by Jeff Guinn
Ford adored the unapologetic old man and demonstrated his affection by insisting Burroughs be part of the Vagabonds’ trips. The octogenarian may not have wanted to go, but Ford brought him along so that he would have a fellow ornithologist to bird-watch with, and an expert to identify any plants or flowers that caught the travelers’ eyes. Burroughs was among the very best at these things and that trait earned him a place in camp alongside the nation’s most successful inventor, carmaker, and tire manufacturer. In exchange for the privilege of sharing Burroughs’s wisdom, the others overlooked his prickliness and constant complaining.
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On Sunday, August 18, the Vagabonds left Pittsburgh for the open roads heading south, though not on Ford’s anticipated early morning schedule. A truck bringing camp supplies in from Michigan was late, and even after it had arrived and its cargo transferred to a hardier vehicle, Edison wouldn’t be rushed. He had a brother-in-law in town and insisted on meeting him for lunch. Ford tolerated the additional delay because it was Edison. Burroughs was in Ford’s debt, and Firestone would never have dreamed of upsetting Ford’s schedule. But Edison, temporarily free of his Naval Advisory Board obligations, ignored the clock.
Even though the road was good, they still made only about fifteen miles before dark, driving southeast from Pittsburgh. Along the way they passed what Burroughs described as “processions of army trucks . . . the doom of the Kaiser is writ large.” The Vagabonds’ caravan consisted of six cars, and when they stopped for the day, servants set up camp in a roadside grove of trees a few miles outside the town of Greensburg. After dinner—a “delicious supper,” according to Firestone’s journal about the trip—everyone gathered by the campfire for hours of uninhibited conversation. No reporters were present, and everyone there trusted in each other’s discretion. Because Hurley had to leave the group and return to Washington the next day, he did much of the talking, answering questions from Ford, Edison, and Firestone about proposed Atlantic shipping routes for the duration of the war, and what new routes would come into play after the Allies’ anticipated victory. Their curiosity was based both on patriotism and self-interest—all three men did considerable overseas business before the war and expected to do so again as soon as it concluded. Ford lamented the cost of the conflict: “We must win, and to do it we shall have to use up a lot of our resources. It is all waste, but it seems necessary, and we are ready to pay the price.” It wasn’t all business—Firestone noted that there were also “stories”—and they lingered around the flickering flames until midnight. It was a chilly night and Burroughs had trouble falling asleep. He gave up about 3 a.m. and spent the rest of the hours until daylight beside the campfire “indulg[ing] in the ‘long, long thoughts’ which belong to age much more than youth. Youth was soundly and audibly sleeping in the tents with no thought at all.”
The rest of the camp was up around eight the next morning. After breakfast, the four Vagabonds, DeLoach, and Hurley amused themselves with some target shooting while the staff packed up the tents and equipment. Any hope for a relatively early departure was thwarted by the arrival of a delegation from Greensburg. Someone had spotted the Vagabonds’ camp, so the mayor, a contingent of businessmen, and a reporter from the local newspaper hustled out to greet the great men and invite them into town. Firestone assumed the role of host. The dignitaries were shown the kitchen and refrigerator trucks, the tents and the batteries that lighted them, and given promises that the party would stop in Greensburg on their way south. They likely would have stopped anyway—the cars needed gas, and fuel was to be found only in towns, most of which had at least one garage and fuel pumps adjacent to even infrequently traveled roads.
Lack of easily accessed, durable power sources had plagued American car owners since 1805, when millwright Oliver Evans attempted to drive a clunky steam-powered vehicle through the streets of Philadelphia, the first such recorded attempt at “driving a car” in American history. Evans had received a patent for a “steam wagon” back in 1787—it took him another eighteen years to come up with a working model. The vehicle went only a few blocks before the city’s rock-chunked streets broke its wooden tires to bits. Almost a century later, those financially able to afford cars could choose between steam, electric, and gasoline models. All had considerable drawbacks. Steam-powered cars required fireboxes, and the fires required time to light and heat the water necessary for sufficient steam. That problem paled, compared to the fact that the boilers kept exploding. Electric cars needed batteries that constantly required recharging, and these batteries remained powered up for only a few dozen miles at best. Even Thomas Edison, with financing from Henry Ford, failed to come up with a car battery that could hold a charge for hundreds of miles. Gas-powered cars were most practical, since early era tanks could hold perhaps eight to ten gallons, but finding gasoline was a challenge. Initially it could be purchased mostly in small quantities at grocery and hardware stores—people mainly used it for “vapor stoves” and lights. Some believed gasoline had healing powers if rubbed on the chests of children with colds.
As combustion (gas-powered) cars began to dominate the auto market, garages popped up in many roadside towns, often as add-ons to car dealerships. New York, Pittsburgh, and St. Louis all claimed the first stand-alone “service station” during the early years of the twentieth century, but it was 1925 before the first national chain of gas stations appeared in American towns and alongside roads. Gas was initially sold to motorists by the bucket or can, and then, gradually, via outside pumps. While gasoline remained scarce, proprietors charged whatever they could get, as much as 60 cents a gallon in isolated roadside towns where drivers had a choice of refueling or running out of gas miles from anywhere. Most early gas-powered cars managed perhaps 15 miles per gallon, with the lighter Model Ts doing somewhat better. Still, a range of about 150 miles per fill-up left motorists at the financial mercy of gas sellers until 1901, when the massive Spindletop oil strike in Texas and other subsequent successful drillings around the country made gasoline much more available throughout America. Average prices per gallon dropped to around 20 cents, with some fluctuation of a cent or two in either direction, depending on region.
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The Vagabonds party filled their gas tanks in Greensburg, and also bought a linen “duster” coat for Burroughs, who wasn’t sparing in his complaints about being cold the night before. There followed a further delay caused by what would become a common irritant on the trip. Virtually everyone in Greensburg surrounded the cars, maneuvering for clear glimpses of their iconic visitors. The Vagabonds wanted to get back on the road again, and town officials wanted some sort of ceremony, including remarks by Edison or Ford. But Edison never made speeches in public, and after his bumbled attempt at a public address prior to the departure of the Peace Ship, Ford wasn’t about to, either. They were willing to acknowledge the crowd with friendly smiles and waves—Edison, over the years, had also perfected a courtly public bow—and, to a limited extent, chat with local reporters (so there would be Vagabonds coverage in the next issue of their newspapers) and oblige autograph seekers. But in Greensburg and almost every other subsequent stop, everyone wanted more. Throughout the trip, Firestone was always willing to step in and offer brief remarks, but in Greensburg no one wanted to listen to him. Gracefully extricating themselves from town took some time. Firestone wrote that only “after considerable effort we finally got started on our way toward Connellsville,” the next town along the day’s anticipated route.
But the way south to Connellsville lay on an “unfinished road,” meaning it was not paved or even sanded. Hard-packed dirt pocked with divots and freckled with sharp-edged rocks proved especially hard on one of the caravan’s two heavy Packards. A bouncing rock punctured the car’s radiator and broke the fan that cooled it. The procession ground to a halt, too far from Greensburg to go back and still a considerable distance from a garage in Connellsville. Most auto vacationists would have been stranded, but the Vagabonds traveled with
Henry Ford, who raised the Packard’s hood and tinkered with the radiator leak until it was temporarily plugged, hoping it was capable of lasting the dozen miles or so to Connellsville. It did—just. But mechanics at the Wells-Mills Motor Car garage in town pronounced the damage unrepairable—all four arms of the fan were broken off. A replacement fan would have to be sent for. Considerable delay was inevitable, certainly a day at least. A reporter for the town paper wrote that “hundreds of persons” gathered around, all eager for a good look at “Edison, Ford and Burroughs [who] were of chief interest . . . all [three] were easily recognized.” Firestone apparently was not.
Ford listened to the mechanics, then asked if he could borrow some of their tools. Using his own penknife and their soldering iron, he poked holes in the broken bits of fan, stitched them together with thin wire, then soldered the wire in place. The punctured point on the radiator was also soldered tight. The ignition was switched on and the Packard ran perfectly. Ford’s repair work took two hours; as soon as it was finished, he was anxious to be going. Before the passengers could pile in and resume the trip, a delegation of Connellsville ladies approached. They requested that Ford and Edison pose for a photograph beside a pile of tires being donated to the Red Cross. Probably with Firestone doing most of the talking, the Vagabonds were able to demur without causing any offense. It was a relief to get back on the bumpy road.
But not for long. Soon someone noticed that the battery-cooled commissary truck had fallen far behind, in fact out of sight. One of the Ford staff was sent back in a Model T to investigate, while the rest of the cars went on to Uniontown near the Pennsylvania–West Virginia border. Everyone was frustrated by the delays and hungry because their lunch, packed in camp that morning and described by Firestone as “fried chicken and other good things,” was back on the missing commissary truck. Either Firestone or Ford had an agent in Uniontown, and he reported a phone call from the staff member who’d gone back to look for the lost truck. His message was that the vehicle’s drive shaft was broken. A replacement part was on the way, but there would be further delay until it arrived and could be put in place.
Ford and Edison had begun the trip determined that there would be no hotel stays at all. This time it would be camping all the way. But without the commissary truck there was no food to cook on the kitchen truck, and on only their second day out the Vagabonds found themselves in need of a hotel that could provide rooms and feed them—Burroughs was especially touchy about missing any meals. Fortunately, Ford and Firestone knew of a splendid place only a half-dozen miles from Uniontown. The Summit Hotel was a wonder, situated partway up a mountain whose crest offered a panoramic view in all directions. Many important people had stayed there, often while they attended auto races on the outdoor wood track in Uniontown. The Vagabonds had no reservations, and it was summer and the height of vacationist season, but surely no hotel of any kind would turn away Thomas Edison and Henry Ford.
They were in luck. Several rooms were available—Burroughs and DeLoach shared, as did Firestone and Harvey Jr. Ford and Edison had private rooms. Hotel staff obligingly fed the party immediately after its arrival. Firestone noted that although “all were very much opposed to a hotel,” he personally found it “a very delightful opportunity to get a bath and a shave.” Any notion Firestone had of a comfy late afternoon and evening indoors was soon dashed. Immediately after eating, Ford announced that he intended to hike to the very top of the mountain and wanted Firestone to come along. The tire maker afterward recalled, “Of course I wanted to be congenial, and said, ‘Certainly, I will join you in anything.’ ” That response typified Firestone’s relationships with Ford and Edison—doing what was asked of him, helping out in whatever way the two great men required.
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By 1918 Harvey Firestone was a businessman of considerable national stature. Like Burroughs, Edison, and Ford, he was very much self-made. Firestone left the family farm in Ohio to work as a bookkeeper for a coal company, a salesman for questionable health-related nostrums, and, finally, a dealer in horse-drawn carriages and accoutrements. In the mid-1890s, Firestone wrote in his memoir, “for the first time it struck me that my future was right on the wheels of my buggy.” Using his meager savings as start-up money, Firestone eventually established a company manufacturing rubber tires for automobiles. He realized that the solid rubber wheels utilized on early-era cars would not hold up sufficiently on the country’s rough roads. Besides virtually disintegrating at a rapid rate, the solid tires had to be wrestled off car axles and replaced with the same excessive physical effort. When rich men bought the earliest American cars, they almost universally hired an assistant who not only served as chauffeur—driving involved manipulation of a complex series of levers, far beyond the ken of the nonmechanically inclined—but provided the muscle necessary for frequent tire changing.
Within a decade or so, tire manufacturers began offering “pneumatics,” automobile tires modeled after those on bicycles, with hand-pump-inflated inner tubes that helped cushion rides on bumpy roads. These were almost universally crafted as “clincher” tires, somewhat bloated and doughnut-shaped, held in place by “beads” that made them easier to remove and patch or replace. Clinchers still punctured at a fearsome rate.
Much like Ford, who manufactured practical, affordable cars for the multitudes, Firestone envisioned better, longer-lasting tires. Defying established companies that adhered to rigid compliance with “clincher” patents, Firestone started his own business, naming it after himself, and through extended trial and error developed a tire with straight rather than rounded sides and a deep, wide tread for better traction on roads of all kinds. Though Firestone now had a superior product, he lacked the means of making his tires widely known to potential customers. Firestone tires would fit only on Firestone rims, and it seemed to him that all the major car manufacturers were aligned with his competitors. “We were ready to go on the market,” he wrote in his memoir, Men and Rubber, “But there was no market to go on.”
But in 1905, Firestone heard that Henry Ford of Dearborn, Michigan, planned to manufacture a fleet of two thousand cars that would sell for an unheard-of $500 each. “If I could induce him to put out these cars with our rims, then we [would] have 2,000 customers who had to use our tires to the exclusion of all others.” Firestone met with Ford, who agreed to test Firestone’s tires. He found them preferable both for their road performance and their price—Firestone offered them to Ford at $55 a set, compared to the $70 charged by his competitors. Firestone borrowed frantically to finance production of the huge order. In 1908, when Ford began producing Model Ts by the tens, then hundreds of thousands, he remained loyal to the manufacturer who had earlier sold him quality tires at a reasonable price. Firestone tires became one of the best-selling brands on the market, and Firestone’s fortune was made.
On a personal level, Ford found that he and the younger man—Firestone was five years Ford’s junior—shared several business philosophies. They disdained planned obsolescence, believing customer loyalty was best retained by providing reasonably priced commodities that could be depended upon to last a long time. Ford and Firestone were mutually convinced that the most work-efficient employees were those who felt they had a true stake in their company’s success, so they paid higher wages as well as offering various forms of profit sharing. In particular, both believed that companies could be efficiently run by only one man, whose orders must be carried out by efficient subordinates.
This carried over to their acknowledged roles as Vagabonds, where they were friends but not equals. Ford paid for everything and had the overall vision for the trips. Firestone, as a willing lieutenant rather than fellow general, took care of the details. Every summer that the Vagabonds went on the road, it was Firestone who served as go-between for Ford and Edison, helping the great men coordinate schedules and pick mutually agreeable dates. Ford, or sometimes Edison (whom Firestone also considered a commanding officer), chose a general region for each excursion
. Firestone studied the area, suggested routes, and was expected to know where garages and hotels might be found should the need arise. When foodstuffs like fresh milk, fruit, vegetables, and meat were needed for roadside meals, Firestone visited farms to make the purchases while Edison napped, Ford explored, and Burroughs found things to grouse about. Firestone was, in effect, trip factotum, a fact that Burroughs memorably noted in his journal: “We might pass as a real gipsy troop. Mr. Edison could play the magician and Mr. Ford the watch and clock tinkerer. I do not know about Mr. Firestone, maybe he could pass as an umbrella mender.” Firestone cheerfully accepted his secondary role. It was an honor to assist Mr. Ford and Mr. Edison, and, besides, every time Firestone’s name was mentioned in an article about the Vagabonds, it was splendid free advertising for Firestone tires.
It was Firestone who procured rooms at the Summit Hotel in Uniontown, and Firestone who had to smooth things over the next day when Ford had a temper tantrum in Oakland, Maryland. The carmaker had strong opinions about diet and nutrition, abhorring manufactured sweets in particular. At an early stop in Keysers Ridge, his hackles raised when Edison asked Harvey Jr. to fetch him a “pop” from the general store. Ford loathed sugary soft drinks but couldn’t bring himself to criticize his idol’s indulgence in one. He still seethed, and a few hours later in Oakland when Harvey Jr. obligingly bought Burroughs some caramels from another shop—the old man’s favorite kind of candy—Ford couldn’t restrain himself. Harvey Firestone Jr. was poisoning venerable John Burroughs. Ford stormed over, snatched the box of confections out of the young man’s hand, and flung it into the street. This violent act was witnessed by a crowd of gawkers gathered in the Oakland street, and Firestone wrote that they reacted with “great surprise.” This was hardly the sort of positive publicity the Vagabonds’ trip was intended to attract. Firestone apparently calmed the crowd with a few genial remarks, then hustled the travelers out of town before Ford could rant any further.