Hope Takes Flight (5 page)

Amos shook his head. “Not the kind of songs we sang back then, Pa. Just in church now. I get asked to sing a solo every once in a while.”

“That's nice, Son. Real nice.” A thought crossed his mind, and he frowned. “What about Lylah? You had a chance to talk to her since you been here?”

“No, but I'm going to find time tonight. She's not happy, is she, Pa?”

“No, she ain't. Never has been, since she was a girl.” Will Stuart pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, then put the hat back on. “I don't know what she wants,” he said finally. “But whatever it is, she ain't found it yet. And I don't reckon she ever will, unless—”

“Unless she finds the Lord. I think you're right. But she seems a long way from God. The theater's not the place to find him, I don't think,” Amos said soberly. “I'll try to talk to her tonight, Pa. Maybe she'll listen to me.” Amos silently whispered a prayer of thankfulness that his father was finally beginning to see the importance of knowing God.

A faint light of humor touched Will Stuart's eyes. “If she does,” he grinned slightly, “it'd be the first time she ever listened to anybody.”

Amos laughed and slapped his father's thin shoulder. “You're right about that, Pa. But there's always a first time. C'mon, now, let's you and me see if we can show these young whippersnappers how to win a Kewpie doll!”

T
he Stuart clan left the fairground, the women disappearing into a large department store as soon as they reached Fort Smith.

“C'mon, fellas,” Amos said. “They won't stop 'til they run out of money.” He led his brothers to the Palace Hotel, saying, “I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat.”

They entered the restaurant, and it was hard for Amos not to smile as he watched the response of Logan and Pete. Their eyes grew large, and they walked as if they were afraid a mine might go off under their feet at any moment. Gingerly they sat down at the table, gawking at the white tablecloth and the unfamiliar array of silverware. When Amos offered to order for all of them, he saw the look of relief on the faces of his younger brothers. “Bring us all a steak, a baked potato, and a lettuce salad.”

As they ate, their talk turned to news of the war. It was Owen who asked, “Do you think we're going to get into this war over in Europe, Amos?”

Amos shook his head. “Well, Paris is safe since the Allies won at the Marne, but they took 250,000 casualties.” When Logan gasped Amos turned to his younger brother. “That's just the beginning, Logan. There's never been a war like this one.”

Owen looked down at his salad, pushed a piece of lettuce around with his fork, then turned his gaze back toward Amos. “Will America get into it?”

Amos shrugged. “Bound to. The Germans have ordered total submarine warfare. Last February they sank two ships—the
Carib
, and the
Evelyn
—and they haven't stopped since. Even President Wilson won't be able to keep us out now.”

Gavin slapped the table with a force that made the glasses rattle and startled the people sitting at the next table. “We can whup 'em, Amos! Just like we whupped them Yankees in the Civil War!”

Amos grinned. “Well, we didn't exactly whip them, Gavin.”

“Sure we did! We just sort of played at it.”

All of them wolfed down their steaks and potatoes, and when it was time for dessert, the waiter asked each one what they wanted. By this time, Logan had gained some confidence.

“How about some apple pie a la mode?” the waiter suggested.

Logan nodded. “Yeah. And put some ice cream on top of it, too.”

At that Amos, who had taken the last bite of his steak, almost choked on it. But he managed to save his brother from embarrassment. “I'll have the same,” he said to the waiter. “Apple pie a la mode—with ice cream on top.”

The waiter kept a straight face and nodded, “Yes, sir. That's just the way it'll be.”

As they were eating their pie and ice cream, Owen asked, “What's this surprise you got for us, Amos?”

“Finish up and I'll show you. But I warn you, it's more for Gavin than it is for you fellas. Hurry up, now.”

Gavin glanced up, a question in his dark eyes, but he said nothing.

They rose and pushed back their chairs, and Amos laid a tip down on the table. They were halfway to the door when Peter rushed after him. “Hey, Amos, you forgot some of your money! You left it back there on the table!”

Gavin turned red in the face and grabbed the money. “That's a tip, you idiot!” He retraced their steps and placed the coins on the table again, trying to ignore the giggles of the customers at adjacent tables.

They were all relieved to put the restaurant behind them. Rounding up the women, the men helped carry their packages to the cars. “You can show us your new clothes later,” Amos said. “Now we've got to get back to the fairgrounds.”

When they returned and parked, Amos jumped out and opened the doors. “All right. Time for your surprise, Gavin. You come with me. The rest of you go over to that field, where the crowd is gathering.”

Owen glanced in the direction Amos indicated and said firmly, “Okay. Let's go, everyone. Amos is the boss.”

“Now…when's the last time I gave you a birthday present, Gavin?” Amos asked as Owen led the others away.

Gavin stared at him and shrugged. “Well…I guess it was my last birthday. Why?”

“Because I'm giving you your next birthday present right now. Come along.” Amos began to walk rapidly, and Gavin, mystified, followed alongside. He was a quiet young man, not given to much talk anyway, and Amos's mysterious behavior intrigued him.

Amos made his way through the crowd and suddenly Gavin stopped dead still.

“A plane!” he said, his eyes glowing. “A real airplane!”

Amos grinned at him. “I thought you'd like this. There's going to be a demonstration here, and I know the pilot. Come on, let's see if we can find him.” He led Gavin over to the plane, and asked one of the men working on it, “Is Mr. Beachey around?”

The mechanic, an undersized young man with a sunburned face, gestured vaguely with a wrench. “Over there. At that hot dog stand.”

“Thanks.” Turning quickly, Amos made his way to the stand, with Gavin close on his heels. As they approached, Amos said, “There he is. Come on, let's talk to him.”

Gavin hung back a little, as Amos walked right up to a man eating a hot dog and holding a glass of what looked like iced tea in one hand.
He sure don't look like a flyer
, Gavin thought.
He looks more like a salesman of some kind
.

“Hello, Beachey,” Amos said and stepped up to put his hand out. “You remember me? Amos Stuart, of the
New York Journal.
”

The man eating the hot dog paused before taking another bite and regarded Amos steadily through a set of steel gray eyes. He was a small man with a pugnacious jaw and was rather peculiarly dressed in an expensively tailored pin-stripe business suit with a high, starched collar, a two-carat diamond stickpin in his tie, and a checkered golfing cap, which he had on backwards.

“Why, sure. I remember you, Stuart,” he said. “You did that story on me a few months ago.” He carefully set down the glass and put out his hand. “What are you doing out here, Stuart?” he asked. “Come to see me loop-the-loop?”

“Back home for a family reunion,” Amos explained. “I'd like for you to meet my brother, Gavin Stuart. Gavin, this is Lincoln Beachey, the world's greatest flyer.” He waved toward Gavin, and the two men shook hands. “Tell you what, I'd like to make a deal with you, Beachey.”

Beachey stared carefully at Amos. “What sort of a deal you got in mind?”

“You take my brother here for a ride, and I'll do a story on you that'll stir up interest all over the country. I think I can even get it reprinted in most of the other big papers. What do you say?”

Gavin's heart seemed to stop beating, and suddenly he could not breathe. To go up, up up in the clouds! Up in that blue sky! He had spent hours watching buzzards circle, smoothly gliding over the air currents, easily, with no effort at all. He'd watched the purple martins doing their acrobatics at sundown, twisting and turning in the air. Always, ever since he could remember, he'd kept his eyes turned upward, and he had read everything that had been printed about flying. And now, he stared at Lincoln Beachey and prayed that God would give him favor.

Beachey smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Why, sure. That's a good deal. I got lots of offers after the last story you did. Let me do my act first, and soon as that's over—” here he paused and eyed Gavin—“you and I'll take a little ride. That be all right with you?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Beachey!” Gavin gasped. He tried to say more, but the words wouldn't come out.

Beachey balled up his fist and gave him a light tap on the shoulder. “We'll have some fun, you and me.” He took another bite of the hot dog, washed it down with the iced tea, and said, “Time to go now. Got to give the crowd their money's worth.”

“C'mon, Amos!” Gavin urged. “Let's go get us a good seat!” He hauled Amos along, who was laughing at the boy's enthusiasm.

“So? Is that a pretty good birthday present or not?”

Gavin stopped and looked at his brother, his eyes warm and his whole face filled with simple gratitude. “Nothin'…I mean
nothin'
could have been as good as this, Amos. I'll never forget it, not ever!”

And then he started tugging on Amos again, and the two made their way to the edge of the crowd at the field and watched as Lincoln Beachey got into his plane and took off.

As the small craft was gaining altitude, Amos explained a little bit about Beachey to his brother. “There's nobody quite like that fellow. Not for flying airplanes, anyway,” he said. “He's the best acrobatic flyer in the country. He had a slow start though.” Remembering, Amos grinned. “Just couldn't seem to learn how to get a plane down and wrecked two or three of them in the process of finding out. But, when he finally learned how to bring one in without smashing it up, off he went. He's been all over the world. Everywhere he goes, people come out to see his show.”

Gavin watched the plane, which looked almost as fragile as the kites he himself had flown in the pasture back at the farm. “Have you seen him before, Amos?”

“Sure. He's done several exhibitions in New York. Of course, I saw him when I did the story on him. Look at him now.”

At the far end of the field, Beachey had brought the plane down to an altitude of no more than a hundred feet from the ground. He gave it a turn that, one would have thought, might wrench the wings off, then turned back and roared straight along the ground. When he was even with the crowd, Gavin saw him pull back on the stick and the plane rose, making a circle until it looped-the-loop, then roared off down the field.

A roar went up from the crowd, and applause filled the air. Gavin's mouth dropped open. “I never thought I'd see anything like that.”

Amos merely shrugged. “Well, the world's first loop was done by a Frenchman named Adolph Pegoud a couple of years ago. He did it the hard way—an outside loop. But as soon as Beachey heard about it, he was pretty upset. In fact, he was overheard to say, ‘I am—the greatest aviator in the world—getting upstaged by a Frog!' He took a plane up and immediately started turning loops. Loop after loop. Now, loops are his specialty. But he does other things, too.”

The crowd watched, spellbound, as Beachey executed perfect stalls, turns, loops. Then he flew along the runway upside down, seeming to hang by his toes, before making another turn, this time holding his hands free.

Gavin breathed, “Just like a bicycle. No hands!”

For an hour, Lincoln Beachey proved, at least to the satisfaction of the crowd, his claim that he was the world's greatest flyer. When he landed, he crawled out of the plane and walked away, waving his hand to acknowledge the cheers that greeted him.

He found Amos immediately. “Let's let this crowd thin out a little bit. After the mechanics service the plane, I'll take our young friend here for a ride.”

Thirty minutes later, Gavin, his hands trembling and his knees so weak he could hardly stand, walked across the field to the plane and, at Beachey's direction, clambered into the seat.

“Be a little bit crowded with two of us.” Beachey grinned. “But a one-seater is better for stunting.” He looked at Gavin carefully and said, “You don't get sick easily, do you? From motion, I mean?”

Gavin shook his head. “No, sir. I've never been sick in my whole life.”

“Good. Well, here we go.”

The mechanics stepped forward and spun the propeller, and the engine fired off with a roar that almost deafened Gavin. Sitting inside the plane, the noise was so much greater. He gripped his knees until his knuckles were white, and Beachey advanced the throttle.

The plane moved across the rough field, gaining speed. The ride was bumpy, like a wagon going over broken ground, Gavin thought, and he bounced up and down, scarcely able to breathe.

And then—suddenly—the bumping stopped, and Gavin felt for the first time what the birds must feel. The plane rose in the air effortlessly, no bumping, only weaving slightly from side to side as the wings dipped. He looked down and saw the crowd growing smaller, individual faces shrinking to mere dots, the tents of the midway like handkerchiefs spread out on the ground. As they rose still higher, he saw the buildings of downtown Fort Smith, looking like toys in the distance.

Up and up and up they went. Finally the aviator banked the plane and yelled to Gavin. “That's what it looks like from up here. How do you like it?”

“Oh, Mr. Beachey. There ain't nothin' like it, is there!”

Beachey laughed and slapped the boy on the shoulder. “No, there really isn't. We'll look for a little while.”

Cruising around the serene blue sky, he showed Gavin the river and the fields. Once he flew through a low cloud, and Gavin was delighted with the moistness of it.
Like a fog
, he thought.
Like a white fog
.

After they had flown for perhaps twenty minutes, Beachey said, “Here. Put your hand on this stick.” Startled, Gavin gave him a wild look. Beachey laughed, his lantern jaw wagging as he shook his head. “Come on. I'll give you your first flying lesson, Gavin. Take over.”

Gavin never forgot the next fifteen minutes. The pilot showed him how to make the plane rise and fall, how to bank and turn. There was nothing in the young man's life to compare with the exhilaration of this experience. He made the plane dive slightly, then rise, and as they flew around the blue sky, Gavin turned and looked at the pilot, saying again, “There ain't nothin' like it, is there, Mr. Beachey?”

Beachey knew the boy's heart, for his own dreams had been the same. He patted Gavin again on the shoulder. “No. There's nothing like it. Nothing in the world.”

“Could we do some of them tricks you did before?” Gavin asked hopefully.

“You sure you want to do that, young man? It can be a little bit scary.” When he saw the boy nodding furiously, he relented. “All right. Fasten that belt. Gotta be sure we're locked in.” First, he saw to it that Gavin's belt was fastened securely, then said. “Okay! Here we go!”