The Vagabonds

by Jeff Guinn

  They camped that night beside Horseshoe Run River in West Virginia. Burroughs and Ford spotted a rare bird, identified by the naturalist in his journal as a “painted bunting.” This lifted the carmaker’s smoldering spirits, and just in time—when word spread about their camp’s location, some logging crews working in the area decided to see the celebrities. Firestone described them as “a rough-looking crowd,” and one of Ford’s staff reached for a Smith & Wesson holstered on his belt. But Ford, once again in control of his temper, instructed him to put the gun away, saying that “kind treatment of these friends [will] ensure our perfect safety.” Firestone was less certain, but on Ford’s instruction “we went out and made peace with the enemy, offering them cigars.” To the tire manufacturer’s surprise, though not Ford’s, “they proved to be the most congenial and hospitable people we had met.” They told about their work, and offered to come back in the morning, when they’d show the travelers the engine and logging train they used to haul loads from the forest to the sawmill. Ford’s contingent of hired photographers came in handy—newspapers around the country carried photos of the Vagabonds posing on the train, with Ford prominently stationed at the controls of the engine.

  Afterward, the loggers helped Ford’s staff pack up camp, and later when the caravan stopped for gas in Parsons, West Virginia, Edison pointedly got out of his car, walked into a drugstore, and purchased what Firestone described as “a supply of milk chocolate,” wordlessly rebuking Ford for his actions the day before and satisfying his sweet tooth at the same time.

  The next few days of the trip were mostly uneventful. In virtually every town they passed, Edison and Ford were begged to speak. Both politely declined, and sometimes Firestone said a few words in their place. But they all posed for photos, signed autographs, and enjoyed the stories appearing about them in local papers. There were some adventures, too—once Ford spotted a farmer “cradling” or harvesting oats in his field. He jumped out of his car, helped the farmer for a while, then insisted Firestone try his hand with the oats, laughing when the city boy fumbled at the task. Burroughs, not quite as caustic as usual, described Firestone as having “doubtful success . . . the [process] was not so easy as it looked.” The cars kept breaking down on rough roads. Sometimes Ford was able to perform emergency repairs, but at others the vehicles had to be left with garage mechanics overnight and for a time the caravan had to proceed in sections. West Virginia, with its hills and narrow, rutted roads, proved especially challenging. But Ford had dealerships throughout—at the time, the state economy was flourishing—so press coverage was constant, and agreeable camping spots proved easy to find. There was a hiccup in Tazewell, Virginia, where a shop owner failed to recognize Ford and refused to cash his check. One night the temperature dropped just below freezing and Burroughs and some of the crew took refuge in an area club.

  August 26 found the Vagabonds entering the next phase of their journey, crossing into Tennessee, from where they would proceed to North Carolina and then back through Virginia. Burroughs compared the sensation to time travel: “A plunge into the South for a Northern man is in many ways a plunge into the Past . . . things and people in the South are more local and provincial than in the North.” Most initially annoying were the ubiquitous toll roads charging each car a dime or more to pass for a few relatively smooth miles. The first well-tended American roads were toll “turnpikes” in the late 1700s. State legislatures granted licenses to private individuals who constructed lengths of smooth road at their own expense, then charged for their use—perhaps one cent per mile for a horse and rider, a similar token fee for farmers herding sheep and cattle, three cents for those well-off enough to ride in horse-drawn carriages. Those who couldn’t afford tolls, or else resented paying for the use of any road, stuck to the rough dirt paths that served as alternatives. These were popularly known as “shunpikes.” By the early 1900s, when automobile use proliferated and gas prices fell, many states began adding a penny or two of tax on each gallon of gasoline, using the money for road construction, improvement, or repair, and closing down toll roads. But a considerable number still remained in the South, and the Vagabonds had to fumble in their pockets for the change required to pass. Burroughs noted a 1918 Southern toll of two cents a mile for cars and five cents for trucks.

  The Vagabonds’ main source of regional contempt, however, shared by many fellow Northerners, was the Southern people themselves. Burroughs wrote that “at a station in the mountains of North Carolina a youngish, well-clad countryman smoking his pipe stood within a few feet of my friend[s] and me and gazed at us with the simple, blank curiosity of a child . . . there was not the slightest gleam of intelligent interest or self-consciousness on his face. It was the frank state of a five-year-old boy. He belongs to the type one often sees in the mountain districts of the South—good human stuff, valiant as soldiers and industrious as farmers, but so unacquainted with the outside world that their innocence is shocking to see.”

  The first day in what the Vagabonds considered the true or deep South was a difficult one in both expected and unpleasantly surprising ways. By this ninth day of the trip, everyone had grown accustomed to Burroughs’s carping. He found fault with the cool night temperatures, the meals—no hot food for lunch was his chief complaint—and most of the roads. A longish stretch on the way to Bristol, Tennessee, was especially rough, and there Burroughs raised his complaining to such heights that even genial Harvey Firestone, whose account of the 1918 trip is otherwise uniformly cheery, felt compelled to record the old naturalist’s rantings. Burroughs declared the roads “the most damnable and despicable in the United States.” He believed that they were built by Satan, or perhaps the Germans in “one of their most cruel acts.” Respect him as they did, the others were becoming weary of Burroughs’s negativity.

  Still, the old man’s grumblings had become part of the daily routine. What happened upon arrival in Bristol wasn’t. So far on the trip, reporters had appeared on virtually every stop, all of them small-town journalists thrilled at the opportunity to meet Edison and Ford, and uniformly respectful with their questions—Were they enjoying themselves? Where did they think they might stop for the night? Any amusing anecdotes to share about life on the road?

  But reporters for big-city newspapers and national wire services joined local newsmen in Bristol, drawn both by the chance to impress readers with bylines from the relatively unfamiliar South, and because August 26 was just one day before a significant political primary. Henry Ford was running for one of Michigan’s seats in the U.S. Senate, and voters there would go to the polls on the 27th. The questions from the press in Bristol were pointed and, for a clumsy public speaker like Ford, fraught with opportunities for poorly thought-out responses. Why was he running? If Ford won a primary nomination and went on to the general election in November, on what issues would he base his campaign? If elected, what would his first act as a U.S. senator be?

  Ford was caught off guard in Bristol, and it showed. His immediate instinct, and first response, was to make clear that it hadn’t been his idea to run—he did so at President Wilson’s request. That much was true. By mid-1918 it seemed clear that the Allies would eventually win the war—America’s late entry tipped the scales in terms of military size and war matériel. It remained uncertain how long it would take for Germany to accept defeat and seek terms, and Woodrow Wilson’s vision of a postwar world was controversial. In a January speech, the president announced what became known as his Fourteen Points, a list of principles he felt must be met to ensure lasting peace. Among them was the creation of an international body where the nations of the world joined together to mediate disputes, and, if necessary, come to the immediate defense of any member finding itself under attack by an aggressor nation. This concept drew vigorous opposition from senators who believed it would surrender American autonomy to choose its own negotiations and, if necessary, battles. Any such postwar treaty proposed by Wilson would have to be ratified by the Senate. Wilson recognized tha
t the vote would be tight. One of Michigan’s Senate seats was open leading into the 1918 election cycle, and the president knew that Henry Ford, whose support had been so crucial to his own reelection two years earlier, would surely vote in favor of America’s membership in the international partnership that Wilson proposed. Ford quickly agreed to run—but only on his own terms.

  In Bristol, he explained these terms to the press. First, he allowed his name to be placed on both the Republican and Democratic primary ballots. In 1916, when he emerged as a possible challenger to Democrat Wilson, Ford was a Republican. But now Senate Republicans were vociferous in their opposition to Wilson’s proposed international ruling body, and Ford supported the plan. Declaring himself a converted Democrat went against Ford’s personal grain. He considered himself independent of partisan politics—he said what he thought, beholden to no person or organization. There was also a more pragmatic reason to enter both party primaries—Democrats and Republicans alike bought cars.

  Once he declared his joint party candidacy, Ford took further steps to separate himself from traditional politicians. In Bristol, he reminded reporters about them. Ford refused to solicit campaign funds—people gave candidates money only when they wanted something from them. He wouldn’t spend a cent of his own money seeking the Washington job, either. Ford also refused to actively campaign. Everyone in Michigan already knew who he was and what he stood for. If they wanted him as their senator, they’d elect him without requiring that he crisscross the state making unnecessary speeches. If he won both party primaries—and Ford felt certain that he would—then in November he’d be the only candidate for senator on the Michigan ballot, and so there would be no need for a fall campaign.

  In Bristol, Ford should have concluded his remarks there. He’d made his points, and the reporters had plenty to write about. But one generic weakness among poor public speakers is not knowing when to stop. When a reporter asked which party he’d choose if both selected him, Ford quipped, “I would pitch a penny to decide which nomination I would accept, or leave it to my secretary to decide.” Then, unprompted, Ford added that he couldn’t actually remember the date of the primary. Was it really tomorrow?

  Coverage of the Vagabonds’ arrival in Bristol and Ford’s comments about the Senate race took two distinct forms. The small-town press led their stories with descriptions of the visitors’ stay in town, how they ate lunch at a local hotel and obligingly signed autographs. Ford’s political remarks were boiled down to a sentence or two in concluding paragraphs, almost universally limited to his insistence that he wasn’t actively seeking the office but would serve if the people of Michigan wanted him.

  It was different among major newspapers. A New York Times editorial was particularly critical, citing “the bottomless depths of [Ford’s] political ignorance,” reminding readers that “it has not been customary to reward such [men], however amiable their characters and fat their bank accounts, with high offices of State,” and concluding that his supposed plan to flip a coin in choosing between the Republican and Democratic nominations “is a sufficient fatal argument against Mr. Ford.” The Times editorial was widely reprinted in other big-city papers, or else quoted in their own anti-Ford editorials.

  That night, in the Vagabonds’ camp outside Jonesborough, Tennessee, fireside talk after dinner turned to Ford and his chances in the next day’s Michigan primary. Away from reporters, Ford was more thoughtful. According to Burroughs, Ford repeated that he had “no ambition that way,” and admitted that his one vote among ninety-six senators might not have sufficient influence. But if Edison would also run for the Senate from New Jersey, Ford speculated, they “might together do something.” First, they’d work to repeal “all the patent laws” that restrained the work of innovators like himself and the inventor. Edison wanted no part of it. He expected that Michigan would elect Ford. Speaking as though his friend wasn’t present, he told the others that “when Ford goes to the Senate, he will be mum. He won’t say a damn word.” As for himself, Edison said, he’d never be a Senate candidate—among other things, he was too deaf. Ford took issue with that: “It isn’t what you hear that makes you useful, it’s what you do or say—what you tell the people.” Edison wasn’t convinced.

  * * *

  Tuesday, August 27, dawned bright and clear, but everyone in camp was still weary. Prior to their campfire political talk and post-midnight bedtime, they’d been practically overrun by well-wishers from Jonesborough, many of whom wanted to regale the visitors with extended tales of local history. Ford, frazzled by his earlier media inquisition in Bristol, lacked the patience to listen attentively. Edison stepped up, escorting the ladies in the group around camp, giving special attention to the tents and his batteries, which, he told them, brought “electric current” all the way from Orange, New Jersey. It took some time for the Tennesseans to leave the travelers in peace, and then after they finally took to their cots, cattle and pigs wandered into camp and, as Firestone recalled, “upset all the kitchen utensils and paraphernalia that was around.” It made for a poor night’s sleep, and any hopes of a few extra hours of cot time in the morning were shattered when a delegation of local farmers announced themselves, bringing choice watermelons for their famous visitors’ breakfast. The farmers wanted the Vagabonds to come back to Jonesborough for a while—there were sights they wanted to show off. Firestone tactfully explained that the Vagabonds had to break camp immediately—they planned to end the day in Asheville, North Carolina, which was at least eighty miles away over questionable roads. Firestone felt some trepidation for what waited in Asheville. Without consulting Edison, who they knew would object, he and Ford had decided they would spend the night at the Grove Park Inn, a popular stopping place for well-to-do travelers. Burroughs’s complaints about camp life had them worn down, and everyone but Edison felt the need for a bath and a night in a real bed. After Asheville, there would be another four or five days to go. Until then, the Grove Park Inn was their best chance to clean up and get some uninterrupted rest. And, since Asheville was a city of some size and connection with the outside world, at some point on Tuesday night officials there could surely inform Ford of the results of the day’s U.S. Senate primary in Michigan.

  The day dragged. When they stopped for lunch in Newport, Tennessee, Edison kept Firestone waiting in the hot sun while the inventor leisurely perused a newspaper. Ford and Burroughs, in a separate car, chose to drive on ahead. In Hot Springs, just within the North Carolina border, Firestone convinced Edison to stop and visit a German prisoner of war camp. The facility struck the tire maker and Edison as overly pleasant. Firestone wrote later that the 2,200 interned Germans “all looked well-kept and well-fed and certainly were having a nice vacation.”

  The next twenty-five miles of the route involved steep mountain roads, which made Firestone so nervous that he kept shifting from one side of his car’s back passenger seat to the other, always trying to stay opposite the precipice and annoying Edison, who was sitting in back with him. Around 5 p.m., still well outside Asheville, the inventor suggested it was time to find a campsite for the night. Firestone pointed out that Ford and Burroughs were still somewhere ahead of them “and a few minutes later casually remarked that they really had gone to Grove Park Inn and we were to meet them there.” When Edison balked, Firestone offered to camp for the night wherever the inventor liked, although that meant missing his own chance for a bath and bed. Edison remained displeased, but agreed to go on to the hotel.

  The inventor was still testy when, in one small town on the way, the president of the local college insisted that Edison speak to the crowd gathered around him. Ford and Burroughs had driven through earlier and Firestone whispered to Edison that Ford had made a speech there, so the inventor was obligated, too. The tire maker meant it as a joke, but Edison got even. He stood up as though to speak, then turned and said loudly, “Firestone, you make a speech.” Firestone did, remembering afterward that it was “a short talk.”

  The entire gr
oup reunited at the Grove Park Inn. At some point Ford learned that the news from the Michigan primary was mixed—he’d won the Democrats’ nomination by a wide margin, but lost the Republican primary to former secretary of the navy Truman H. Newberry. It was upsetting because now Ford would have to compete in the fall race. It was especially galling because Newberry had adamantly opposed the $5 workday. Local reporters and some national press wanted Ford’s reaction, but he refused comment. Edison, stepping in to give the journalists something to write about besides his friend’s surly nonresponse, offered an opinion on the cause of war: “It’s man’s foolishness. That’s all you can make out of it. Man is a fool.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Burroughs announced that he’d had enough. He and Professor DeLoach took the train back to New York. No one tried to talk him out of it. After a late breakfast, Ford and Firestone went on a long walk. When they got back to the Grove Park Inn they spoke with Edison, and the three men agreed that the trucks with camping and kitchen equipment would be sent back to Michigan. For the remainder of the trip, they’d spend nights in hotels. It would prevent inconvenient evening visits from town delegations and livestock, and not coincidentally give Ford a room to shut himself up in if the media badgered him too much about the Senate race. They couldn’t call off the last four days of the trip—Ford dealers and Firestone representatives in the towns ahead had already alerted local media that the Vagabonds were on the way.