Morning at

Kitty Hawk

A novel by

T. Louis Banker

Prologue

For some years I have been afflicted with the belief that flight is possible to man. My disease has increased in severity and I feel that it will soon cost me an increased amount of money if not my life. I have been trying to arrange my affairs in such a way that I can devote my entire time for a few months to experiment in this field…It is possible to fly without motors, but not without knowledge and skill.

Wilbur Wright

May 13, 1900

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September 11, 1900

Another wave struck the side of the miserable little platbodemschepen, as Captain Israel Perry called his schooner, and the storm threatened to sink the Curlicue in the Albemarle Sound. When they had departed the quiet waters of the Pasquotank River, Wilbur Wright had thought the stories of the ocean were greatly exaggerated. The waves had lapped gently at the flat-bottomed boat, and the water had stretched out to meet the distant smudge of gray on the horizon. Best of all, the salt air had cleared his head after the claustrophobic quarters of the train, and the gulls gliding on the breeze had again given him a rush of expectation. He could see himself, white against the darkening sky like a gull, riding those same breezes down the long corridors and across the flat spaces of the world. And then bad weather hit.

Toting a bucket and bracing himself against the rotting hull, Wilbur rocked against the pounding of a wave. He felt a rush of bile enter the back of his throat and pressed his arm against his mouth. Getting sick wouldn’t help matters, and he needed his strength to bail. He bent into the bottom of the boat and felt it lurch against him, wetting his suit. Coffee would settle his stomach and take away the bitter acid left in his mouth, and he longed for a cup of his brother’s brew. If necessary, he would drink a cup of the black mud his sister made. The ocean lifted the small boat again, and the acid returned to his mouth. He braced himself for convulsions.

Oh, Lord, in such trials of the body…

If only he could ignore the waves. He concentrated on a mug, a drop, a taste of the hot black liquid. It helped him forget for a moment the stale smell of fish and reminded him of his home at 7 Hawthorn Street. So far away from him now, not only in miles but in circumstance. Warm beds and a sturdy roof, a place where biscuits cooked in the oven and his father read in the study. Dayton, Ohio might not be Chicago or New York, but it was the only thing he knew. It was the place where ordinary life could last forever. He had never before ventured this far from home. In fact, he’d never before been on a trip alone. Now, after six days and 700 miles by train, steamer, and rotten boat, his dream had led him toward Kitty Hawk.

Kitty Hawk. Once it had been only a name, a place that barely existed on a map, a place with winds that rivaled every breeze in North America. Now it seemed he had traveled as far as any Amazon jungle or Egyptian desert. The only people who journeyed to Kitty Hawk did so for funeral or by accident. Except for him.

Let my mind be calm amidst the storm of temperament and come to me…

Wilbur pulled his bowler hat down to his ears and pressed his hands into the pockets of his damp suit coat, its once stiff collar now limp with sea salt. When they had departed for Kitty Hawk, Captain Perry’s skiff could manage only one trunk and the 16-foot wooden wing spars, and against his better judgment Wilbur had left the remaining crates of tools and disassembled glider parts at the Elizabeth City freight depot. They would be shipped on the next weekly supply boat to Kitty Hawk…or he could return for them if Kitty Hawk proved unbearable.

He shook the thought from his head and crawled below deck to check on his cargo. If his material was damaged then all was for naught, and for a moment he almost wished for a flooded hull. He descended out of the fury of the storm into the darkened hold below deck. The dim light of the oil lamp glistened off damp walls, the smoke heavy in the small space. Leaks penetrated the corner seams. A trail of water spilled down the steps, and all around him was a terrible sloshing and creaking. But the cargo was tied fast and appeared fine.

Almost involuntarily he reached into his pocket and removed a small jar of jelly his sister had given him before his journey. He had gone more than a day without food, and now he absently spooned the strawberry goo with his finger. Looking at the wooden beams of the hold, he thought of Jonah, cast into the belly of the whale for running away from the word of God. He thought of his father, a man accustomed to the hard road. The world was wide, as his father had always said, and unpredictable. He wanted to sit with his father now, in the den of their comfortable home, surrounded by books. He could almost see the old man and his great gray beard beckoning him toward a darkened corner, and the swinging light of the lamp reminded him of his father’s candle back home. He turned to look behind him, expecting almost his father’s approach, and his leather shoes slipped on the wet boards, sending him to the floor. The jar of jam disappeared in the icy water.

As I am only your servant, please give me strength…

As if at the thought the sky brightened. A group of boys hovered over him, pointing and waving their fingers. Orville, or at least a younger version of his brother, put a hand to his face then pulled back. He shouted something, but the words didn’t matter. Wilbur felt himself being lifted up, almost weightless. A bird traced through the distant sky, circling, hovering on bent wings over the leafless trees of a Dayton winter. He sat up, coughing in the salty, choppy water. He spit a warm liquid, not knowing if it was blood or vomit. Then he remembered that it was probably strawberry jam.

“Mr. Wright!” Captain Perry shouted with a waver in his voice. “On deck. Give the boy a hand, eh?”

He stood up, grabbing the ladder to steady himself. Instinctively, he went to wipe clean his suit, but the water was pouring off the matted fabric. Topside, the sea was worse than it had been a few minutes before. Wilbur braced himself against the cabin wall and looked out toward turbulent waters: a black sky, a pale line of diminishing earth, an endless boiling sea. It was entirely possible his journey would end here. He squeezed the bailing bucket until his hands went pale.

…to understand your will…

Captain Perry’s son, no older than fifteen and small for his age, struggled to manhandle the mainsail, which blew free like a banner in a parade. With the north shore pressing close, the boy would jump for the beam, fall, and then search for the breakers. Suddenly, he latched onto the sail only to have it shred in his fingers. Waves broke over the sides of the flat-bottomed boat, and without a keel the Curlicue shook nearly to capsizing with every big wave rolling across the Sound. Wilbur alternated between bracing for the next big blow and wiping the rain from his eyes. He felt helpless, tossed about like a toy in a tub. He began to reach for the mainsail, then fell back against the next big wave. He was reaching again when a sudden gust tore the foresail loose. He grabbed onto the boom and with frantic fingers began to rip down the remaining fragments. Without the sails, Captain Perry could barely steer the shuddering boat. If he couldn’t control her, she would certainly sink.

For thine is the kingdom and the power…

Beside him a gull cried, hovering motionless against the tail of the storm.

…and the glory forever.

It was a matter of control.

Amen.

1900

Chapter One

It is my belief that flight is possible and, while I am taking up the investigation for pleasure rather than profit, I think there is a slight possibility of achieving fame and fortune

.

Wilbur Wright

September 3, 1900

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The Curlicue pulled away from the decaying dock, leaving Wilbur Wright standing with his trunk and long wooden poles at the mouth of his future. He had never imagined he would be heartbroken to see the schooner go, but as he turned his back on the old girl he already missed her relative security and companionship. He had barely slept five hours since leaving Elizabeth City three days before. The mosquitoes and sea fleas had attacked during the little sleep he did get. The half jar of strawberry jam had done little to settle his stomach. And now he was alone on the edge of the wilderness.

The sun, on its way to a full orange sunrise, lit the vast shoreline: sand, sea grass, brown low-lying brush, and more sand. He had thought sometimes about the other side of the world; now he felt like he was about to step ashore and see it for himself. To the left, sea grass stuck up from the shallow waters of the cove and grew up along the shoreline, which was fronted by a windswept dune. In the other direction, brush speckled the landscape, but not in the pleasant way you would find in Ohio. There were no trees of any significance, and the few that survived here where nothing more than scraggly brush gone amuck: sparse, blown from their roots by a constant wind, and twisted at an angle that fought the midnight tides. The waves gently lapping the shore were the only sound, and even the grass was motionless in the still air. Only the decaying dock, which hardly appeared stronger than the boat that brought him here, seemed part of the active world. Everything else seemed to be retreating quietly into the past.

Wilbur removed the letter from Mr. William “Bill” Tate of Kitty Hawk describing the area as a stretch of sandy land one mile by five. His first sight confirmed it. The sand dunes, Tate continued, rolled into a distant tide with a bare hill in center 80 feet high, and not a tree or bush anywhere to break the evenness of the wind current. From Wilbur’s view on the boat, Mr. Tate had described the area perfectly. If you decide to try your machine here & come I will take pleasure in doing all I can for your convenience & success & pleasure, & I assure you you will find a hospitable people when you come among us.

When you come among us—but where were they? Is this what everyone saw when they stumbled upon Kitty Hawk? Only a few hundred years ago, Sir Walter Raleigh must have experienced a similar greeting when he stepped upon this virgin land. Wilbur had entered the Sound from the north; Raleigh, traveling under the flag of Queen Elizabeth I, brought his ships from the south. But where was the difference there? After entering through the straights of Hatteras Inlet, he traveled north with ships, supplies, and over 600 people to colonize this New World. He struck the island of Roanoke at the south entrance of the sound, and there Ft. Raleigh soon bustled with life. Common buildings sprang up as the grounds were prepared for farming food and tobacco, and friendly Algonquian and Roanoke Indians shook the hands of their visitors. All seemed well until Raleigh returned to England and the new leader, Mr. Ralph Lane, decided the colonists’ need for supplies exceeded their new friendship. They stole from the Indians. When Raleigh returned with more colonists and supplies later that year, all of the settlers had disappeared. The only reminder of the colony was Dare County, named for the first English baby born in the New World: Virginia Dare, born August 17, 1587. Other than that, the settlers left no sign of ever setting foot near Albemarle Sound.

There were plantations on the mainland, though, a hundred years later in the time of Edward Teach. Teach also sailing under the flag of England, with a commission to keep the Spaniards away from the prosperous trading lanes and rich bottomland of the coast. With Spanish plunder as his payment, he settled on the Sound, where he owned several homes as places of refuge, or prisons, for at least 14 wives. From 1700 to 1708, Edward Teach, or Blackbeard as he came to be known, kept the Sound safe from Spanish influence. New World politics changed, though, leaving Blackbeard’s barbaric police force an antiquated relic of the previous century. As a reminder of the change, the English beheaded their once humble and efficient servant. Although years away from experiencing such politics, Wilbur felt a sense of foreboding as he looked out at the barren landscape. Was it that piracy and anonymity, that feeling of disappearing without a trace, were the things he feared most? Or was it the emptiness and desolation of the place itself?

He ran his hand over his wrinkled suit and tapped his soggy bowler. Whatever it might be, he needed to move forward. The sun was already sending flares of orange and red through rows of purple clouds. The day would be warm; two days before in Elizabeth City, it hit a hundred degrees by noon. Wilbur removed a fresh handkerchief to blot his forehead. He had neither seen a sunrise like this nor witnessed the enormity of an ocean: how much things had already changed.

A flock of gulls swooped the dock, distracting Wilbur from the morning. As they dipped and dove toward the water, the birds expended little energy. Even while playing, they seemed effortless. One gull broke off and dropped towards the water. For them, flying appeared easier than walking. Wilbur wanted to fly this way. Other men who had attempted to glide had expended energy that could never be replenished. Common sense said gliding should be effortless. Another gull scooped down to the water and returned to the sky. Then again, common sense said men should test their ideas before riding them to their demise.

With the Curlicue a speck in the Sound, Wilbur checked his pocket watch, then scanned the barren shores. To his surprise, a small boy was staring at him from the end of the dock. The boy was holding a fishing pole, the line dropping lazily into the water. Wilbur made a feeble attempt to check the watch again, and began to do some mental calculations to steady his nerves. It was nearly 8:00. The trip from Dayton to Kitty Hawk should not have taken this long. He had loaded his crates on the B. & O. rail in Cleveland for a 6:30 p.m. departure Thursday night. It was a twelve-hour trip to Old Point, Virginia, followed by a passage via the steamer Pennsylvania to Norfolk. Or Nor-fuk. In much the same way Daytoners said “douba-you” not “double-you,” people in Norfolk--and Suffolk--left out the “l.” From Nor-fuk, the trip to Elizabeth City, where the “l” is pronounced, is 45 miles by road and barge along the narrow Dismal Swamp Canal, a cesspool of alligators and mosquitoes. Once in the North Carolina town, only 40 miles by boat remains. But as the locals, or at least the ones who have heard of the place, say, “You can’t get to Kitty Hawk from here,” meaning by land. Thus the Curlicue. Still, even with the storm, the trip should have taken no more than two and half days. It had taken Wilbur six.

He reached into his pocket for Bill Tate’s letter. I assure you you will find a hospitable people when you come among us. He would have to take the man at his word. Besides, he needed to find out where Mr. Tate and his family lived, as he had been invited to stay with them—at least until Orville came with the camping supplies.

“That the kite?” the boy said suddenly.

“The cat?”

The boy kept his eye on the ripples where his fishing line twitched. “Ain’t it supposed to be a kite?”

Wilbur stared at the boy, dumbfounded.

“Sure is a big,” the child said, motioning toward the spars.

“A kite. Yes, a big kite. A big scientific…machine.”

The boy tugged at the line, sending the empty hook flying into the air. “Fiddlesticks.” He dropped the line back into the water. “What’s a machine?”

Wilbur sat on the end of his trunk. “It’s a device. An air vehicle, a complicated, um, kite.”

“Oh.” The boy tested the water with the line again by vibrating the line with his thumb. “I think I got something.”

He jerked the line from the water sending the empty hook into the air. Wilbur jumped back and toppled over onto the dock, even though the hook was nowhere near his head.

“Sorry, mister.” The boy looked at the spars. “Are those pine?”

Wilbur brushed off his hat. The sweat that had started to dampen his palms was now a muddy brown. “How did you know this is supposed to be a kite?”

“Mr. Tate. He said you’d be coming to fly a kite.”

“You know Mr. Tate?”

“I can take you there.” He rolled up the line, securing the hook in the ball like he had done a hundred times before. “I’m ten years old. Almost. My name’s Elijah Baum.”

“Wilbur Wright, Dayton, Ohio. Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Baum.” Wilbur looked around the empty shores and then back to the heavy trunk. “Is it far?”

“Just up the path a bit.”

Wilbur walked up to the top of the dune to test the route. Even without the trunk it was tough walking in the shifting sand, and the path didn’t seem to get any smoother. On the far side of the hollow behind the dune was a small homestead. Although the ground was mostly sand and loam, discernible with the eye, it appeared to be a small farm. The rugged furrows of late summer erosion, though, indicated the crops did not grow to full fruition. Beans and corn did not fare well against the harsh summer sun and persistent winds, and roots required something more substantial than sand. The path that curled away from the farm looked about the same as the one from the dock. A single tree perched on the next sandy hill. Only a slight breeze made it beyond the shore.

“How far is it to the Tates?” Wilbur asked, coming back toward the end of the dock.

“About ten minutes walk.”

Wilbur nodded. “Baum,” he said, testing the boy’s name. “I hear Kitty Hawk is known for its wind. There doesn’t seem to much of it.”

“It blows its share around these parts. When there’s a storm like the other night, the winds come from that way.” He pointed straight ahead, southeast toward Kill Devil Hill. “That’s when a big storm’s coming. Other times it blows the other way.”

This made sense to Wilbur, and he nodded in agreement as he walked back to the end of the dock. Besides, right now wind was the last of his worries. His trunk wouldn’t last if he had to drag it a hundred feet, and sand wouldn’t save it. He leaned the trunk on its end and tested it again for its weight, which had to be a hundred pounds. At five-foot nine, 138 pounds, the trunk weighed nearly as much as he did. Kneeling next to the trunk, he eased into it, hoisting it onto his back.

Elijah Baum watched as Wilbur, still wearing his coat and hat, staggered under the weight of the trunk. The walk would go slowly with the heavy trunk in tow, but the wiry man looked like he could muscle it there and back if forced to. Sweat formed on his face in the growing humidity of an early Kitty Hawk morning.

Baum tossed a stick into the water. “Aren’t you hot in those clothes?”

“I am comfortable, Baum,” Wilbur said with a strain in his voice. The trunk would get no lighter if he waited. “It’s been a long journey, and they remind why I’m here.”

The boy just stared at him.

“I’m here to work with my kite. Perhaps a little vacation.” He smiled at the boy. “You might even say this is my scientific hat.”

“Well, they look hot,” Baum said with a shrug. In Kitty Hawk, people sometimes dressed up for church or a funeral, if it wasn’t too hot, but even Doctor Cogsdale didn’t wear his tie all the time.

The boy watched as Wilbur took two steps, then wobbled beneath the trunk. “Mr. Wright? Couldn’t we pick that up later with Mr. Tate’s buggy?”

Wilbur lowered the trunk to the ground, then removed his handkerchief to blot his forehead. He could still feel the straining in his back.

“Mr. Baum, that is commonsensical and prudent advice. Thank you.”

“Call me, Baum. Everyone does.” He started up the path, happy to start the day with a commonsensical suggestion.

* * *