by Zane Grey
We reached camp at the end of this still hot summer day. Never had camp seemed so welcome! What a wonderful thing it was to earn and appreciate and realize rest! The cotton-wood leaves were rustling; bees were humming in the tamarack blossoms. I lay in the shade, resting my burning feet and aching bones, and I watched Nielsen as he whistled over the camp chores. Then I heard the sweet song of a swamp blackbird. These birds evidently were traveling north and had tarried at the oasis.
Lying there, I realized that I had come to love the silence, the loneliness, the serenity, even the tragedy of this valley of shadows. Death Valley was one place that could never be popular with men. It had been set apart for the hardy diggers for earthen treasure, and for the wanderers of the wastelands—men who go forth to seek and to find and to face their souls. Perhaps most of them found death. But there was a death in life. Desert travelers learned the secret that men lived too much in the world—that in silence and loneliness and desolation there was something infinite, something hidden from the crowd.
Strange Partners at Two-Fold Bay
These are really two separate accounts of the same events relating what must constitute one of the most astonishing alliances between man and animals ever known. The first story, my father’s rousing tale, came from what he had learned in newspapers and magazines about some amazing events in Australia. These accounts were later corroborated by Dr. David Stead, then of the Sydney Museum in Australia. This story was not published until 1955, more than sixteen years after my father’s death. At my persuasion, it then appeared in American Weekly Magazine.
The second account is my version of the same incidents, which resulted from my visit to Eden, Australia, the little town where this all took place, and after reading a carefully researched book by Thomas Mead, published in 1961 by Angus and Robertson in Sydney. Although Dad’s story was by far the more thrilling, what I learned was even more exciting and meaningful to me because of the curious, almost poignant, relationship that existed among three generations of the Davidson family and Old Tom, the acknowledged leader of the band of killer whales that visited Eden regularly each fall for a span of close to eighty years.
However, my father’s story does contain a few inaccuracies, the most notable being that Two-Fold Bay was not geographically as he described it; in fact, it is two huge, open, semicircular bays—almost like extinct volcanic craters with a small, crooked tongue jutting out in the middle toward the east that furnishes a small harbor for the vessels of the little fishing port of Eden.
Another inaccuracy is his relating that when the whales breached on being attacked, they would make a roaring sound like a bull. As we know now, almost all sea mammals communicate with high-pitched squeaks because water is a much better conductor of sound than air.
Otherwise, the events of this story, as I discovered, are amazingly accurate, and what I did was merely to document what he had related in his version. Nevertheless, perhaps the two most important facts I learned beyond what he had written were about the extraordinary intelligence of these animals (that has since been documented by many research studies performed recently with killer whales in captivity), and the fact that, in general, their longevity period seems to be as long, if not longer, than our own.
But enough of this. I’m sure that what you are about to read will capture your imagination as have few stories ever written, and it will verify the old dictum that sometimes truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction.
“Look!” cried whaler John Davidson, “there he breaches again.” The three other men in the tiny whaleboat scanned the water in the direction of their leader’s outstretched arm. Almost as Davidson spoke, the huge humpback whale appeared on the calm surface of Two-Fold Bay, some six hundred yards distant, engaged in a furious battle with a school of deadly orca, known more commonly as killer whales. At this juncture, the first of the accompanying boats from the little Australian fishing village of Eden came within hailing distance of their leader. “Hey Dad,” yelled Davidson’s son, George, from the first boat. “What happened? Did he break off?”
“No, Son,” replied the elder, “the whale was attacked by a school of orca. We had to cut the line.”
“Aw,” groaned young George. “Why didn’t you hang on a little longer?”
Young Davidson’s boat came up and passed his father’s and went on; all eyes were intent on the fury ahead. The elder Davidson had to call twice to make them stop. The other boats came along then, and the rowers rested on their oars.
Suddenly young George shouted: “They’re bearing down on us!”
“So they are,” responded Barkley excitedly. “If they come up under us, it will be all over.”
“Back away, men,” ordered Davidson.
Meanwhile, the orca and the whale had sounded again, and there was only an oily slick on the water where they had gone down. Then the sea opened suddenly again directly in front of the boat. The great blunt nose of the whale emerged beyond a white ripple, and there was a loud puff of expelled breath and then a whistling intake. Not an orca was in sight. Young Davidson suddenly straightened and raised the great harpoon high over his head. In magnificent action, he cast the iron. It sped true to the mark and sank half its length in the shiny hump. The young men in the boat with Davidson screamed their elation. The whale lunged and, crashing the water, disappeared. In another instant the boat stood almost on end, its stern sunk deeply and the bow rising to an angle of forty-five degrees. George Davidson clung to the thwarts while his comrades hung onto the seats to keep from being spilled out. The whale line stretched out stiff and straight, and in that precarious position the boat sped over the surface, leaving two enormous white furrows behind.
“By God,” cried Barkley, “that boy has fastened onto the whale again. What an arm. He’s a born harpooner.”
“He’s a born fool,” rasped out the father, and, standing up, he cupped his hands to his mouth and thundered: “Cut that line!”
But young Davidson gave no heed, even if he did hear, which was improbable. The boat raced on and increased its speed. The leader ordered the other boats to row hard in pursuit. It was evident that John Davidson was deeply concerned over the fate of his son and the others, in view of the tales related by whalers of orca capsizing small boats and attacking men in the water. While his companions worked furiously at the oars, he scanned the bay ahead. They rowed a mile or more before he spoke. Finally he said to the others, with great relief: “Thank God, they’re still afloat. There. The whale is on the surface again, and the orca are tearing into him. George’s boat is up with them. The bloody fools are still fast to the whale.” In the succeeding moments while the three boats were gaining, the whale was driven down seven times, but he was prevented from making any long runs. At last the leader’s boat came within hailing distance.
“Cut that line, I tell you,” roared the father.
This time young Davidson turned and waved his hand. “Looks good, Dad!” he shouted. “These orca are doing us a good turn.”
“You young fool,” bellowed Davidson, “they’ll turn your boat over in a second.”
“Dad, we were scared stiff. Two of the orca came up to us, and one went right under the boat, the other bit at the line, but he only pulled. Seems to me that if these orca were going to harm us, they would have done it.”
“That beats me,” said Barkley, laying hold of Davidson’s arm. “He may be talking sense. Don’t make him cut the line.”
It was evident that young George could not be forced from his object. The whale and his enemies sank once more, and the skiff began to sail over the water again.
In several moments the humpback rose again to try for a short blow before he was attacked and literally smothered by the pack of killers. There were at least a dozen of them. A big white spotted orca leaped high out of the water and landed squarely upon the whale’s nose in what appeared to be a most singular and incredible action. Boats and quarry were soon in the lee of the headland on the south shore and well in
the smooth waters of the bay. The whale showed five times at shortening intervals. Then, some miles up the bay, he began to swim in circles. The attack of the orca had frustrated his escape and exhausted him. The orca continued to harry the whale whenever he rose, and the huge black and white fellows doggedly kept leaping upon his nose. These beasts must have weighed five or six tons, and, every time, they managed to submerge the nose of the whale before it could draw a good full breath.
The fray worked into shoal water, increasing the furious activity of the orca. The whale now floundered in three fathoms not far from the shore where friends and families of the whalers had come down to see the battle. From whaler Davidson’s boat there rang a sharp command: “Pull close, George! Spear him the next time he comes up!” The boatmen pulled the slack line in and laid it in the bow while young Davidson stood with his ten-foot lance waiting for the critical moment.
The whale heaved up again, slowly rolling and gasping, this time the orca paying little attention to the boat in their furious attack. However, as the rowers pulled their boat closer to the whale, the orca left off their attack, but could be seen cruising around in front. As the first skiff came right upon the rolling quarry, young Davidson elevated the huge spear and plunged it into the great beast. A geyser of blood shot high in the air. The whale let out a gasping, gurgling roar and began to beat the water with his tail in great white splashes. Quickly the boatmen backed water to a safe distance.
All eyes were turned upon the death throes of the great humpback. He slapped the water with thunderous crashes. He rolled in a sea of blood. His great head came out, jaws gaping, with the huge juicy tongue hanging out. Immediately the orca were upon him, tearing the tongue out of his mouth, and then, as the whale slowly sank, they could be seen biting out great mouthfuls of blubber. The whale sank slowly to the bottom in less than three fathoms of water. Presendy the orca disappeared, and the great humpback lay dying in convulsions in a great cloud of murky water. As soon as the blood had drifted away on the current, the second boat put down a huge hook and anchored it in the whale. Then all boats rowed ashore where the whalers climbed out to the wild acclaim of their friends and families. As far as the whale was concerned, it would be necessary to wait a day or so until internal gases built up to bring the beast to the surface. Then he could be rowed ashore and cut up.
Excitement ran high in Eden that night. The capture of the whale presaged the beginning of an industry after a discouraging time of many years during which great numbers of huge tiger sharks had continually torn up the fishermen’s nets, destroying the normal fishing industry along this part of the Australian coast.
Orca, the giant ancient enemy of whales, had been known along the coast of New South Wales and Two-Fold Bay for over seventy years. That is about as long as the memory of the oldest inhabitant. Of course, the killer whales must have ranged up and down this coast for thousands of years, as long, indeed, as whales have inhabited these waters.
There had to be a whale industry before any notice was taken of the orca and their predatory habit of chasing whales. A peculiar kind of whaling had been developed by Davidson and his men at Two-Fold Bay, probably as primitive as was ever devised by man. The whalers used what were little more than large rowboats, harpoons with long ropes, and long-poled lances with which to put the finishing stroke to the whales. Their method had been largely unsuccessful in that they had been afraid to go out into the open sea after their quarry. They patrolled the mouth of the bay until a whale came in. Then they would attack it and take a chance on being able to hold the whale within the confines of the bay. Most of the whales they sighted had been too wary, and the few monsters they actually harpooned soon departed with most of their inadequate gear. However, because of the persistence of some of the younger men under Barkley, who had been a whaler in New Zealand, and the fact that the normal fishing industry of Eden was dying, the whalers had kept up their dogged efforts.
The capture of the first whale depended a great deal upon the formation of Two-Fold Bay. It is a body of water difficult to describe. The mouth of the bay is comparatively narrow, and the inlet soon runs shallow towards the upper end, folding back upon itself, to account for its picturesque name. The background is about the same as everywhere along the New South Wales coast, very rugged and wild with white sandy beaches, green benches, and forests of eucalyptus running up to the mountain ranges that grow purple in the distance. The little town of Eden is not only picturesquely situated, but felicitously named.
This particular morning the whalers had been unusually lucky, and had sighted whales only a couple of miles out and well within the calm water of the bay. The elder Davidson’s boat was first to come within throwing distance of one of the giant humpbacks. Barkley, heaving the heavy iron harpoon, had made fast to a whale and the fight was on, to the grim concern of the older men and the yelling chorus of the younger. The whale made off with three or four hundred yards of rope and then slowed down. The three other boats followed, rowing as swiftly as they could, but losing ground. But, as usually happened, Davidson’s craft was towed to the mouth of the bay. Presendy the whale came to the surface and began to thrash around in a commotion of white water. Barkley, standing in the bow, holding the rope, suddenly let out a yell—“Orca, by Lord!”—and pointed ahead. “Look, look. See those big black fins standing up? They belong to bull orcas. Bad luck. It’s as much as our lives are worth to go near that bunch.”
Davidson and the other two men in the boat saw the big black fins swirling around the whale, forcing him down, and Davidson cried: “Bad luck, indeed! We’ll have to cut him loose,” and he made a move with a naked blade.
Barkley motioned him to stop. “Let’s wait. There’s five hundred yards of good rope out there, and we can’t afford to lose it.” The whale sounded, and the orca disappeared. The strain on the whaling line slackened. Presently, as the men waited in tense excitement, the big humpback came to the surface surrounded by the thumping, splashing school of orca. The boat was close enough for the fishermen to hear the bellowing roar of the whale and the vicious splashing of the killer whales.
Barkley had heard a whale roar before in its terror, but the other men had not. It was a strange, strangling sound. Then one of the orca leaped into the air, a huge black glistening body with white spots, and landed squarely on top of the whale. Sounding with a tremendous splash of his tail, the big humpback went out of sight as did his tormentors. Again the whale line went whistling off the bow. As the boat gathered momentum and rose on its stern, fairly flying through the water, Davidson leaped forward and cut the line. The boat settled down, slid ahead a few yards, and finally came to a stop. The whalers, gray-faced and sweating, eyed each other in silence. Finally Barkley, wiping his face, spoke: “I guess there wasn’t anything else to do, but it’s hard to swallow the loss of all that fine rope and the whale, too.”
“We’re lucky to get rid of him,” spoke up one of the other men.
This would have been the end of it had not the younger men rashly made fast to the whale again and, with what seemed the almost incredible aid of the orca, succeeded in capturing him.
That night the men of Eden speculated excitedly on their good luck.
“Men” said Barkley, “I’ve got to believe my own eyes. These orca are as keen and bold as any hounds that ever chased a stag. Nearly every whale killed in deep water sinks to the bottom. The orca know this. If they kill a whale in the open sea, it sinks before they can satisfy their hunger. This bay is a trap. The orca often hang out here and patrol the mouth until a school of whales comes along. Then they deliberately separate one from the others and drive him ashore. That accounts for the skeletons of whales we occasionally find here in shallow water. But, of course, every battle with a whale doesn’t end successfully for the orca. They’re intelligent enough to see that we’re a help. They intercepted this whale and sent him back.”
Young George answered: “As the chase kept on, they showed less fear of us.”
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p; “Well,” spoke up his father, “I wonder . . . it remains to be seen whether they’ll do it again.”
On the second day, about noon, while the whalers were at work, cutting up their humpback, a scout came running down to the wharf to shout the exciting news that there was white water in the offing. Whaler Davidson took his glass and went to an elevated place to take a look. A school of whales was passing the mouth of the bay, and one of them had already been cut adrift from his fellows and was being hemmed in and driven into the bay by the whale killers. Davidson went back to his men with the exciting information, and two boats made ready to go out.
When they were about a mile off, it was evident that there was a big school of orca, and that they were proceeding with remarkable energy to prevent the whale from getting back down the bay. According to Davidson, who had the glass: “There’s a small bunch right at him and a larger number back a ways in a half circle and then a line of others stretched across the bay where the water is deep.”
The whale, finding himself in shoaling water, made determined and persistent efforts to break the line of his tormentors, but, whenever he charged back, a half dozen bulldogs of the sea charged him and tore at his head, compelling him to sound and turn. From the shore, watchers could see the long green shadow moving up the bay and also the flashing black and white orca at his head. The pursuit in a straight line soon ended, and a ring of orca encircled the whale. They were on top of him every moment, and, as his efforts to rise to breathe were frustrated, he grew bewildered, frantic, and nearly helpless, although the pursuing orca still kept a safe distance from his tremendous tail. There came a time when the humpback slid up on his side with a crooked-fin orca the whalers had dubbed Humpy, hanging onto his lip like a bulldog. What a strange blubbering roar the whale made. It was a loud noise and could be heard far beyond the village. Presently the whale shook free of Humpy and went plunging again, around and around. He was so big and powerful that the orca could not stop him, and Old Tom, as the whalers had named the orca with the white spots, could not wholly shut up the whistling blowhole. This humpback might have escaped his relendess enemies if he had had deep water. But between him and the dark blue water of the bay were stretched two lines of menacing orca that charged him in a body when he headed toward the opening.