Unlocking the Sky: Glenn Hammond Curtiss and the Race to Invent the Airplane

206 Pages·2014·0.78 MB·English

by  Shulman Seth

Unlocking the Sky
Glenn Hammond Curtiss
and the Race
to Invent
the Airplane
Seth Shulman
For Benjamin,
who loves inventing
Let us hope that the advent of a successful flying machine, now only dimly foreseen…
will bring nothing but good into the world; that it shall abridge distance, make all
parts of the globe accessible, bring men into closer relation with each other, advance
civilization, and hasten the promised era in which there shall be nothing but peace
and goodwill among all men.
—OCTAVE CHANUTE, 1894
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue Langley’s Folly
Part I Rewriting Aviation History
One Intrigue at Hammondsport
Two Wrights and Wrongs
Three America or Bust
Part II Reaching for the Sky
Four Captains of the Air
Five Sky Dancing
Six Flight of the June Bug
Seven Sky King
Part III Warped Wings
Eight Grounded
Nine Flight of a Hero
Ten New Beginnings
Epilogue All but the Legacy
Appendix A Partial List of Inventions by Glenn Curtiss
Sources
Acknowledgments
Searchable Terms
About the Author
Other Books by Seth Shulman
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
LANGLEY’S FOLLY
Flight by machines heavier than air is unpractical and insignificant, if
not utterly impossible.
—SIMON NEWCOMB, PROMINENT SCIENTIST, 1902
B
y midafternoon on December 8, 1903, dozens of
spectators have gathered on the sunny banks of the Potomac River south of
Washington, D.C.
They have come to glimpse the future.
Most have made their way from the city in horse-drawn carriages; some in
newfangled motorcars. And now, with overcoats and caps, blankets and field
glasses, they huddle against the bitter breeze, chatting excitedly on the riverbank.
Scores more have come via the Potomac from nearby wharves, navigating
chunks of bobbing ice. They peer from the decks of barges, yachts, and sailboats
moored for the unannounced event.
Prominent among the onlookers is a jaunty group of newspaper reporters.
Notepads at the ready, they ride the edgy adrenaline of a big story and busy
themselves picking out the faces of prominent members of Washington society:
Elihu Root, President Teddy Roosevelt’s secretary of war, is on hand, as is Army
General Wallace F. Randolph and other of the nation’s top military brass,
scientists, and politicians. Skeptical by trade, the reporters maintain a glib air
but, secretly, each recognizes the day’s potential. Possibly—just possibly—they
could be ringside for the most momentous spectacle of the young century.
This cold, blustery afternoon, all eyes are trained on a large houseboat in the
middle of one of the Potomac’s widest sections, where it converges with the
Anacostia River. Pacing back and forth on the deck of the ungainly craft is the
unmistakable figure of Samuel Pierpont Langley, venerable head of the
Smithsonian Institution, attired for the occasion in a boating cap and woolen
overcoat, his neatly trimmed beard shining white in the afternoon sun.
There on deck, Langley notes how gusty the day has become; the squalls
have picked up to 18 miles per hour. From Langley’s own account of the day,
we know that he is worried as the wind speed rises and the afternoon wears into
early evening. But you could never see it in his demeanor. Ever conscious of his
role as project director, Langley exudes his usual straight-backed pride and
confidence—characteristics sometimes taken for arrogance.
A prominent scientist with an international reputation, Langley is well
known by 1903 for his heretical belief that a machine heavier than the air can
carry a human being in flight. Yet he has done far more than champion this
view. All but abandoning his field of astronomy, Langley has pioneered the
embryonic field of “aerial navigation” for fifteen years and published his results
widely. Based on the success of Langley’s efforts, the U.S. War Department has
secretly funded his five-year effort to build a full-scale prototype of the
extraordinary new machine he calls an aerodrome—Greek for “air runner.”
For Langley, today’s trial of a full-scale flying machine caps an illustrious
career. Now sixty-nine years old, he can boast of successes in both astronomical
and aerodynamic research; he has published hundreds of scholarly articles, and
he holds honorary degrees from six universities. As director of the Smithsonian
Institution for the past seven years, he has advised two U.S. presidents on
scientific matters.
Langley’s long years of experimentation with more than one hundred aircraft
models and his emerging grasp of aeronautical principles have led arduously to
this December day in 1903. Yet, despite his imposing manner, his credentials,
and his official backing, it strains the credulity of the spectators gathered along
the Potomac’s banks to believe his machine will actually fly. No one has ever
successfully flown an airplane in all of history. Perhaps the assembled crowd
thinks the laws of nature will be suspended. Just as likely, they are out to gawk
at the spectacle, suspecting that the government has foolishly underwritten a
powerful man’s idle dream.
From press accounts, official government documents, and the reminiscences
of Langley and his colleagues, we know even the sounds and textures of the
day’s events: from the roar of the path-breaking radial engine to the gossamer
feel of the oiled white silk covering the aerodrome’s skeleton. We know that the
houseboat began to pitch as the wind picked up that afternoon. And we know
that Langley, meticulous in his attention to detail, had prepared for almost every
contingency. He had even contracted with Army surgeon Dr. Francis Nash to
join the dignitaries on board the houseboat in case of a medical emergency.
Yet, for all the documentation and detail, two of the most important things
about that December day remain elusive. A century later, we can only imagine
the spectators’ excitement: the suspense they felt as they stood for hours while
Langley and his team readied the odd craft and their bewildered skepticism that,
on this very day, a human being might actually unlock the secrets of flight.
Equally baffling, a fair accounting of the event’s outcome is mired in
controversy, ill will, and confusion. A century later, it remains one of the most
compelling mysteries in the history of aviation. What, exactly, happened that day
when one of the world’s most eminent scientists tried to prove that a piloted
airplane was possible?

The eighth of December arrived, unusually crisp, clear, and windless. Bad
weather and dispiriting setbacks had repeatedly dashed Langley’s hopes of
conducting the final test of the new aerodrome and put his project far behind
schedule.
Earlier in the fall, at a more remote spot forty miles south along the Potomac
in Virginia, the team had attempted a series of mostly incomplete and
unsuccessful preliminary trials. Langley favored the river for testing all his
prototype aircraft designs. It offered an unobstructed expanse should the aircraft
veer in flight; it was, in most spots, relatively shallow, further reducing the
chance of losing the models; and, especially important with a human pilot, the
water provided a more forgiving landing terrain than did solid ground. At least,
that had been the thinking until the Potomac began to ice over.
that had been the thinking until the Potomac began to ice over.
Langley’s houseboat laboratory was badly damaged in a mid-October storm,
and, at the project’s climax, weeks were lost while repairs were undertaken at a
dock in Washington. Then, when the houseboat was finally restored, stormy,
wintry weather prevented a definitive final trial of the machine. If these setbacks
weren’t enough, Langley later wrote, “more important and more vital was the
exhaustion of the financial means for the work.”
Taken together, technical difficulties, winter’s onset, and funding worries
have contributed to pervasive uncertainty and pressure for Langley and his
coworkers. He knows that this clear December day offers one of the last, best
chances to fly the aerodrome for months to come.
With the weather clear and calm throughout the morning, at noon Langley
orders the crew to ready the aerodrome for an immediate trial flight. Charles
Manly, his assistant and head engineer, will serve as pilot.
Langley’s coworkers have been eager for just such an opportunity. But now
there is much to ready and little time. The aerodrome sits in pieces inside the
houseboat, and it needs to be carefully bolted together for the trial—a job that
takes several hours. And the houseboat needs to be towed out from its dock at
the end of Eighth Street in southwest Washington to a clear, wide spot on the
Potomac where the flight can take place. Given the lack of notice, though, it is
no small matter to commission tugboats for the operation. Finally, two tugboats
—the Bartholdi and the Joe Blackburn—are hired for the job, but it is after two-
thirty in the afternoon when they pull away from the dock with the large, flat-
bottomed houseboat in tow.
For the sake of expediency, Langley decides to make the trial close to the
city. This time of year, the Potomac is clear enough of traffic to permit it.
Through blocks of floating ice, the two tugboats move downstream to the spot
Langley specifies off Arsenal Point.
Because of the late hour, Langley also decides to forgo the task of mooring
the houseboat. Instead, upon reaching their destination, the tugboats continue to
run their engines against the current. Long cables from the tugs hold the
houseboat moderately steady into a strong and gusty wind.
Throughout the morning, news of the impending flight has spread rapidly
through rarefied Washington circles. Now, the spectators on the banks strain to