In the autumn of 1898 the aeronautical world was interested to hear
that a young Brazilian, M. Santos Dumont, had completed a somewhat novel
dirigible balloon, cylindrical in shape, with conical ends, 83 feet long
by 12 feet in diameter, holding 6,500 cubic feet of gas, and having a
small compensating balloon of 880 cubic feet capacity. For a net was
substituted a simple contrivance, consisting of two side pockets,
running the length of the balloon, and containing battens of wood, to
which were affixed the suspension cords, bands being also sewn over the
upper part of the balloon connecting the two pockets. The most important
novelty, however, was the introduction of a small petroleum motor
similar to those used for motor tricycles.
The inventor ascended in this balloon, inflated with pure hydrogen, from
the Jardin d'Acclimatation, Paris, and circled several times round the
large captive balloon in the Gardens, after which, moving towards the
Bois de Boulogne, he made several sweeps of 100 yards radius. Then the
pump of the compensator caused the engine to stop, and the machine,
partially collapsing, fell to the ground. Santos Dumont was somewhat
shaken, but announced his intention of making other trials. In this bold
and successful attempt there was clear indication of a fresh phase in
the construction of the airship, consisting in the happy adoption of the
modern type of petroleum motor. Two other hying machines were heard of
about this date, one by Professor Giampietre, of Pavia, cigar-shaped,
driven by screws, and rigged with masts and sails. The other, which had
been constructed and tested in strict privacy, was the invention of
a French engineer, M. Ader, and was imagined to imitate the essential
structure of a bird. Two steam motors of 20-horse power supplied
the power. It was started by being run on the ground on small wheels
attached to it, and it was claimed that before a breakdown occurred the
machine had actually raised itself into the air.
Of Santos Dumont the world was presently to know more, and the same
must be said of another inventor, Dr. Barton, of Beckenham, who
shortly completed an airship model carrying aeroplanes and operated by
clockwork. In an early experiment this model travelled four miles in
twenty-three minutes.
But another airship, a true leviathan, had been growing into stately and
graceful proportions on the shores of the Bodenzee in Wurtemberg, and
was already on the eve of completion. Count Zeppelin, a lieut.-general
in the German Army, who had seen service in the Franco-German War, had
for some years devoted his fortune and energy to the practical study
of aerial navigation, and had prosecuted experiments on a large scale.
Eventually, having formed a company with a large capital, he was enabled
to construct an airship which in size has been compared to a British
man-of-war. Cigar-shaped, its length was no less than 420 feet, and
diameter 40 feet, while its weight amounted to no more than 7,250 lbs.
The framework, which for lightness had been made of aluminium, was,
with the object of preventing all the gas collecting at one end of its
elongated form, subdivided into seventeen compartments, each of these
compartments containing a completely fitted gas balloon, made of oiled
cotton and marvellously gas tight. A steering apparatus was placed
both fore and aft, and at a safe distance below the main structure were
fixed, also forward and aft, on aluminium platforms, two Daimler motor
engines of 16-horse power, working aluminium propellers of four blades
at the rate of 1,000 revolutions a minute. Finally, firmly attached
to the inner framework by rods of aluminium, were two cars of the same
metal, furnished with buffer springs to break the force of a fall. The
trial trip was not made till the summer following--June, 1900--and, in
the meanwhile, experiments had gone forward with another mode of flight,
terminating, unhappily, in the death of one of the most expert and
ingenious of mechanical aeronauts.
Mr. Percy S. Pilcher, now thirty-three years of age, having received his
early training in the Navy, retired from the Service to become a civil
engineer, and had been for some time a partner in the firm of Wilson
and Pilcher. For four or five years he had been experimenting in soaring
flight, using a Lilienthal machine, which he improved to suit his own
methods. Among these was the device of rising off the ground by being
rapidly towed by a line against the wind.
At the end of September he gave an exhibition at Stamford Park before
Lord Bray and a select party of friends--this in spite of an unsuitable
afternoon of unsteady wind and occasional showers. A long towing line
was provided, which, being passed round pulley blocks and dragged by
a couple of horses, was capable of being hauled in at high speed. The
first trial, though ending in an accident, was eminently satisfactory.
The apparatus, running against the wind, had risen some distance,
when the line broke, yet the inventor descended slowly and safely with
outstretched wings. The next trial also commenced well, with an easy
rise to a height of some thirty feet. At that point, however, the tail
broke with a snap, and the machine, pitching over, fell a complete
wreck. Mr. Pilcher was found insensible, with his thigh broken, and
though no other serious injury was apparent, he succumbed two days
afterwards without recovering consciousness. It was surmised that
shrinkage of the canvas of the tail, through getting wet, had strained
and broken its bamboo stretcher.
This autumn died Gaston Tissandier, at the age of fifty-six; and in the
month of December, at a ripe old age, while still in full possession of
intellectual vigour, Mr. Coxwell somewhat suddenly passed away. Always
keenly interested in the progress of aeronautics; he had but recently,
in a letter to the Standard, proposed a well-considered and practical
method of employing Montgolfier reconnoitring balloons, portable,
readily inflated, and especially suited to the war in South Africa.
Perhaps the last letters of a private nature penned by Mr. Coxwell
were to the writer and his daughter, full of friendly and valuable
suggestion, and more particularly commenting on a recent scientific
aerial voyage, which proved to be not only sensational, but established
a record in English ballooning.
The great train of the November meteors, known as the Leonids, which at
regular periods of thirty-three years had in the past encountered the
earth's atmosphere, was due, and over-due. The cause of this, and of
their finally eluding observation, need only be very briefly touched
on here. The actual meteoric train is known to travel in an elongated
ellipse, the far end of which lies near the confines of the solar
system, while at a point near the hither end the earth's orbit runs
slantingly athwart it, forming, as it were, a level crossing common
to the two orbits, the earth taking some five or six hours in transit.
Calculation shows that the meteor train is to be expected at this
crossing every thirty-three and a third years, while the train is
extended to such an enormous length--taking more than a year to draw
clear--that the earth must needs encounter it ere it gets by, possibly
even two years running. There could be no absolute certainty about the
exact year, nor the exact night when the earth and the meteors would
foregather, owing to the uncertain disturbance which the latter must
suffer from the pull of the planetary bodies in the long journey out
and home again among them. As is now known, this disturbing effect had
actually dispersed the train.
The shower, which was well seen in 1866, was pretty confidently expected
in 1899, and to guard against the mischance of cloudy weather, it was
arranged that the writer should, on behalf of the Times newspaper, make
an ascent on the right night to secure observations. Moreover, it was
arranged that he should have, as chief assistant, his own daughter,
an enthusiastic lady aeronaut, who had also taken part in previous
astronomical work.
Unfortunately there were two nights, those of November 14th and 15th,
when the expected shower seemed equally probable, and, taking counsel
with the best authorities in the astronomical world, it seemed that the
only course to avoid disappointment would be to have a balloon filled
and moored in readiness for an immediate start, either on the first
night or on the second.
This settled the matter from the astronomical side, but there was the
aeronautical side also to be considered. A balloon of 56,000 cubic feet
capacity was the largest available for the occasion, and a night ascent
with three passengers and instruments would need plenty of lifting power
to meet chance emergencies. Thus it seemed that a possible delay of
forty-eight hours might entail a greater leakage of gas than could be
afforded.
The leakage might be expected chiefly to occur at the valve in the
head of the balloon, it being extremely difficult to render any form of
mechanical valve gas tight, however carefully its joints be stopped with
luting. On this account, therefore, it was determined that the balloon
should be fitted with what is known as a solid or rending valve,
consisting simply of balloon fabric tied hard and fast over the entire
upper outlet, after the fashion of a jam pot cover. The outlet itself
was a gaping hole of over 2 feet across; but by the time its covering
had been carefully varnished over all leakage was sufficiently
prevented, the one drawback to this method being the fact that the
liberation of gas now admitted of no regulation. Pulling the valve line
would simply mean opening the entire wide aperture, which could in no
way be closed again.
The management of such a valve consists in allowing the balloon to
sink spontaneously earthwards, and when it has settled near the ground,
having chosen a desirable landing place, to tear open the so-called
valve once and for all.
This expedient, dictated by necessity, seeming sufficient for the
purpose at hand, preparations were proceeded with, and, under the
management of Mr. Stanley Spencer, who agreed to act as aeronaut, a
large balloon, with solid valve, was brought down to Newbury gas works
on November 14th, and, being inflated during the afternoon, was full and
made snug by sundown. But as the meteor radiant would not be well above
the horizon till after midnight, the aeronautical party retired for
refreshment, and subsequently for rest, when, as the night wore on, it
became evident that, though the sky remained clear, there would be no
meteor display that night. The next day was overcast, and by nightfall
hopelessly so, the clouds ever thickening, with absence of wind or any
indication which might give promise of a change. Thus by midnight it
became impossible to tell whether any display were in progress or not.
Under these circumstances, it might have been difficult to decide when
to make the start with the best show of reason. Clearly too early a
start could not subsequently be rectified; the balloon, once off, could
not come back again; while, once liberated, it would be highly unwise
for it to remain aloft and hidden by clouds for more than some two
hours, lest it should be carried out to sea.
Happily the right decision under these circumstances was perfectly
clear. Other things being equal, the best time would be about 4 a.m., by
which period the moon, then near the full, would be getting low, and the
two hours of darkness left would afford the best seeing. Leaving, then,
an efficient outlook on the balloon ground, the party enjoyed for some
hours the entertainment offered them by the Newbury Guildhall Club, and
at 4 a.m. taking their seats in the car, sailed up into the calm chilly
air of the November night.
But the chilliness did not last for long. A height of 1,500 feet was
read by the Davy lamp, and then we entered fog--warm, wetting fog,
through which the balloon would make no progress in spite of a prodigal
discharge of sand. The fact was that the balloon, which had become
chilled through the night hours, was gathering a great weight of
moisture from condensation on its surface, and when, at last, the whole
depth of the cloud, 1,500 feet, had been penetrated, the chill of the
upper air crippled the balloon and sent her plunging down again into the
mist, necessitating yet further expenditure of sand, which by this time
had amounted to no less than 3 1/2 cwt. in twenty minutes. And then at
last we reached our level, a region on the upper margin of the cloud
floor, where evaporation reduced the temperature, that had recently been
that of greenhouse warmth, to intense cold.
That evaporation was going on around us on a gigantic scale was made
very manifest. The surface of the vast cloud floor below us was in a
perfect turmoil, like that of a troubled sea. If the cloud surface could
be compared to anything on earth it most resembled sea where waves
are running mountains high. At one moment we should be sailing over
a trough, wide and deep below us, the next a mighty billow would toss
itself aloft and vanish utterly into space. Everywhere wreaths of
mist with ragged fringes were withering away into empty air, and, more
remarkable yet, was the conflict of wind which sent the cloud wrack
flying simply in all directions.
For two hours now there was opportunity for observing at leisure all
that could be made of the falling meteors. There were a few, and these,
owing to our clear, elevated region, were exceptionally bright. The
majority, too, were true Leonids, issuing from the radiant point in the
"Sickle," but these were not more numerous than may be counted on that
night in any year, and served to emphasise the fact that no real display
was in progress. The outlook was maintained, and careful notes made for
two hours, at the end of which time the dawn began to break, the stars
went in, and we were ready to pack up and come down.
But the point was that we were not coming down. We were at that time,
6 a.m., 4,000 feet high, and it needs no pointing out that at such an
altitude it would have been madness to tear open our huge rending valve,
thus emptying the balloon of gas. It may also be unnecessary to point
out that in an ordinary afternoon ascent such a valve would be perfectly
satisfactory, for under these circumstances the sun presently must go
down, the air must grow chill, and the balloon must come earthward,
allowing of an easy descent until a safe and suitable opportunity
for rending the valve occurred; but now we knew that conditions were
reversed, and that the sun was just going to rise.
And then it was we realised that we were caught in a trap. From that
moment it was painfully evident that we were powerless to act, and were
at the mercy of circumstances. By this time the light was strong, and,
being well above the tossing billows of mist, we commanded an extended
view on every side, which revealed, however, only the upper unbroken
surface of the dense cloud canopy that lay over all the British Isles.
We could only make a rough guess as to our probable locality. We
knew that our course at starting lay towards the west, and if we were
maintaining that course a travel of scarcely more than sixty miles would
carry us out to the open sea. We had already been aloft for two hours,
and as we were at an altitude at which fast upper currents are commonly
met with, it was high time that, for safety, we should be coming down;
yet it was morally certain that it would be now many hours before
our balloon would commence to descend of its own accord by sheer slow
leakage of gas, by which time, beyond all reasonable doubt, we must
be carried far out over the Atlantic. All we could do was to listen
intently for any sounds that might reach us from earth, and assure us
that we were still over the land; and for a length of time such sounds
were vouchsafed us--the bark of a dog, the lowing of cattle, the ringing
trot of a horse on some hard road far down.
And then, as we were expecting, the sun climbed up into an unsullied
sky, and, mounting by leaps and bounds, we watched the cloud floor
receding beneath us. The effect was extremely beautiful. A description
written to the Times the next morning, while the impression was still
fresh, and from notes made at this period, ran thus:--"Away to an
infinitely distant horizon stretched rolling billows of snowy whiteness,
broken up here and there into seeming icefields, with huge fantastic
hummocks. Elsewhere domes and spires reared themselves above the general
surface, or an isolated Matterhorn towered into space. In some quarters
it was impossible to look without the conviction that we actually beheld
the outline of lofty cliffs overhanging a none too distant sea." Shortly
we began to hear loud reports overhead, resembling small explosions,
and we knew what these were--the moist, shrunken netting was giving out
under the hot sun and yielding now and again with sudden release to the
rapidly expanding gas. It was, therefore, with grave concern, but with
no surprise, that when we next turned to the aneroid we found the index
pointing to 9,000 feet, and still moving upwards.
Hour after hour passed by, and, sounds having ceased to reach us, it
remains uncertain whether or no we were actually carried out to sea
and headed back again by contrary currents, an experience with which
aeronauts, including the writer, have been familiar; but, at length,
there was borne up to us the distant sound of heavy hammers and of
frequent trains, from which we gathered that we were probably over
Bristol, and it was then that the thought occurred to my daughter that
we might possibly communicate with those below with a view to succour.
This led to our writing the following message many times over on blank
telegraph forms and casting them down:--"Urgent. Large balloon from
Newbury travelling overhead above the clouds. Cannot descend. Telegraph
to sea coast (coast-guards) to be ready to rescue.--Bacon and Spencer."
While thus occupied we caught the sound of waves, and the shriek of a
ship's siren. We were crossing a reach of the Severn, and most of our
missives probably fell in the sea. But over the estuary there must have
been a cold upper current blowing, which crippled our balloon, for the
aneroid presently told of a fall of 2,000 feet. It was now past noon,
and to us the turn of the tide was come. Very slowly, and with strange
fluctuations, the balloon crept down till it reached and became
enveloped in the cloud below, and then the end was near. The actual
descent occupied nearly two hours, and affords a curious study in
aerostation. The details of the balloon's dying struggles and of our own
rough descent, entailing the fracture of my daughter's arm, are told in
another volume.{*}
We fell near Neath, Glamorganshire, only one and a half miles short
of the sea, completing a voyage which is a record in English
ballooning--ten hours from start to finish.
* "By Land and Sky," by the Author.