Chasing Icarus (10 page)

The only balloonist willing to furnish the
St. Louis Globe-Democrat
with a few words was Alan Hawley. He showed the reporter his energy lozenges (they were actually condensed-meat tablets), then explained the water anchor he had designed, which consisted of two life preservers enclosed in a net and would be used on the drag rope if they crossed a body of water to preserve the equilibrium of the balloon. Do you think you will win? Hawley was asked. He flattened down the red tie he was wearing and considered his response. “It’s at least forty percent luck,” he said at length, “and were it not so, we American aeronauts would stand but a poor chance with the foreign aeronauts here today. What chance would we have with men like Le Blanc, who has made innumerable flights, or Faure, who has made two hundred and seventy-five? I have made forty flights only, and I guess I have made more than any of the Americans entered today.”

The reporter tucked his pencil into his pocket, wished Hawley and Post good luck, and went on his way. When he was out of earshot Captain John Berry of the St. Louis Aero Club, who had helped with the inflation of the
America II
, turned to Hawley and asked if he really believed his chances of victory were that slim. Of course not, Hawley replied, grinning: “We are good to stay up seventy or eighty hours and expect to break every record for distance and endurance. I know we are bound for the Canadian wilderness, but no timber shall stop us. We’ll sail as long as the balloon has an ounce of lifting power and take our chances on being found.”

Shortly after four P.M. officials informed each crew of the latest weather forecast they had just received: the air currents for the next eighteen hours would be from the southwest to the northeast, favorable to the balloonists. The tropical hurricane that had devastated Cuba was now sweeping across the Gulf of Mexico and would have little effect on the weather, but an atmospheric depression over North Dakota might influence their direction.

The starting order of each balloon had been decided two days earlier, and by four thirty P.M. the first crew, Jacques Faure and Ernest Schmolck in
Condor
, had adjusted their ballast so that they were floating inches off the ground. A dozen soldiers from the Signal Corps carried the basket to the starting point, whereupon the timer counted down the seconds and then, at four forty P.M., shouted, “Let go, all!” The soldiers released their grip and stood back as the
Condor
rose into the air. Twelve minutes later the second balloon, St. Louis’s own
Million Population Club
, piloted by Louis Von Phul and Joseph O’Reilly, ascended, but within seconds there was a problem. They had started “heavy,” their balloon festooned with forty bags of sand, each weighing thirty-nine pounds. For a moment it seemed the balloon would strike the grandstand as it lurched across the sky. Spectators froze in fear or dived under their seats as Von Phul whipped out his hunting knife and slit one of the ballast bags attached to the side of the basket. A shower of sand fell from the sky onto the heads of some spectators, but the
Million Population Club
regained its poise and climbed safely above the grandstand. The next three balloons got away without incident and followed the
Condor
and
Million Population Club
in a north-by-northwest direction. The sixth balloon to rise was
St. Louis No. 4
, piloted by Harry Honeywell and, according to the
St. Louis Globe-Democrat
, “the favorite with the crowd,” certainly the one that received the biggest cheer as it passed over the grandstand. It headed north, as did the
Helvetia
and
Düsseldorf
II
, which were next to leave.

The penultimate balloon to depart was also the lightest; not only did the yellow-clothed
America II
carry no whiskey or champagne (only a small hip flask of cognac in Augustus Post’s coat pocket), but its ballast consisted of just twenty-nine bags, each weighing forty pounds. Standing in the basket next to Hawley, Post could feel his heart thumping as he waited for the starter’s order. This was the moment he dreaded above all others, the few seconds when his imagination reminded him of what had happened in Berlin. Once, when asked by an acquaintance what the start of a balloon race felt like, Post had replied that it “must be something like the proverbial ‘last moment’ of a drowning man. In the instant’s pause—literally one of suspense—there flashes through the mind, if not one’s whole life, at least all the days and weeks of preparation.”

The starter hollered, “Let go, all!” and the
America II
climbed into the air, a great ball of yellow rising like the sun on a summer’s morning. Seven minutes later the
Germania
was off, and the aero ground of St. Louis had been harvested of all its giant mushrooms.

The
America II
made good progress, and at six ten P.M., twenty-four minutes after their departure, Post made the first note in the logbook, recording their direction as north, their altitude as five hundred feet, and the temperature as seventy-eight degrees. In the column headed REMARKS he wrote only “moonlight.” Twenty minutes later he jotted their first bearings: “17 miles northwest of St. Louis,” and at seven twenty P.M. they were “across Mississippi River” traveling northwest at a height of three hundred feet. Fifteen minutes later they crossed another river and inquired of a lone boatman visible on the silvery water below their whereabouts. “This is the Illinois River and you’re now in Jersey County,” he shouted, nearly losing his balance and toppling into the water as he looked up.

For a while the
America II
followed the Illinois River before they caught a swift stream of air that took them north at nearly 30 mph, through Calhoun County, Illinois.

At nine o’clock the
America II
was still scooting along at a good lick, not far above the tops of trees and the odd farmstead. Keep an eye out for crazy farmers and their shotguns, Hawley warned Post, only half in jest. But the only human voice they heard was from a man who rushed out of his front door, clapping his hands in delight, and yelling, “My God, it’s a pretty sight, brother!”

*
On the first day of the show in August 1910 Walter Brookins crashed his Wright biplane, injuring himself and Maurice Gorvel, who suffered a broken arm. Gorvel claimed $15,000 in damages against the Wrights and the Asbury Park Motor and Aero Club, the first ever suit for damages involving an airplane.

†
In the early years horse races at Belmont Park were held in the English fashion, that is to say clockwise. Thus dead man’s turn would have been the first corner for the jockeys as they rode away from the grandstand. But the aviation course was to be held counterclockwise, meaning that the pi lots had to negotiate the corner while avoiding the grandstand.

CHAPTER FOUR

Will Launch Lifeboats and Trust to You

Tuesday, October 18, 1910

At four A.M. Murray Simon was woken from a deep sleep by Lewis Loud, and for a few moments Simon did nothing but “growl like a demon” at being turned out of his hammock. He got scant sympathy from Loud, who told him it was his turn on watch, alongside the skipper.

Simon and Walter Wellman made themselves snug in the lifeboat, lit up a cigarette each, and nattered. The captain of the
America
was old enough to be the father of the twenty-nine-year-old Englishman, but in the chilly night air they were without rank or restriction; they discussed food, weather, future attempts, and the probable whereabouts of the steamer from Bermuda. Then Wellman scanned the night sky and predicted another fine day. “As soon as the sun comes out today, the
America
will go up again well aloft,” he said to Simon. “We’ll have to let out some more of our gas, which will mean we’re about done by sundown.” Simon took a long, deep, satisfying drag on his cigarette, then asked, “Why not draw water and fill one of the tanks as ballast so we can keep down during the day?” Wellman liked the sound of that: “Good idea, we’ll try it.”

Simon finished his cigarette and with a “Cheerio” climbed the ladder into the car and positioned himself in his navigator’s seat, still marveling at the sensation of floating in midair in profound silence. Suddenly he heard a shout from below. “Why, there’s a ship!” cried Wellman. Simon jumped up and peered through the two holes he’d cut in the canvas. At first he saw nothing and yelled down to Wellman, “Ship be blowed!” But Well-man was adamant, so Simon looked again, and this time he made out the lights of a ship about six miles to their east. All hands were raised, and Irwin tore down the ladder, jumping the last couple of rungs into the lifeboat and unbalancing Wellman, who was in the bow waving his arms frantically in the direction of the ship.

Able seaman Stanley Angel was shivering in the crow’s nest of the SS
Trent
when he spotted what he thought was the morning star away to the northwest. The eighteen-year-old Londoner nudged his pal, able seaman George Sangster, and pointed out the “white light up in the sky.” The two squinted through the gloom, and suddenly a red light blinked twice to either side of their “star.” “So help me God,” exclaimed Angel, “it’s an airship!” The red lights flashed again, and the lookouts read the Morse code for “Help, Help, Help.” Sangster ran aft and breathlessly informed Mr. Fitzgerald, the fourth officer, that an airship was off the port side. If you’re being “nutty,” he was warned, they’ll be hell to pay. Sangster promised he wasn’t being nutty, and in a few moments Fitzgerald was wearing his lookout’s expression of childlike amazement. Chief Officer Lainson was summoned to see the “phenomenon,” and he in turn sent orders to rouse Captain Down, and to fetch signalman Albert Leach. They waited on deck, watching the signals for help that “continued to come from beneath the black blur that was dancing low across the northern sky.” Leach arrived with his Morse lamp and was instructed to ask if they had wireless. “Yes,” flashed the red lights in reply. Captain Down was now present and, on seeing the affirmative response, dispatched someone to wake Louis Ginsberg, the ship’s wireless officer. In the meantime, Leach asked his counterpart where he was from. “The Wellman airship
America
, from Atlantic City, bound for Bermuda,” answered the red lights.

With his electric blinker, Irwin identified himself, then asked a question of his own: “Who are you?” Back came the reply: “We are the
Trent
of the Royal Mail Steamship Company, bound from Bermuda to New York.” The six men in the lifeboat punched their fists in the air. Simon threw back his head and roared, “We do love our airship, but, oh, you
Trent
!”

Through his earphones Irwin was serenaded by a symphony of dots and dashes from the hand of Louis Ginsberg:

“Do you want our assistance?”

“Yes. Come at once,” Irwin carefully tapped out in response. “In distress. We are drifting. Not under control.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked Ginsberg.

Irwin imagined the captain of the
Trent
standing over the shoulder of the wireless operator whispering instructions, much as Wellman was doing in the lifeboat.

“Come ahead full speed, but keep astern, as we have heavy tail dragging.”

“Okay,” replied Ginsberg. “Am standing by the wireless in case of trouble.”

“You will pick us up at daylight. You will be better able to see us then.”

“Okay.”

As Irwin communicated with the
Trent
, the rest of
America
’s crew were having what Simon described in his log as a “lively debate” about how best to abandon the airship. Their speed was fifteen knots per hour and they were some eighty feet above the ocean with the equilibrator still lurking ominously close. Simon advised dropping into the sea without delay and launching the lifeboat. Vaniman disagreed, saying it was too dangerous, that it would be safer to slide down a rope onto the deck of the
Trent
. Simon rubbished the idea and in urging his plan “used more sailor language than he had used in years past.” The outburst failed to win him the day, however, and Wellman told Irwin to radio the following message to the
Trent
: “Come in close and put the bow of your ship under us. We will drop you a line, but do not stop your ship, as you will capsize us.”

“Okay,” replied Ginsberg.

A more congenial atmosphere prevailed on board the
Trent
. Captain Down thought the passengers might like to see the extraordinary sight, so he sent a steward to knock at their cabin doors. Within half an hour nearly all the ship’s 150 passengers were crowded on deck, their nightclothes hidden under heavy coats, gaping in amazement at the sight before them.

As dawn broke, the
Trent
was feet away from the
America
, and Captain Down had “every man in the crew at work now, from stokehole to crow’s nest maneuvering about under the airship. Sometimes we had to drive full speed astern to get out of the way of the car and then, as the wind would catch the airship again, we would have to put about and chase her with all the power we could get up.”

By seven o’clock the wind had strengthened and was pushing the
America
west at a rate of twelve knots, with the
Trent
in hot pursuit. It was a “crazy chase,” Down told his officers, and he began to despair of ever effecting a successful rescue by means of a line. He had been struck by another thought, too: what if, in the
Trent
passing under the airship, some gasoline should drop down the vessel’s funnel into its fires? A message was sent to Wellman—launch the lifeboat.

Irwin received the message and passed it to Wellman. Neither he nor anyone else protested; they just wanted the refuge of the
Trent
. “Keep close as possible. Will launch lifeboat and trust to you,” replied Irwin. Vaniman trailed a cord from the gas valve down into the lifeboat, and when he was settled inside the vessel, he pulled on the cord and released the gas. Simon and Loud stood at either end of the lifeboat with their hands on the safety clutches, watching the airship begin to lose its shape and waiting for the right moment to spring free.

The
Trent
had taken up a position 150 feet astern of the airship, and Captain Down issued orders for two small launches to be readied. As crewmen prepared the rescue craft, they silently cursed the passengers, who, with their mugs of coffee and their squeals of excitement, clogged the decks. The
America
sent another message, which Ginsberg scribbled down and passed to his skipper: “We have a motor going above. We can’t hear your signals now. Will say when I can. We are pumping air into the airship ready to bring her down to the level.” Down looked across at the airship and saw that its body had started to sag so that it resembled an animal brought to its knees by a hunter’s bullet. The lifeboat was feet above the waves, and two men were fiddling with its cables. Ginsberg pressed a hand to his earpads as another message stuttered across the water: “We are going to launch the boat, stand by to pick us up.”

The moment the gas valve was opened, the taut hide of the
America
began to wither. Vaniman scooped up the cat in his arms as the lifeboat dropped slowly toward the ocean. Irwin tapped out his final message, whipped off his earpads, and locked the wireless in the lifeboat’s compartment. Then he cut the aerial wires and the earth wires and slipped a life preserver over his head.

Simon looked at Loud, nodded, and yelled, “Let her go!” The pair snapped open the safety clutches, and the boat hit the water with a mighty splash and lurched gunwale under. The six men clung to the lashings of the lifeboat as a wave caught them side on and spun them round. The lifeboat righted herself as the balloon soared skyward. Simon was just about to let out a triumphant roar when the equilibrator rose out of the waves like the terrible sea serpent they had all imagined and smashed into the port bow, “knocking a hole in the forward air chamber and nearly knocking Loud’s head off.”

Loud had seen the beast lunging at him out of the corner of his eye at the last second and ducked, catching a glancing blow on his shoulder. Irwin cushioned his fall, and the pair lay sprawled at the bottom of the boat for several seconds, until they heard a strangled cry from one of their shipmates. Looking up, they saw the prow of the
Trent
“as high as a church,” bearing down on them. There seemed no escape, yet the passengers watching from the rail seemed oblivious of what was about to happen; Simon could hear them cheering. One or two were leaning over the side taking a souvenir snapshot. Simon looked from the rail to the giant propellers whisking the Atlantic Ocean into a welter of white foam. Irwin jumped up onto a seat and prepared to leap overboard as the sound of the propellers grew louder. Then, with a terrifying noise, the port quarter of the
Trent
scraped the length of the lifeboat, peeling off its white paint. For a few seconds they surfed the whirl pool of the ship’s propellers, then were clear, though for a few seconds none of them could quite believe it.

The crew of the
America
were treated as heroes when they were finally pulled on board the
Trent
, but they were interested only in a hot breakfast and a hot bath. After both had been taken, the men fell into some bunks, pulled clean blankets over their heads, and slept for several hours. When they emerged in the afternoon, they had the luxury of wearing clean clothes supplied by the
Trent
’s crew, and for over an hour they happily signed autographs and discussed their adventure with the passengers. Captain Down told Wellman he had last seen the airship drifting west toward Cape Hatteras with its nose close to the water. Then Down invited him to give a short talk on their adventure that evening, after the minstrel show.

There wasn’t a seat to be had in the concert room when Wellman took the stage to a standing ovation. He gave a brief account of their voyage, in layman’s terms, then thanked his comrades for their faithfulness and bravery. He wrapped up his lecture with a tribute to the airship, wherever she might now be: “Good old
America
, farewell,” he said, turning from his audience and addressing the ocean. “You played your part in the game of progress. In the years to come many aircraft will cross the Atlantic; and you will be honored as the ship that showed the way.”

Also headed for New York, but a day ahead of the SS
Trent
, was the transatlantic liner
Kronprinz Wilhelm
, and on board was a black-haired Frenchman with “a liquid eye and an olive skin.” Once or twice during the crossing from Europe, Roland Garros had sat at the piano and dazzled his fellow passengers with his talent. They asked if he was a professional, and Garros had shaken his head, smiled, and explained that he was an aviator on his way to Belmont Park.

It had never been the twenty-two-year-old’s intention to fly when he arrived in Paris in 1908 from his birthplace on the Indian Ocean island of Réunion, but an outing to the Rheims Air Show the following year led Garros to send a letter home advising his family of a change of plan.

In March 1910 Garros had his first flying lesson and in July received his aviation license; for the rest of the summer he appeared in numerous European air shows in a Demoiselle, a monoplane made of bamboo and silk. Cortlandt Bishop, president of the Aero Club of America, had signed Garros to appear at Belmont Park the moment he first clapped eyes on his extraordinary machine. The small Frenchman would be the clown of the show, thought Bishop, twirling his small mustache with his index finger, as was his custom; he’d be the flier to put a smile on the face of New Yorkers. Certainly the Demoiselle had caused much amusement in Britain when Garros had flown in a show at Bournemouth on the south coast of England in August. “Nothing so excruciatingly funny as the action of this machine has even been seen,” wrote the correspondent of
Aero
magazine, wiping a tear from his eye. “The little two-cylinder engine pops away with a sound like the frantic drawing of ginger beer corks; the machine scuttles along the ground with its tail well up; then down comes the tail suddenly and seems to slap the ground while the front jumps up, and all the spectators rock with laughter. The whole attitude and jerky action of the machine suggest a grasshopper in a furious rage.”

Word of Garros’s “hummingbird” had been brought to America by returning aviators, and a flock of reporters were in attendance when the
Kronprinz Wilhelm
docked on Tuesday. The Frenchman graciously fielded all questions, ignoring the odd snicker as he explained that his machine weighed 250 pounds and was, as he spoke, being unloaded from the ship’s hold in four separate crates. “I will demonstrate the efficiency of my Demoiselle as soon as I get it together and run it out upon the course at Belmont Park,” he said. “It rises into the air quickly and, when in the air, can be easily maneuvered. There is no trouble about turning to right or left in this machine. In the matter of speed the Demoiselle can equal any of the heavier type of fliers.”