Birdmen

by Lawrence Goldstone

  Camping in the dunes to experiment took significant funding, however, and expenses mounted. By the time Herring claimed to be ready for the powered glider, Arnot was no longer ready to pay for it. Herring solicited Chanute and then William Randolph Hearst, neither of whom was willing to put up the $7,000 Herring said he needed. He filed for a patent for his design but was turned down because the examiner saw no practical application for his invention.*3 With no one willing to underwrite the construction, Herring used what money he had to begin on his own. He had a wife and two children, so funding the project personally was an enormous risk. But whatever else one might say of Herring, he never lacked for conviction.

  In October 1898, Herring finally launched his craft at St. Joseph, Michigan, a biplane powered by a three-horsepower, compressed-air motor turning propellers both pusher—mounted at the rear of the machine—and tractor—mounted at the front.*4 He flew fifty feet on his first try, seventy on his second. In both, the underpowered craft was barely aloft, skimming so close to the ground that Herring had to tuck his legs under him to avoid them dragging along the flight path.

  Herring would later claim that these two hops were the breakthrough that aviation was looking for, but few agreed. He continued to be unsuccessful in attracting investment, although both Chanute and Arnot remained supportive of his research. (Herring could be charming when it suited him and a number of those with whom he ended formal associations were willing to vouch for him with others. Chanute would later do so with the Wrights.)

  In 1899, Herring lost all his equipment and materials in a fire and, feeling bitter and unappreciated, left aviation, determined to use his skills to make some money. He would return to the field with the same ambition.

  * * *

  *1 One of the four was a doctor, as Chanute anticipated a number of crashes during the tests, although medical expertise turned out not to be necessary.

  *2 The Pratt truss was developed in 1844 and used when bridges were constructed of iron rather than wood. Its two parallel horizontals are held in place by verticals and diagonals that angle toward the center between the top and bottom planes. The horizontals were sometimes crossed, making an X between the verticals as they were in the glider.

  *3 The patent office was inundated with requests, most from cranks, for aviation patents and turned a harsh eye to anything that hadn’t already flown. The Wrights would encounter the same problem in 1902.

  *4 The distinction would hold through the first decade of flight when most biplanes were pushers and most monoplanes were tractors. Eventually, of course, both pushers and biplanes would disappear.

  To Kitty Hawk

  Wilbur Wright’s decision to join in the quest for manned flight did not result in an immediate rush to build and test-fly gliders. With a business to attend to and no real knowledge of even the formative aerodynamics of the day, he began by reading everything on the subject available at the Dayton Library, which wasn’t much, and—taking a cue from Lilienthal—spending endless hours watching birds in flight. Buzzards, with their immense wingspan, were his favorites.*1

  After three years of self-education, Wilbur had gained some theoretical knowledge of aviation and was ready to move on. On May 30, 1899, thirteen years to the day before he succumbed to typhoid fever, he wrote a letter to the Smithsonian Institution in which he noted that he had “been interested in the problem of mechanical and human flight since [he] was a boy,” and announcing his intention “to begin a systematic study of the subject in preparation for practical work.” He asked “to obtain such papers as the Smithsonian Institution has published on this subject, and if possible a list of other works in print in the English language.” Wilbur felt the need to add, “I am an enthusiast, but not a crank.”1

  Richard Rathbun, one of Langley’s assistants, replied three days later, sending a list that included Chanute’s Progress in Flying Machines, Langley’s Experiments in Aerodynamics, and James Means’s three editions of the Aeronautical Annual. Chanute’s book was priced at $2.50 and the others at $1 each. Rathbun also sent Wilbur four pamphlets from the Smithsonian reports: one by Mouillard, one by Lilienthal, one by Langley, and one by Huffaker. Wilbur remitted one dollar for Langley’s book and obtained the others on his own.

  That Wilbur devoured the literature and became thoroughly versed in the principles of flight as they were then understood there is no doubt. What would be a question of immense significance is to what degree the work of others, in some cases patented work, such as Mouillard’s, affected his thinking and contributed to the ultimate design of the Wright Flyer. No one would ever accuse Wilbur of stealing an idea—his insights were too fresh and groundbreaking—but whether his ideas were totally without precedent or even to some small degree extensions of previously enunciated theories would determine the breadth of any patent he and Orville might be granted for a flying machine of their design.

  Wilbur Wright was defined by both his brilliance and an upbringing that would first support his genius and then undermine it.

  He was born in 1867, the third son of Milton and Susan Wright. His father was a pastor and ultimately became a bishop, one of six ruling elders in the Church of the United Brethren in Christ. The sect had its origins in the Great Awakening in the mid-eighteenth century and began as a loose-knit group of German-speaking churches in Pennsylvania, Virginia, Maryland, and Ohio. By 1800, it had grown sufficiently that the elders organized, instituted an annual meeting, and began sending preachers to ride circuit and spread the faith. Members were socially progressive and personally ascetic. From the time of the Missouri Compromise, the church preached abolition and women’s rights. In the 1830s, it expelled any member who owned slaves. The Brethren were also pacifist and forbidden to drink alcohol, work on the Sabbath, or become members in secret societies such as the Freemasons. In 1847, the church established Otterbein College in Westerville, Ohio, named after one of its founders and the first college in the United States to include women as both faculty members and students. Two decades before the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment, Otterbein accepted African Americans into the student body.

  Milton joined the church in 1846 at age eighteen and became a lay preacher a few years later. He was fierce in his devotion to learning—Milton Wright would show himself to be fierce in all of his beliefs—and eventually accepted a teaching post at Hartsville College, where he met Susan Koerner, his future wife. They married in 1859 after Milton returned from an extended church assignment in Oregon.

  The Wrights had seven children, two of whom died in infancy. Orville was born in 1871, four years after Wilbur; Katharine, the baby of the family and the only surviving daughter, was born in 1874.

  Through dedication, an unyielding spirit, and high intelligence, Milton rose through church ranks. In 1869, he became editor of the sect’s official newspaper, the Religious Telescope, and used the forum to promote strict adherence to the church constitution, which more liberal Brethren read as being adaptable to social change. Freemasonry, for example, had lost much of its stigma and a majority of church members sought to broaden their appeal by relaxing the strict prohibition against admitting Masons and members of other secret societies. In this and other matters, Milton stood firm in opposition and found himself increasingly marginalized.

  Most of the Brethren would have accepted compromise, but in no small part as a result of Milton’s intransigence these policy disputes escalated into a full-blown rift that ultimately tore the Church of the United Brethren in Christ in two, and provided an eerie precursor to Wilbur’s war with Glenn Curtiss.2

  Although possessed of a fast wit, which Milton lacked, in temperament and worldview Wilbur was very much his father’s son. Milton was described by the Wrights’ most thorough and sympathetic biographer as “isolated and combative … not adept at the skills required to make friends and influence people.… His limitations as a politician were apparent. Reconciliation, negotiation, and compromise … were foreign to him.”3 That description would a
pply equally to Wilbur. In addition, both were extremely litigious and acutely sensitive to perceived injustice. Wilbur fought at Milton’s side as the Church of the United Brethren in Christ split and on occasion became almost his father’s alter ego. In this and a subsequent battle within the church, Orville took no part.

  Most biographers agree that a childhood accident was pivotal in Wilbur’s life. By all accounts outgoing and gregarious growing up, in the winter of 1885 Wilbur was struck in the mouth playing a game akin to ice hockey and lost some of his front teeth. Although he recovered quickly from the physical injuries, he unaccountably sank into a depression that lasted almost three years. He left high school before graduation, abandoned plans to attend Yale, and spent most of his time nursing his mother, who had become ill with tuberculosis.

  What returned Wilbur to vibrancy was Milton’s war with the Brethren. In 1888, after almost two decades of increasing animus, the struggle between the liberal faction of the church, by now the vast majority, and the intransigent conservatives, dubbed the “Radicals,” finally neared resolution. A vote of the members had been called to permanently settle the issues in dispute. Campaigning was furious and Wilbur, still only twenty-one, wrote pamphlets and scathing editorials, spoke at public meetings, confronted his father’s attackers, and attempted to influence wavering Brethren by force of personality. He demonstrated a flair for debate, keen insight, and a bent for lacerating sarcasm. But there would be no tipping of the scales. In the end, convinced the rules for the vote had been rigged, Milton and Wilbur called on other conservatives to boycott the election in an attempt to deny the liberals the three-fourths participation required to make the result binding.

  When the votes were counted, Bishop Wright’s faction was soundly defeated as expected, but the three-quarters requirement had not been met. In a general conference, however, five of the six bishops and most of the members voted to ratify the result regardless. Milton Wright was the one dissenter and formally split with the majority.

  There were now two Churches of the United Brethren in Christ, one called “Old Constitution,” and the other “New.”*2 Disposition of church property—buildings, land, and possessions—was now at issue and the liberals sued to gain control. Since the lawsuits were filed at each venue where the church owned property, Milton Wright was forced to defend each one separately, which meant hiring lawyers, giving depositions, and participating in the court proceedings. He threw himself totally into the task. In a moment described as “the one time in his life that work came before family,” Milton, “in addition to heading the defense team, remained the leading Churchman of the Old Constitution branch, participating in virtually every phase of the rebuilding process. He traveled incessantly, visiting congregations and organizing new conferences.”4 Once again, Wilbur was at his father’s side or helping in the effort from the family home in Dayton. With it all, however, Milton’s branch of the Brethren lost all but one of the lawsuits, which left the Radicals without property and nearly destitute.

  The church schism left deep scars on Milton as well as Wilbur, Orville, and Katharine, the three Wright siblings still living at home, and drew them inward. “They came to believe in the essential depravity of mankind. The world beyond the front door of their home was filled with men and women who were not to be trusted.… An honest person was well advised to expect the worst of others.”5

  Wilbur Wright in 1905.

  With that jaundiced view of human interaction, Wilbur, by then in his twenties, was left to find a vocation of his own. The problem was not simple because Wilbur never considered the church and seemed to lack passion for anything else. His brother provided the answer; Orville was fascinated by printing. He spent two summers as an apprentice and then, instead of finishing high school, decided to start a business of his own. (Katharine, who served as surrogate homemaker after her mother’s death in 1889, would eventually enter Oberlin College, from which she graduated in 1898.) Orville was a master craftsman and built a press from scavenged scrap metal. He took on local jobs at cut-rate prices and did the printing for the church. After he turned a profit, he began a weekly newspaper, the West Side News, and when Susan Wright finally succumbed to her illness, he drew Wilbur into the business with him.

  The brothers were hardworking and inventive, and their business thrived. Orville kept the machinery in such superb running order that he and Wilbur received contracts to design and build presses for other firms. Although the brothers were known to “scrap” from time to time—voices were often raised in the shop as they argued out a design point—they were fiercely loyal to each other and almost a subset of the larger Wright family. It seemed to family and friends that Wilbur and Orville would pass their days as successful, modestly wealthy, valued members of the Dayton community.

  Then, in 1892, they took up bicycling.

  They rode the “safety bicycles” that had been introduced in 1887 to replace the unstable “high wheeler,” a difficult machine to get on and off and even more difficult to control. The safety bicycle looked a good deal like the modern version, with pedal-sprocket chain drive, a braking system, pneumatic tires, and equal-sized front and back wheels.

  The safety bicycle became an immediate rage and along with the automobile helped remake the American landscape. It is nearly impossible to overestimate the societal impact of personalized mechanical transport on a population that could not previously move about for any distance without a horse. The prospect of traveling where one desired whether or not a railroad stopped there or a steamship docked there was intoxicating.

  Although the automobile would have a greater long-term impact, the bicycle’s popularity was more immediate. Because it lacked an engine, a bicycle was priced within the means of most Americans. Bicycles could be ridden to work during the week and then for recreation on Sunday. Enthusiasts could form clubs to explore and socialize. Young men could race. Bicycles soon became a popular means of allowing young gentlemen and ladies to pass wholesome time together. Of course, both automobiles and bicycles needed roads—or sometimes just an open field—but, bumpy and rutted though they might have been, there was no shortage of either. Given the freedom that personal mechanical transportation imparted, a few jolts and the occasional sore bottom seemed a small price to pay.

  Millions of the two-wheelers were sold in little more than a decade and hundreds of small manufacturers rushed to enter the booming field. Bicycle construction was not child’s play, as it involved welding, stamping, and other industrial processes, but nor was it so complex that anything beyond a small building or even a dedicated back room was required to set up a shop.

  Wilbur and Orville were bitten with the cycling bug and they often rode together, sometimes for hours. In a rare exhibition of sociality, they even joined the local YMCA cycling club. But like all mechanical devices, bicycles break down and the Wrights, the most mechanically adept of the group, soon found themselves giving hours over to alignments and adjustments. Always quick to discern a business opportunity, they were soon augmenting their printing income with bicycle repair and soon after that left printing entirely. By 1896, they decided they could build better bicycles than they were repairing. As with everything Wilbur designed and Orville constructed, Wright Cycle Company bicycles contained innovations unavailable elsewhere, like an oil-retaining wheel hub and coaster brakes.

  Young Orville Wright.

  By chance, Wilbur and Orville had stumbled into the very profession that would best prepare them for experiments in aviation. For unlike Langley, Wilbur understood almost by instinct that stability, not propulsion or even lift, was the crucial element of flight and that the safety bicycle, not the automobile, was the most appropriate vehicle from which to extrapolate control principles. Although he would not yet see it in such terms, to be stable, particularly in a turn, a bicycle had to be controlled in two of the three axes of motion—side to side (yaw) and laterally (roll). The third axis, “pitch,” front to back, only applied to bicycles during a crash.
If a bicyclist did not slightly bank his machine in a turn—employ “roll”—he would likely end up in the bushes or on the ground.

  Wilbur was not the first to see the parallels between bicycle travel and flight. In the 1896 edition of the Aeronautical Annual, James Means included an article of his own, “Wheeling and Flying.” Although he did not refer directly to issues of stability, Means did write, “It is not uncommon for the cyclist, in the first flush of enthusiasm which quickly follows the unpleasantness of taming the steel steed, to remark, ‘Wheeling is just like flying!’ This is true in more ways than one.… Both modes of travel are riding upon the air, though in one case a small quantity of air is carried in a bag and in the other the air is unbagged.… To learn to wheel one must learn to balance; to learn to fly one must learn to balance.”6 From that essential truth, Wilbur Wright embarked on a course of hypothesis and brilliant intuition.