[Copyright 1902 by C. B. Lewis]
I was one of the crew of the whaling ship Crosby when I came across a gigantic whale that had often been seen before, that had destroyed many lives. He had come to be known as Tom Bowline and was recognized by a V shaped scar on his head. The Crosby was to the west of St. Helena when he was raised by the lookout. Tom Bowline came to the surface with a rush and then lay wallowing about. Three boats were lowered, and the whale was recognized by his scar. The mate’s boat had the lead and got within striking distance first. As soon as the harpoon entered the whale settled away like a rock and went down 350 feet. Then he turned and rushed for the surface like a wild locomotive, breaching his full length out of water and filling and swamping the mate’s boat with waves kicked up by his fall. He rested a moment and then slewed around and started for the boat. He caught it with a swing of his jaw and made splinters of it and killed three men at the same time. For five minutes the mate, who was supporting himself by an oar, was alongside the fish and rubbing against his body, but he finally pushed himself clear and reached one of the other boats. The monster had the three boats at his mercy, but for some reason was satisfied with the destruction of the first. Perhaps it was because the others remained perfectly quiet while he seemed to be searching for them. Fifteen minutes after destroying the boat he moved away, and those who had escaped his fury returned to the ship. We were at this time over half full of oil.
One hundred and fourteen days later, when 400 miles west of the island of Tristan d’Acunha, in the south Atlantic, we cut our last whale, cleared the decks of the tryworks and set our course for Salem. We were full to the hatches and thus far had made one of the best seasons on record. In about three days we had the ship cleaned up and most of the smoke and grease washed off our bodies, and we were about to begin painting when at noon on the fourth or fifth day after turning on our heel for home a whale suddenly breached right astern of us and not more than 300 feet away. His fall raised three or four waves, which pitched the ship about as if we were lying to in a gale, and, though the monster settled away out of sight at once, we had identified him as Tom Bowline. It may seem queer to you to read that every man aboard, from captain to apprentice, was badly frightened as soon as it was known that our old enemy had hunted us down, as it were. We had left him almost four months before at a point 2,000 miles away, and yet he had overhauled us as if he had been a steamer sent in search and posted as to our cruising ground. His breaching so near us was taken as evidence of his evil intentions, and some argued that he had meant to strike the ship.
All work was at once suspended, and the men were ordered to move around the decks on tiptoe. We hoped the leviathan had not seen us and that his breaching so close aboard was quite accidental, and after half an hour had passed away without further sight of him everybody began to feel easier. A man had just started aloft with a glass to scan the sea when the whale rose to the surface about a stone’s throw to windward.
From that time on for five hours he swam with the ship, paying no attention to us, but maintaining his distance to a foot. Then of a sudden he settles down, and we all heaved a sigh of relief. We had not seen the last of him, however. An hour before midnight the odor of a whale suddenly saluted the nostrils of the men, and they looked to the windward to catch sight of a great black bulk on the water. It was Tom Bowline. Word was passed around and all hands turned up, and from 1 to 3 we were in a state of suspense. At about 3 o’clock the whale began lashing the water with his flukes. When he had churned an acre or more of surface to foam, he slewed around and headed straight for us, but miscalculated our speed and passed astern, though clearing the rudder by not more than five feet. As he rushed to leeward, swinging his head and thrashing the water, we luffed sharp up until we were heading due east. Whether he located us by sight or sound no man can say, but as he slewed around I saw that he would come head on for our stern. As he started on his mad rush the ship’s head was brought due north again in hopes to avoid him, but he came down on our port quarter.
Every soul aboard knew the ship was doomed. She was heeled to starboard until on her beam ends, and the instant she settled back there was a rush for the boats. No one gave the whale further attention, but every effort was put forth to get the boats into the water as the ship was luffed into the wind. Her decks were awash as the last one got away, and that was about fourteen minutes after she was struck. When we came to look around for Tom Bowline, he had disappeared from sight, and no whaler ever reported seeing him after that. It had always been generally believed that he received injuries in striking us that caused his death. We were picked up three days later by a Scotch whaler none the worse in health for our adventure, but the small fortune which that rich cargo would have given every man if safely landed had gone to the bottom of the Atlantic.
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