by Max Hennessy
Boyle interrupted. ‘There’s one other thing,’ he said, and they turned to stare at him. ‘You aren’t front runner yet, Felton. Not by a long chalk. Chamberlain and Acosta kept the Columbia Bellanca in the air for two days over Long Island. Two days! Fifty-one hours, eleven minutes and twenty-five seconds to be exact.’
Courtney’s face had fallen. ‘Fifty-one hours,’ he said harshly. ‘That’s nearly six hours longer than Drouhin in France last year. It’s a new record.’
Boyle passed the sheet of paper across. ‘The Columbia Company say now they could be ready for the Atlantic in three days,’ he pointed out.
Sammy snorted. ‘My God, they’ll have to move,’ he said. ‘That motor’ll need a goddam good overhaul after that long. What’s the Bellanca look like, Hal?’
Woolff was frowning. ‘High-wing mono,’ he said. ‘Very much like this. Wright Whirlwind power plant.’
‘Charlie Levine has control of Columbia,’ Courtney said, frowning.
‘Who’s Levine?’ Alix said. ‘That salvage dealer?’
‘Sure.’ Courtney nodded. ‘Made a million before he was thirty, out of war surplus. He wants to see his machines flying the airline routes. You’ve got to push like hell, Hal.’
Chapter 3
The sad sweet smell of salt, weed, mud flats and fish hung over the tidelands, and the last shreds of ground mist lay over the fields and swamps all the way from Charleston inland. As Sammy stopped the hired car in front of the hangar, a long line of boys was stretched across the grass of the runway, their feet hidden by the veils of mist, their bent figures followed by a wheelless van apparently floating on the milky vapour as they searched for the stones and chips that might damage the Courtney’s tyres on take-off.
In spite of the mist, the day was already warm, and as they pushed out the aeroplane the sun lifted over the trees and began to burn the grey veils of moisture off the swamps. The few puff-balls of cloud that had been in the pale morning sky when they’d first appeared at the airfield had gone now and the heavens were a vast flawless blue jewel above their heads.
One of Woolff’s men swung the propeller and another leaned against the wing strut to turn the machine into the wind, and Ira lifted the Dixie off the field in a steep climb to gain height over the sea. Beyond Fort Sumter and the narrow neck between Morris Island and Sullivan’s Island, they picked out the flickering light of a signal lamp and the motorboat that was carrying it.
Ira jabbed a finger towards it and Sammy nodded. The boat was anchored with its bow into wind and, straight ahead of it, a mile away, they could see a fishing smack with a large flag attached to its mast.
‘That’s our line,’ Ira shouted.
They turned above the motorboat and headed north for four miles, then, banking, they dropped to a hundred feet and pushed the throttle wide open. As they passed over the boat, the aeroplane bucking in the unsettled air, they noticed that the airspeed had reached 127 miles an hour. Sammy pressed the stop-watch he held as they roared over the fishing vessel.
Throttled back, they climbed up to a thousand feet, Sammy busy over his notebook, then they came down to the sea again for the trip back with the wind behind them. This time their speed jumped up to a solid 135, and Sammy noted down the relation of airspeed to engine revolutions, glancing at the dials and writing on the pad on his knee. Then, throttling back and setting the throttle at 1,550 revolutions a minute, which they had decided would be the safest and most economical position, they noted the speed.
‘Ninety-five, Ira,’ Sammy shouted. ‘That’s not bad!’
Satisfied, they flew above the shipping for a while, watching the crews on the anchored vessels staring up at them. Then they saw a yacht with a man and a girl on it, waving up at them, and they went down low to give them a better view of the aeroplane, zooming up as they passed just above the mast.
But they forgot the blast from the propeller, which caught the sail and almost blew the boat over, and as they climbed they saw the man had disappeared overboard and was swimming for a neighbouring lighter and the girl was clinging to the mast with both arms and legs, while the little craft rocked in the tornado of the slipstream.
Landing back at Courtney Field, Woolff edged the petrol lorry up to the machine. No one spoke much, all of them a little tense and occupied with their thoughts and calculations. Alix was sitting on the bonnet of the old Chevrolet she’d bought, a cardigan over her shoulders, a cigarette as usual in her mouth, holding the book in which they entered all the results from the data boards. She had flown blind in the De Havilland with Ira whenever Sammy was engaged with Woolff on the Courtney – both as a passenger and occasionally in control while Ira watched the results from the other cockpit, but there’d been little conversation between them, and their talk had been only brisk and businesslike, though they’d both enjoyed spinning and rolling at the end of a trip, intoxicated by the lift of the wide transparent wings and the sheer joy of free motion through the sky.
A wind had got up now, ruffling her hair, and Ira stood alongside the Courtney, letting it blow against his cheek to gauge its strength.
‘Ought to help a bit,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to see what she can do without a wind some time. We might have to get off in New York without any help from a breeze.’
The take-offs with a quarter-load and a half-load were not much longer than with unladen take-offs, but as they began to top up the tanks they saw that the run was lengthening all the time.
‘She’ll be tail-heavy when the main tank’s full, Ira,’ Woolff advised. ‘You might have to be rough to keep the nose down, and you’ll have to watch as you climb out, in case of a stall.’
‘Once you’re up, you can burn off the fuel in the main tank first to balance her better,’ Alix said.
On the next take-off, with the loose dust churned into yellow billows behind them, all the weight seemed to go into the undercarriage and the plane shook and shuddered alarmingly as they roared across the ground in a way that was agonising for a pilot in tune with his machine – like galloping a horse on unyielding stone.
‘Four hundred and fifty yards,’ Sammy called out, staring at the white posts stuck into the ground. ‘She unstuck at four hundred and fifty with three hundred and fifty gallons, but, my God, those bloody shock absorbers are taking some hammering now!’
As they lifted into the air, Ira glanced out of the window at the wheel spinning below him and to his right.
‘Make a note to check the tyres, Sammy,’ he shouted.
The landing was solid, the plane rattling and protesting, then they heard a bang and Ira was aware of the machine canting to starboard.
‘Shock absorber!’ Sammy yelled.
Ira moved the stick to port but there was another shuddering jerk that set everything rattling and the machine began to swing a little, the hard pounding of the wheels over the bumpy ground vibrating all the way up their spines.
As they cut the engine, Woolff appeared in his car in a cloud of dust and they dropped to the ground, staring at the shock absorber.
‘It’s inside,’ Sammy said, bending over the wheel.
Ira pulled off his helmet and, tossing it on to the grass, flung himself down by the wheel to examine the shock absorber. While he was still flat on his back, gazing upwards, the old Chevrolet arrived, bumping and swaying over the turf, to swing with rocking springs and shrieking brakes to a stop alongside. Alix stumbled out of it while it still appeared to be moving and she was down on her knees alongside him immediately, kneeling in the dust.
‘Ira, for God’s sake!’
Ira lifted his head abruptly and stared at her, startled. Her jaw dropped. ‘What happened?’ she demanded.
Woolff offered her a cigarette. ‘Shock absorber went,’ he said.
She stared at him and then at Ira. ‘I thought – I felt sure – I mean, I saw the wing cant up and I saw Ira fall down, I thought…’
Sammy grinned and Woolff ‘s plump face creased in a slow smile. She gazed at them a
nd then at Ira staring up at her, then she reached out and gave him a violent angry push in the chest so that he fell flat on his back again, and scrambled to her feet, brushing the dust and the flecks of grass from her skirt. Her eyes were blazing.
‘God damn,’ she said furiously.
Ira sat up again, puzzled. ‘What was that for?’ he demanded.
She seemed to be fighting for words. ‘I – I – good grief, I thought you were hurt – and it was only a goddam shock absorber.’
Ira grinned. ‘I am hurt.’
She swung round again. ‘You are?’
‘Now. That was quite a shove.’
She threw her cigarette at him. She looked confused and embarrassed and Sammy took pity on her, guessing what had been going through her mind.
‘Won’t hold up much,’ he said, rescuing her by changing the subject. ‘We averaged a hundred and thirty-one.’
She stared at him for a second then she seemed to get control of herself, but she was still pale, and swallowed awkwardly.
‘That’s OK,’ she said, lighting another cigarette. ‘That’s fine. Fine.’
‘And ninety-five with the throttle at fifteen-fifty,’ Sammy persisted.
‘That’s a good speed.’ The colour was coming back to her cheeks now and her eyes began to shine. ‘You could do the whole trip at a hundred-ten, hundred-twenty.’
‘It’d be an economical reading. We’ll have plenty of fuel.’
Woolff tapped the cover of the shock absorber with his knuckles as Ira got to his feet. ‘We’ll have to get something stronger,’ he said, frowning. ‘There’s been no harm done this time but we’d be in a mess if one went just as we topped her right off for the final take-off. We’d have to syphon all the gas out. It’d take hours and you might miss your only opportunity. While we’re at it, maybe we ought to have heavier tyres, too. I wouldn’t like one to blow. A ground-loop with a ton and a quarter of gas wouldn’t be so goddam funny.’
* * *
As the mechanics arrived with the truck, they climbed into the cars and headed back towards the hangars. The tests had taken the best part of the day and, as they drove behind the Courtney being towed slowly away, there was a band of yellow low in the sky where the sun had gone. Near the office, they were surprised to see Courtney waiting with Boyle.
‘Pa!’ Alix frowned. ‘What are you doing back here?’
Courtney gave a small tired gesture. ‘I wanted to see the plane,’ he said, his big voice strangely subdued.
‘You came all the way from Boston just to see the plane?’ Alix stared. ‘What sort of business sense do you call that?’
Courtney brushed the question aside. ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘What was the speed like?’
‘Fast.’ Alix answered shortly, as though she were still angry with him. ‘Average of a hundred-thirty-one.’
Courtney nodded. ‘Better all come up to the house this evening,’ he said. ‘We’d better discuss plans. Byrd says he’ll be ready in a couple of weeks, after all, and they’ve only got to fill up the Bellanca for the off.’
* * *
The mist came again that night, thin fingers of it reaching out of the swamps and down the long avenue of double oaks all the way to the front porch of Magnolia, boring and wandering under the grey veils of Spanish Moss.
Woolff’s Sunbeam stood with Ira’s hired sedan beneath the high porch alongside the banked azaleas. The frogs were going at it hammer and tongs, honk-honking among the reeds, and the crickets were keeping up their shrill clicking chorus in every patch of grass.
In the big shabby dining room Courtney sat at the head of the long mahogany table, staring down its length at the others, his high stiff collar jabbing at his ears. Alix, her eyes as jetty-black as her hair, was alongside him, and down the table, beyond Boyle, Ira, Sammy and Woolff sat together like conspirators, separated by their profession.
‘You were a hundred gallons short of the full load, Hal,’ Courtney was saying. ‘Why?’
‘A landing with a full load might have blown a tyre,’ Woolff explained. ‘Then we’d probably have ended up with injuries and a damaged ship. As it was, we only lost a shock absorber. We’ll have to strengthen ’em.’
Courtney nodded, satisfied. He looked tired, and alongside his hand where it rested near his glass there were two of the purple pills he took from time to time. The puffy eyes in the thin face rested on Woolff for a moment then swung to Ira. Nobody pretended the dinner was a celebration. It was a conference with food.
‘How soon can you be in New York?’ Courtney demanded.
‘We’ve got to fix the shock absorbers,’ Woolff said stubbornly.
Courtney gestured. He looked impatient and Ira noticed that Boyle’s eyes never left his face.
‘That won’t take you long,’ he said briskly. ‘No more than a coupla days. When, Hal, when?’
Alix stared at him narrow-eyed. ‘You’re in a terrible hurry, Pa,’ she said. ‘Why?’
Courtney’s eyes swung to her. ‘I want to see her on her way to Paris is all,’ he said. ‘When will it be?’
‘She ought to have a proving flight first,’ Ira pointed out.
‘How long?’
Ira turned a page in the notebook on the table beside him. ‘Flying out west just to come back again would be damn silly,’ he said, ‘because we’d have to cross the mountains twice. But I still think we ought to give her a good test.’
‘OK, Ira!’ The words jerked harshly across the table again. ‘How long?’
Ira didn’t look up. Despite what Byrd said, it was clear his damaged machine wouldn’t be ready for another month, while, contrary to expectations after the Bellanca’s startlingly successful long-distance flight, it seemed that other factors besides the overhaul of the engine were likely to make an immediate attempt on the Atlantic out of the question.
Little more than a flying test-bed for the Wright engine, the machine had already proved its worth, but while two of the best pilots available, Clarence Chamberlin and Bert Acosta, had been signed up to fly it, it now seemed that Levine, the owner, had also hired a third pilot and the incensed Acosta was talking of backing out, and the Bellanca’s chances were suddenly in jeopardy.
Looking down the table, he saw Courtney reach for the two pills on the table alongside his glass and pop them into his mouth. Boyle moved restlessly and gave him a quick nervous look, as though urging him to hurry.
‘I thought we might fly to Texas,’ Ira said at last. ‘Then turn round and fly to New York. That’ll put her where we want her and it’ll give her a flight of around three thousand miles. It ought to be enough to bring out any defects.’
‘Texas?’ Courtney rapped out the word explosively. ‘Why can’t we take her straight up north?’
‘We need that long flight.’
‘Gee whiz, Ira, time’s-a-wasting!’
‘Not that fast,’ Ira said. ‘We don’t have to break our necks. And I’m not happy about the Hughesden pump.’
Boyle’s head jerked up. ‘What’s wrong with the Hughesden pump?’
‘I don’t like it,’ Ira said. ‘The Wright engineer wants the Viking internal-gear type.’
Courtney frowned. ‘We’ve got agreements with Hughesdens,’ he pointed out sharply. ‘I’d prefer Hughesden instruments and pumps on my plane.’
Alix turned. ‘Our plane, Pa,’ she pointed out.
‘Oh, goddamit, our plane, then! Look, Ira, is it impossible to use Hughesden equipment?’
‘It’s not impossible, but I don’t want it.’
Courtney sat back in his chair, frowning, and Alix leaned forward, her eyes narrow.
‘Pa, what the hell are you up to with Joe Hughesden?’
Courtney flashed a glance at Boyle and gestured irritably. ‘I’ve told you. Nothing. Joe Hughesden’s eager to get into the automobile business himself, that’s all. He’s looking round for a plant. He’d like mine. I guess that’s why he’s being difficult.’
He turned to Ira. ‘Look,
Ira, we’ve got to push this thing.’
‘Why?’ Alix’s question came disconcertingly across the table again.
‘For God’s sake’ – Courtney seemed driven – ‘because if we’re first across it means dough. And we need dough. People always need dough. And we’ve got a chance to be first across. Levine’s tying himself in knots trying to find a couple of hero types like everybody else’s got. They say he’s been after Rickenbacker but he’s having financial trouble with his auto business and he’s got all he can handle. They say he’s trying to drop Chamberlin because he’s got thin legs and likes to wear plus-fours. He wants Acosta and someone else to do the job. He won’t manage it. Bellanca himself’s behind Chamberlin.’ He leaned forward across the table and jabbed the air with his cigar. ‘That leaves Davis and the Pathfinder and they haven’t even done their load tests yet. We could get off first.’
‘We’ll still fly to New York via San Antonio, Felton,’ Ira said mildly.
Courtney’s voice rose and he shifted restlessly in his chair. ‘You’re a hard man to handle, Ira! When, then?’
‘As soon as the weather clears.’
Courtney gestured. ‘OK, OK,’ he said. ‘Only, for God’s sake, make it soon.’
‘As soon as we pick up good weather reports.’
‘Lave’ – Courtney stared down the table and Boyle lifted his head – ‘wire New York we’re coming. Arrange for a guard. We don’t want souvenir hunters doing any damage.’
He turned back to Ira. ‘I’ll fix gas and oil with Vacuum and Standard. Just make it quick, that’s all. We’ve got the chance of a lifetime.’
Ira watched him in silence. What Courtney said was true enough. With luck they could probably be away even before Nungesser, who was said to be waiting only for the prevailing west-to-east wind to change direction. There was a great advantage in being first at the start line and they had to take a chance somewhere. They weren’t conducting a technical experiment as Byrd claimed to be doing. Their machine wasn’t even a flying test-bed for its engine as the Bellanca was. They were out simply and solely to be first across the Atlantic, with all the attendant publicity and sales.
