by James Tobin
Praise for To Conquer the Air
“Detailed, well written, and told with the grace of a symphony conductor making with his wand one grand and glorious whole out of many melodies . . . Tobin has written a history of early flight that ought to become the standard for this generation.”
—National Geographic Adventure
“You don’t have to be an aviation buff to be spellbound by this wonderfully told American success story.”
—Reader’s Digest
“A dogged researcher and a great storyteller . . . Tobin beautifully re-creates the Wright brothers’ mental universe . . . Kudos to Tobin for capturing the challenge and thrills of this extraordinary individual and collective achievement in this well-written, enlightening book.”
—The News & Observer (Raleigh, NC)
“This extraordinarily well-written and deeply nuanced work is the best of the recent spate of books celebrating the Wright Brothers . . . A detailed yet truly exciting tale . . . this should stand as the definitive account of their life and times.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A remarkably fluent account of the technological obstacles to flying that had to be overcome, but also a moving narrative of the personal drama involved.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“A meticulous account of the grinding, day-to-day advances and setbacks, but also infected with the sheer wonder of taking wing.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Tobin tells his detailed, exacting story well and makes the mysteries of flight comprehensible. [He] brings the Wright Brothers out of the dustbin of history and into the readers’ imaginations . . . To Conquer the Air is a fine book that provides a signal service in illuminating the discovery of flight.”
—Bookreporter.com
“Tobin transforms thorough research into a flowing narrative with news for even connoisseurs of Kitty Hawk.”
—Booklist
“Of the many books being released in this centennial year to mark the Wright Brothers’ achievement, the one that best captures this wonderful all-American chili of a story is James Tobin’s To Conquer the Air.”
—Christianity Today
“Superb.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“To Conquer the Air is in every way a thrilling story that takes the Wright brothers out of their traditional isolation at Dayton and Kitty Hawk and places them front and center in a drama of invention, daring, competition, and eventual triumph.”
—Justin Kaplan, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of Mr. Clemens and Mark Twain: A Biography
“Whether judged in terms of scholarship or writing, this is an outstanding narrative of the Wright brothers’ and their competitors’ race to fly. The story is compelling in itself, yet this book is larger than that story alone. It explores man’s dreams, and what is required to transform a dream into reality. And it is a book that teaches us about heroism—not the kind that comes from a surge of adrenaline but the heroism that determines how one lives.”
—John Barry, author of Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How It Changed America
“James Tobin explains with meticulous clarity the mysteries of nature and the challenges of technology that vexed the Wright brothers’ pursuit of machine-powered flight. He also tells the riveting tale of their fevered rivalry with the imperious head of the Smithsonian Institution, Samuel Pierpont Langley, with fabled inventor Alexander Graham Bell, and with the brash daredevil Glenn Curtiss. How two homespun Midwestern tinkerers prevailed against such formidable competitors in the race to achieve the miracle of flight is a tale as thrilling as it is inspirational. An utterly engrossing read.”
—David M. Kennedy, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of Freedom from Fear:
The American People in Depression and War, 1929–1945
“To Conquer the Air differs from all previous books on the Wright brothers in that their rivals in the race for flight emerge from the background, full-bodied and three-dimensional for the first time. It will be many years before a livelier, more readable history of the invention of the airplane makes an appearance.”
—Fred Howard, author of Wilbur and Orville: A Biography of the Wright Brothers
“What The Metaphysical Club was to the development of philosophic thought in America, this beautiful book is to the development of man in flight. Far more than a mere account of the Wright brothers’ triumph, To Conquer the Air is a yeasty, richly drawn evocation of an era and of the strange, visionary, obsessed, and difficult men who battled one another to claim it in their name.”
—Ron Powers, co-author of Flags of Our Fathers
ALSO BY JAMES TOBIN
Ernie Pyle’s War
Great Projects
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For my parents
James and Dorothy Tobin
with thanks and love
CONTENTS
Prologue: Decoration Day, 1899
Chapter One: “The Edge of Wonder”
Chapter Two: “A Slight Possibility”
Chapter Three: “Some Practical Experiments”
Chapter Four: “Truth and Error Intimately Mixed”
Chapter Five: “The Possibility of Exactness”
Chapter Six: “A Thousand Glides”
Chapter Seven: “Our Turn to Throw”
Interlude
Chapter Eight: “What Hath God Wrought?”
Chapter Nine: “The Clean Air of the Heavens”
Chapter Ten: “A Flying Machine at Anchor”
Chapter Eleven: “A World of Trouble”
Chapter Twelve: “The Light on Glory’s Plume”
Chapter Thirteen: “The Greatest Courage and Achievements”
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Notes
A Note on Sources
Index
Prologue
Decoration Day, 1899
“I FELT ITS PATHETIC PREEMINENCE IN A STREET OF MEAGER HOMES.”
7 Hawthorn Street, Dayton, Ohio, about 1900
HIS FATHER AND SISTER had gone to Woodland Cemetery to plant flowers at the grave of his mother. His younger brother was busy elsewhere. It was a holiday, and the house was quiet. He could take care of the letter he had been meaning to write.
He sat, took out paper and pen, and wrote:
The Smithsonian Institution
Washington.
Dear Sirs:
I have been interested in the problem of mechanical and human flight ever since as a boy I constructed a number of bats of various sizes. . . . My observations since have only convinced me more firmly that human flight is possible and practicable. It is only a question of knowledge and skill as in all acrobatic feats.
He was thirty-two years old and unmarried. He was lean and bald. His lips were thin and he usually held them tightly shut; he may have been self-conscious about his teeth, which had been smashed in a hockey game years ago. His ears flared. Only his eyes saved him from outright homeliness. Ten years later, when he was one of the most famous men in the world, reporters had trouble getting him to say much about himself. So they remarked on his eyes as indicative of the character within. “This man is strange and cold,” one said, “but of a coldness that is smiling and sympathetic. . . . The countenance is remarkable, curious—the head that of a bird, long and bony, and with a long nose . . . the eye is a superb blue-gray, with tints of gold tha
t bespeak an ardent flame.” He was a shrewd observer of people and of nature. Yet he once told his sister that “my imagination pictures things more vividly than my eyes.”
The subject of his letter was not the sort of thing he would mention casually to a neighbor. On this block of Hawthorn Street, on the west side of Dayton, Ohio, the houses stood so close together you could name the song somebody was playing on the piano three doors down, and make a fair guess who was playing. Any news traveled fast, and the news that somebody hoped to fly like a bird would travel faster than usual. Aspirations here tended toward the sensible. The neighbors included four carpenters, two day laborers, a machinist, a printer, a motorman, a market vendor, an insurance salesman, three widows, and two clergymen. One of the clergymen was the young man’s father—quite a prominent man, a bishop of the Church of the United Brethren in Christ, a stout widower who kept house with his schoolteacher daughter and two of his four grown sons. Their home was number 7, second from the corner of Hawthorn and West Fourth.
“When I saw this house,” a visitor said later, “I felt its pathetic preeminence in a street of meager homes.” It was narrow but it extended way back on the lot, with white clapboards and green shutters. At the front was the parlor, with a slant-top writing desk; a cherrywood rocking chair with horsehair upholstery; a chaise longue and a settee. In back of the parlor was the sitting room, dominated by a tall cherry bookcase, its contents suggesting a family of enthusiastic readers with broad interests, from Charles Dickens and James Fenimore Cooper to a six-volume History of France and Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species. Next came a spacious dining room, with a long sideboard, a drop-leaf table, and six walnut chairs. At the rear of the house was the kitchen. Upstairs there were four small bedrooms. Out in back was a “summer kitchen”—a detached shed—and an outhouse. Along the front and left side of the house there was a long porch. The young man and his brother had built it in 1892. They kept it simple, leaving off the usual gingerbread trim.
The young man continued his letter:
Birds are the most perfectly trained gymnasts in the world and are specially well fitted for their work, and it may be that man will never equal them, but no one who has watched a bird chasing an insect or another bird can doubt that feats are performed which require three or four times the effort required in ordinary flight. I believe that simple flight at least is possible to man and that the experiments and investigations of a large number of independent workers will result in the accumulation of information and knowledge and skill which will finally lead to accomplished flight.
He once remarked that for a person endowed with greater gifts than others, but lacking in the push needed for conventional success, there was “always the danger” that he would “retire into the first corner he falls into and remain there all his life.”
This is what had happened to him, and the letter was part of his effort to get out of his corner. He possessed extraordinary gifts. Yet he had lived more than half the average span of an American man of his time without doing or making anything he could call his own. He lived in his father’s house. The woman in his life was his sister. The children he loved belonged to his older brothers. He gave most of his time to a storefront business without caring for business or money. His only advanced education had come from his father’s books. He had put his powerful mind to work in only one cause—an obscure church controversy, also his father’s. But he did not even have his father’s faith.
He was “an enthusiast,” he wrote:
. . . but not a crank in the sense that I have some pet theories as to the proper construction of a flying machine . . . I am about to begin a systematic study of the subject in preparation for practical work to which I expect to devote what time I can spare from my regular business. I wish 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 . . . I wish to avail myself of all that is already known and then if possible add my mite to help on the future worker who will attain final success. I do not know the terms on which you send out your publications but if you will inform me of the cost I will remit the price.
Yours truly,
Wilbur Wright
BY JUNE 1, traveling by rail, the letter arrived in Washington, where it was carried to the turreted, red-sandstone headquarters of the Smithsonian Institution, on the southern edge of the long green known then as Smithsonian Park. There the letter was opened, sorted with others of its type, and taken through echoing halls to the office of Richard Rathbun, second in command at the Smithsonian, whose duties included the oversight of the Institution’s correspondence with scholars, scientists, and the merely curious in every part of the world.
Rathbun, an expert on marine invertebrates, handled many such inquiries each week. Like Wilbur Wright, people everywhere regarded the Smithsonian as a fountainhead of scientific and cultural information, much of it published in the Institution’s own periodicals. A man once wrote to ask for all Smithsonian publications on geology, biology, botany, the National Museum, the Bureau of American Ethnology, Indians, International Exchanges, the National Zoological Park, the Astrophysical Observatory, “and any other interesting subjects.” He was told that compliance with his request would require the shipment of several thousand volumes. With the financial support of the U.S. Congress and a host of private benefactors, the Smithsonian was the best-endowed, most prestigious institution of science, culture, and learning in the entire nation. Its exhibits, repositories, storehouses, laboratories, and libraries were known throughout the world, and all of these existed to fulfill the terms of the 1846 will of the Institution’s founding benefactor, the Englishman James Smithson, who had called for an American institution to foster “the increase & diffusion of knowledge.” Every legitimate question was to receive a careful answer. So people wrote by the hundreds every year.
The letter from Dayton would have occasioned no special notice in Rathbun’s office but for one salient characteristic. It raised the question of mechanical flight. This was a topic of consuming interest to the fourth secretary of the Smithsonian himself, Samuel Pierpont Langley.
In public stature and prestige, Langley was the most prominent scientist in the United States. His best friend was Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone. Langley was a frequent guest at the White House. He dined regularly with the historian Henry Adams, grandson and great-grandson of presidents; and John Hay, who had been personal secretary to Abraham Lincoln and was now secretary of state. Langley corresponded with the likes of Rudyard Kipling and the philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce; as a young man he had listened for hours to the philosophical discourses of the great British historian Thomas Carlyle.
In the entire world only a handful of men with any standing in science had suggested that human flight was possible. Langley not only had said so, but had done more than anyone else to bring the possibility within reach. He was now the leading flight experimenter in the world, and the pursuit of human flight had become the passion of his life.
Wilbur Wright would have to contend with the doubts of his neighbors in Dayton. Secretary Langley, far more grandly and self-consciously, was assailing the arguments of Sir Isaac Newton and several of the leading mathematicians and physicists of the day, who said basic laws of logic and physics rendered human flight highly unlikely if not utterly impossible. Wright hoped to “add my mite” in the search for a solution. Langley aspired to join the pantheon of history’s greatest scientists.
To build his case, Langley had undertaken a long series of experiments in aerodynamics that culminated in 1896 with the flights of two substantial flying machines—unmanned—over the Potomac River. He called them “aerodromes,” his own coinage from the Greek, meaning “air runner.”
Among the handful who saw the first unmanned flight of a Langley aerodrome was Alexander Graham Bell, who captured the only photographs of the event. That evening he jotted a note to Langley—“I shall count
this day as one of the most memorable of my life”—and to the editor of Science he sent a resounding endorsement of the secretary’s achievement: “No one could have witnessed these experiments without being convinced that the practicability of mechanical flight had been demonstrated.” Certainly Bell was convinced, and he went back to his own flight experiments with new zeal.
“A ‘flying-machine,’ so long a type for ridicule, has really flown,” Langley declared. “It has demonstrated its practicability in the only satisfactory way—by actually flying, and by doing this again and again, under conditions which leave no doubt.” As Langley’s engineer later put it, the model aerodromes known as No. 5 and No. 6 were “the only things of human construction that had ever really flown for any considerable distance.”
Now, three years later, with all the resources of the Smithsonian at his command, and the largest appropriation for research ever granted by the U.S. War Department, Langley was directing an entire staff in the design and construction of a much larger machine—a machine that would carry a man. President William McKinley had taken an interest in the project, and Theodore Roosevelt, now governor of New York, had played a key role in assuring the funding. Langley expected to conduct the first trials by the end of the year.
If the secretary had been in his office that day, Richard Rathbun might have mentioned the carefully written and well-informed request for information on mechanical flight. But Langley was in Europe. He went abroad nearly every summer, to meet with his international peers in the world of science; to raise the Smithsonian’s profile as an institution of world rank; and to indulge his own love for the sites of European high culture.
So Rathbun sent back a brief reply to Dayton with “a list of works relating to aerial navigation, which will probably best meet your needs,” plus several Smithsonian pamphlets.
