Chanute abided by their decision. On the matter of general publicity, however, there was no stopping him. During the spring of 1902, he would spread the names of Wilbur and Orville Wright far and wide.
The text of Wilbur’s Chicago address had been published in the December 1901 issue of the Journal of the Western Society of Engineers. Chanute rushed copies off to his legion of friends. The response was immediate. Lawrence Hargrave, the Australian pioneer who had invented the box kite, wrote to thank him, commenting that Wilbur seemed to be “one of the right sort.” Chanute told Wilbur that he had received similar letters from correspondents in England, France, and Germany.4
The Wrights could scarcely object to Chanute’s wide distribution of a published paper, but they realized that unwanted publicity might endanger their work. When Chanute provided them with a list of all those who had received copies of the paper, Wilbur replied, a bit pointedly, that he had “confined” his copies to a few “personal friends.”5
Batches of letters, many bearing foreign postmarks, began to arrive at 7 Hawthorn Street. “I am receiving from various sources letters of thanks for copies of my address,” Wilbur wrote to Chanute on February 7, 1902. “As these are undoubtedly due to you I herewith forward these thanks accompanied by my own.”6
By spring, Wilbur’s patience had worn thin. “I enclose a letter from France which I take to be from Capt. Krebs, though my acquaintance with foreign customs of signing names leaves me in some doubt as to who it is from. Can you enlighten me?” Chanute returned the letter with a notation that, indeed, it was from Captain Arthur Krebs of the French aeronautical facility at Chalais Meudon. With fellow officer Charles Renard, Krebs had built and flown the world’s first navigable airship in 1884.7
This burgeoning correspondence was of real concern to the Wrights. It brought them face to face with a major decision: What steps should they take to protect their work? Chanute’s position was clear. He advised them to “take out a patent or caveat on those principles of your machines as are important, not that money is to be made by it, but to save unpleasant disputes as to priority.” Having done that, he believed they should make all their information available to fellow experimenters. With no hope of inventing the airplane himself, he could afford to be high-minded and generous. The brothers, however, believed that their experiments would lead to mechanical flight. Why should they jeopardize their own success by assisting potential rivals?
Still, they had to admit that the quality of the competition was very low. “The newspapers are full of accounts of flying machines which have been building in cellars, garrets, stables and other secret places,” Wilbur commented to Chanute on February 7. “Each one … will undoubtedly carry off one hundred thousand dollars at St. Louis. They all have the problem ‘considerably solved,’ but usually there is some insignificant detail yet to be decided, such as whether to use steam, electricity, or a water motor to drive it. Mule power might give greater ascensional force if properly applied, but I fear it would be dangerous unless the mule wore pneumatic shoes.”8 He concluded that “some of these reports would disgust one if they were not so irresistibly ludicrous.”
If the St. Louis entries were ludicrous, aeronautical research in other nations was moribund. Lilienthal and Pilcher were dead. No one had stepped forward to take their place. Arthur Krebs, Lawrence Hargrave, and the other pioneers who wrote to congratulate the Wrights had not been active in the field for many years. Others, including Samuel Langley, paid so little attention to control that the Wrights believed they stood scant chance of success.
Their quick survey of the field confirmed that there were no serious rivals in sight. Moderate publicity might even prove useful in setting them apart from the general run of fools and montebanks who were giving aeronautics a bad name.
Wilbur began to relax. He promised Chanute that he would prepare an article describing the wind-tunnel tests, with the all-important pressure tables as an appendix. The brothers approved a long description of their work to be included in Chanute’s chapter for a new edition of Moedebeck’s Taschenbuch (soon to be translated into English as The Pocket-Book of Aeronautics). Wilbur even promised to prepare a set of drawings of the 1901 glider as illustrations for the article.
Ferdinand Ferber was typical of the experimenters who posed little threat to the Wrights. Chanute had first mentioned his name in February 1902, noting that a certain “Capt. Ferber of Nice is in a state of admiration of your performances and wishes me to convey his felicitations.”9
Ferber, a thirty-nine-year-old native of Lyons, was an artillery officer commanding the 17th Alpine Battery. At best a lackluster soldier, he was overweight, walked with a slouch, and looked faintly ridiculous on horseback. Although chronically near-sighted, he refused to wear spectacles. Legend has it that he once missed offering a salute to the French Minister of War, thus ensuring that he would never rise above the rank of captain.
Ferber had become interested in aeronautics in 1898 while serving as an instructor at the Ecole d’Application. He launched an extended correspondence with Lilienthal’s brother Gustav, and with Clément Ader, a leading French aeronautical pioneer. By 1901 he had built and flown a series of four aircraft, beginning with a kite and culminating in a crude version of the standard Lilienthal monoplane.
In the summer of 1901, he ran across an article by G. H. Bryan, a leading member of the Aeronautical Society of Great Britain. Ferber found Bryan’s discussion of Chanute’s work particularly intriguing. He wrote to Chicago, enlisting in Chanute’s legion of international correspondents. Four letters had already passed between them when Chanute forwarded him a copy of Wilbur’s article.
“Some Aeronautical Experiments” came as a revelation, inspiring Ferber to begin work on a new glider based on the photos and descriptions of the 1901 Wright craft. Flown at Beuil in June 1902, the glider was so crudely constructed that the fabric literally flapped in the wind. The wings were flimsy, the elevator control ineffective, and Ferber did not even attempt to install the wing-warping system. “As to warping,” he commented six years later, “I did not wish to employ it in 1902, as I judged it useless to begin with; so my successors, having set off along my track, did not use it either.”10
The 1902 Ferber glider bore only a loose physical resemblance to the 1901 Wright original, and incorporated none of the Wright technology. Ultimately, that would not matter. Ferber had taken the first step, calling the attention of his colleagues to the work of Wilbur and Orville Wright. Other Frenchmen—far better engineers and mechanics than he—would follow his lead. Chanute’s seed had taken root.
Chanute offered Wilbur yet another proposal in March. During a recent trip to California he had met Charles H. Lamson, a veteran flying-machine experimenter. In 1895, Lamson had built and flown the first Lilienthal glider in America. The next year he made national headlines with a gigantic man-lifting kite. Convinced that there was little money in aeronautics, Lamson then moved to Pasadena and opened a jewelry store.
Attempting to rekindle his interest, Chanute offered Lamson a contract for the construction of a new folding-wing glider. Lamson accepted. With one glider under construction, Chanute asked if the Wrights would accept a similar contract to build new versions of the two-surface machine and the Katydid of 1896.11
Wilbur agreed that he and his brother would oversee the production of the glider, but he let Chanute know that it was an imposition. They could not begin until after the close of the busy summer season at the bicycle shop, and would insist that he provide them with a complete set of drawings. The Wrights wanted to be sure that there was no confusion—this was to be Chanute’s machine, not their own. They were not willing even to construct the craft themselves, but would hire a carpenter to work under their supervision.
Chanute accepted their terms, then changed his mind. In mid-May, he received an unexpected letter from Augustus Herring, the young engineer who had played an important role in the design and testing of the 1896 gliders. Herring was out
of work and asking for help.
Chanute and Herring had parted company on less than pleasant terms before the end of the Dune trials in 1896. Herring had been eager to rush ahead to the construction of a powered version of the biplane glider; Chanute held back, insisting on additional tests. He told his friend James Howard Means that Herring “tries very sulkily those experiments that do not originate with him, and is … very obstinate.”12
Still, Chanute felt sorry for the fellow. Things had not gone well for Herring. After leaving Chanute, he found a new patron in Matthias Arnot, an Elmira, New York, banker who funded the construction of another biplane glider in 1897. With Arnot’s continued support, Herring constructed a powered machine the following year, a variant of the Chanute-Herring biplane glider fitted with a small compressed-air engine. Herring completed two very short hops with the little craft during the fall and winter of 1898. On the first occasion he skimmed forward over the sand of a Lake Michigan beach some fifty feet. A few weeks later he made a longer hop of seventy-three feet.
Herring’s two short forays into the air proved nothing. His machine was no more than a standard hang glider with a lightweight engine capable of running for only a few seconds. Having made his brief powered hops, Herring found himself at a technological dead end. The primitive and ineffective body-shifting control system placed such limitations on the surface area that the wings could barely support the weight of the pilot and the tiny engine. Woefully underpowered, the little biplane was not remotely capable of sustained flight. If anything, Herring’s 1898 powered hang glider was proof positive of the need for a revolutionary breakthrough such as the Wrights had achieved in the areas of aerodynamics and control.
Herring’s dreams of moving on to a larger machine were dashed by a fire that destroyed his workshop, aircraft, and experimental engines in 1899. Arnot’s death of peritonitis in 1901 cut off any hope of additional financial support. Desperate to remain involved in aeronautics, Herring swallowed his pride and came back to Chanute.
Herring knew of Chanute’s interest in the two newcomers from Dayton. He had read Wilbur’s paper, and been much impressed. But he realized too that Chanute believed in the value of friendly competition. So he wrote to Chicago suggesting that, given the funds for a new glider, he could “beat Mr. Wright.”13
Intrigued, Chanute asked the Wrights to release him from their agreement so that he could offer the contract to Herring. Wilbur assured him that they would be happy to see the work go to Herring. “To tell the truth,” he added, “the building of machines for other men to risk their necks on is not a task that we particularly relish.”14
Chanute wrote back at once, explaining that Wilbur had misunderstood. He intended to offer Herring nothing more than a construction contract. Both the Herring and Lamson machines were meant as a gift to the Wrights—they could fly them to their hearts’ content at Kitty Hawk during the coming season. Wilbur’s rejection of the offer was polite but very firm. The Wrights were eager to build a new glider embodying both the lessons learned in their two previous seasons and the new wind-tunnel data. The last thing they wanted was to waste time testing one of Chanute’s old designs.15
Chanute pressed the issue when he visited Dayton on July 3. If the brothers refused to test his gliders, would they allow Bill Avery or Herring, both of whom had flown the craft in 1896, to join them at Kitty Hawk? Again the Wrights were hesitant, responding by letter soon after Chanute’s departure.
“It was our experience last year,” Wilbur explained, “that my brother and myself, while alone, or nearly so, could do more work in one week, than in two weeks after Mr. Huffaker’s arrival.” If Chanute would give them enough time on their own to establish camp and conduct some preliminary tests with their glider, however, they would welcome him and his “expert” as their guests. “Provided it is equally satisfactory to you,” Wilbur concluded, “reasons not necessary to mention would lead to a preference for Mr. Avery in the choice of an expert.”16
All their attention now focused on the new glider. The calculations called for a machine slightly larger than the 1901 craft, with a wing surface area of 305 square feet. The whole point of the wind-tunnel tests had been to choose the most efficient wing surface. Number 12 on their tables of lift and drift, it was a small steel blade with an aspect ratio of 1:6 (as opposed to 1:3 of 1900 and 1901), a camber of 1/20, and the peak set one quarter of the way back the chord from the leading edge.
Full scale, the new wing gave the finished machine a radically different appearance from its two predecessors. The span was over ten feet longer than in 1901 and the chord two feet shorter. To a modern eye, the 1900 and 1901 gliders seem bulky and cumbersome, with their stubby rectangular wings. The 1902 craft, lighter and more graceful, looks like an airplane.
The addition of a two-surface fixed vertical rudder at the rear of the machine also changed its look. Just as the new wing was designed to overcome the aerodynamic problems of its predecessors, the rudder was intended to deal with the control problems Wilbur had encountered at the close of the 1901 season.
The brothers reasoned that the problem stemmed from differential drag induced when the wing was warped. Take a typical example from 1901: On August 9, Wilbur was skimming along in straight and level flight when the left wingtip dropped. He shifted the hip cradle to the right to bring it back up. As the wing rose, the entire machine skidded sideways to the left. Sensing danger, the pilot dropped the craft abruptly onto the sand.
When the wing was warped, the angle of incidence of the left tip increased, to increase the lift, while that of the right tip decreased. Such action did raise the left tip, but it also increased the drag on that wing, causing it to move more slowly than the right wing and pulling the entire aircraft into the strange skid. The addition of the fixed rudder was designed to counteract that motion. When the machine began to nose toward the slow wing, the rudder would also present an angled surface to the wind, increasing the total drag on the opposite side and correcting the differential.
There was frantic activity in the Wright household during July and August. Wilbur dashed off a letter to Spratt, inviting him back to Kitty Hawk. If they had to put up with an “expert” who promised to rival Huffaker as a companion, they might as well have a friend along too. Another letter went to Bill Tate, asking for permission to reoccupy the old Kill Devil Hills site rent-free. Will, worried about the White River Conference proceedings, was torn between making a trip to Huntington on his father’s behalf and remaining in Dayton to assist Orv with work on the new machine.
Katharine thought her brother looked “thin and nervous,” and urged him to get on with preparations for the trip to Kitty Hawk. “They will be all right once they get down in the sand where the salt breezes blow,” she wrote Milton on August 20. “They insist that, if you aren’t well enough to stay out on your trip, you must come down with them. They think that life at Kitty Hawk cures all ills, you know.” In truth, Katharine looked forward to their departure with mixed emotions. “Will spins the [sewing] machine around by the hour while Orv squats around marking the places to sew. There is no place in the house to live, but I’ll be lonesome enough by this time next week and wish that I could have some of the racket around.”17
They left Dayton at 9:00 A.M. on August 25, bound once again for Elizabeth City by way of Norfolk. Chanute wrote that both Lamson and Herring were ready to ship their respective machines at any time. Avery was not available. Would the Wrights accept Herring instead?18
Wilbur was blunt. They had been told that Herring was a man of “somewhat jealous disposition,” and were afraid that he might use what he saw at Kitty Hawk, or claim that the Wrights had made use of something they had learned from him. Wilbur shifted the burden back to Chanute, adding: “[I]f you are also in camp during the term that he is here I do not see how any misunderstanding could arise.”19
The first few days at Kill Devil Hills were spent putting the 1901 shed back into shape. The wind had scoured the sand from ben
eath both ends of the building, giving the roof, as Will said, “a shape like that of a dromedary’s back.” They raised the ends back into place and added corner pilings, then extended the rear to create a kitchen and living room. The sleeping quarters would be up in the “attic” this year. The brothers installed two beds running lengthwise over the rafters.20
They spent the morning of Monday, September 8, cleaning out the shed; killing two mice (“one with a stick, the other with gun”); and chasing several hungry razorback hogs away from the campsite. Work on the new glider began just after two o’clock that afternoon. The rest of the week passed quickly. Each wing was tested as an individual unit. The Wrights were pleased with the results: lift and drag were close to the predicted values, and the reversal of the center of pressure occurred at a much lower angle than they had hoped for.
By September 15 the struts salvaged from the old 1901 machine were in place and the complete wing set was taken out for a trial. It was, Will told Spratt, “an immense improvement over last year’s machine.” Four days later they made the first kite and gliding tests with the finished craft, complete with the elevator and new fixed rudder. When Wilbur wrote to Chanute on September 21, they already had fifty glides under their belts.21
Will was doing so well with the new machine that he could bring it to a virtual standstill in the air. And Orville was finally learning to fly. He began with short glides, accustoming himself to the use of the elevator. Teaching oneself to fly is never easy, particularly with an older brother shouting up instructions from below. The situation led to a near disaster on September 23.
It was perfect flying weather after two days of torrential rain. The Wrights were out all day, completing seventy-five glides of varying length. On the final glide Orv shifted the hip cradle to raise a dropping wing, and lost track of the elevator. The craft nosed up into a steep stall and fell backward onto the sand. The result, was “a heap of flying machine, cloth, and sticks in a heap, with me in the center without a scratch or bruise.”22
The Bishop's Boys: A Life of Wilbur and Orville Wright Page 26
