by Alex Myers
March 1856
Inventions Start Churning
Frank Sanger, Frances’s dad and the third wealthiest man in the state of Virginia, sat next to the fourth wealthiest man, his brother Andrew, and gave an unprecedented audience to an unknown inventor.
“This is a can opener?” Frank Sanger asked. He opened and closed the butterfly handles and turned the wingnut.
“Let’s have a race,” Jack said as he handed Andrew Sanger a can and the recently invented claw-shaped lever-type opener. It was basically a sharp sickle whose point was plunged into a can and sawed around its edge.
“Ran into one of these in England last year,” Andrew” Andrew said. “I about stabbed myself with it.”
“And you’ll use this?” ” Frank handed the opener back to Jack.
This was Jack’s first meeting with Frank and Andrew. He wasn’t sure what Frances had told them about him, but whatever it was, they were more than receptive to his ideas. Jack was disappointed that, as soon as she’d made the introductions, Frances had left on a buying trip to New York.
Frank and Andrew Sanger were both in their 50s, both handsome, well-dressed, well-heeled and intelligent. Frank, the older of the two, was more a traditionalist while Andrew was more a visionary. Where Frank was calm and methodical, Andrew was excitable and vibrant.
Jack took two cans and placed them on Frank’s desk, one in front of Andrew and the other in from of himself. “Ready? Go!”
Andrew plunged the claw-shaped opener three times into the top of the can, each time failing to puncture the metal. Jack stood with his hands behind his back, smiling and watching the man’s frantic attempts. Andrew used one hand like a hammer with his palm flat on the opener and he finally got through. He then started the laborious task of opening the lid.
Jack calmly picked up a can, placed the vice grips on the top, and pressed the cutting wheel into the can. The device gripped and opened the can at the same time. Six quick turns and the lid popped off the top of the can. He quickly opened the second can using the same method.
Andrew Sanger wasn’t halfway through his first.
“Sold!” Frank Sanger said. “Andrew, give up before you hurt yourself. What’s next?”
“This is another, even simpler, hand-operated device for opening cans and prying the caps off bottles. This triangular-shaped punch is for puncturing and piercing cans, and this side, the rounded side, is for popping the cap off bottles.” Jack popped holes in the top of a can and used the other end of the opener for opening a bottle.
“How much?” Frank Sanger asked.
“This one,” Jack said of the butterfly opener, “we can make for ten cents. I can imagine getting that number as low as a nickel and I can see it selling in your stores for seventy-five cents. This one,” Jack said, holding up the ‘church key’ opener, “since it’s a single piece of pressed metal, would cost about a penny a piece, and I can see you selling them for a quarter.”
“I like it,” Frank Sanger said, “and neither one needs much of a sales demonstration.”
“That’s why I choose them,” Jack said. “Plus, we can make them ourselves, farm them out, or sell the patent.”
“Selling the patent might be the best move. Let somebody else worry about protecting the patent from companies like the SAC up in Williamsburg that will start making them the same day they see them. And you have already filed patents on these?” Andrew asked.
Jack nodded toward Frank Sanger, “With the attorney Frances said you said to use.”
“Wegman. The best there is, if you can afford him,” Frank Sanger said.
“Do you have any more stuff?” Andrew asked.
“A plow and a cultivator.”
“Big stuff, big ticket items that take up a lot of shelf space,” Frank said.
“If you physically carry them in the stores. But if you sell them by catalog sales they only take up some paper and ink.”
“Catalogs? Seen people fighting over them. Quite popular, I must say. People like them to wipe their ass two to one over newspapers.”
“Then you don’t like the idea?” Jack asked.
“No, I don’t like it—I love it. While they sit there doing their business, they read them, or at least look at the pictures. You know, Frank, I like the way this man thinks,” Andrew said.
The little free time Jack had, he spent with Murphy and Kaz, feverishly working on new inventions. By the time Andrew had to leave on a buying trip three weeks later, Jack’s ideas about advertising, distribution, and new products for them to sell had everyone excited. Jack enjoyed the time he spent working with the two men—common modern marketing techniques seemed like magic in the nineteenth century. Between working with them and the countless hours he spent with Murphy and Kaz, he almost didn’t miss Frances—almost. It was extremely convenient that Miss Nancy’s boardinghouse came with its own female entertainment., At a dollar a go, a night with Lottie Moon was some of the best value Jack had found, but each time, it felt more wrong.
CHAPTER 22
March 1856
The Patent Kings
Jack, Kaz, Murphy, and engineer Bob Cooper were leaning over a drawing table in Cooper’s office. Cooper had moved to Virginia with the Army years before and had never left. There wasn’t much need in Norfolk for an engineer, so he supplemented his income acting as a contractor, building houses, docks and barns. Cooper’s office was a storefront down the street from the Sanger Dry Goods store. It was an eight-foot-wide, twenty-foot-deep narrow box of a place, with Cooper living in the upper floor. It was utterly empty except for the drawing table, two chairs, and a large wooden cabinet. They sat at the desk, which got its light from the large front display window.
“Gentlemen, this is the sixth rendering in thirty days I’m turning over to Attorney Dugas, and Evin is then forwarding them to John Wegman.”
Wegman was the Sanger’s attorney in New York, the man many people believed was the pre-eminent patent lawyer in the United States.
“We would have done more, but I’m spending a lot of time with the Sanger Brothers,” Jack said.
“Well, that’s my point. I’ve never done a patent rendering and Evin Dugas has never done an application. John Wegman in New York, according to Evin, is amazed with the products and he thinks they will fly through the application process. Bit of trouble with the plow, though. Seems John Deere and his people were working on a very similar design. Still, Wegman doesn’t think it’ll be a problem.”
“Yes, but our design is better,” Kaz said. “Much lighter. Theirs so heavy it just sinks into ground. Won’t move no matter how many horses try to pull it.”
“Curving the blades upward seems to make all the difference. I can’t believe that they hadn’t tried it already,” Jack said. “And Kaz—it’s your plow, your design. Murphy and I are just helping out.”
“Bob Cooper continued. “Wegman said he’s never known anyone as prolific as you three—your innovation in design, your thoroughness. He asked if you were visitors from the future.”
They all laughed.
Murphy said, “You’re pretty handy with a pencil and rule. I think we could keep you hitched up with projects full-time.”
“Thank you, but I’m more of a builder than an engineer. Y’all might need to hire someone else,” he said in a condescending Georgia drawl. He was a compact, brisk, little man with the air of someone in a hurry. The bridge of his nose had a pronounced downward bend that gave it a hawk-like appearance, made even more striking by his smallpox-pitted, skeletal face.
Jack noticed the man’s look of superiority, the same look he had seen several times in the past few weeks. Cooper’s work was excellent, though. Perhaps he was just imagining things. “You really are quite an artist.”
“I was an architect before I went back and got my engineering degree from Emory University. I used paint and drew a little before realizing what a complete and utter waste of one’s time it was. Why, there must be fourteen, fifteen new ideas you
have here for me? You’re racking up quite a bill. What is it that you’re working on now?”
“Jack and I are designing a new kind of bicycle. A ‘bike’—that is what you called it, right, Jack?” ” Kaz said.
“Bike is just another name for bicycle. I don’t know how you all ride those things with the big front wheels like that, anyway.”
“Sounds interesting,” Cooper said, licking his crooked yellow teeth.
“Yes. Both wheels are same size. Jack gave me idea for chain on two sprockets to propel it.”
“Once again,” Jack said modestly. “I can’t believe that someone hadn’t thought of it first.”
“We just don’t have the facilities or manpower to handle our ingenuity,” Murphy said.
Jack rejoined the conversation. “Someone suggested a big machine shop up in Richmond, but why Richmond? We want to do it here. We’ll ship by boat and anything else we’ll do by train out of Richmond. This will be better for us in the long run.”
“I must say, Jack, you’re quite the visionary,” Cooper said.
“Progress Bob, progress. This country is on the verge of an industrial revolution and we can ride the crest of the wave. There’s only one thing that concerns me deeply.”
“And that would be?”
“War. A war between the North and the South.”
“If there is to be war, no southerner alive could say that it wouldn’t be justified.”
“There’s no justification to warrant thousands of men dying,” Jack said.
Cooper stepped away from the drafting table and eyed Jack suspiciously. He opened a wooden cabinet and removed three mismatched shot glasses and a large earthenware jug with a cork stopper in it. It was the largest bottle of booze Jack had ever seen. “Would anyone care to join me for a splash of whiskey? Our work for tonight is done.”
“It seems like all I’ve been doing lately is work,” Jack said. “You say you’ve spent some time in the Army?”
“That’s right,” Cooper said. “Me and my model 1841 Harper’s Ferry Rifle helped slaughter the Mexican Cavalry at Buena Vista in ’47.”
“That is very good rifle,” Kaz said.
“Then this happened.” He rapped on his wooden leg with his cane. “A cannonball took it off just below the knee.”
“I have used parts of the Harper Rifle to make a needle gun,” Kaz said.
“What is a needle gun?” Cooper eagerly asked.
Jack answered, “The needle is a firing pin, the gun is a breech loader and bolt action. Who is that guy we are working on it with?”
“Hiram Berdan,” Kaz said.
“The sharpshooter? He’s the top rifle shot in the country, has been for a while, right?” ” Cooper said.
“Yes. He’s engineer from New York. He worked at the gunsmith’s in Boston with me. We have stayed in touch with letters,” Kaz said.
“I’ve kind of taken it a step further with a self-contained rim-fire, metal bullet cartridge and a semi-automatic action,” Jack said.
“Tell about telescope sighting,” Kaz added.
“Telescopic sights,” Jack said. “Once we developed the mount it was fairly easy.”
Bob Cooper was flummoxed. “Have you two put this design on paper yet?”
“Design?” Jack said. “We’ve actually built it and shot it.”
“Do you realize this could change the face of war? Why haven’t you brought me the plans for rendering it so you can get a patent on it?”
Murphy looked at Jack and Jack lifted his eyebrows and shook his head. Jack said, “We weren’t in any kind of hurry. Kaz didn’t want to cut Berdan out of his share of the profits.”
“In your opinion, did you copy enough to cause a possible copyright infringement?”
“In my opinion, no. Why does it matter?”
“I was talking with a friend of mine from West Point who is fairly high up. Robert Lee.“
“Robert E. Lee?” Jack asked.
“Yes, I was talking to him a week ago. The Army purchased a large order from Samuel Colt last year and they are disappointed. I’m sure a recommendation from him would result in an order and quickly, as I understand. Guns and ammunition.”
“We have pistol that can almost do same thing, uses same bullets,” Kaz said.
“We have to do this!” Cooper demanded.
The creepiness rolled off Cooper in waves.
They each took another drink in silence.
“I was really quite lost. All I ever wanted was to be is a soldier. My father and his father were both soldiers. I think I disappointed my father,” Cooper said. He held his head arrogantly back as if sniffing something bad.
Kaz said, “I would very much like to try this American liquor. I have had once before liquor and it was Hartwig-Kantorowicz, a Polish brandy. Never American bourbon.”
“This is not bourbon, my friend,” Cooper said pouring the amber liquid generously into the glasses. “This just happens to be the best sour mash Tennessee whiskey made. A cousin of mine makes it in Lynchburg, Tennessee. Here’s one for all of us, gentlemen,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast “To the South!”
“Na zdrowie!” Kaz said. He downed the entire glass.
Murphy sipped his drink slowly, warily watching Bob.
Jack drank his, savoring and then recognizing the smoky, charcoal, dry taste. “Your cousin’s name doesn’t happen to be Jack Daniels, is it?” Jack asked after taking a recognizable sip.
“No, his name is Jasper Newton Daniels. His son’s name is Jack, but he’s only seven years old. Jasper is in business with Dan Call, a Lutheran preacher. This is his recipe. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t know him, but I’ve had the whiskey before.”
“That’s curious. He doesn’t sell any of it retail, just gives it to friends. Where did you have it?”
“I can’t recall,” Jack said, covering himself. “I can’t remember where, but the taste is hard to forget. I remembered it because I liked it so much.”
This seemed to satisfy Cooper. Kaz stepped forward and presented him with an empty glass.
“More, please.”
“Better take it easy. This stuff packs a pretty mean wallop.”
“I find the taste—” Kaz searched for words—“very . . . American.”
Jack nearly drained his glass too; the whiskey was going down smooth and easy.
They drank, they laughed, and then they drank some more. Bob Cooper went upstairs to his room and came down with a loaf of bread, hard salami, and cheese. They washed it down with more whiskey. They were still drinking two hours later when the talk turned to inventions and Jack’s endless supply of ideas. Jack had forgotten about Cooper’s military question and his buzz had him feeling loose, so his guard wasn’t up when Bob Cooper asked, “I bet you could retire off the money you’d make designing weapons.”
“The next few years we’ll see a virtual explosion in weaponry, pardon the pun,” Jack said, nearly slurring his words.
“Tell more,” Kaz said, dribbling his drink down his chin.
“Yes, tell us about it.” Murphy noticed that Cooper had been drinking considerably less than the others.
“Muzzle loaders, breech loaders, flintlock rifles and pistols, Kentucky Rifles, Harper’s Ferry pistols and rifle—these are all just slight variations of the weapons used in the Revolutionary War more than fifty years ago. In the next five to ten years, we’ll hear names like the Spencer, the Henry, and the Gatling. Things will enter the picture like center fire cartridges, bolt-action and lever-action rifles. In the next twenty years, the Colt Peacemaker and smokeless gunpowder will be introduced. Shoot, we’re not far off from automatic machine guns and chemical bombs, tear gas and mustard gas.”
Jack was especially fond of weapons. His father had been a collector and, with Jack’s own interest, he had amassed quite a vast understanding of weapons. Kaz’s eyes were getting glassy as he continued to drink. Cooper’s were as clear as ever.
“The
items you talk about sound deadly. I suppose they could put an end to war altogether?” Cooper said.
“The ones I mentioned? Nah. You don’t know the half of it. Those are just toys compared to what will be developed one day. Grenades, torpedoes, land mines, bazookas, laser guided missiles—hell, one day there’ll be a bomb powerful enough to wipe out an entire city, big cities, New–York-size cities.”
“And you know how to make these things?”
“Some of them I do.” Jack thought a minute. “Well, I guess, most of them I do.”
“Just seeing what you’ve designed and brought through my shop in the last few weeks I don’t doubt that you do. I don’t know how you have this knowledge, whether you’re a seer or what, but I believe you. Supposing that there will be a war, and I’m assuming that there will be, whatever side has Mr. Jack Riggs designing their weapons will surely have the winning advantage.”
Something about Cooper’s declaration struck Murphy as odd. He realized Cooper was much too sober and eager. There was something he didn’t trust about the man—he just couldn’t figure out what it was.
CHAPTER 23
March 1856
Snake in the Grass
“Who did Riggs say he was working with?” Winston Creed demanded.
“He mentioned the names Spencer, Henry, and Gatling,” Bob Cooper said. “But he put ‘the’ in front of the names like they were a thing instead of a person.”
Creed looked at Abner Adkins for recognition of the names or weapons. Abner shook his head ‘no.’ “Don’t shake your head like a deaf mute. Answer me, that’s what I pay you for.”
After a second to gather himself and to shake off Creed’s anger, Adkins said, “There’s a Christopher Spencer working for the Colt Firearms Company up in Connecticut, but as far as we know, his rifle is a long ways from being done.”
“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
“Because I don’t know these other names. I’m not sure there’s a connection with this Spencer.”
