The Bishop's Boys (41 page)

Manly stripped off his outer clothes. He would make the flight clad in a cork-lined jacket, union suit, stockings, and light shoes. Whether he succeeded or failed he faced a dunking in the icy waters of the Potomac and had no intention of being weighed down by heavy garments.

The would-be aviator carefully picked his way through the jumble of bracing wires and took a seat in the flimsy cockpit. As Manly ran up the engine, Langley escorted his friends and guests back to the small boats so that they could either applaud a turning point in history or assist in Manly’s rescue.

Satisfied with the sound of the engine and the operation of the controls, Manly gave the signal for release at about 4:45
P
.
M
. He sped down the sixty-foot track, felt a sharp jerk, and immediately found himself staring straight up at the sky as the machine flipped over onto its back and dropped into the water.

Manly hung from the cockpit sides and entered the water feet first. In spite of his precautions, he was trapped beneath the surface with his jacket caught on a metal fitting. Ripping the garment off, he struggled through the maze of broken wood and wire only to reach the surface beneath an ice cake. Diving, he finally emerged in the open water some distance from the floating wreckage, just in time to see a concerned workman plunge under the remains of the craft to rescue him. Both men were quickly fished out of the water and carried to safety aboard the houseboat. Manly was uninjured, but so cold that Dr. F. S. Nash had to cut the clothes from his body.

The Langley Aerodrome was also ready to fly in the winter of 1903—or so its designer believed. Twice, on October 7 and December 8, the machine crashed into the Potomac. One reporter said it had the flying characteristics of “a handful of mortar.”

Moments later, wrapped in a blanket and fortified with whiskey, this genteel son of a university professor startled the group by delivering a “most voluble series of blasphemies.” Samuel Pierpont Langley’s twenty-year quest for the flying machine was over.
¹⁹

Orv arrived back in camp at one o’clock on the afternoon of December 11, having made the trip from Dayton in only two days. The machine was fully reassembled the next day. There was not enough wind to attempt a flight, but they ran it up and down the track to check the speed, damaging the tailframe in the process. The wind was still too light to attempt a flight on December 13. They spent most of the day reading. Adam Etheridge, a lifesaver from the Kill Devil Hills station, appeared in camp that afternoon to show his wife and children the flying machine that was the talk up and down the beach.

They spent the morning of December 14 finishing repairs on the tail and starting truck. Then, at one-thirty, they tacked a large red flag up on the side of the hanger, signaling the lifesavers down on the beach that they were about to attempt a flight and could use a hand. Bob Westcott, John T. Daniels, Tom Beacham, Will Dough, and “Uncle Benny” O’Neal strolled into camp a few minutes later with several young boys who had been hanging around the station that morning.

The Wrights had decided that rather than fly from the flats near camp, they would take advantage of gravity, laying their rail down the lower slopes of the big hill. That would mean moving their fragile 700-pound machine about a quarter of a mile. It was hard work, and took some forty minutes. By 2:40 that afternoon the machine sat tied on the end of the rail, some 150 feet up the 9-degree slope. They started up the engine—the sudden clatter sending the boys skittering out of sight.

While the engine warmed up, the brothers stepped off by themselves for a moment. One of them fished a coin out of his pocket. Wilbur won the toss and climbed into the pilot’s position. Orv walked to the right wingtip. Will looked to both sides and reached forward to flip open the clip that held the restraining rope. Nothing happened. The weight of the machine headed downhill was putting too much pressure on the release clip. Orv called three lifesavers over and gently pushed the machine a few inches back up the slope to get some slack in the line.

Will started down the track before the crew was really prepared. Orv grabbed the upright as best he could and ran alongside to steady the craft as it rode down the rail. Before they had gone forty feet it was moving too fast for him to keep up. The machine rose into the air, and nosed sharply up to an altitude of perhaps fifteen feet. Flying at much too high an angle of attack, it slowed, stopped, and fell back to earth some sixty feet from the end of the rail.

The left wingtip struck first, swinging the craft around until the front skids hit the soft sand hard enough to splinter one of the elevator supports. Wilbur, stunned but uninjured, remained in place for a few seconds with the engine still running and the propellers ticking over. He finally reached forward and cut the engine. The first trial was over.

Just before the battle—December 14, 1903. The airplane is mounted on “the Grand Junction Railroad,” a 60-foot monorail laid down the slope of the Big Kill Devil Hill. Wilbur stalled the machine just after takeoff, aborting the Wrights’ first attempt at powered flight.

December 15 was spent making repairs to the machine. The work went quickly, but the slack wind ruled out any attempt at a second start. Orv hiked up the dunes to the village to send a wire home to Dayton: “Misjudgment at start reduced flight one hundred twelve power and control ample rudder only injured success assured keep quiet.”
²⁰

The repairs were completed by noon on December 16. They spent the afternoon with the machine set up on the rail, waiting for the wind to pick up. The downhill launch had been a mistake. Not only would it compromise their claim to an unassisted sustained flight, but the excessive launch speed compounded the difficulties of takeoff. This time they set up the rail less than a hundred feet from the corner of the old shed.

Much of the tension was gone. Will had assured Milton and Katharine that “There is now no question [but] of final success.”
²¹
But that final success did not come on December 16. After waiting several hours for the proper conditions, they gave up for the day.

They were up and about early on the morning of December 17. The day dawned cold and clear. A frigid 24-mile per hour wind swept out of the north, freezing the pools of standing water that had collected in the sand hollows. The Wrights were accustomed to the cold. Over a month before, Will had described how they managed at night to Milton: “In addition to … 1, 2, 3, and 4 blanket nights, we now have 5 blanket nights, & 5 blankets & 2 quilts. Next come 5 blankets, 2 quilts & a fire; then 5, 2, fire, & hot water jug…. Next comes the addition of sleeping without undressing, then shoes & hats, and finally overcoats.”
²²

The crew of the U.S. Lifesaving Service Station, Kill Devil Hills, N.C., made up the world’s first aircraft ground crew. Proud men—and hard—they are shown here in 1900.

The morning began with a familiar round of chores. While one man washed and shaved, the other fed chunks of driftwood into the makeshift stove that doubled for heating and cooking. Within half an hour both were dressed in white shirts, celluloid collars, and ties. Hoping that the bitter wind might abate, they remained indoors until about ten o’clock, when they decided to make a second try at flying.

As before, they tacked up the signal banner to summon the lifesavers, then set to work hauling out the sections of launch rail and pinning them down on the sand. Before they were quite ready, Adam Etheridge, John Daniels, and Will Dough walked into camp. They were accompanied by W. C. Brinkley, a lumber buyer from Manteo who had hiked over to the station to survey the timbers of a wrecked vessel, and Johnny Moore, a young man who lived with his widowed mother in a shack in the Nags Head woods.

Surfman Bob Westcott had the duty at Kill Devil Hills Lifesaving Station that morning; he would split his time between preparations for lunch and watching the activity in the dunes through his spyglass. Four miles down the beach at the Kitty Hawk station, Captain S. J. Payne also had a glass trained on the little party gathered around the sheds. The area was flat, and he could see that there was some activity, but could not tell precisely what was going on. Payne supposed they must be planning to try the flying machine again.

Two others, Bill Tate and Alpheus Drinkwater, had also been invited. Tate, who had not been in camp for some days, intended to stop by that afternoon once his chores were out of the way. Drinkwater was out of sight down the beach, watching the remains of one of the first U.S. Navy submarines, the
Moccasin
(A-4), which had broken loose and washed ashore while under tow. A federal employee, Drinkwater had been instructed to keep an eye on the sub until the Navy arrived. Convinced there was a promotion in it, he declined the Wrights’ invitation to come up to camp that morning.

By ten-thirty the machine was set up at the head of the launch rail. A few drops of gasoline were pumped into each cylinder; the battery box was hoisted onto the wing and attached to the engine. After a final check all round, Wilbur and Orville walked to the rear and pulled the propellers through in unison. The engine coughed to life.

While the engine was warming up, the brothers withdrew. One of the lifesavers recalled that “we couldn’t help notice how they held on to each other’s hand, sort 0’ like two folks parting who weren’t sure they’d ever see one another again.”
²³

They shook hands and Orv climbed into place beside the engine, prone on the lower wing with his feet braced against a board tacked to the rear spar. He shifted his hips from side to side, checking the wing warping and rudder, then moved the elevator up and down. His right hand rested on a horizontal lever that had only three positions—right, center, and left. When pointing to the pilot’s right, the cock connecting the fuel line to the engine was closed. To start the engine, the lever was moved to the center. When the pilot was ready to begin flight, he moved the lever one notch farther to the left, slipping the line that held the machine in place so it could move down the rail. At the same time, a stopwatch, anemometer, and propeller revolution counter were set in motion.

With Orv in place, Will turned and walked to the small group of spectators. He dispatched Daniels to man the camera pointed at the end of the rail. Orv had arranged his large box camera on its tripod before starting, and outlined the procedure; if the craft left the rail, Daniels had only to snap the shutter. Standing there shivering in the cold, he could not possibly have guessed that he was about to take one of the most famous photographs in history.

Wilbur walked back to the men with a final request—“not to look too sad, but to … laugh and holler and clap … and try to cheer Orville up when he started.” The elder brother then strode to the right wing-tip, removing the small wooden bench that had been supporting that side of the aircraft.