He had tamed the air and learned control when no one else could. It was his. The judge confirmed this, but Curtiss didn't respect that. A man like Curtiss just wanted to steal from him and, what's more, he would never stop stealing. Asserting and maintaining ownership of his own ideas was like trying to contain water in his hands—it just kept slipping through his fingers.
Wilbur sat in the darkness of the hangar. Where was the great payoff? When could he relax and enjoy the fruits of his discovery? He was consumed with business. He now thought back on Kitty Hawk, which had the quality of a dream. Everything was right there. The world was clear while he methodically experimented and worked out the mechanics of flying through the air. There he could control events just as he had learned to control an airplane in the sky. But now nothing was in his control.
He had returned to Kitty Hawk on April 10, 1908. Five years had passed since 1903, and Wilbur had breathed in the scent of the ocean and felt the stress slithering off his limbs. “Went down to camp…found things pretty well wrecked,” he later wrote in his diary.9 “The side walls of the old building still stand but the roof and north end are gone…. I strike various relics of the 1901, 1902, 1903 machines. A few months ago some boys stopped at the camp and ripped the cloth on the 1902 surfaces and ripped up our cots. The floors of both buildings are a foot under the sand. Two of the carbide cans are still on hand.”
Returning to his Eden, Wilbur must have marveled at how far he had come and how the world had changed since then. The lawsuits and endless rounds of meetings and patent fights had replaced the clear days of a single dream to fly. Wilbur now sat in the plane, in the darkness of the hangar. The suits would drag on and on. Curtiss would never settle. Every time Wilbur thought he had him, he melted away. It didn't matter that that crook Herring had run out on Curtiss and his company was in receivership. It didn't matter that he was broke and had a federal injunction on his company. The man continued to fly, continued to find backers, and continued to humiliate him with his flouting of his patent. The worst was that Curtiss won the races and made improvements on planes using their technology, and the press ate it up and put him on the front pages of the paper. Wilbur believed Curtiss was doing nothing less than stealing the Wrights’ moment in history. The injunction should have destroyed Curtiss, but it had not. He simply wouldn't die.10
His teacher and mentor had turned on him as well. Chanute had said Wilbur was greedy and questioned his legal suits: “I think the Wrights have made a blunder in bringing suit at this time. Not only will this antagonize very many persons but it may disclose some prior patents which will invalidate their more important claims.”11 They said Wilbur was impeding the progress of aviation in America. The people who didn't want to pay said that. He wasn't impeding anything. He just wanted what was his due. He had invented the airplane. He had cracked the sky, and people were profiting from his work, his toil, and his intellectual drive that had solved the hard questions. No one even knew the correct lift coefficients before he fixed them. They were all wrong! Wrong! And if he had not built his wind tunnel and worked out the new coefficients, then men would still be flying off cliffs and hills and crashing to the earth without any idea why they flew or why they crashed. He had broken the code, but no one wanted to pay for his efforts.
Then Octave Chanute accused him of pursuing wealth in the protection of his patent. Chanute said wing warping was an ancient art that had been invented in France and that Wilbur had merely perfected it. In a letter to an editor of the World, Wilbur wrote, “We have repeatedly acknowledged our indebtedness to the Chanute double decker for our ideas regarding the best way of obtaining the strongest and lightest sustaining surfaces. But it is an absolute mistake that he suggested the warping tip idea. We were using the warping tip long before we made Mr. Chanute's acquaintance.”12
Wilbur felt he had developed the system of control that every plane used, and he wanted his due. It was the principle, not greed. Chanute didn't believe Wilbur had invented something original. Wilbur suspected that Chanute could never really accept that he was able to discover what his mentor could not. “The New York World has published several articles in the past few months in which you represented as saying that our claim to have been the first to maintain lateral balance by adjusting the wing tips to different angles of incidence cannot be maintained, as this idea was well known in the art when we began our experiments,” he wrote Chanute in 1910.13 “I do not know if this is newspaper talk or whether it really represents your present views.”
Chanute then fired back a letter that would drive a permanent wedge between pupil and mentor, friend and teacher. It was the coup de grace as far as Wilbur was concerned. Chanute wrote:
When I gave you a copy of the [Louis Pierre] Mouillard patent in 1901 I think I called your attention to his method of twisting the rear of the wings. If the courts will decide that the purpose and results were entirely different and that you were the first to conceive the twisting of the wings, so much the better for you, but my judgement is you will be restricted to the particular method by which you do it…This is still my opinion and I am afraid, my friend, your usually sound judgement has been warped by the desire for great wealth.14
This arrow went straight to the heart. Chanute then took umbrage to the impression Wilbur had given to several newspapers that the old scientist had sought him out:
In your speech at the Boston dinner, January 12th, you began by saying that I “turned up” at your shop in Dayton in 1901 and that you then invited me to your camp. This conveyed the impression that I thrust myself upon you at that time and it omitted to state that you were the first to write me, in 1900 asking for information which was gladly furnished, that many letters passed between us and that both in 1900 and 1901 you had written to invite me to visit you, before I “turned up” in 1901. This coming subsequently to some somewhat disparaging remarks concerning the helpfulness I may have been to you.15
Wilbur, clearly stung, responded immediately.
Neither in 1901, nor in the five years following, did you in any way intimate to us that our general system of lateral control had long been part of the art…. As to the inordinate desire for wealth, you are the only person acquainted with us who has ever made such an accusation…. You apparently concede to us no right to compensation for the solution of a problem ages old except such as granted to persons who had no part in producing the invention…. When I went to France I found everywhere an impression that we had taken up aeronautical studies at your special instigation; that we obtained our first experience on one of your machines; that we were pupils of yours and put into material form a knowledge furnished by you, that you provided the funds, in short, that you furnished the science and money while we contributed a little mechanical skill.
He then fired his final salvo at his teacher:
We also have had grievances extending back as far as 1902 and on occasion several years ago we complained to you that an impression was being spread broadcast by newspapers that we were mere pupils and dependents of yours. You indignantly denied that you were responsible for it…. One of the World articles said that you felt hurt because we had been silent regarding our indebtedness to you. I confess that I have found it most difficult to formulate a precise statement of what you contributed to our success.16
Wilbur knew the friendship would not survive. The eclipsed mentor had protested the lack of recognition in the development of flight, and the pupil wanted to fly alone now and declare his independence. Neither man could be blamed for his position, but the casualty was clearly their friendship. Herring had come out of the woodwork and demanded compensation for his part in the development of the 1903 Flyer; what that was could never be determined. But to Wilbur, the world had become unjust and had proven that their father, Milton, had been right all along. Only the family could be trusted; all else was suspect, all else was evil. Evil had knocked out his teeth and broken his jaw and sent him into the heart of darkness and on a quest to leave the earth.
Wilbur felt the pain in his stomach and stared straight ahead. He had devoted the last twelve years of his life to the quest to fly, and it was unfair that he should be so tormented. The world was not just. He had been treated unfairly once again, just like his father, who had found that even the church was corrupt. His father was right. Anyone outside the family was a potential enemy.
Wilbur gripped the control stick and went over possible scenarios in his head. It was all about turbulence. There was no way to anticipate turbulence, no matter how much you planned for it. It was always different. It came out of nowhere and could throw a plane to the ground or cause a tail spin or a stall, or even knock a pilot out of the plane. Wilbur stared into the darkness of the closed hangar as he went over scenarios and moved the stick and the elevator. No matter how much you planned, the fact of the matter was that an errant wind could still kill you.
Wilbur was flying again. He was out over the dunes of Kitty Hawk and looking down at the two sheds he and Orville had built. He could smell the ocean, and felt the rising heat. Now he was riding the thermals, rising up like the hawks he had observed. He turned off the engine and could see the ocean and the Albemarle Sound he had crossed with Israel Perry in 1900 and nearly drowned. He was banking now and soaring with the gulls and the eagles in an updraft. He was happy again. He was back at Kitty Hawk, and when he landed he would have some biscuits and coffee and discuss the flight with Orville and make adjustments. Maybe they would sleep in the tent for old time's sake. But now, now he was going higher than he had ever been before, in fact, he was leaving the earth. He felt like he could fly forever.
The premature death of Wilbur Wright would have far-reaching implications. He had been steadily getting run down by the incessant legal demands. As Tom Crouch wrote in The Bishop's Boys, “He was constantly on the move from mid-December 1911 through the early spring of 1912, shuttling back and forth between New York and Dayton in an attempt to deal with the Grahame-White, Lamson, Winkley and Herring-Curtiss suits.”1 Orville would later recall that his brother “would come white” after court appearances and long hours with his lawyers. It was his quest, his plane, and Wilbur would do whatever it took to protect what he had discovered in the sands of Kitty Hawk.
It was May 4, 1912, when Wilbur had shellfish in a hotel in Boston and didn't feel well. He had written an angry letter to his attorney regarding the Curtiss patent suit. It had dragged on way too long and had been all-consuming for the last few years. And now his attorney wanted to wait unit the fall to begin hearings. Wilbur wrote, “Unnecessary delays have already destroyed fully three-fourths of the value of our patent. The opportunities of the last few years will never return again.”2 It was his last letter, and it is fitting that it was about the case that would not be resolved in his lifetime. He had written to a French friend, M. Hievesy, earlier in the year and revealed his understanding of the time wasted by the litigation: “We wished to be free from business cares so that we could give all our time to advancing the science and art of aviation, but we have been compelled to spend our time on business matters instead during the last five years.”3
Four days after he returned from Boston, he was noticeably weaker. Dr. Conklin examined him and wrote, “there seems to be some sort of typhoidal fever prevailing.”4 Typhoid fever had nearly killed Orville twenty years before, and now it was coming for Wilbur. The doctors thought it might be malaria and did not see Wilbur in any immediate danger. Wilbur, as always, knew better and dictated his last will and testament. Orville caught a train back from Washington to be by his side on May 20, when he took a turn for the worse. His father, now eighty-four years old, began recording his forty-five-year-old son's condition in his diary.
On May 15, Bishop Wright wrote, “Wilbur has not a high fever as some days, Roosevelt spoke in Dayton tonight, and Orville went to hear him, but was crowded and heard a suffragette instead….” Then he wrote on May 16, “Fever is unchanged. Orville left for Washington City.” May 18: “Wilbur is no better, he has an attack mentally for the worse. He is put under opiates. He is unconscious mostly.” May 19: “Wilbur asks to take opiates, but is mostly quiet and unconscious.” May 20: “Dr. Spitler came afternoon and at night with Dr. B. Conklin. Wilbur's case very serious, he notices little.” May 23: “The Journal represents Wilbur as changed for the worse…he seems about the same.”
May 24: “Wilbur seems better in every respect…the doctors have a long examination before noon.” May 26: “Wilbur was worse in the night, Orville slept little.” May 27: “His fever was higher and he has difficulty with the bladder and his digestion inadequate…. I slept with my clothes on. We thought him near death. He lived through till morning.” May 28: “Wilbur is sinking the doctors have no hope of his recovery.”
Then, finally, May 29: “Wilbur seemed no worse, though he had a bad chill. The fever was down but rose high. He remained the same till 3:15 in the morning when, eating his allowance 15 minutes before his death, he expired without a struggle. His life was one of toil.”
Wilbur died on May 30 at 3:15 in the morning. He would not escape the clutches of typhoid fever the way his brother had. It might have been the fact that he was older or tired, or it might have just been fate. Milton wrote in his diary, “A short life, full of consequence. An unfailing intellect, imperturbable temper, great self-reliance, and as great modesty, seeing the right clearly, pursuing it steadily, he lived and died.”5
A thousand telegrams poured in. Newspapers cleared their front pages with bold headlines, “INVENTOR OF THE AIRPLANE, FATHER OF FLIGHT, DEATH OF CONQUEROR OF THE AIR, THE MAN WHO MADE FLYING POSSIBLE.”6 Many of the papers declared boldly that Wilbur Wright was the true inventor of the airplane. A funeral was to be held at First Presbyterian Church. The family considered a private funeral, but the world demanded a public mourning. Twenty-five thousand people filed past his coffin. At 3:30 p.m., on June 1st, Wilbur Wright was lowered into his grave as all activity in the city ground to a halt: the switchboards shut down, the trolleys didn't move, and automobiles pulled to the curb. The inventor of human flight was being laid to rest.
Orville and Katherine pulled together; they were even more determined to fight on for their brother. They were bitter in their grief and, in a very Miltonian way, they held the world responsible for Wilbur's death, but one man in particular. Tom Crouch surmised in The Bishop's Boys, “They did not regard Wilbur's death as pure providence—other factors had been at work. He had been worn out by the patent fight, his energy drained and his resistance lowered. The men who had forced them into court time after time bore a share of the responsibility.”7
To Orville Wright, Glenn Curtiss was responsible for the death of his brother. Curtiss had hoped that with the death of Wilbur Wright, things might get better; but by January 31, 1914, things got much worse. Curtiss could now hear the faucet on the factory floor. It dripped in the rhythm of the clock that ticked in his office.8 He sat with the green shade of the desk lamp cutting just under his eyes. The cuffs of his shirt had grease painted around the edges, and his vest had dark oil stains that shone in the sunlight. He couldn't resist working on an airplane even if he was in a suit. But all that was over now.
He had just hung up with his lawyer, and the US Circuit Court of Appeals had just handed the Wrights their final victory and awarded them a pioneer patent.9 The Hammondsport factory he had built with his own hands was dormant. His company was in bankruptcy, and now the Wrights had a pioneer patent10 that said everyone had to pay them to use technology associated with flying.
Orville was ecstatic over the New York Court of Appeals’ decision and wrote later: “Claim 3 which was for warping wings or ailerons without a rudder was sustained as I hoped. This will give us an absolute monopoly as there are no machines at the present time that do not infringe this claim…. Of course we will make a claim for damages done by Curtiss…. This covers every machine that is being flown today…all of them have ailerons.”11
It was the motherlode for Orvil
le. A pioneer's patent could not be contested, and it said that all technology associated with the patent had to be derivative of the original invention. The courts had ruled that not only were the Curtiss systems of control derivative of the Wrights’ but that all aerial-control systems associated with flying came from the Wright system. Basically, if you wanted to fly, you had to get a license through Orville Wright and pay up.
Back in November 1910, Glenn had tried to work it out with Wilbur. Everyone knew he was the decision maker and the power broker. They had met before a race in Belmont, and Curtiss had asked for terms. Wilbur came back with a fee of $1,000 for every plane sold and $100 for each day Curtiss few in an exhibition. It was outrageous, and Curtiss wrote Wilbur again asking for terms. The same terms came back, and Curtiss responded, “It had been my intention to make you a counter offer but in thinking the matter over, it has occurred to me to accept a license, even at no cost to us, might not improve our condition.”12 Wilbur had written back on November 30, obviously irritated: “The negotiation was initiated at your request and now seems similarly closed by you…. It is well for both parties to refer to the established mode of settlement.”13 In other words, let the suit go through the courts.
Curtiss was broke in 1910, and then his company had been served again by Orville Wright with a secondary suit when he tried to get around the patent by making the ailerons a separate control. Orville's suit would win with the precedent of the pioneer patent that essentially grounded him, along with all other pilots who did not pay the Wrights a licensing fee. Curtiss had to somehow break the essence of the Wright pioneer patent, or he was doomed. He had to prove that someone else had invented the control system of the modern airplane first.
Curtiss put his feet up on the desk and stared at the photos of his various planes on the wall. If he could show that someone had flown before the Wrights—really, anyone would do—then the patent would not be valid. To hold a pioneer patent, you had to be first. His eyes settled on a picture of Samuel Pierpont Langley's plane. In the photo, the plane was on the houseboat just before it went into the Potomac. The damn thing looked like a giant bug on top of a boat. But he had flown a model aerodrome before. Curtiss stared at the picture for a long moment. The basics might have been fine, and Curtiss wondered if it had been in the execution or the launching mechanism, as Langley claimed.
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