Forgotten News

by Jack Finney

  Lying in his boat, Tice drifted.

  Another night, another sunrise, and then: they found each other. John Tice made out something far across the water, he didn't know what, and found the strength to pick up an oar and try to paddle the big boat, meant to be crewed by several men, toward it.

  On the raft, Grant and Dawson watched … saw the boat approaching … but so slowly they weren't sure anyone was in it. And so, before it could drift away, "Grant resolved … to reach it if possible, and accordingly divested himself of his clothing, except his undergarments, and tying a life-preserver around his body, weak and exhausted as he was, committed himself to the sea, and … swam towards the boat.

  How long he struggled, Grant cannot remember, but he finally neared it, and discovered a man sitting down and trying to scull the boat towards him. On reaching the boat, the man (who proved to be Mr. Tice) helped him in…."

  Then they rowed back to the raft, and picked up Dawson.

  Now the papers had their story: these three men had been saved.

  They'd spent four more days out under the sun in that lifeboat; then the captain of a small brig had seen a white speck—Dawson's white shirt— and sailed toward it. He found the three sitting motionless in the boat, no longer "able to move their limbs," but "obliged to sit, sustaining their heads on their knees, waiting silently for succor or death; in this situation they were discovered by the brig…." And nine days after the Central America had gone down, her last three survivors—George Dawson, Alexander Grant, and John Tice—were finally lifted from the sea.

  Now, two weeks later, they were able to climb from the Laura's boat to the landing at Castle Garden, reporters pressing around them. But for days they'd lain helpless in the rescue ship's bunks, fed by spoon—claret lashed with sugar; gruel; and water—John Tice's boots only then cut from his feet. "We suffered everything but death," he now said to a reporter. "No man could describe what we endured…."

  But the reporters tried: this is George Dawson in his white shirt, from a Meade Brothers photograph, taken how long afterward I don't know. But as he and the others stood on the wharf that morning they looked so ghastly that Leslie's reporter couldn't stop writing about it: "… large sea boils covered [Dawson's] body, the flesh had peeled off his hands, his cheeks were sunken, his limbs emaciated, his powerful frame contrasting with his woe-begone appearance, and showing how much he had suffered."

  This is Alexander Grant, who stood with him; his Meade Brothers portrait clearly made later. But now: "The intense sufferings through which he had passed were visible in every lineament of his face. He looked like one, who, having been brought to death's door by a scorching fever, had just passed the crisis of the disease. His large, manly face was white and almost fleshless, showing the bony outlines with ghastly distinctness, and his black, scarred lips looked as though in his agony, he had frequently bitten them through. But the most shocking traces of suffering were in his eyes. Naturally large, they were now preternaturally distended, and wore a fixed, sleepless expression, as though still looking from the frail raft along the dreary horizon for a friendly sail. His voice, too, was hoarse and hollow, and boils had broken out upon his body from prolonged exposure to salt water…."

  John Tice—this portrait also from a Meade Brothers photo—appeared to Leslie's to have "suffered less than his two companions …" but the Times man thought "Mr. Tice … suffered more…." The interviews at Castle Garden were just about the end of the story. Rescued passengers had talked willingly and at length, but these were seamen and possibly a different breed of cat; except for the bare facts, they didn't have much to say. True, they were "almost suffocated by the crowd which pressed around them," reason enough not to stand around chatting, but it may also be that reporters began asking the wrong questions. "Whether it is true that the two who were saved on the hurricane deck had nothing to eat is not known," the Times man wrote (though Grant told the Harper's man, at least, that they'd had a few morsels of dogfish). "They say they did not; if they had it must have been that they fed on human flesh. But this Grant stoutly denies while Dawson stubbornly refused to say 'Yes' or 'No,' when [a friend who was there] as delicately as a bluff old sailor could, asked him the question."

  Conceivably Dawson may have been simply indignant: I have no idea whether ground for such suspicions existed; maybe the Times man just wanted to come back with something titillating. Anyway: "The colored man, Dawson, evidently impatient of the distinguished attention shown him, soon found an opening through the crowd, and limped away."

  Grant left for his boardinghouse at 36 Vandam Avenue, preceded by a reporter who raced over to break the news first and get his wife's reaction. She "did not for some time … believe it, and was at first quite indignant with the person who informed her … thinking that he was trifling with her feelings." And when Grant arrived, he didn't seem to want to be helpful. "It would be useless to expect a graphic account of what occurred to him or anybody else from Mr. Grant, even if he were disposed …" the Times reporter had to write.

  John Tice "was conveyed to a carriage by Mr. Ashby, Chief Engineer of the Central America…. The meeting between Ashby and Tice was quite affecting, and so overpowered Tice that he had to be helped to the carriage." Ashby took him to the Battery Hotel.

  And at the home of a friend, Dawson was "at present unable to converse more than a moment at a time, and by the advice of his physician he talks but little on the subject of the wreck."

  So at last the story was done; the day after the interviews of the three were published, the Times's front-page headlines were: "The State Temperance Convention" (at Syracuse, New York); and the "Advance of General Havelock upon Lucknow."

  Captain Johnson's famous bark Ellen was repaired free at the Portsmouth Navy Yard, by order of the Secretary of the Navy. And at the Mechanics' Exchange, in Washington: "A valuable present has … been made to Capt. Johnson by James Buchanan, President of the United States, in the shape of a magnificent gold pocket chronometer and chain, which is said to be one of the best the world can produce. Aside from the intrinsic value of the gift [its cost was about $350], the circumstances under which it has been received will add greatly to its value, and will be regarded, in some sense, as a testimonial from the whole people, in the person of their Chief Executive…."

  On an inside page of the Times some days later, a last word of Mrs. Marvin, the lady who'd volunteered to help pump the foundering Central America: "Mrs. Marvin lost her husband and $18,000 on the Central America. Having nothing left but the scanty clothing she had on, the citizens of New York supplied her with $250 worth of trunks and clothing, and $50 in money. She started for home, and the cars ran off the track on Tuesday morning, at Corning, New York, completely dashing in pieces her trunks, and very nearly all the contents. The company furnished new trunks, and the passengers went on."

  Around noon of the day before Christinas 1882, someone on the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange released a great gas-inflated balloon in the shape of a jockey. As chins lifted, nearly everyone on the floor watching it rise to the high ceiling, a couple of brokers sneaked through the crowd, each holding one end of a seventy-five-foot rope. When they were on opposite sides of the floor, they began to run, and those of the crowd whose legs weren't yanked out from under them were bound together in a struggling mass, and then dragged around the floor.

  When that stopped, someone got hold of an end of the rope, someone else the other, and they began yanking for possession. Each yelled for help, got it, and a huge tug-of-war began. Others rushed to join it, and within seconds there wasn't a handhold left on the rope. So latecomers grabbed the coattails of those near the ends of the line, and as the two sides dragged each other around the floor of the Exchange, coats ripped up the back, and some coattails were torn right off. Hats fell off, too—these were brokers, and wore silk hats— and then most of the rest were knocked off, and all the hats were jumped on.

  Down at the New Street end of the Exchange a sudden
commotion began, and "all eyes were turned toward it," said the Times. Then "a howl of delight that deafened the spectators in the galleries went up. Some foragers had captured a hand-organ with its grinder and his wife and baby. One broker took the baby in his arms and … triumphantly led the way to the center of the floor. The yelling brokers surrounded the organ whose owner acted as if he thought every moment would be his last." Apparently he didn't speak English, but understood a pantomimed request, and began cranking his organ. "The coin poured in by the handfuls, and in no time the tambourine of the woman was filled to overflowing. When the grinder saw the money coming in he set to work and turned out airs which threw the brokers into a frenzy of joy. They smashed each other's hats, and capered about like madmen…."

  A "cotillion was started … and those who took the part of ladies entirely disregarded the proprieties of the art terpsichorean and practiced high-kicking." During this everyone "yelled like Comanche Indians, and those who did not dance knocked off hats" and blew tin fish horns.

  Pretty soon "brooms and watering cans were brought up from below, and those who looked as though they needed it were sprinkled and swept…." Then "the brokers began kicking a football" around. "A band of Italian harpists was enticed into the salesroom for unlisted securities … and there was hilarity without end all day…. There was a large pail of hot water on the top of a heater, and this was kept stuffed full of hats…." Men were dragged around the floor by their legs or arms; small-sized brokers were dumped head first into the tall wicker baskets into which used ticker tape ran, and the baskets rolled around the floor.

  But if all this surprises you, no one who read the newspaper stories I'm quoting was surprised even a little: this kind of stuff happened every holiday season, and not only at the New York Stock Exchange. At the Produce Exchange on New Year's Eve afternoon of the preceding year, they began whomping each other with inflated bladders tied to strings, splattering one another with hunks of wet dough, and, of course, caving in each other's silk hats. Guests had been invited, each with a reserved-seat ticket, and as they arrived were escorted to the seat. Since all tickets were numbered 401, each was led to the same seat, mounted on a column ten feet high. As each guest stopped to stare up at the inaccessible seat, he was—guess what? —whacked on the head with a stuffed club.

  Gilmore's band played, gradually turning white as they were pelted with flour-filled paper sacks that burst on impact. Humorous recitations were given. There were sparring matches, sack races, "an Irish jig by the entire Parnell Brigade," "talking matches," a "laughing match," a walking match. There were wrestling matches on the flour-and dough-covered floor, jumping matches, "dancing matches," there was a fat men's race, and, according to the Times, which seemed to be present at all these shenanigans, "singing matches between the flute-voiced members of the Exchange."

  "During the performance," said another paper, "everybody seemed to be happy and the building rang with the laughter of the assemblage. Gilmore's band played almost without ceasing until after dark, and when the members with disarranged neck gear, emerged from the building they expressed the opinion that they had had 'the best day's sport for many a year,'" and I think they were right. I wonder if people didn't have a lot more fun, once, than we do now?

  "Mr. W. J. Lewis, of New York City, has invented a flying-machine, which scientific gentlemen pronounce a decided wonder," begins the news story accompanying this illustration in Leslie's Newspaper of December 30, 1876. It "is the forerunner of an apparatus," the story continues, "with which he promises to attain a speed through the air of at least one hundred miles an hour."

  Then, startlingly, the story provides detailed specifications: "… two propellors for lifting, and the shorter part bending downward … [with] a propellor at the rear end which is used for driving the machine forward." Its motive power was a huge spring "weighing several pounds," and: "Running through the entire length of the frame is a shaft, connecting with and communicating the power to the different propellors. The shaft of the rear propellor is connected with the main shaft by a universal joint. The propellors are right and left-handed, the flanges or blades, of which there are four to each propellor, are concave-convex in form. Each one is set in motion by four beveled wheels, which are connected with the shafts, and therefore the motion is simultaneous.

  "Situated near the center of gravity are a pair of movable planes, slightly convex-concave, one on either side, which are used to guide the machine up or down. In the front is a rudder to give a right or left motion…."

  What about this? A helicopter flying through the skies of 1876? Well, there's the illustration, which seems to show exactly that; and, the news story continues tantalizingly: "During a formal test, Mr. Lewis directed his machine at various angles, and in all instances it flew"—"flew"!— "straight in the direction pointed." And that's all this forgotten story has to say about that.

  Is it possible? Could it really have happened? I consulted a designer for Grumman Aerospace Corporation, Joseph Lippert, Jr., who is described by a Grumman official, Robert S. Mullaney, as "one of the most imaginative aerodynamicists and designers since da Vinci. …." And in a report headed "The Lewis Flying Machine of 1876," aircraft designer Lippert says: "It is believed that such a device ... could make short flights since it is indicated to have the necessary lifting forces, and arrangement of forces to provide longitudinal stability, directional and roll control."

  So there you have it: the picture and the specifications described in this forgotten story of 1876 apparently make sense to one of Grumman's ace designers. He continues: "From the description and illustration, a 'modern' equivalent may be sketched as follows," and here is designer Lippert's own sketch.

  "The counter rotating lifting propellors," he says, "would reduce the overturning torque, but there would be some residual torque…. The downward inclination of the rear portion of the fuselage is interesting since this results in a thrust inclination of the rear thrusting propellor which produces a stabilizing influence. This principle is … in use today…. A minor … defect in the design could be the placement of the 'rudder' in the forward position. Some early pioneers did however fly aircraft with forward surfaces…. It is concluded that … a similar model today … could fly and be controllable."

  So that's that: a helicopter in the year of the Custer massacre. And which the nineteenth century seems to have forgotten. Maybe so. Because I think the nineteenth century took "Progress" for granted; took stunning inventions in stride. Few soothsayers of the times ever failed to predict that the skies would soon fill with flying machines. So when W. J. Lewis sent a helicopter flying through the air of 1876 I think people weren't a bit surprised. That they'd been expecting it. Probably wondered why it took so long. And then, what with one thing or another, they got busy, the whole thing just slipped the nineteenth century's mind, and they simply forgot to pass the news down to us.

  Even Lewis himself soon moved on to more interesting things. He "proposes to construct a boat with pedals," the story concluded, "and by the use of his own strength will attempt a journey to Philadelphia, being quite ready to take any moderate wager that he will reach that city within half an hour from the time of starting," and I certainly wouldn't have bet against him.

  In only the year after the Civil War ended, New Yorkers seem to have been considering building an El; to run along Broadway. Since apparently it was meant to have looked like this, it seems too bad that they didn't.

  A dramatic news story of February 1882 was the destruction— burned to the ground in thirty minutes—of the old New York World building. The most dramatic incident of the spectacular fire was the rescue of this young woman, who stood calmly waiting on a window ledge of the blazing building hoping someone could save her. Someone did, thrilling the entire city, and more than one paper tried to picture the event; Leslie's gave their entire front cover to their artist's conception of the rescue.

  I came across that drawing some few years ago while preparing to write a
novel. Since many of its scenes were to take place in the New York of 1882, I was hunting for material to help me make my fictional scenes as real as I could. The Leslie's picture interested me, and I followed where it led: to long published accounts, in several newspapers of the time, of this exciting fire, of which this rescue was the most exciting detail. The young woman, said the news stories—her name was Ida Small—had appeared on a window ledge high on the face of the burning building, black smoke rushing out from behind her, and then stood bravely hoping for rescue. Someone leaned a ladder against the burning building, and although it fell short of where she stood, a stranger raced up it, balanced on the top rung at enormous risk to himself, and managed to get the girl down with him on the ladder. On the ground, the girl rescued, her anonymous and modest savior disappeared into the crowd, telling no one his name.

  But I knew who he was. He was the central character of my book. And when I wrote it, he described the great fire in detail as accurate as I could supply from newspapers of the day; it was he who rescued Ida Small; and I included the Leslie's cover to prove it.

  My fictional account of this actual rescue ended with his reference to "Ida Small … [who] still has a life ahead of her." That sentence was meant as a hint: to whoever, reading my book, might know what that life had been after Ida Small disappeared from the old news stories. I wanted to know for my own sake what had happened to Ida Small after she walked away from the burning building into the nineteenth century.