Chasing Icarus

by Gavin Mortimer

  As they ate and drank and smoked against a backdrop of tapestries and oil paintings, the men talked over the day’s events. Grahame-White had his leg pulled for his crash, though he cared not a jot. He’d still won the Grand Speed Contest, pocketing another $3,000, and he’d come out on top in the Hourly Distance event, his aggregate total of 106 laps over the tournament being six more than . . . whose? He winked and raised his glass in the direction of a laughing Hubert Latham. But the highlight of the day, they all agreed, had been Ralph Johnstone’s new record in the Grand Altitude event. What was it again? 9,714 feet. Incredible. He’d smashed the world’s record by over five hundred feet; if only he’d managed another 286 feet, he would have won the Aero Club’s special prize of $5,000 for the first aviator to break the ten-thousand-feet barrier.

  But perhaps that had been Johnstone’s greatest achievement, the triumph of his self-preservation over his pride. Who knew, if he’d pushed for those extra 286 feet, might not he have gone the way of Icarus? And don’t forget, they told one another, Johnstone had been in a “hysterical” state when he’d landed after his record-breaking ordeal.

  As the men refilled their glasses and selected Cuban cigars from the box brought out by the waiter, they kept their eye on the time. At nine thirty P.M. Armstrong Drexel called for the bill. Time to go, gentlemen, he said, the Plaza Hotel awaits.

  In between mouthfuls of filet de boeuf, John Moisant described to General Miles and Walter Wellman his thirty-six-mile flight round the Statue of Liberty. They had read his account in Monday’s edition of the World, in which he’d told of how, time and again, he was caught in air currents as he flew over Manhattan, and how, yes, it was true, as he’d rounded the Statue of Liberty, it had occurred to him how appropriate it was that he should be doing so as an American in a French machine, seeing as how the statue had been a gift from France. Of the row with Grahame-White, there was no mention.

  Minutes after the New York Herald reporter had run back to Moisant’s hangar on Sunday evening to confirm that Grahame-White intended to make a second attempt to round the statue, the American began drafting a frantic letter to the Belmont Park committee. He started by saying that the race “called for the fastest flight from Belmont Park to and around the Statue of Liberty and return to aviation field, during the present international meet, dates for which are from October 22 to 30, and officially the meet closed tonight.” He then wrote that he had received no official confirmation that the meet would be open on Monday, and in his opinion “if the prize is put up again tomorrow on the ground that the meet has been continued, it might as well be put up for six months more or a year or continued indefinitely.”

  Moisant took a fresh sheet of paper and began a second letter, this one an official protest against Clifford Harmon and Claude Grahame-White. He accused them of negligence in having left the Farman biplane on the grass, pointing out that “under all the rules of international meets sanctioned by the International Aeronautic Federation, a damaged or crippled machine or one which is being repaired, must be removed to its hangar.” This rule had been broken, he concluded, and he trusted the committee would concur.

  Moisant hand-delivered the letters to the clubhouse, and the committee sat long into Sunday night discussing the matter. Outside, meanwhile, a handful of reporters waited to hear their decision, among them the New York Times correspondent. While he and his colleagues agreed with Moisant that it would be “manifestly unfair for a competitor to receive a second chance,” nonetheless they—unlike Moisant—were fully aware that “it had been announced on Saturday that attempts to fly around the Statue might be made on Sunday or Monday.”

  Eventually J. C. McCoy emerged from the clubhouse and, in the light of the winking lanterns hanging on either side of the door, addressed the newsmen: “The committee announces that the meeting officially ended at the close of flying hours on Sunday, October 30, 1910, as provided in the entry blanks of the program and that the events of this day [Monday, October 31, 1910] are special competitions, distinct from the events of the meeting.”

  Grahame-White had first heard of the committee’s decision early on Monday morning when he arrived at Belmont Park to prepare for his second attempt. Count de Lesseps was also planning another crack at the “Goddess,” and James Radley and Emile Aubrun were considering their options. As was his habit, Grahame-White checked the bulletin board and saw the communiqué issued just a few hours earlier. By the time he had finished reading it, his suave sangfroid had melted in a furnace of rage, and Sydney McDonald was doing his best to calm him. A reporter from the New York Evening Sun appeared and bore the brunt of the Englishman’s fury. “It’s a bally injustice, sir,” he cried, “that the committee declared the flight at an end after Moisant, an American, had won it last night.” It’s funny, isn’t it, he sneered, that the “committee in excusing its actions in closing the Statue competition said that today’s events are not regular on the program. Yet I notice that the grand speed and grand altitude contests will be decided.” What will you do, asked the reporter, lodge an appeal? Grahame-White shook his head. Beating Le Blanc was one thing, trying to defeat the Belmont Park committee was as futile as trying to cross the Atlantic in an airship. “What’s the use of making protests?” he replied. “They ignore them . . . It’s been a succession of injustices and downright unfair treatment for me at Belmont Park, and, you know, I’m dreadful sick of it. Really, they’re almost a bunch of bally bandits.”

  Later on Monday morning Grahame-White had issued a challenge to Moisant to race him around the Statue of Liberty, but the American laughed at the proposal. He knew that second time around Grahame-White would fly the direct route, over Manhattan, and in his hundred-horse power Blériot he would win with ease. Moisant retaliated by telling reporters he would race Grahame-White “anywhere, at any time, under any circumstance, on equal terms,” but in the meantime the Englishman should quit being such “a poor loser.”

  Shortly before ten P.M. toastmaster Cortlandt Bishop rose to his feet and invited August Belmont to say a few words. The host of the tournament praised the aviators—those present—and reminded them that they were much more than mere entertainers, “for their flights were being watched with much interest by officers of the army and navy, and one day they might be asked to risk their lives for their country, which would be a greater honor than the one they had already attained.” After Belmont finished, Bishop introduced to the company Messrs. Hawley and Post, “the men who only a few days ago, after leaving St. Louis, were wandering in the bleak Canadian wilds while two nations were anxiously trying every means for clues of their fate.” Bishop presented each man with the gold medal of the Aero Club of America and then, “to ringing applause” he handed over the International Balloon Cup.

  Glasses were raised as Bishop presented a gold loving cup to Alfred Le Blanc (whose bandages had been removed save for a square Band-Aid plaster above his right eye) in recognition of his splendid performance in Saturday’s international race, then John Moisant was asked to take a bow. “He got the most enthusiastic reception of the whole evening,” said the correspondent from the New York Times, who listened rapt as Moisant described his trip across the English Channel in August. “He refused, however, to talk about his victory around the Statue of Liberty.”

  Bishop then called upon Nelson Miles “to say something about the uses that might be made of aviation in war.” The general got to his feet and began to talk of the airplane’s importance, not just in times of conflict but also perhaps “as a harbinger of peace.” As he spoke, a slight commotion came from the back of the ballroom, and in walked Armstrong Drexel, Grahame-White, Hamilton, de Lesseps . . . the whole merry gang of malcontents.

  Not long after the three hundred guests had sat down to dinner in the Plaza’s splendid ballroom, word began to spread that the real reason for the empty seats was a rival dinner being hosted by Armstrong Drexel at Sherry’s restaurant, “which was something of a protest meeting.” The aviators present knew
all about Drexel’s revolt, having been invited to join it themselves, and over the starter of pommecaprice, they enlightened their fellow guests as to the reasons behind the uprising.

  Earlier in the afternoon Drexel had stormed into the club house at Belmont Park and told Cortlandt Bishop that he no longer wished to be a member of the Aero Club of America. His letter of resignation followed, and he then wired the editors of several leading newspapers in America, Britain, and France to explain his decision. While Bishop wrung his hands in fury at the contents of the letter, the editors rubbed their hands in glee as they read the telegrams. No need to worry how to fill the next day’s front page.

  Dear Sir

  I wish through your columns to protest against the action of the Belmont Park Aviation Committee in refusing to allow Grahame-White, the Englishman, to fly a second time for the Statue of Liberty Prize. Their doing so is contrary to all the traditions of sport and honor, and as an American myself, familiar with the conditions of sport in Europe, I cannot allow an act of such startling unfairness to pass without protest.

  Furthermore, by their decision they have barred such fliers as Radley, the Englishman, and Aubrun, the Frenchman, from competing. As a general result it will be freely said in Europe that the Liberty prize was juggled into an American’s hands. This will only be the plain truth, according to the conditions of the contest, as understood by the aviators.

  I was myself told by Chairman McCoy of the committee in the presence of a witness, that the Liberty prize contest would be open to the end of the meeting, which as he and everyone else knew, was definitely intended to include Monday. He also gave me to understand that the same man could make more than one flight, and that the best time would win. This, too, was the general understanding of the aviators, and no denial of it by the committee can explain or excuse their subsequent action.

  The plain fact is that the committee, seeing a chance of winning the prize for an American, went back upon their word, and by closing the contest and the official meeting, stopped two men, Messrs. de Lesseps and Grahame-White, from trying again, and the other fliers from even competing.

  My disgust at this betrayal is more almost than I can express. What the feelings of the Englishmen and Frenchmen are could they be induced to speak their mind, I dare hardly imagine. Anyhow, it is my intention to resign immediately from the Aero Club of America, and I hope all American sportsmen will follow my example.

  It will of course be understood that I write this letter with no personal bias either for or against Messrs. Moisant and Grahame-White.

  I am, yours truly

  J. Armstrong Drexel

  Cortlandt Bishop’s retaliation was swift. He likened Drexel and Grahame-White to grand opera singers, saying “they are jealous and very difficult to manage.” However, he slyly added, perhaps this was inevitable as the pair’s “nerves are on edge from their flights.” As for Drexel’s resignation, Bishop told reporters he was disappointed but not that surprised: “Mr. Drexel has lived much of his life abroad although he is a native born American. Perhaps that has something to do with it.”

  Having resigned from the Aero Club, Drexel then invited his fellow aviators to a soiree of his own at Sherry’s, just a couple of blocks away from the Plaza. Count de Lesseps was in—he had already made an official protest of his own at the committee’s volte-face—and Latham had also lodged a complaint, questioning the absence of official observers from the pylons in the latter stages of Moisant’s flight in the International Aviation Cup race. For all he knew, Moisant might have cut a few corners in the gloom of Saturday evening. Hamilton, Harmon, and Willard accepted, but Glenn Curtiss and Eugene Ely opted for neutrality, which was also the stance of the Wrights. They attended neither dinner and left it up to their team to make their own choices. Walter Brookins was recovering from his injuries, Ralph Johnstone chose to spend the evening with his family, and Arch Hoxsey went to the official dinner, along with James Radley and Alec Ogilvie. British they might have been, but they considered it a breach of etiquette to snub one’s host, what ever the reason.

  As General Miles addressed the audience, the New York Times reporter slipped out of his seat and tiptoed across the ballroom toward Drexel. “Would you explain the reason for the dinner at Sherry’s to night?” he asked in a whisper. “The dinner,” said Drexel, talking to the reporter’s ear, “was a protest against the action of the committee with regard to Mr. Grahame-White and the Statue of Liberty race. I was exceedingly indignant at it, and I did not feel that I could bring myself to sit down with the other members of the Aero Committee at the official dinner.”

  When the general concluded his speech, J. A. Blair, one of the committee members, left his seat and welcomed the latecomers. Please, he told them, smiling, sit down. They did, all except Drexel, and Grahame-White “got a thoroughly cordial reception” as he took his place at the top table between Augustus Post and Theodore Schaeck. Cortlandt Bishop got to his feet, and, said the New York Times reporter, “a thrill ran through the audience” as he made the official pre sentation to Grahame-White of the International Aviation Cup, telling him, “In handing you this cup I also in the name of the Aero Club of America challenge you for it. We shall take profit by your example and shall work early and hard for it, and I hope that next year an American will bring it back again.”

  The pair shook hands and Grahame-White took delivery of the trophy, as well as a check for $13,600—his tournament winnings. He admired the trophy for a moment, in the way he liked to admire himself in the mirror each morning, then placed it carefully on the table. He was in his element now, the center of attention, with three hundred people on tenterhooks waiting to discover if he would turn on the men he had earlier described as “bandits.” But Grahame-White was far too much of an English gentleman to give in to his emotion.

  He was humble in his gratitude for the victory, but, he wondered, what might have happened had it not been for the “lamentable disaster” that befell Walter Brookins? Then he turned to Alfred Le Blanc and told the audience with fulsome modesty that the Frenchman was “an aviator of far greater experience than I am and has qualities as an aviator which I cannot claim. His ability is far superior to mine.”

  Next Grahame-White gestured toward two of his fellow companions at the top table, Augustus Post and Alan Hawley. You know, he said, with a sheepish grin, “We aviators are sometimes prone to look down on balloonists, but in view of the performance which recently startled the whole world, our hearts went out to Messrs. Hawley and Post, and we realized that these pilots of balloons cannot be looked down on, for they showed themselves men of courage and audacity, and their sporting and daring attempt which broke all records was a very, very, very fine feat.”

  The New York Times reporter joined in the applause, then listened as Grahame-White brought the speeches to a close by “extending an invitation to all the aviators present to come to England next year for the international meet and he promised them a hearty welcome.”

  EPILOGUE

  We’re Sending Sputniks to the Moon

  There was indeed a “hearty welcome” for all those who came to Eastchurch, in southeast England, in July 1911 to compete for the International Aviation Cup. But Claude Grahame-White wasn’t there to greet them, and nor were most of the aviators who had thrilled the fans at Belmont Park the previous year. Cortlandt Bishop was present and threw a Stars and Stripes around the shoulders of Charles Weymann when he won the cup back for the United States. In second place was Alfred Le Blanc, beaten again, this time by influenza, or at least that was his excuse.

  On November 1, 1910, the morning after the acrimonious dinner at the Plaza Hotel, the New York Herald used its editorial to reflect on the Belmont Park tournament. Of course, it said, “It is to be regretted that a misunderstanding arose just at the close but that such things were to be expected when men are engaged in eager competition.” Of greater pertinence was the significance of the meet, and the Herald concluded, “Whatever may be the mer
its of the controversy, it cannot change the fact that the international aviation tournament this year was the greatest ever held and nothing can detract from the wonderful results or from the powerful stimulus it will give to the development of the art that is to play such a wonderful part in the world’s future.” The next day, November 2, the New York Evening Sun reported that as a result of the recent aviation tournaments in Europe and the United States, the German War Office had ordered airplanes of five different types, including the Wright biplanes, and “elaborate tests are to be made of these machines and then it is said that the Government will make extensive purchases for the army.”

  In addition, Britain and France were equipping themselves with flying machines, so it was therefore with no little relief, continued the Evening Sun, that General James Allen, fresh from Belmont Park, “recommends the purchase of at least twenty airplanes to be used in regular practice at different parts of the country during the year.” These would complement the current American aerial strength of one dirigible and two aircraft.

  Less than a fortnight later, General Allen was one of the guests on board the cruiser Birmingham, anchored five miles off the Virginian coast, as Eugene Ely took off from the deck and successfully completed the first ship-to-shore flight. In doing so, proclaimed the Chicago Daily Tribune, Ely “proved that the airplane will be a great factor in naval warfare of the future.”