Crossing the Horizon

by Laurie Notaro

  “Whatever the reason,” Sophie said gratefully, “I am relieved beyond measure.”

  * * *

  The next morning, on Sunday, the weather reports looked terrible, and Hinchliffe was once again dismayed and frustrated. He accompanied Elsie and Sophie to the Mass at the Catholic church in Grantham, then went immediately back to Cranwell to run equipment tests. Elsie arranged with the hotel staff to prepare sandwiches, tea, and broth in a hamper for the next morning in case there was any possibility of a departure.

  Hinchliffe and Sinclair stayed up for most of the night going over readings, calculations; factoring in stronger headwinds, lesser headwinds; and checking anything either one of them could possibly think of. But by early Monday morning, nothing much had changed. The snowdrifts hadn’t lessened, and the clouds and storms were still churning up the Atlantic. A takeoff looked improbable, but by Monday afternoon Hinchliffe hadn’t heard from the Air Ministry and pinned his hopes on a bit more time. He had thought, with Elsie’s decision to not fly, he might be granted several more days to stay.

  Elsie spent the day with Chim and Sophie, wandering the countryside around Grantham, throwing the ball and sticks for Chim, and having a chilly picnic inside the car. When they returned to the George, Captain Hinchliffe looked stern and perturbed.

  “There was a phone call from the Air Ministry today,” he informed her. “We must be off of the property by tomorrow at the latest.”

  It was down to the last hour. There was no appeal to be had, no reprieve. Hinch looked hopeless. Without a crack in the weather, all of the planning, hope, and investment in the flight would be over. The German team would fly out on the next good day and it would be done for the Endeavour.

  Elsie decided to go back to the church and light candles and say a prayer; it was the only faith she had left. Father Arenzen, the young priest who had held Mass the day before, saw her in the nave and greeted her there as she lit the candles—one for Hinchliffe, one for Sinclair, and one for the journey itself.

  She suddenly asked if he would receive her confession, and he agreed, seeing that something was clearly troubling her. Afterward, as Elsie exited the confessional, she asked if he could arrange for an early Communion the next morning before dawn.

  Hinchliffe and Sinclair spent another sleepless night poring over charts and maps, trying to predict where the weather might be based on what they knew already. Once again Elsie arranged for a hamper to be ready, and before Hinchliffe, Sinclair, or Sophie had risen, her driver took her back to Father Arenzen and she rang the bell at the rectory.

  Dressed in a large fur coat and hat and holding only a leather bag, she and the priest went into the church alone, only a dim light by the altar kindled.

  She knelt in the stillness of the church, under the large crucifix in between the statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary. They both remained there for a long time in prayer, Father Arenzen comparing her conviction to a soldier’s Communion before battle.

  She accompanied him to his study to thank him, made a donation to the church, then said good-bye with a wave of her hand, and disappeared into the car outside.

  * * *

  At Cranwell, Hinchliffe had already towed the Endeavour out of the hangar. After checking with the Air Ministry, he was jubilant, and told Elsie once she stepped out of the car. He expected a tailwind and good visibility for the greater part of the flight. In the last stages they were likely to encounter a headwind, with snow, sleet, and squalls.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I am delighted to hear it.”

  “Where were you?” Sophie said, coming out of the hangar, her coat wrapped tightly around her. “When I woke, you were gone.”

  Elsie smiled. “I saw Father Arenzen this morning,” she said. “He kindly arranged for Communion.”

  “Communion?” Sophie asked. “For what?”

  “Is Chim in the hangar?” Elsie inquired, and Sophie nodded. Elsie called to him, and the dog ran out excitedly, his long, floppy ears flying behind him.

  Elsie laughed, bent down, and nuzzled him.

  “Good boy,” she said in a cooing voice. “Such a good boy. I love you, Chim, my Chim. I love you, my good boy.

  “Sophie, would you?” Elsie asked as she took off her fur hat and gave it to her friend, then removed her great fur coat to reveal her leather jacket and canvas suit—her flying togs. She pulled on her leather flying helmet, her goggles resting right on her forehead.

  “No,” Sophie protested. “You gave your word! You gave your word!”

  “Shhh,” Elsie said, taking Sophie by the shoulders. “It will be fine. I will speak with you in two days.”

  “What do I say to them?” Sophie panicked. “I can’t tell them you took off!”

  Elsie looked at her. “I don’t want you to,” she instructed. “Say nothing. There are no reporters here. No one will know who left. They won’t know until we land.”

  “Please don’t go,” Sophie cried, her tears unstoppable. “I am begging you, Elsie!”

  “Listen to me,” Elsie said. “Take Chim back to Seamore Place and tell the staff that I won’t return tonight. That’s all you have to do. All right? It will all be fine. The next time you see me, it will be on the front page of your morning newspaper.” Elsie smiled. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t go if I wasn’t absolutely sure.”

  “But—” Sophie protested.

  “About everything,” she said, and handed Sophie her coat.

  She gave Chim one more kiss, then walked with Hinchliffe toward the Endeavour, parked in a bleak, desolate field of white snow and ice.

  One of the RAF pilots who came out to see them off had a camera, and snapped a photo of Captain Hinchliffe and Elsie standing next to the plane. In the print of the photo that would appear the next day in the Daily Express, their faces would be slightly blurred, but Elsie was beaming, and Hinchliffe, as usual, was looking directly into the camera.

  Sinclair, who was in the copilot’s seat, climbed out and shook hands with both Elsie and Hinchliffe, and the two climbed in. With an eager wave from both of them, the plane taxied across the snow-covered ground with a roar, speeding on the far side of the aerodrome for nearly a mile until it lifted gracefully, kicking up a plume of snow that sparkled in the sun, then almost disappeared into the mist. In a minute the Endeavour reappeared, dipping slightly as if to bid farewell to the little crowd now gathered to see it depart. It flew straight as an arrow to the west, where it was lost from view.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SPRING 1928

  Elsie Mackay and Ray Hinchliffe, moments before boarding the Endeavour, March 13, 1928.

  Captain Hinchliffe couldn’t have asked for a better takeoff. It was flawless and smooth, despite the abundance of ice and snow on the field. The weather was the clearest they had seen in weeks: the visibility was good, despite sporadic patches of fog along the Ireland coast. Just on schedule, in several hours they flew over Mizen Head in County Cork, one of the extreme points of Ireland and the first or last sight that seafarers had of Europe.

  From there, it was straight onto the sea, a sight that neither one of them had seen before from three thousand feet—nothing but brilliant sunshine and the vast expanse of ocean stretching for infinity. It went farther and farther, and although Elsie had seen the span of the Atlantic by ship, that was in miniature compared to this.

  She pulled her coat tight around her, poured Captain Hinchliffe some broth, and settled in. She felt triumphant. She couldn’t help but smile.

  * * *

  Sophie pulled up to Seamore Place at about the time the Endeavour skimmed over Mizen Head. Elsie’s driver pulled the trunks from the back of the car, and Sophie tried to encourage Chim out of the backseat. He wouldn’t budge.

  “Come, Chim,” Sophie said, clapping, patting her legs, doing anything to make the dog move. He refused, still stubborn, looking at her. Finally, Sophie pulled out Elsie’s fur coat, and in the next moment Chim was bounding up the front stairs beside her.


  With the front door open, Sophie waited for the driver to bring the trunks inside. She gave Chim a big pat on the head. “Miss Mackay won’t be returning this evening,” she told the butler. “So please don’t worry.”

  Elsie’s driver took Sophie to her Marylebone apartment, where she unlocked the door, brought her suitcase in, and fell onto the settee, sobbing.

  * * *

  Emilie Hinchliffe was just about to secure Pamela and Joan in the auto when numerous cars pulled up in front of her fairy-tale gated cottage in Purley, and several men ran over as if she might try to make a getaway.

  “Mrs. Hinchliffe!” they called at various times, creating a disjointed chorus. Joan’s eyes grew large with alarm.

  “It’s all right, dear,” Emilie said, patting her daughter on the back as she recognized most of the people as reporters who had been lurking around Cranwell.

  “Who is on the plane?” they shouted. “Sinclair or Mackay?”

  “I’m sorry?” Emilie said, not being able to make out what they were saying. It sounded like a jumbled mess. Sinclair . . . Mackay . . . taken off . . . India . . . America?

  “One at a time, please,” she said, bringing out her executive assistant skills. “I can only address you one at a time.”

  It was a battle of yelling again, but finally one reporter rose as the victor.

  “When the Endeavour took off this morning, who was on board? Was it Gordon Sinclair or Elsie Mackay? And where are they going?”

  “The Endeavour took off?” Emilie questioned immediately. “How long ago?”

  “At eight thirty-five this morning, Mrs. Hinchliffe,” the reporter informed her.

  “So, then . . . hours ago?” she asked.

  He nodded. “With either Sinclair or Mackay. Do you know which one?”

  “I did speak to my husband last night, but I did not know until this moment that he is on his way across the ocean. He had to leave Cranwell. I now assume his destination will be Philadelphia.”

  “Do you know who is on board?” he insisted. “Who was flying with him?”

  “Mr. Sinclair, I’m sure,” she answered. “Miss Mackay was not expected to go.”

  * * *

  The Daily Express, however, had already received the photo of the two aviators standing side by side next to the Endeavour. Still, it was merely a photograph, and was not proof that Elsie Mackay was indeed on board. The editor who had received Elsie’s previous threats of litigation decided to address his entire staff of reporters.

  “I don’t care what you are doing,” he said to them all. “I don’t care what you’re working on. Leave it for now. Find Elsie Mackay.”

  * * *

  Gordon Sinclair left for London immediately after the Endeavour took off. Hinchliffe wanted to create an air of mystery about the passenger’s identity, not only to shake Lord Inchcape off the trail, but because it would be conducive to building a whirl of anticipation about the landing if it wasn’t confirmed who the passenger was.

  Sinclair went to a small hotel in East London and stayed put, waiting to hear from Harvey Lloyd, Hinchliffe’s English agent. Lloyd had arrived at Cranwell within minutes of the takeoff. He himself was unaware that the flight had begun and was handed a note that was not written in Hinchliffe’s hand and that read simply, “Leaving on Atlantic attempt.” In Hinchliffe’s logbook, the pilot had written: “My confidence in this venture is now 100 percent.” Lloyd was also given another envelope from an RAF officer who was unsure what to do with it. It was addressed to Miss Elsie Mackay.

  He did not open it and later passed it along to the Inchcape family. Inside was a notice from the insurance company that had underwritten the Hinchliffe life insurance policy. The cheque that Elsie had remitted for the premium on the policy had bounced; she had transferred the funds to the wrong account. Therefore, the insurance that Hinchliffe had counted on in case something dire happened was null and absolutely void.

  * * *

  Kenneth Mackay wasted no time getting his father on the phone; right now, a telegram would not suffice.

  “Father,” he began, dreading saying the words he would be forced to utter. “I’m afraid she left. She left with the plane.”

  Lord Inchcape was silent—not in shock, but thinking, thinking, thinking.

  “Are you sure she’s gone?” he asked his son.

  “Not entirely, but it seems possible,” Kenneth replied. “She hasn’t been seen, and the officers I talked to at Cranwell told me that this Gordon Sinclair character has vanished, too.”

  “Was there actually a person, or was it just a name?” Inchcape asked.

  “They seem to think he’s a real person,” Kenneth answered. “There was a mechanic who helped Hinchliffe, and that’s what they called him.”

  “Could all three be on the plane?” Inchcape asked.

  “The officer I talked to said no,” Kenneth replied. “It would have been too heavy for takeoff.”

  “And she gave you her word, is that correct? That is what you said—she gave you her word.”

  “She did. She did give me her word, Father,” Kenneth said.

  “She’s never lied to me before,” Lord Inchcape said in a low voice. “Not a word of this to your mother, I forbid it. I can keep it from her easily here, but not a word to her, do you hear? Tell your sisters.”

  “Certainly,” he said.

  “And take care of things at Seamore Place. Ask the servants what they know,” Lord Inchcape said.

  “Of course,” Kenneth promised.

  “She lied, Kenneth,” Inchcape mumbled, almost indiscernibly.

  * * *

  The first seven hours of the flight were uneventful, easy, and smooth. Snow had fallen for the time they flew along the coast, but now that had cleared. Elsie had taken the controls most of the way after they had left Ireland while Hinchliffe took readings, refueled, and prepared himself for what might be approaching them mid-ocean. Sinclair, according to their plan, was headed back to London and into hiding until the Endeavour landed.

  There had been no time to phone Emilie that morning and say good-bye, but if there was anyone who understood his anxiety about getting into the air as quickly as possible, it was she. He couldn’t spare a second that morning, but the night before he’d made it clear that there would be a flight the next day. If it looked clear enough, he’d go all the way; if it looked as if the weather wouldn’t hold, he’d land at Baldonnel and the flight would be over.

  It was Hinchliffe’s intention to fly low, thus saving fuel by taking advantage of the greater lift and lower velocities closer to the surface of the waves. With gales and strong headwinds at the midpoint, conserving the petrol was of the highest importance.

  In his logbook, he had mapped the course out in three-hour intervals; at the end of each segment, their magnetic course would be changed to allow for differences in the magnetic variations of that area.

  “By this method the shortest possible water route will be followed,” he wrote. “We hope to be able to accomplish this flight, which takes the fastest ships five and a half days, in about forty hours. I trust that in the very near future we will see the establishment of an air route between England and America.”

  Heading east, once the sun set on them tonight, they would fly the rest of the way in darkness.

  * * *

  Once word reached the United States that the Endeavour had taken off, thousands flocked to the Philadelphia Ludington airfield and to Mitchel Field, Long Island, to greet them when they landed. Sure to rival the throngs that welcomed Lindbergh in Paris, the crowd began assembling even though the fliers weren’t due for hours and hours. Still, the Mitchel Field runway was lit with brilliant red flares in case fog should suddenly roll in and obscure the view. There were constant sightings of the plane that were simply born out of the excitement; there was no way the Endeavour could have flown over Maine in the mere ten hours since it had left England.

  At the Hotel Astor in New York, the League of Ad
vertising Women hosted a dinner honoring Ruth Elder. She stood up on her own and raised her glass and asked everyone to make a toast.

  “I hope and pray that the English girl will make it,” she said to the one hundred and fifty people in attendance. “She certainly has fine courage to undertake such a difficult flight, especially on the northern route, which at this time of year, may force her to land in icebound Newfoundland or a worse place. My own flight was a royal battle from beginning to end. I never expect to go through anything as horrible as that again. Every night I say a little prayer of thanks that I am still alive.”

  * * *

  The knock on Emilie’s door was weary. She herself was weary; she’d been answering knocks and doorbells all day. This time, when she opened it, there was a face she knew staring back at her: it was her good friend Ro Sinclair.

  “Have you heard anything from Ray?” she asked, not exactly looking panicked, but agitated about the state of her missing husband. “I haven’t heard from Gordon at all today. Is he up there? Did he go?”

  Emilie took a deep breath.

  “I’m fairly sure he did, Ro,” Emilie admitted. “That was the plan. At least, that was the plan last night.”

  “So the woman didn’t go?” Ro said. “If she didn’t go, why do they think she did? And where is Gordon? Please tell me. I’m sick over this.”

  “I have not heard a word from Elsie, either,” Emilie conceded. “All three of them are missing, in a sense.”

  “I wish Gordon would have left word one way or the other,” Ro sighed.

  Emilie nodded. “Would you like to stay over tonight? I was going to put Joan in with me, anyway.”