Lighter Than Air Dreams — Part 1
“Up, Up And Away!”
“Astounding News!”
“Atlantic Crossed In Three Days!”
“Signal Triumph Of Mr. Monck Mason’s Flying Machine!”
Such were the headlines in the New York Sun in May 1844 describing how the “Steering Balloon Victoria” had flown from North Wales to Charleston, South Carolina, in an astounding 75 hours with a crew of eight men. The news article mentioned that two of the crew with Charles Green were Monck Mason and Robert Holland, who had been with him when he ballooned across the English Channel from Germany to England in 1836.
Within days the Sun was calling the report “Balloonantics,” saying that the public had been duped by a grand hoax cooked up by a young, impoverished poet. The poet, Edgar Allen Poe, had recently arrived in New York in desperate need of securing a physician to see after his ailing wife and had cooked up the story to make some quick money. Everyone found humor in having the wool pulled over their eyes … well, nearly everyone. But not 13-year-old Thaddeus Lowe of New Hampshire.
Like Benjamin Franklin and the noted aeronaut Jean-Pierre Blanchard, Thad took flying seriously. Three years after the hoax, Thad went to work for shoe and boot manufacturers Nash, French & Company. Having a natural thirst for knowledge, Thad caught on to the trade quickly and, in fact, within two months drew his employer’s admiration by finding an easier way to cut leather.
Thad’s off-time was spent experimenting on a number of madcap ideas, usually involving flight. One of these dealt with building a monstrous kite that could carry aloft an old tomcat to test its reaction to altitude — not so different as sending a chimpanzee into outer space to test its reaction to weightlessness.
Thad worked for Nash and French for three years, saving his money and growing in stature. He matured into a handsome man standing six-foot-two, broad shouldered, muscular, and a handsome face without a blemish. Jet-black hair and a full, auburn mustache enhanced his white, nearly pallid skin.
In the fall of 1850, Thad took his younger stepbrother to a magic show to see wonders performed by Professor Reginald B. Dincklehoff, supposedly a world-renowned chemist who could “reveal wonders of science.” When Dincklehoff asked for a volunteer from the audience, Thad was nudged onto the stage. That nudge would forever change his life.
After the show the professor called to his volunteer, asking if he might speak with him. Thad needed no nudge this time. Dincklehoff could not help but believe that there was a quick, questioning mind behind those blue eyes and asked if the young man had studied science. “Oh, yes sir, not just in school. I’ve read a lot on my own and made some experiments. The professor asked Thad if he would like to assist him for the rest of the week. Again, no nudge needed. At the end of the week, Thad moved on with the show and assisted his mentor for two years.
When Dincklehoff decided it was time to retire, his 20- year-old assistant bought the show with money that he had earned. The old man had taught Thad the tricks of the trade — how to capture an audience and spellbind country folk with a few elementary magical tricks. Thad also educated himself on the basics of chemistry and test tube experimentation. With the money he made performing his science act, he purchased a portable laboratory to experiment with gases that would eventually turn his dream of creating a lighter-than-air airship into reality.
Thad’s lecture show drew large crowds, and gradually, he changed his act from magic to basic chemistry demonstration. His knowledge and superb showmanship was so entertaining, his audiences hardly missed the sleight-of-hand feats. In 1855 he was called to New York to lecture to a large, sophisticated audience, and it was there that he met his future wife, a French refuge, Leontine Gaschon.
Leontine’s father had been a palace guard for Louis Philippe, the “Citizen King,” and when the French citizens revolted in 1848, the Gaschons escaped with the royal entourage. Following a short stay in London, the Gaschons went to New York, where a large colony of French expatriates had gathered. After a whirlwind courtship of seven days, Thad and his bride left to continue his tour through the South.
The couple returned to New York City, and for the next two years, Thad experimented and tested lighter-than-air balloons. Leontine was more than interested in sharing his dream, insisting that every penny of extra money from the lecture tours be used to purchase supplies to build his first aerostat. She poured over drawings and discussed possibilities with her husband. While she focused on the birth of their first child, Thad worked at his laboratory and construction site in Hoboken. One April evening in 1857, he rushed into the tiny kitchen and announced that his airship was ready for a test flight.
On that clear, still day in April, the balloon was inflated. Thad stepped into the basket and signaled to his crew — three farmhands — to remove the sandbags attached to the rigging. The balloon struggled against the moorings, and when Thad threw out three or four sand bags it fairly leaped into the air.
The successful test only whetted Thad’s appetite for flying. During the next year, Leontine was too busy with the new baby and could not be with her husband while he made public ascensions, charging $1 for going aloft and $5 for a sky ride. He soon realized his aircraft was too small and in the spring of 1858 began constructing a much larger model.
Later in the year, Thad was invited to go to Ottawa, Canada, with a circus to celebrate the laying of the Atlantic cable. He rushed to complete his new model that was twice as large as the first, but made of heavily starched India silk and silk netting, it was much lighter than previous models. Dubbed “The Enterprise” by Leontine, it was a sensation at the celebration in September. During the exposition Thad met Samuel Morse, the cable’s inventor, and Cyrus W. Field, its financier. The nation’s celebration was a bit premature, for 10 days later, cracking and static was heard along the wire, and the “lightening under the sea” went dead.
Upon Thad’s return to New York, he began working on a super-sized airship equipped with every available instrument to collect data on air currents. His study was sent to the Smithsonian Institute, suggesting a weather bureau be established that could alert the nation of bad weather. During the same time, he worked on something called an altimeter and developed a new varnish to prevent rapid dissipation of the balloon gas.
Lowe’s popularity climbed to new heights, and orders for his balloons came from across the country. He bought part of a farm in Hoboken, where dozens of men were employed to construct his airships. Yet Thad was not without his critics. The most earnest of these was the so-called “King of the Aeronauts,” John Wise. Wise had been working with balloon airships before the War with Mexico and had claimed that his craft could carry 18,000 pounds of bombs. And if it was used over San Juan Castle, it would bring the war to a quick end. Washington, however, did not take him seriously.
Wise was vindictive and detested sharing the limelight with a Johnny-come-lately. He denounced Thad as nothing more than a publicity hound lacking all knowledge of science. Even as he was attacking Lowe, Wise was building an airship in preparation for an ocean voyage. “The Atlantic” was to be “the king’s” largest ship yet, having a bag diameter of 60 feet and a capacity of 50,000 cubic feet of gas.
Wise made his trial flight from St. Louis to New York on July 4, covering 800 miles in 19 hours. Thad did not hear the results until later because he was ballooning to Portland, Maine to give an exhibit. There he went aloft and released 33 small balloons, one for each state in the Union. During the next week, crews of docking ships reported seeing balloons 600 miles off the coast. That was all the proof Thad needed; if those little balloons treated with his special varnish could remain aloft for so long, a larger one could cross the ocean.
Just 11 days later, he bested Wise by announcing that he was constructing a giant airship for a transatlantic crossing. His balloon would measure 130 feet from valve to neck, with a diameter of 104 feet and a gas capacity of 725,000 cubic feet. He calculated the lifting capacity would be more than 22 tons if he used hydrogen and 11 tons if the bag was filled with coal gas. Even those with less knowledge knew that this translated into a lot of passengers and freight. “The City of New York” would be five times larger than any balloon constructed before.
With the backing of $20,000 from investors, the project moved steadily. And in October the airship was moved to the Crystal Palace grounds at Reservoir Square for a trial flight the following month. Thad checked and rechecked with the gas company that it could deliver 500,000 cubic feet of gas in 24 hours. “During inflation,” he explained, “a certain amount of gas escapes. The longer it takes to fill the bag, the more gas dissipates. Unless the mains can produce sufficient gas in the 24-hour period to inflate the balloon, so much will escape that the ship will never get off the ground.” The gas company continued to reassure Thad they could, and would, deliver the necessary supply. There was, however, a problem. Every time Thad was saying 500,000 cubic feet, the supplier was hearing 50,000.
“The City of New York” was packed up and stored in Hoboken while the Lowe family went to Charleston for the winter. Thad returned briefly to New York in April to supervise the loading of the airship onto two freight cars for transporting to Point Breeze Gas Works. They could deliver the needed gas within the time limit. Following the suggestion of journalist Horace Greeley, “The City of New York” was renamed “The Great Western.” Greeley thought it was apropos since “The Great Eastern,” the world’s largest seagoing vessel, was to make its maiden voyage that spring.
Liftoff was scheduled for June 28, 1860. A large crowd of anxious spectators with various opinions gathered around the balloon. Some ridiculed the idea and even speculated how the aeronauts could come to their untimely deaths. Others, however, were confident in the young balloonist. Garrick Mallery of the Philadelphia Inquirer was there to be an honorary passenger on the trial flight. When he was recognized, some of the less-confident spectators pleaded with him not to risk his life but to stay on terra firma. Mallery later said that the naysayers were of “the large and respectable class who never believe aught but their senses.” He continued, “We, on the contrary, were so unscientific as to feel much more secure in the magnitude of our conveyance, particularly after a careful inspection of its great strength and manifold skillful appliances. Besides, it was contrary to nature that the Philadelphia Inquirer should not be well up in everything.”
Late in the morning, the great balloon began tugging at its mooring lines, and just after noon Thad signaled his passengers to climb aboard. The April air was still, but strong hands that held the cables, with sandbags still attached, felt the terrific tug of the monster. “The Great Western” swayed back and forth, eager to surge upwards. As the crew began to let go of the mooring lines, Thad simultaneously began throwing out ballast and then reached to break the neck of the gas envelope to let it blow off. The balloon lifted and stabilized a few hundred feet off the ground. In the pause Thad enjoyed the culmination of years of work. He whooped and shouted, “Here at last is ‘The Great Western’ afloat, after all the prophecies against her!”
Thad eased the balloon low and then slowly over the city, giving all the spectators below a glimpse of “the thing that could not be done.” Having fully satisfied his pride, he yanked the gas control, and the balloon shot upward and stabilized at 5,000 feet. Taking a more easterly course, they passed over the Delaware River. Mallery pointed out that the river bottom could be seen and swore that he saw rock in the river bed with his telescope. Late in the afternoon, they passed over Camden, New Jersey, and followed the Camden and Atlantic Railroad toward the ocean, sailing along at 60 miles an hour, three miles above the earth.
As the sun dropped below the horizon, the gas in the balloon contracted, and they began making a rapid descent. Rather than toss out more ballast or use the propeller, Thad chose to land near Medford. The landing was so smooth, the passengers hardly noticed. Mallery later wrote, “The monster in ascent and descent and in that generally most difficult matter of landing, was as thoroughly under the control of its skillful builder as ever a horse in harness.”
The same day “The Great Western” opened a new era for air travel, “The Great Eastern” docked, signaling a new era for ocean travel. Americans took the simultaneous events as a good omen of a prosperous future for the nation.
Final preparations for the transatlantic flight were complete by the first week in September. “King” Wise must have known he was beaten. And ever ready to enjoy attention, he sent a letter of congratulations to Thad, even offering his experience and “distinguished name” to the trip. Thad’s most treasured praise came from Professor Joseph Henry of the Smithsonian Institute. “The Smithsonian Institution has long been aware of the work and theories of Professor Lowe and we have found his statements scientifically sound. It is with great pleasure and satisfaction that we welcome proof of his genius. We shall follow the outcome of his plan with interest.”
Next month — 900 miles in nine hours, and a crash landing in South Carolina.
Lighter Than Air Dreams – Part II
J.L. West – Author
This article and many others found on the pages of Roots and Recall, were written by author J.L. West, for the YC Magazine and have been reprinted on R&R, with full permission – not for distribution or reprint!
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