scottish, though. As a Scot friend of mind put it, Scottish stories are all about massacre and/or horniness.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
and his Red Wull, face to face; dead, not divided; each, save for
the other, alone. The dog, his saturnine expression glazed and
ghastly in the fixedness of death, propped up against that
humpbacked boulder beneath which, a while before, the Black
Killer had dreed his weird; and, close by, his master lying on his
back, his dim dead eyes staring up at the heaven, one hand still
clasping a crumpled photograph; the weary body at rest at last, the
mocking face--mocking no longer--alight with a whole-souled,
transfiguring happiness.
YUCK. -- What was he happy about? That he was dead?
Also, Adam M'Adam?
d00d, I thought I was bad off when I was a kid visiting Rome and read Spartacus. And some v whack novelized epic about the Mau Mau uprising which described headless bodies jerking in wossname paroxysms spouting blood everywhere, til my mother confiscated it because it was giving me nightmares. I think she flung it in the Tiber.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject