STRENUOUS COMPETITIVE FLYING
The cardinal allurements in aviation for 1909 were the prize offered
for the first flight across the English Channel, and the prizes to be
won at the world’s first aviation meet, scheduled for the last week
in August of that year, at Rheims, France. The desire to win these
honors stimulated to livelier effort the most noted designers and
operators of aëroplanes, all of whose machines were represented at the
great tournament. It also brought into sudden prominence several new
aviators. Young men, little versed in the science or literature of
flight, took to wing, and in a few days found themselves world-famous.
Aërial chauffeurs, skillful and daring, delighted vast throngs of
people, kept the cables warm with news, and incidentally filled their
purses with money. Thus the trade of aëroplane jockey was one of the
interesting products of this eventful year.
The first half of the aviation season of 1909 brought forth many
improvements which seemed to augur well for the public demonstrations
to follow. Hubert Latham, with the swallowlike _Antoinette_ monoplane,
designed by Levavasseur, the inventor of the _Antoinette_ motor, began
soaring grandly in the sky and into fame. Paul Tissandier, on May 20th
at Pau, established a new French record by flying 1 hour and 2 minutes.
The Voisin brothers were perfecting in detail their boxlike aëroplanes,
noted for inherent stability, and destined to achieve further renown
during the summer, under the dexterous hand of intrepid young Paulhan.
This new and daring young aviator, after a few practice flights, began
making world records. On July 15th, he flew 1 hour, 7 minutes and
19 seconds. On July 18th he made a new world’s record for altitude,
driving his Voisin aloft 150 meters at Douai. Impatient Roger Sommer,
rejecting his own make of biplane, purchased a machine from Farman,
and after a little practice, broke the world’s record for distance on
August 7th, by flying at Chalons, 2 hours, 27 minutes, 15 seconds. Many
others were advancing in skill, and would erelong achieve excellent
results. Most strenuous of all, perhaps, were Curtiss and Blériot, the
champions of high speed, respectively in the biplane and monoplane, and
Farman, the winner of large prizes.
In the latter part of April, Henri Farman tested a new biplane of
his own design and manufacture, which proved very satisfactory. It
resembled his former craft, but was provided with small balancing
planes hinged to the rear margins of the wings near their tips.
This machine, furthermore, was provided with both landing skids and
wheels, the latter yielding to any unusual stress by means of elastic
connections, so that the skids took up the shock. With this improved
biplane, Farman beat his former records by flying continuously 1 hour,
23 minutes, at Chalons, on July 19th. Four days later he made a new
cross-country record by flying from the Chalons parade ground to Suppe,
about forty miles, in 1 hour and 5 minutes. These flights were gently
suggestive of what might be expected at Rheims the following month.
During the opening period of the 1909 aëroplane season, Glenn H.
Curtiss brought forth a new biplane, designed for the Aëronautic
Society of New York, with the coöperation of his new partner, Mr. A.
M. Herring, and began active practice for various prizes at home and
abroad. After some brief trials at Hammondsport, N. Y., he shipped his
aëroplane to Morris Park, in order to participate in the Aëronautic
Society’s first flight exhibition of the year. On June 26th he flew,
but without official witness, far enough to win one of the $250
prizes offered to the Aëro Club of America by its president, Mr.
Cortlandt Field Bishop, for the first four persons who should fly one
kilometer. He now wished to make an official flight for this prize
and also for the Scientific American trophy, a beautiful engraved
silver cup—which he had won a year previously for the first public
flight of one kilometer, made in America, but which now should go to
the person making the longest official flight of the year 1909, not
under 25 kilometers. But the Morris Park race track proved unsuitable
for such contest, being too restricted. He therefore took his biplane
to Mineola, Long Island, where he could practice on a wide plain, and
possibly make some new records. Here a triangular course 1.3 miles long
was staked off, and some short trial flights were made. Then Mr. C. M.
Manly, who was official timekeeper for the Aëro Club of America, was
notified that a trial for the prize would be made.
The demonstrations near Mineola were most successful, and proved the
beginning of a brilliant summer for Mr. Curtiss. On July 17th he won in
quick succession both of the prizes mentioned above. The trial for the
smaller prize began at 5.15 in the morning and lasted but 2½ minutes,
followed 6 minutes later by the start for the coveted cup. In both
cases the machine took the air with ease and grace, after a 200-foot
run over the rough marsh land. In the cup trial the first twelve
turns, aggregating 25 kilometers, were accomplished in 33½ minutes,
but the machine continued for seven more rounds, and finally landed
in excellent form, just 52½ minutes after it had crossed the starting
line. The actual measured distance flown was 24.7 miles, but the true
distance traversed by the machine was probably 30 miles, making the
time speed between 30 and 40 miles per hour. This was slow, indeed, but
the control was satisfactory. Those who wished for high speed would
find it in the new aëroplane which Mr. Curtiss would presently take to
Rheims for the speed contest, in which he was to fly as sole champion
of the United States.
The type of machine used by Mr. Curtiss in 1909 was a natural outgrowth
of his previous ones, but very much perfected in power and finish. It
was a biplane mounted on a three-wheeled chassis, two wheels under the
main body and one well to the front, so as to prevent toppling forward.
It was propelled by a single screw at the rear, directly connected to
a water-cooled motor of the Curtiss make. Its flight was controlled
by three rudders exerting torque respectively about the three axes of
the aëroplane, supplemented by two fixed keels, a vertical one in the
front and a horizontal one in the rear. Of the three rudders mentioned,
one in the rear turned the craft right and left, like a boat, one in
the front raised or lowered her, while the third or lateral rudder,
consisting of small horizontally pivoted planes between the wing-ends,
and turning oppositely to each other, controlled the lateral poise.
These lateral rudders, or winglets, used by Curtiss, Farman and others,
are commonly called _ailerons_.
PLATE XXVII.
[Illustration: _BLÉRIOT XI_ WITH MOISANT AVIATOR ON MEXICAN BORDER.]
(Courtesy A. J. Moisant.)
[Illustration: _BLÉRIOT XII._
(Courtesy E. L. Jones.)]
Louis Blériot with his two new machines, his _No. XI_ at Douay and his
_No. XII_ at Issy-les-Moulineaux, practiced nearly every fine day in
June and July, making fast progress in the art, and achieving some
notable records. By warping the wings he could keep his balance better
than in former years, and dare more severe weather. On June 12th, he
made a straightaway flight of 820 feet in his _No. XII_, taking as
passengers A. Santos-Dumont and A. Fournier, the entire weight being
1,232 pounds. This was the first flight of three passengers in an
aëroplane. On June 25th, despite a strong wind, he circled in his _No.
XII_ eleven times about the parade ground at Issy-les-Moulineaux in 15½
minutes, maintaining excellent stability. Next day he made 30 circuits
in 36 minutes, 55⅗ seconds, stopping finally because of spark failure
due to excess of oil. On July 4th, at the aëronautic meet at the Juvisy
Aërodrome, for sufferers from the earthquake in the south of France,
he flew in his _No. XI_ for 50 minutes, 8 seconds, at a height of 50
to 80 feet, finally stopping because of feed trouble in his engine.
This flight was his second up to that date. On July 13th, he made a
new cross-country record by an early morning flight in his _No. XI_
from Etampes to within eight miles of Orleans, stopping some minutes
en route, to show the practicability of his monoplane. Thirty-five
minutes after landing, his machine was taken apart and shipped back to
his factory at Neuilly, near Paris. After this record he received gold
medals from the Aëro Club of Great Britain and the Aëro Club of France.
He was also awarded the _Prix de Voyage_ of 14,000 francs, of which he
himself received 5,000 as pilot, 4,000 as constructor, while 3,000 went
to the motor manufacturer and 2,000 to the propeller designer.
The monoplanes _No. XI_ and _No. XII_ represented Blériot’s most
successful types. They bore a family resemblance to his preceding
machines, but had a more vigorous lateral control due to warpage of
their main surfaces instead of the wing-tips, as of old. Both were
provided with a single-screw propeller in front, and both were mounted
on three-wheeled chassis with shock absorbers. The larger machine, or
_No. XII_, had a wing surface of 337 square feet; the smaller a surface
of 151 square feet. The latter, on its historic cross-Channel trip,
carried a three-cylinder air-cooled Anzani engine.
Hubert Latham, in his beautiful _Antoinette_ monoplane, began to
achieve distinction for himself and his admirably designed long-tailed
flyer early in the spring, and, ere midsummer, was one of the favorite
idols of the thronged aërodromes. He preferred a lofty course; he
cut through the sky with the precision and grace of a winged-spear;
he fascinated the spectators by the steadiness of his sweep. The
French reporters declare they saw him roll and light cigarettes in
full flight. Not only did he delight the artist, but he surprised the
official measurer. Toward the end of May he established a new monoplane
record by a flight lasting 37 minutes and 3 seconds. On the 5th of
June he flew continuously 1 hour, 7 minutes and 37 seconds, at a speed
of 45 miles an hour. This was done in a wind and heavy rain which
drenched and blinded him, finally inducing him to come down. On June
7th he carried a passenger, something new for a monoplane. In July he
increased the altitude record by flying 450 feet high. Next day he
flew across country from Arras to Douai, 12½ miles, in 20 minutes.
Very reasonably, therefore, he announced, his intention of sailing for
England above the waters of the turbulent strait.
The _Antoinette_ monoplane resembled, at a distance, a long-winged
fish with its head cut off and replaced by a screw-propeller. It had a
skifflike body with the screw in front, followed by the _Antoinette_
engine, then by the pilot’s seat, the tail part carrying fixed
horizontal and vertical fins and movable horizontal and vertical
rudders. These rudders together with _ailerons_, or warping wings,
controlled the poise in flight. The body was mounted on a light chassis
having cushioned wheels, and a landing skid for absorbing shocks. The
engine employed no carburetor, and was cooled by water which turned
to steam in the engine jackets, condensed in tubes on the side of the
prow, then was pumped back to the jackets.
PLATE XXVIII.
[Illustration: _ANTOINETTE_ MONOPLANE OF 1909.
(Courtesy W. J. Hammer.)]
[Illustration: _ANTOINETTE_ MONOPLANE OF 1910.]
The cross-Channel prize, above mentioned, was a cash sum of one
thousand pounds, offered by the _London Daily Mail_ for the first
successful flight from France to England. Many would fain have it,
though the voyage seemed dangerous, if not foolhardy. Of the various
aviators who coveted the prize, Latham and Blériot were the most
strenuous in competing for it. The bold boy tried first.
Housing his aëroplane on the high cliff facing the Channel near Calais,
Latham looked toward England, impatiently waiting for placid weather,
and a chance to soar. The venture was hazardous. By some it was deemed
rash, owing to the uncertainty of having to alight upon the water, if
the motor should fail. But the brave youth was less alarmed than the
old aviators, who had no intention of competing with him. So, with a
boy’s confidence, he brought forth his huge-winged _Antoinette_, on
July 19th, skimmed along the ground, soared grandly above the high
cliffs, and sped over the waters at a great elevation, as usual in his
aërial voyages.
Latham’s flight was magnificent, but brief. Owing to spark failure
and the stoppage of his motor six miles from the French shore, he
settled promptly, but skillfully, down upon the sea. When found by
the accompanying torpedo boat destroyer, detailed to follow him from
Calais, he was seated on the aëroplane, serenely smoking, buoyed up by
the great hollow wings. He was quickly brought to shore, undaunted and
eager for another trial; but in the rescue his frail flyer was roughly
handled and very much wrecked.
Louis Blériot now hurried to Calais eager to attempt the cross-Channel
flight. Placing his little monoplane, _No. XI_, in a tent on a farm
near Calais, he waited an opportune moment to sail. On Sunday, July
25th, he was routed from bed very early by his friend, Alfred LeBlanc,
and taken forth all reluctant to the field, for preliminary practice
before sunrise; for the weather was favorable and he should sail as
soon as the sun arose. Though suffering from a foot burned in a recent
accident, he discarded his crutches and mounted his winged machine with
eager courage, remarking: “If I cannot walk I will show the world that
I can fly.” For some minutes he circled about the ground where, even
at that early hour, many scores of people were assembling. All was now
in readiness; the flyer was in excellent trim, the pilot in buoyant
spirits, and the torpedo boat destroyer, _Escopette_, well out at sea
to escort her swift aërial charge as well as might be.
The moment of departure had come. Blériot, buttoned in his
close-fitting suit and hood, sat on his white-winged machine, headed
for the cliff, and surrounded by a group of well-wishers. At 4.35 the
light-wheeled craft with propeller whirring, sped along the ground,
rose gracefully in the air and shot bravely over the precipice, with
the hustling aviator on its back. The admiring spectators were wild
with excitement and joy. But there was one sad group in Calais that
morning. Latham and his watchers, who had been waiting for better
weather, rose in time to see his rival on the wing, but too late for
pursuit, as the wind had suddenly risen. The unwary boy remained
behind, weeping with disappointment.
Blériot was now soaring high over the sea, faring toward Dover without
a guide or a compass. For some time he could observe the _Escopette_
following him, her great column of smoke obscuring the new risen sun.
Presently both shores vanished, and for ten minutes he could descry
neither land nor signal of any kind. He was sailing over the sea at
forty miles an hour and drifting with the air he knew not whither; but
he allowed his fiery steed to follow its instinct, as a bewildered
horseman does sometimes. Along the horizon now appeared the white
cliffs of the English shore. He was headed not for Dover but for
Deal, carried adrift by the southwest wind. Three boats crossing his
course seemed plying for some port on his left, and hailed him with
lively greeting. He could not well inquire the way, but he followed
the general course of the vessels, soaring high aloft. At length he
saw a man on the cliff violently waving the tricolor, and strenuously
shouting: “Bravo! Bravo!” He plunged in the direction of the signaler,
whom he knew to be his friend M. Montaine. On nearing the earth he was
caught in a violent turmoil of air and whirled about. Wishing to land
at once, he stopped his power sixty feet aloft, and swooped abruptly
down with an awakening thud upon the old English soil, sleeping in the
peaceful sunlight of a Sabbath morning.[52]
Blériot’s landing was the greatest jolt to British insularity since the
birth of steam navigation. Nevertheless it was welcomed with unfeigned
delight as emphasizing the triumph of a new art which enriches all
people. Shortly afterward was erected on the spot a monument in white
granite having the plan and size of the renowned _No. XI_ monoplane.
Sportsmanlike, Latham wired his congratulations to Blériot, expressing
the hope to follow ere long. Two days later he flew across the Channel
to within one mile of the English coast, where he had to land in the
water again because of motor failure. This time he struck the sea
violently and suffered a broken nose. His goggles were shattered and
cut his face.
The big competitive flyers of the world now turned toward Betheny
Plain near Rheims, where the first International Aviation Meet was to
be held August 22-29, 1909. Here was a place to make record flights,
to win rich prizes, and to achieve great distinction. A well-designed
aërodrome had been prepared for the occasion. In the midst of a broad
plain was marked by means of high poles, or pylons, a rectangular
course, measuring roughly one by two miles, or more exactly, 1,500 by
3,500 meters. At one end was the judges stand, the grand stand, the
café and the aëroplane sheds. The numerous cash prizes offered for
speed, for distance, for endurance, for altitude, etc., totaled in
value nearly forty thousand dollars. But the most coveted prize of
all was the James Gordon Bennett Aviation Cup, together with $5,000
cash, the winner of which should have the honor of placing the next
international contest in his own country. This should be awarded to the
aviator having the best speed over a two-round, or 20-kilometer course.
The next most desired prize was a cash sum of $10,000 for the longest
flight. A special charm of the tournament was that each fortunate
entrant should meet the distinguished aviators from all localities, and
should fly in presence of a world-gathering. Aëroplanes of all the most
successful types were there, numbering together thirty-eight machines.
The first day of the great aviation week, Sunday, August 22d, was
devoted to elimination trials to determine which aviators should
represent France in the race for the Bennett trophy. Of the seventeen
entrants in these trials the three who should cover two rounds of
the course in the shortest time should be selected as champions, the
next six, in order of speed, to act as reserve pilots. But owing to
the severe weather of that day, only six of the seventeen entrants
succeeded in flying well enough to be admitted in either capacity.
Of these six the cup champions were: Blériot, Lefebvre, Lambert and
Latham; the reserve champions being in order, Tissandier, Paulhan and
Sommer. These men won their places by bold flying in rough conditions;
for rain had fallen heavily during the previous night, and the wind
was still blowing in swift and gusty current over the sodden field.
Indeed, the weather seemed anything but propitious at the opening of
that great experimental tournament, on the success of which should be
based the estimates and forecast of so many subsequent meets. Swift
clouds overhead, and black flags displayed on high masts, indicated
that flying would be impossible. A passing storm raged at five o’clock
in the afternoon. But toward evening the face of Nature brightened,
and with it the hopes of the aviationists. The weather at last became
ideal. Nearly all the aëroplanes came forth, and at six o’clock no
fewer than seven were on the wing at one time. Some of them were
doing most startling feats. Lefebvre would make a threatening swoop
at the grand stand, then circle swiftly away. Blériot, in a moment of
unsteadiness, charged a wheat stack with his swift monoplane, damaging
his sharp-bladed propeller. Count de Lambert sailed under Paul
Tissandier, heedless of the aërial wake beneath. The crowds applauded
and cheered every novel and bold maneuver. The closing hour with its
sunny calm atmosphere and its vivacious well-pleased populace, presaged
greater joys for the morrow. Sir Henry Norman, who was present,
declared that those events marked the birth of a new epoch in human
development.
Monday, the second day of the meet, dawned fair and calm, with
promise of settled weather. It was the last qualifying day for
the ten-thousand-dollar long-distance prize, the Grand Prix de la
Champagne. No one who had not flown a reasonable space on, or before
Monday, could take part in the trials for that coveted honor on
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. The aviators were about early, and many
had qualified before evening. Several of the pilots tried for speed
records. Blériot, with an 80-horse-power monoplane, made one round of
the course in 8 minutes, 42⅖ seconds. Curtiss, in his 60-horse-power
biplane, lowered the time to 8 minutes, 35⅗ seconds. This was an
achievement of the greatest concern, since Curtiss stood alone, as
champion of America, against the more experienced flyers of Europe.
He thought of nothing, engaged in nothing, except the speed trials,
for in these he hoped to win, with his 60-horse flyer, even against
renowned Blériot, in his 80-horse machine. Other interesting events
were designed solely to entertain or amuse the people. Lefebvre again
furnished merriment by sweeping over and under, and around Paulhan, who
was flying at an elevation of 25 feet. M. Kapferer had navigated from
Meaux, in the dirigible _Colonel Renard_, and sailed about the grounds,
with fine effect.
Tuesday should have brought ideal conditions and performances; for it
was the day set for the visit of M. Falliéres, President of France.
But the morning was dark, with ominous clouds gathering over the
aërodrome, and black flags streaming in the strong wind. When the
President arrived, though the clock told four, no flying had yet begun.
He examined the machines, held an informal reception, and at five took
his box in the grand stand. Presently Bunau-Varilla in his Voisin
biplane, rocking in the fifteen-mile wind, flew past, waving his hat to
the distinguished spectators. After him came dauntless young Paulhan
who also passed the President, shortly before the latter, with his
party, returned to the railway station. He flew at an elevation of 300
to 500 feet, his Voisin heaving and lurching in the tumultuous wind,
like a boat on the breakers. He had no lateral stabilizing plane, so
he let his box kite rock. The people were appalled, but what cared he
for wind gusts, so far from earth? Let the craft roll and pitch; he
was not uneasy. On the return lap he raced and beat a railway train.
These were but inklings of what he would do with increased experience.
Latham followed presently on his long swift monoplane, to the delight
of all who love the graceful in mechanism and motion. Ere long he
was chased and overhauled by Blériot, in his cross-Channel flyer.
This was exciting, but Blériot produced still greater enthusiasm by
beating the speed record, lowering it to 8 minutes, 4⅖ seconds, for
one round of the 10-kilometer (6.21 mile) course. The day was ended,
and the spectators were charmed again by the spectacular evolutions
of Lefebvre, who cavorted in the air before the grand stand, cutting
impressive curves and figure “8’s.”
Wednesday morning, the fourth of the meet, was heavy with black clouds,
which presaged unfavorable weather. The winds were light, but still
nothing transpired till late in the afternoon to break the monotony
of waiting. During this long interval the crowd could amuse itself
with gossip, refreshments and music, and with an occasional flight of
lesser moment. About four o’clock Paulhan set forth in a six-mile wind
to try for the Grand Prix de la Champagne. His lumbering Voisin had
a speed of hardly more than thirty miles an hour, but it was driven
by a very reliable 50-horse Gnome 7-cylinder motor, whose body spins
round a fixed crank, carrying the propeller with it. No one at first
expected a very long flight. The wind rose, sometimes exceeding 20
miles an hour, tossing the young pilot terribly, and once throwing
him so far within the course that he must turn a complete circle in
order to round the corner post, or pylon. But he kept right on, so
long as there remained a drop of fuel. He first broke Wilbur Wright’s
best record, by 23 minutes, then Sommer’s recent record, by 6 minutes,
finally landing, at half past six o’clock, with a new world’s record
of 82 miles in 2 hours, 43 minutes and 24⅘ seconds. The people were
frantic with excitement; they clapped their hands and waved thousands
of handkerchiefs; they rent the air with tremendous applause as he
was borne toward the grand stand on the shoulders of his clamorous
comrades. Others at the same time had been flying with varied fortune.
During Paulhan’s long demonstration, Fournier had encountered a
miniature whirlwind, turned over in the air, at a great height, and
crashed sidewise to the ground, with some injury to his nose, and with
much damage to the wings and tail of his machine. Latham, wishing to
lower his circuit time, flew thrice around the course, but without
improvement. During his flight, a splendid rainbow appeared, which
together with the _Antoinette_ dragon fly soaring high aloft with
Latham on its back, produced an impressive spectacle.
Thursday morning brought fine weather and the promise of an eventful
day. As a consequence serious efforts were made to excel all previous
records, particularly for speed, duration and distance. In the forenoon
Latham flew 43.5 miles in the _Antoinette XIII_. In the afternoon Count
de Lambert, in his Wright biplane, flew 72 miles. Blériot entertained
the throng by carrying Delagrange as passenger; but while sailing near
the ground he encountered some dragoons, turned sidewise to avoid
striking them, and plunged into a fence, breaking his propeller. But
the great sensation of the day was Latham’s afternoon flight for the
Grand Prix, in his _Antoinette No. 29_. Starting with plenty of fuel
and favorable weather, he rose to a high level and flew till his supply
was exhausted, at times encountering rough winds and for a while
plowing through a rainstorm. It was the banner flight of the week thus
far; for it surpassed all other long ones in distance and speed, though
not equaling Paulhan’s in endurance. His total range, when compelled
to alight through exhaustion of fuel, was 95.88 miles, in 2 hours,
18 minutes, 9⅗ seconds. This showed an average speed of 41.63 miles
an hour for the whole distance, while the speed for his first round
was 44.65 miles an hour. For this great achievement he could thank
his 50-horse, 8-cylinder _Antoinette_ motor, one of the lightest in
existence, for that power.
Friday, August 27th, was the last day allotted for the distance, or
Grand Prix contest. After the wonderful new records of Paulhan and
Latham, people were marveling what might happen on the final day. Many
assumed, of course, that Latham’s record of 96 miles would remain
unsurpassed. At four-thirty, Latham started on another long flight, in
his _Antoinette_ monoplane _No. 13_, followed presently by Farman and
Sommer in Farman biplanes; these flying six to twelve feet from the
ground, with gallant Latham soaring aloft nearly three hundred feet in
his swift long-winged fish, and occasionally gaining a lap on them.
Sommer stopped after three rounds, because of motor trouble. Latham’s
fuel gave out after a voyage of 68.35 miles, and he glided to earth.
Farman continued to plod along on his slow, low-wandering craft, with
little attention. Others were in the air, with biplanes and monoplanes,
entertaining the populace—Blériot, Curtiss, Delagrange, Tissandier,
Bunau-Varilla—these had the applause. Presently the spectators
remembered that ground-skimming Farman had been a very long time on the
wing. He now became the center of rapt attention. Slowly he distanced
Paulhan’s great world’s record of Wednesday; slowly he distanced
Latham’s greater world’s record of Thursday; but still he plodded away.
The sun sank on his flight; darkness came on the field, so that he
vanished from view at the far end of the course. At the close of the
nineteenth round he landed in the dark before the grand stand, limp
and exhausted, having journeyed 3¼ hours and traversed 118.06 miles.
For the second time he had won a $10,000 prize; nineteen months ago by
flying 1 kilometer, to-day by flying 190 kilometers. A searchlight was
thrown upon him. He was pulled from his machine and carried upon the
shoulders of his friends, receiving a prolonged and tremendous ovation.
The seventh morning of the tournament, Saturday, August 28th,
came with a beaming smile, promising good flights and a pleasant
termination of the glorious cup contest for the highest speed in two
rounds of the 10-kilometer course. The air was calm, mild and hazy
above the Betheny plain. The flyers were in fine mood for great
achievements. The thronging groups of well-dressed men and women
awaited further startling events, with varied animation and constant
chatter. The day was well diversified with interesting flights; but,
of course, not with long ones. The chief interest centered in the
leading cup-champions—solitary Yankee Curtiss and great Blériot with
his 80-horse monoplane, supported, if need be, by his allies in the
contest, Lefebvre and Latham.
Curtiss, shortly after ten o’clock, made a preliminary trial, lowering
his best anterior time. With this he was so pleased that he prepared
immediately for the one official flight allowed in that contest. He
filled his small gasoline tank, replenished his radiator, signed a
legal paper certifying this to be his trial for the cup, and at once
took wing, circling before the grand stand, then crossing the line at
full speed. The biplane pitched perceptibly at its unusual gait, but
turned the corner in easy curves, completing the first round in 7.57⅖,
the second in 7.53⅕; the total time being 15 minutes, 50⅗ seconds, and
showing an average speed of 47.04 miles an hour.
About noon Blériot came forth with his 80-horse monoplane _No. 22_,
which was expected to eclipse the Curtiss biplane, but in reality
proved exasperatingly slow. At two o’clock he tried another propeller,
with little encouragement. An hour later he tried again with a
four-blade propeller, but descended before completing the round. After
tinkering for an hour, aided by several mechanics, he flew to his shed,
shortly before five o’clock. As no start was allowed after five-thirty,
he hastened zealously and started his official flight at five-ten. The
mighty monoplane cut the air at terrific speed, without pitching, or
rolling, and finished the first round in 7.47⅘, or 5⅔ seconds less
than Curtiss’ best lap. The overjoyed French throng rent the air with
frantic bravos! Curtiss and Mr. Bishop were silent, appreciating the
skill of that fiery antagonist, with his monster engine. As the steady
birdlike craft turned the last pylon, and swept homeward in magnificent
career, the timers called out the seconds. The throng listened with
abated breath and then with alarm. Blériot had lost speed in the
second round. When he crossed the line his total time was 5⅗ seconds
greater than that of his only rival. The conqueror of the Channel, the
champion of France, was defeated and the international trophy must go
to America, won by a taciturn, calculating Yankee, never before seen in
Europe, and hardly known to fame.
Other official flights for the cup during the day were made by Latham
and Lefebvre for France, and by Mr. Cockburn, champion for England,
the latter bird-man sailing into a stack of wheat in the middle of
his first round, then wheeling to earth. Incidentally Henri Farman
established a new world’s three-man duration distance and speed record
by carrying two passengers ten kilometers in 10 minutes 39 seconds.
Thus ended the chief day of the tournament, leaving the contestants in
the following order of speed: Curtiss, Blériot, Latham, Lefebvre.
Of the other leading prizes, that for the fastest single round was
taken by Blériot; that for the fastest three-round flight was won by
Curtiss on Sunday, with a record of 23 minutes, 29 seconds for the
thirty kilometers; the Altitude Prize was won by Latham, who attained
an elevation of 508.5 feet; the Prix des Mecaniciens was won by
Bunau-Varilla in a flight of 100 kilometers; the Prix des Aëronats
was won, on Sunday, by the large dirigible, the _Colonel Renard_,
in a voyage of 50 kilometers, or 31.06 miles, at an average speed of
24.9 miles an hour. Along with the chief prizes, many smaller ones of
considerable value were awarded, thus summing up the total of $37,000.
The small band of men who organized the first international aviation
meet, with the Marquis de Polignac as president, and the great wine
merchants of the Champagne district as their supporters, were now
elated and triumphant. They had undertaken a novel and costly sporting
enterprise, regarded by many as hazardous, or rash, even though
sanctioned by the Aëro Club of France. For an enormous attendance
would be required to meet the expense of preparations and prize money.
It was doubtful whether the few available aviators could draw large
crowds to Betheny for a week, even in ideal weather, and there was risk
of sending the critical populace away displeased if abundant flights
were not made. The whole event might prove a painful fiasco, if rains
and high winds should predominate; for were not aviators notoriously
reluctant to fly in rough weather? Vain apprehensions, ignoring the
reckless and intrepid daring of the Gallic sportsmen! Nothing short of
a week’s continual tempest could have kept them down.
The great tournament was a triumph, not only to the courageous
promoters, but also to the aviators, the manufacturers, the whole of
mankind. It astonished both actors and spectators. It marked a new
epoch in the art of aëroplaning. It inaugurated a magical and wholly
novel kind of recreation and public amusement that should be demanded
at once in all civilized countries. It eradicated, in a measure, the
inveterate notion that the aëroplane is essentially a fair-weather
machine. With a cheap instrument capable of flying scores of miles
in rain and wind, what applications might not come, of the greatest
import to the world?
The fashion set at Rheims was imitated in other cities. Before the
close of the year 1909, aviation meets were scheduled for Brescia in
Italy, Berlin, Juvisy, near Paris, Blackpool and Doncaster, England.
The succeeding year was to have more such events than the really
capable aviators could attend. In both hemispheres, sums in cash,
equaling or exceeding those at Rheims, would be offered by many
prominent communities, eager to witness such novel and thrilling
entertainment as only dexterous aviators could furnish. But it would be
learned also that considerable financial risk attends an aviation meet,
unless good judgment mark the choice of site, season, pilots and the
executive agencies. Several of the meets following the one at Rheims
succeeded neither in defraying expenses nor in furnishing competent
aviators to repay the trouble of holding the tournament. The meets
held in England were practically failures. A most interesting flight,
however, was performed by Latham in a wind of 25 to 35 miles an hour.
This itself was a very impressive achievement. The Brescia meeting was
remarkable for the turbulence of its aërial currents and for Rougier’s
record high flight of 645 feet.
The two most wonderful flights in the autumn of 1909 were those of
Count de Lambert and Farman. During a meet at the Juvisy aërodrome,
Lambert, on October 18th, after circling the ground a few times on a
Wright biplane, attaining a height of 450 feet, started for Paris,
steadily ascending in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. Circling this
at an altitude of about 1,300 feet, he returned to Juvisy at 5.30
P.M., having journeyed 30 miles over that dangerous route, in about
50 minutes. This indicated that lofty flying might enable one to
pass safely over a city, even with an unreliable motor, since, if the
propeller stopped, a glide of many thousands of feet could be made, to
choose a landing. Farman’s flight was less spectacular, but quite as
marvelous. On November 4th, while competing for the Michelin trophy
for the longest distance traversed in 1909, he flew continuously for
4 hours, 6 minutes, 25 seconds, voyaging in that time 144 miles, at
an average speed of 35.06 miles an hour. This proved to be the record
distance-and-endurance flight for the year. Other men spoke of sailing
all day in a machine carrying ample gasoline, but failed to make good
their words.
PLATE XXIX.
[Illustration: ESNAULT-PELTERIE MONOPLANE, EARLY PATTERN.
(Courtesy W. J. Hammer.)]
[Illustration: ESNAULT-PELTERIE MONOPLANE OF 1910.]
Unheralded, but quite astonishing, were the flights of Santos-Dumont
in September, 1909. Though conspicuous as a pioneer in aviation, he
for a while had been absorbed in other affairs, and had not kept pace
with his brother aëroplanists in France, since his bold and brief
dashes into the air in the early days of the art. During the season of
1909, however, he developed a surprisingly small and simple monoplane,
spreading 102 square feet of wing surface, and weighing in complete
running order, 259 pounds. It was driven by a Darrac motor, mounted
above the main surface, carrying the propeller directly on its shaft,
and having radiator tubes along the inner surface of the main plane.
Its triangular trussed frame was wheel-mounted, and tapered rapidly
to the rear, terminating in horizontal and vertical rudders. With
this tiniest flyer he sailed across country from St. Cyr to Buc, 4¾
miles, in five minutes, at the unprecedented speed of 55 miles an
hour, repeating the performance several times, according to report. He
also left the ground after a run of 60 feet, in an unofficial trial.
Characteristically, he presented to the public the scale drawings of
his machine, with all rights to its use.
A very original type of monoplane was developed by Robert
Esnault-Pélterie, who began experimenting in 1903. As shown in Plate
XXIX, its body frame was covered to reduce air-resistance, and was
provided with ample keel surface to promote directness and steadiness
of flight. The weight was borne on two wheels in tandem, aided by
wheels at the wing tips to preserve the lateral balance when the
machine was resting. When under way the lateral poise was controlled by
wing warping; the motion about the other two axes being controlled by a
horizontal and a vertical rudder, the latter being “compensated,” that
is, having its axis near the center of side pressure, when in action.
An air-cooled motor of 30 to 35 horse power with a direct mounted
four-blade screw formed the propulsion plant. Though the “R. E. P.”
aëroplane, as it was commonly called, did not achieve great distinction
at first, due, perhaps, to the inventor’s being over original, and
making all its parts himself, instead of buying some high-class engine
and propeller, as other successful aëroplanists had done, still his
machine was greatly admired by technicians for its excellent finish and
the fastidious, thorough and patient manner in which its young inventor
labored to make it perfect, both in design and construction. It was
regarded as a future record breaker, which, indeed, it was destined to
become on further improvement.
Although little was accomplished in building aëroplanes in other
countries than America and France, up to the beginning of 1909, that
year witnessed some good flights in homemade machines in Germany,
England and Canada. In November, 1909, Herr Grade, in Germany, made
a flight of 55 minutes in his monoplane. Mr. S. F. Cody, who
constructed a biplane for the British army, flew over forty miles
across country on September 8th, high above trees and buildings,
remaining on the wing for 63 minutes. The machine spanned 52 feet,
weighed with the pilot, nearly a ton, and was controlled by front
and rear vertical rudders and two lateral rudders, well in front, so
geared that if worked oppositely the machine listed, while if worked
identically it rose or fell. In Canada Dr. Alexander Graham Bell and
his associates continued the experiments, already described, begun
in 1908 by the Aërial Experiment Association. In 1909 their fourth
machine, the _Silver Dart_, flew many times round a course on the
frozen lake, Bras d’Or, traversing, all told, about 1,000 miles in 100
flights.
PLATE XXX.
[Illustration: GRADE MONOPLANE.
(Courtesy E. L. Jones.)]
[Illustration: CODY BIPLANE.]
The last months of this strenuous year, 1909, and of the first decade
of dynamic flight, closed without further startling developments. True,
some records were made, but they merely pleased, not perturbed the
world, now accustomed to marvels. Be it recorded, however, that, with a
Voisin biplane, Paulhan, on November 1st, flew 96 miles in 2 hours, 20
minutes, and on November 20th flew 1,960 feet high in a Farman biplane;
on December 9th, Maurice Farman, mounted on his own type of biplane,
rode through the icy atmosphere from Buc to Chartres, a distance of 40
kilometers, in 50 minutes, the longest town-to-town flight up to that
date; and on December 31st he flew from Chartres to Orleans, a distance
of 41.6 miles, in forty-six minutes. But several fine achievements
which the world anticipated for that year remained unattempted. The
great prize flight of 183 miles from London to Manchester was still
untried, though several machines and pilots seemed equal to the voyage,
and $50,000 would be awarded by Lord Northcliffe to the brave aviator
who should accomplish that journey in not more than three stages and
within a period of twenty-four hours. Neither had anyone yet flown
to an elevation of one kilometer. These tasks were left over as
allurements for the succeeding year.