Before Amelia (25 page)

Once the straight line was mastered on and off the ground—one newspaperman referred to the hops off the ground as “kangarooing”— the student learned to manipulate the wings to preserve balance in the air. Students were warned not to elevate their wings the first time in the air, lest the machine shoot upward. The freedom, the surprise, might lead the student to hastily descend, which all too often ended in breakage and humiliation.

As the student gained experience, grass-cutting gave way to flights in the air on a different aeroplane, one with more speed and a more sensitive control. It was a happy day when the student first flew across the field and landed where a mechanic waited to turn him or her around for the return trip. Warping the wings with the wheel in front of the pilot and manipulating them to elevate or lower the machine were essential maneuvers to be done instinctively. Once these skills were mastered, the student learned to make a right turn—considered the most difficult move—and return, without landing, to where he or she started. Gradually a circuit of the field was added and the student practiced turns in either direction in preparation for the figure-eight requirement for a license.

On July 31, the
New York Evening Mail
reported that “Miss Quimby Outdoes Rival in Flying Dips.” Blanche Scott had made a spectacular flight the previous day, and Harriet was not going to be outdone. Once in the air, she did a series of figure eights, then headed away for a crosscountry flight to Westbury and Meadowbrook. She returned a half hour later and “made a perfect landing.” Three days later the New York press reported that Quimby had won a license; she was America's first.

Harriet's tests incorporated the new regulations adopted by the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale and its American branch, Aero Club of America, in October of 1910: The pilot must be eighteen years of age; must pass two distance tests, without touching the ground, of no less than five kilometers in a close circuit, indicated by two posts five hundred meters from each other; and must make a series of uninterrupted figure eights changing direction at each post. He or she must make an altitude flight of at least fifty meters above the starting point and land the machine within 165 feet of the point, designated before the flight, with the motor turned off when the aeroplane touches the ground.

Landings were important; the Aero Club observers could require a pilot to retake the test if the landing was not exact. Samuel S. Whitt reports that Harriet was not within the designated distance on her first try and had to repeat the test the following day before winning the approval of G. F. Campbell-Wood and Baron D'Orcy. Another article written years later, in
Air Travel News,
also indicates that she missed her landing by another forty feet and had to repeat the test. Harriet's article makes no mention of this, nor of her record on the test. By her own account, she was more concerned that her oil-spattered face and clothing were “not exactly presentable.”

Was it worth the effort? “Absolutely,” said Harriet. The months of predawn rising, the inconvenience of weather, the expense—all were forgotten in the glow of achievement. “I didn't want to make myself conspicuous, I just wanted to be the first, that's all, and I am honestly and frankly delighted.” As an afterthought, she added: “And I have written so much about other people, you can't guess how much I enjoy sitting back and reading about myself for once. I think that's excusable in me.”

There was plenty to read. The newspapers were full of quotes attributed to Harriet, due to her prominence as America's first licensed female pilot. On rivalry with males: “I'm going in for everything in aviation that men have done; altitude, speed, endurance and the rest.” On women's role: “She declares she has solved the problem of women's emancipation.” On fear of the tests: “I wasn't a bit nervous or afraid: there is something about ‘nauting' (flying) that robs you of any nervous reactions. . . . There is a certain freedom from resistance in a monoplane such as you don't get in an auto and there is exhilaration in managing anything so delicate and so responsive.” On flying and health: “Flying made me healthier than I've ever been in my life. You don't know what a fine thing for the complexion a dew bath is. The atmosphere is so pure and fresh that it starts the blood circulation and will bring color to the dullest cheeks. The mist from the clouds is cleansing and grateful to a skin that has known no other than the dry earthbound air of a motor ride.”

Harriet had opinions on women in aviation. Self-confidence and a cool head were essential; physical strength was not. “There is no sport that affords the same amount of excitement and enjoyment, and exacts in return so little muscular strength. . . . Flying is a fine, dignified sport for women, healthful and stimulating to the mind, and there is no reason to be afraid so long as one is careful.” Despite the cost of an aeroplane— upward of five thousand dollars—she saw no reason why women should not “realize handsome incomes by carrying passengers between adjacent towns, why they cannot derive incomes from parcel delivery, from taking photographs from above, or from conducting schools for flying.”

Interviewed for the New York
Evening World,
Harriet commented that neither “luck nor pluck” made a good aviator, but rather “plain common sense and reasonable care.” Women were naturals for aviation because of sanity and instinct, the latter especially important because it works faster than reason. “When you think of the generations that women have relied on instinct rather than reason you will see for yourself that they have practically had their training for aviation.”

In an article written for
Good Housekeeping,
Harriet had one word of warning: “Only a cautious person, man or woman, should fly. I never mount my machine until every wire and screw has been tested.” She disapproved of stunts for mere entertainment; the real achievement in aviation is “to master the air as a proof of human progress.” She gave credit for her success in the air where it was due: “I attribute it to the care of a good mechanic.” Was flying dangerous? “Yes, so is swimming if one tries to swim through Niagara or in the ocean with its perilous undertow.” It was the kind of quick response that made good newspaper copy.

In the next month, America's first licensed woman pilot made arrangements to have her success pay off. She signed contracts to fly at the Richmond County Agricultural Fair on Staten Island, the International Aviation Meet at Nassau Boulevard on Long Island—where a Moisant School promotion touted her demonstrated ability with a breakage bill for the entire course of instruction of less than five dollars—and the Inter-State Fair at Trenton, New Jersey, from late September through October. Her hope of earning enough money to retire and write seriously looked promising.

The first three days of the Richmond fair were rained out for flying, but September 2, when Quimby was to appear, was mild and clear. President Woodrow Wilson was to speak that day and, in his honor, Harriet was especially engaged by William Van Clief, head of the fair management. However, the noise of her engine being tested was not what Van Clief had in mind; Wilson was not pleased at having to speak over the motor's on-and-off roar. The moment Wilson finished, Quimby was in the air and circled the field twice over the Meadowlands and the Narrows in her machine, to approving applause from the crowd. Then from two hundred or three hundred feet, she turned down sharply, which became a trademark of her flying, and landed to more applause. Houpert, who was on hand for her performance, commented for the press: “She's the best I ever taught. I don't say this because she's a woman. Yesterday, she went up with a Gnome engine. I was sure she would break some wood. . . . They almost always do the first time. She didn't.”

Harriet's second flight was scheduled for the last day of the fair, September 4, at night; it would be a spectacular first. Her party was late arriving after a mad dash and a speeding ticket for the unheard-of speed of thirty miles per hour! Some fifteen thousand people waited impatiently for the moon to rise and the start of her flight. Before takeoff, Harriet had to circle the field in her auto to warn people to clear the field for everyone's safety, then she climbed onto the monoplane with its new Gnome motor—“You feel like a monkey crawling along the chassis”—and was off. A sharp ascent brought forth gasps as the aeroplane rose to several hundred feet and headed for Midland Beach. Shortly, she turned back toward the fairgrounds and circled the track before dropping low to pass over the judges' stand. A wave of her hand brought cheers and applause from the crowd, and it was time to land. The crowd had surged onto the field again, which made landing tricky. She dropped sharply, bounced several times—once about ten feet in the air as she hit a rut—before stopping just short of the enclosure fence. The dramatic debut made headlines around the country. Her obvious satisfaction was heightened by Van Clief 's appearance with a check for fifteen hundred dollars, a handsome sum for seven minutes' work. It was a grand beginning.

In the next several weeks, Harriet earned six hundred dollars at the Nassau meet, where she was the only woman to compete in the crosscountry race, and a sum equal to that of the Richmond fair and the New Jersey fair. The
New Brunswick Times
hailed the pilot as “nerviest and one of the most beautiful in the world”—and with it all, “cultured,” too.

Harriet joined the Moisant International Aviators, an association sponsored by the school to contract for exhibition flights. Its business agents were useful in booking appearances, leaving Harriet free to decide if she would attend or not, depending on the fee offered. The press reported that she turned down an appearance at the Chicago Air Meet because the organizers did not meet her price. A meet at Harvard-Boston failed to attract her because there were no prizes for women.

In this respect, aviation was still a man's domain; the small number of women flying meant few competitive opportunities, as Aero Club rules prohibited them from flying with men. There were high hopes for the International Aviation Meet, which ballyhooed the appearance of four women pilots in “the greatest women's contest in history,” but that event never took place. Harriet flew alone in the cross-country flight when Hélène Dutrieu switched to duration; Matilde Moisant, flying alone, won the altitude prize; Blanche Scott, without a license, did not appear. The “greatest women's contest in history” fizzled. Both Quimby and Matilde Moisant left the meet, although there were still several days left.

The meet had an unexpected result: It antagonized the religious leaders on Long Island, who believed the sabbath should be observed with religious activities. Flying was not one. There was much ado about whether the meet would be held on Sunday or not. Harriet refrained from flying on Sunday because of her parents' scruples; Matilde Moisant believed it was an individual matter, and flew, if she felt like it, but not for money. The Sunday flying dispute produced an amusing cartoon in the
Morning Telegraph
entitled “The New Weight Carrying Contest,” which showed a pilot at the International Aviation Meet flying perhaps fifteen feet off the ground with three men clinging to a rope tied to the machine's front wheel axle. The caption read: “The Ministers: ‘Stop. Heaven belongs to us!!!'” The attempt to extend blue laws to include aviation continued to agitate the locals on Long Island, where airfield managers expected to reap a profit from Sunday exhibitions.

Early in November, Harriet sailed from New York City on the
Lampasas
with Matilde Moisant and other aviators of the Moisant International Aviators who were to fly in the inauguration festivities at Valbuena Plains near Mexico City for Francisco Madero, Mexico's president-elect. The aeroplanes, equipment, and mechanics made the long haul by train to Mexico City, the site of the celebration. On arrival at Vera Cruz the Moisant party traveled to Mexico City by train, where they were wined and dined in royal fashion. The two women appealed to Latin sensibilities: They were feminine, cultured, and knew how to please an audience. Alfred Moisant, a keen businessman, had arranged for the pilots' exhibition, reportedly for a handsome fee, and the opportunity to sell more machines to the Mexican government. The women never mentioned money in their comments to the press, then or later.

Harriet, after a rain pause, ascended on November 16 at about 5
P.M.
to open the air show, but found atmospheric conditions on Valbuena Plains difficult. Mexico City's high altitude affected the engine, so she was able to get up only 250 feet, and after six minutes she landed, declaring it was “the hardest flight in terms of air conditions” that she had ever made. George Dyott, another of the Moisant group, found similar conditions and also landed after a brief flight. The show ended when an enthusiastic crowd of several hundred spectators broke through the fences with roars of
“Viva Madero!”
and
“Viva los aeroplanos!”

On the third day, again after a rain pause, Quimby “in a bat-winged, long-tailed monoplane” won the hearts of the crowd. Flying far out over Lake Xochimilco in the late afternoon, she found her way back after more than a half-hour excursion and landed with the help of smudge fires. Another day Harriet's engine stopped in midair. Cool and unrattled in an emergency, she scanned the ground and glided down over several obstacles to a safe landing.

The exhibition ended on the 25th, with both Matilde and Harriet flying together along with Dyott, who carried a passenger. The pilots had flown almost daily, but the meet failed to attract the anticipated crowds, who complained that the promised number of fliers and aeroplanes failed to appear. Alfred Moisant had extended himself with his promises, but weather and the confused state of Mexican politics almost certainly contributed to the financial failure of the venture.

Francisco Madero was about to be inaugurated as president to serve out the term of former president Porfirio Díaz, but around the country there was increasingly fierce opposition to him. To the north, national troops fought with rebel forces, creating tension and uncertainty in the capital. In this atmosphere, people had other things on their minds than watching an aviation show.