The Bishop's Boys: A Life of Wilbur and Orville Wright

by Crouch, Tom D.

  Not approve offer to French war dept. Have not yet received any information from Flint & Co. Do nothing without I consent. Keep me informed.24

  Wilbur received a second letter from his father subtly echoing Orville’s concern. “The complaint that I have not written fully and promptly is incomprehensible to me,” he replied sharply, “as I have written every few days and kept back nothing, even when giving news in a half-finished state was dangerous and liable to lead to misconceptions.”25

  Wilbur reminded them that he asked Orville to make the trip in the first place, adding: “I never for a minute was so foolish as to suppose that the final decision should be made by the man at home, who, from the nature of the case, would necessarily be less competent to form a sound judgment than the man at the seat of action.”26

  Orville had promised to join his brother in France with a finished airplane as soon as possible—“So far as his letters indicate, he spent his time on things of no use in the present situation, and left the necessary things undone.” Wilbur assured his father that he had done his best. “If a serious mistake has been made it lies in the assumption that the machine would be available quicker than now seems possible. I am not to blame for this.”27

  In fact, Orville had worked hard at completing the first of a series of five airplanes, the machines the Wrights would fly in Europe and America in 1908 and 1909. They were virtual replicas of the 1905 airplane except for the seating arrangement, the controls, and a more powerful engine. The first Flyer, intended for immediate shipment to France, had already been partially assembled in Dayton before crating.

  The long flights of 1905 proved that there was a limit to the amount of time a man could spend extended on the lower wing with his head elevated. That, and the requirement to carry a passenger on the coming demonstration flights, convinced the Wrights to switch to upright seating and a new warping control to replace the old hip cradle. In addition, the new system must incorporate controls allowing the pilot to teach a passenger how to fly.

  The 1907 aircraft featured three control sticks. One elevator control was placed at the left hand of the pilot and another at the right hand of the passenger, or student pilot. The wing-warping and rudder controls were mounted between the two seats, on the pilot’s right and the passenger’s left.

  With one airplane packed and ready to ship, Orville left for New York and Paris on July 18. Charlie would follow in early August, in case they chose to assemble and fly the machine. Orville arrived ten days later and was immediately drawn into the negotiations. For the first time, he had some notion of what Will was up against. Targe was out of town, and there was little to do but wait. Will left for Berlin with Berg on August 4 to check out the situation in Germany; Orv and Frank Cordley remained in Paris to superintend the work while they were gone.

  Targe returned on August 6. At a luncheon that day, Senator Humbert, the man who was supposed to be presenting the Wright case to the Ministry of War, told Fordyce and Targe he believed the brothers to be frauds. They in turn assured Orv and Cordley that they did not share his view, and would see that the matter received prompt attention at the highest levels of government—a story Wilbur and Berg had heard several times over the past nine weeks. Then a new obstacle was thrown up in their path: a technical commission established to study the details of the contract proposed by the Wrights.

  Will and Berg faced a different set of problems in Berlin. The situation was straightforward but little more promising. Isidore Loewe explained that the Germans were still smarting at the “derogatory” references to Kaiser Wilhelm. Anti-Wright feeling was so strong that “the military department would not be disposed to do anything even if we should be able to do all we had claimed,” Wilbur noted.28

  But Will and Berg discovered that they could cut through the initial antagonism with relative ease. Over the next several days, they met with the leaders of the new German aeronautical program, including Major Hans Gross, head of the German airship detachment; Captain Richard von Kehler, director of the Motor Airship Study Company, a society established under the personal patronage of the Kaiser in 1906; and General von Lyncker, of the German General Staff. They were also introduced to industrial leaders, including Walther Rathenau, head of the great combine controlling the German electrical industry. It was even rumored that Helmut von Moltke, legendary chief of the General Staff, was mildly interested in the Wright brothers.

  Wilbur accepted General von Lyncker’s invitation to develop a proposal for presentation to the German government. They hammered out the basic elements in a meeting with Loewe on the afternoon of August 7. The Wrights offered a machine capable of flying fifty kilometers with a single pilot, and of making shorter nights with a pilot and observer. The price would be 100,000 marks for the first machine, plus an additional 50,000 marks to train a pilot. Wilbur had learned one great lesson from the French negotiations—never again would he offer a potential buyer exclusive ownership of his technology for any length of time.

  Before presenting the new proposal to Von Lyncker, Wilbur returned to France. Having offered an exclusive sale to the French, he could not in good conscience open talks with the Germans until the situation in Paris was fully resolved. He was almost pleased to find Orv caught up in the same web in which he had been ensnared for so many weeks. The old arguments over an appropriate translation of the proposal continued with Fordyce, and they seemed no closer to obtaining a firm answer.

  Wilbur and Orville made one final attempt to crack the multiple levels of corrupt bureaucracy. They translated the new German proposal into French and asked Fordyce to present it directly to the Ministry of War. Wilbur recalled that Fordyce “made all sorts of ridiculous objections to the form of it, saying it was not good French, &c., &c.” So far as the Wrights were concerned, that was the end of it. On August 24, Wilbur informed the Minister of War, through Fordyce, that all offers were withdrawn.29

  Wilbur wrote to Chanute on September 2, explaining the situation:

  I spent two weeks in Berlin early last month and found a much readier spirit to negotiate than expected. Capt. von Kehler who is manager of the Emperor’s motor airship society had shown himself exceptionally friendly and interested in advancing negotiations with his government. It was thought best however to withdraw our offers to France before starting there. We had a pledge from the Minister of War, Gen. von Einem, that if we would come to Germany we would receive fair treatment. As we found a very different spirit cropping out in the French negotiations, we finally decided to withdraw here and try countries we could trust further.30

  In mid-September Wilbur went back to Berlin while Orville stayed on in Paris to tie off loose ends. The Germans seemed to be the most reasonable of men. By the end of the month, however, it was apparent that they would not sign a contract until they had seen the Wright machine fly. Yet Wilbur continued to regard the Kaiser as a prime customer. “They are not engaged in experiments of their own along that line,” he told Chanute, “and would be very glad if we could put a practical machine in their hands.”31

  Had it been earlier in the season, Wilbur might have violated his principles and provided a demonstration flight, free of charge. He felt that he could trust the Germans, and that such a flight might persuade them to purchase Wright aircraft one by one rather than buying the right to produce them. “We, however, thought it best to wait till the opening of a new season before entering upon such a plan of doing business,” he told Chanute. “We did not like to disclose our machine at the tail end of the year, giving our imitators all winter to manufacture copies of it. We do not wish to get into law suits before we get the business properly organized and started.”32

  Back in Paris, Orville handled two additional requests. One, from a Mr. Stewart of the Barnum & Bailey shows, was not the sort of thing in which they wished to become involved. Nevertheless, he made a quick trip to London to discuss the matter.

  The second item was much more interesting. Lieutenant Frank Lahm, the elder Frank Lahm�
��s son, had recently asked if there was not still a possibility of dealing with the U.S. government. While the Wrights were not yet aware of it, Lahm’s query had special significance. Lahm had been living with his father in Paris while attending the French cavalry school at Saumur and had now been ordered back to the United States to take command of a portion of the aeronautical section of the U.S. Army Signal Corps. Before leaving, he prepared a letter to the Chief Signal Officer, Brigadier General James Allen, the highest member of the Army Board: “I have to inform you that I have just had an interview with Mr. Orville Wright of Dayton, Ohio, in regard to the purchase of the aeroplane invented and successfully operated by himself and his brother, Mr. Wilbur Wright. It seems unfortunate that this American invention, which unquestionably has considerable military value, should not be first acquired by the United States Army.”33

  In October, Orville received one more letter from the Board of Ordnance and Fortification, requesting that they meet with officials of the U.S. Army. He assured the Board that he and his brother would welcome such a conference and that nothing would give them greater pleasure “than to furnish the first machine” to their own government.34

  Wilbur and Charlie Taylor left Paris on November 11—Charlie for Le Havre to pick up two boxes of equipment that would be required back in Dayton, Will directly for London, via Bologne and Folkestone. They met in London two days later and went up to Liverpool, where they sailed for New York aboard R.M.S. Baltic on November 16. Will would spend a day or two in the Flint offices in New York, then move on to Washington to try to arrange the meeting with officials of the Board.

  Orv was still in Paris performing one final task. The brothers had every intention of flying in Europe in the spring. If they could not strike a deal with a national government, then they would make their demonstration flights and sell machines one at a time to anyone with cash in hand. For that, they would need a stock of aircraft. The parts of five airframes were awaiting completion back in Dayton. Orville, the engine expert, would explain their needs to a number of French companies interested in bidding on the construction of a series of Wright engines to be on hand by the spring.

  On November 19, Hart Berg drove Orv out to Santos’s old flying field at Issy-les-Moulineaux. Issy was very busy that spring and summer, thanks largely to the activities of Gabriel Voisin, whom Orville was about to meet for the first time.

  The partnership forged by Voisin and Blériot in the wake of the Archdeacon glider tests of 1905 had collapsed. Convinced that he was wasting his genius attempting to build and fly machines designed by his much less talented employers, Voisin launched a new partnership with his brother Charles late in 1906.

  Voisin had a vision of a new powered machine capable of winning the Grand Prix established by Deutsch and Archdeacon. The craft, a pusher biplane with a canard elevator and a box-kite tail, was a mix of the basic Wright structural elements with bits and pieces of Hargrave, Pénaud, and a dash of Santos-Dumont for good measure. Voisin was not a rich man, however. Before he could build his craft, he needed a buyer.

  Henry Kapferer, a well-known engineer and automobile builder, had assisted Edouard Surcouf in the design of the Ville de Paris, an airship commissioned by Henry Deutsch de la Meurthe. Surcouf, recognizing in Kapferer a rich enthusiast ready to invest in aeronautics, introduced him to his friend Voisin, who sold Kapferer on his plans for a dream machine that would capture the Deutsch-Archdeacon prize.

  Kapferer, attempting to cut corners, declined to purchase the 50-hp Antoinette engine recommended by the Voisins, insisting on a less expensive 10-hp Bouchet. The underpowered machine refused to leave the ground during its initial tests at Sartouville. Nevertheless, the experience was valuable for the Voisins, who set out to find another patron to fund a second, more advanced model of their new basic design.

  Late in 1906, Kapferer brought Léon Delagrange to one of his meetings with Voisin. The designer listened politely to plans for a fantastic aerial contrivance, then showed his visitor a model of a slightly larger version of the Kapferer machine. Delagrange took the bait. Eight days later he placed an order for the airplane.

  The first flight test of the Voisin-Delagrange I took place on February 20, 1907. It ended in near disaster when the machine literally broke in half during the takeoff run. Repairs were complete within a week, but the craft was damaged in precisely the same way on February 28.

  They had worked most of the bugs out by the end of March when Charles Voisin finally nursed it into the air, covering 60 meters in 6 short seconds. Other hops followed during the summer and fall, including a flight of 500 meters in 40 seconds on November 5 with Delagrange at the controls; but the Voisin brothers were convinced that they had accomplished all that they could with their second machine.

  That summer, Gabriel and Charles stumbled onto their third customer, Henry Edgar Mumford Farman, a son of Thomas Farman, the long-time Paris correspondent for the London Evening Standard. An Englishman by birth, Farman, who preferred to spell his first name Henri, was raised and educated in France, and spoke only halting English. He eventually regularized his position by accepting French citizenship.

  Like Voisin, Farman first tried his hand at gliding, flying a home-built version of the Chanute-Herring glider. His next step was to approach Gabriel Voisin who, in spite of his limited experience, seemed to know more about the construction of flying machines than anyone else in France.

  The Voisin-Farman I was built in a workshop in the Paris suburb of Billancourt during the fall of 1907. It was apparent that the Voisin frères had learned a great deal from their first two projects—and that Henri Farman was a natural aviator. His first attempt to fly the machine at Issy on September 30 resulted in a hop of 30 meters. Back in the air on October 15, he stretched the distance to 285 meters. Finally, on October 26, he made four flights, the last of which—2,350 feet in 523/5 seconds—won the Archdeacon Cup.

  In less than two months, while Wilbur and Orville were struggling to make some headway with ministry officials, Henri Farman had electrified France. And the greatest moment was yet to come. All of fashionable Paris was headed toward Issy on the afternoon of November 18, the day on which Farman would try for the Deutsch-Archdeacon Grand Prix for the first circular flight of one kilometer.35

  Wilbur and Hart Berg had scarcely stepped from their automobile that afternoon when Archdeacon came rushing up, gesticulating wildly and shouting: “Now, where are the Wrights?” Within moments, Orville was surrounded by newsmen. “There were several hundred cameras on the scene,” Orv recalled, “and not one that failed to take a snap at us….”36

  Attention quickly shifted to the action on the field. Farman ran up the engine, took off, and flew 1,500 meters in an almost complete circle. It was not easy. The pilot sat behind a wheel that could be moved fore and aft to operate the elevator, and turned to the right or left for rudder control. Farman had to turn with the rudder alone, relying on the dihedral to keep the tips balanced. Should a bank become too steep, the pilot had no recourse but to use additional rudder. It was not a system designed to provide safe turns.

  Farman did not capture the Deutsch-Archdeacon prize that day; he achieved that goal two months later, on January 13, 1908. The Aéro-Club judges who served as official witnesses for the flight on November 18 ruled that he had not quite closed his circle, and that the wheels of his machine had touched the earth during the course of the flight.

  Orville Wright was the only man present in a position to criticize Farman’s wide and wobbly turn. None of that mattered to the spectators who swarmed around Farman when he landed. For men and women who had never seen the Wrights fly, Farman had performed a miracle.

  When pressed by reporters for comment on the rapid progress being made by French experimenters, Orville explained that he and his brother “never liked to pass criticisms on the work of others.” Time would show “whether the methods of control used in the Far-man machine are adequate to meet the conditions encountered in windy weather.” Nor
had Wilbur’s opinion changed. “The French aeroplanists are busy,” he explained to Chanute, “but up to present we see no indication of a practical machine in the near future.”37

  The Wrights claimed to have flown, but to the French the excuses that they offered for not exhibiting their machine or trying for the rich prizes that were available sounded hollow. Santos, Delagrange, and Farman had flown in full view of the public. There was little doubt as to where Archdeacon stood on the matter:

  The famous Wright brothers may today claim all they wish. If it is true—and I doubt it more and more—that they were the first to fly through the air, they will not have the glory before History. They would only have had to eschew these incomprehensible affectations of mystery, and to carry out their experiments in broad daylight, like Santos-Dumont and Farman, and before official judges, surrounded by thousands of spectators. The first authentic experiments in powered aviation have taken place in France; they will progress in France; and the famous fifty kilometers announced by the Wrights will, I am sure, be beaten by us as well before they will have decided to show their phantom machine.38

  chapter 25

  THE RETURN TO KITTY HAWK

  December 1907~May 1908

  During his voyage home from Europe in November 1907, Wilbur concluded that the past two years had not been a total waste. They had made important contacts, and a number of high-ranking officials in Britain, France, and Germany now believed their claims. But they had not sold the airplane, and at present, prospects were bleak. “We will spend the winter getting some more machines ready for the spring trade,” he wrote to Milton from aboard the Baltic. “Then we will probably put out a sign, ‘Opening day, all goods below cost.’”1

  There was one more route left. The conversations with Frank Lahm, Jr., and the receipt of yet another letter from the Board of Ordnance and Fortification suggested that they might still strike a bargain in America.