Elsie smiled and took a slight breath. “Yes, so as you must imagine, he is aware of everything, and what he is not aware of, his compatriots are only too eager to tell him. This is especially the case when it concerns his children, and even more particularly when it concerns me. If he learns of this venture, I can assure you, he will put a stop to it, and what he cannot interrupt himself, he will have his friends lend a hand. His friends—namely, the king. Do I have your full and unwavering discretion, Captain Hinchliffe?”
“Of course,” Hinchliffe responded with a respectful nod.
The serious pallor of Elsie Mackay at once fell away.
“Wonderful,” she said, suddenly cheery and vibrant. “Tony tells me you are the best pilot in Britain. I was quite discouraged to see you pictured in the Times with Charles Levine, although I am delighted to hear that the adventure with him has ended. In fact, I couldn’t be more thrilled.”
“Likewise, Miss Mackay,” Hinchliffe said, expressing the smallest of smiles that his demeanor would let him. “Indeed, likewise.”
“However, I have heard that it is not your preference to fly with women,” she said delicately. “Oh, and I’ve ordered oysters, lamb, and poached bass for luncheon. I hope that is to your liking?”
“Quite to my liking, thank you,” the reserved pilot replied, then stopped for a moment before starting again. “I’m afraid you may be referring to my experience with Miss Boll. While I found her to be a—how should I say?—a very particular person, it was unfortunate that Mr. Levine’s obligations toward her were unrealized. I assure you it had nothing whatsoever to do with her gender. It has been stated that I would not fly with another woman, but that is only true if her name is Mabel Boll. Had she been a man, well, the situation might have developed differently, but with the same outcome. There was not room on that plane for three people.”
“You are kind, Captain Hinchliffe. I have met Mabel Boll, and I will say that I have full faith in your discretion now.” She smiled. “This is what I propose: if you agree to participate as my copilot and we complete our objective, I am prepared to issue you all the prize money: ten thousand pounds for the Orteig Prize for the first transatlantic flight to land in Philadelphia, and a twenty-five-thousand-pound bonus when we land. I will grant you a salary of eighty pounds a month, pay all of your expenses, and establish a ten-thousand-pound life insurance policy for your family should anything go wrong. This is not to reflect on your skill as a pilot, Captain Hinchliffe. Even the best pilots can find themselves in terrible and unexpected circumstances, as we are sure Captain Minchin and Captain Hamilton did.”
“I flew with Captain Hamilton, as did Tony. He was a fine pilot,” Hinchliffe replied. “And Captain Minchin had a sterling reputation and was a man of great skill.”
“Only something severe could have pulled them down,” Tony agreed.
“The mid-Atlantic is fraught with powerful storms, strong headwinds, and ice, getting worse the closer the landfall,” Hinchliffe mentioned. “In planning the course with the Levine flight, it was apparent that this route is not to be taken lightly. The west–east direction is the more desirable to fly, and much easier. But the east–west—it’s difficult. I would need you to be aware of that, Miss Mackay. When were you expecting to fly? Certainly not until the spring. The window for this season is closing rapidly.”
“Thank you, Captain Hinchliffe,” Elsie said as she nodded in agreement. “The spring, if you feel it is to our advantage, could easily be our target date. As of now, we have no machine; I would leave that up to your judgment and opinion about which plane is the safest for our endeavor. In addition, any funds or checks that are forwarded to you will not have my name on them but the name of Sophie Ries, a close and trusted friend of mine. In your quest for the right plane, do not let the cost be an obstacle.”
“The WB-2, which is what the Miss Columbia was, seems to be outdated now, though it’s a perfectly good airplane. I’ve heard some splendid reports about airplanes manufactured in the United States,” he said. “Metal sheeting on the exterior as opposed to canvas.”
“That’s impressive,” Elsie agreed. “Since we shall both be piloting, shall we agree to take a flight, say, in a few days’ time, and you can judge my flying abilities for yourself? I don’t expect an answer from you today.”
Hinchliffe smiled. “Certainly,” he said simply.
“Very good,” Elsie said as the bass and oysters appeared on large platters at tableside. “Gentlemen, lunch has arrived!”
* * *
September 30, 1927
Dearest Mr. Putnam and Mrs. Guest:
Lately, I have been reading in the newspapers that you are planning to finance a transatlantic flight with the first woman to cross the ocean on board. I understand that Mrs. Guest had originally planned to go, but due to objections from her family, you are now in search of another flying enthusiast to occupy that seat.
I write to you to ask you to consider me, Mrs. Mabel Boll, as your aviatrix. I have many times traveled by air and was supposed to be a passenger on the Miss Columbia with Captain Hinchliffe and Charles Levine until circumstances went horribly awry. You may have heard of this incident, since it did get coverage in the newspapers, but I assure you, my weight has never been a factor in any other mode of transportation, including automobiles, carriages, and bicycles, as I recently rode on the handlebars of one that belonged to a gentleman too poor to buy a motorcar. My expulsion from the cabin of the Miss Columbia was entirely due to Captain Hinchliffe’s intolerance of accomplished women and the fact that when he lost his eye, he seems to have lost his good nature when others addressed and were curious about his visual modification, if you will. I am curious by nature, which has led to my love of flying. If you would like, I would be happy to have my tailor send along my measurements for confirmation of my physical stature.
If you have not already seen my picture in the newspaper, I can assure you that I am quite attractive and photograph well. I have already been addressed as “Queen of the Air” in public, and am happy to bring the moniker along to this project, and even suggest it as a name for the machine.
I am not afraid of heights.
Sincerely,
Mabel Boll, Queen of the Air
* * *
Ruth was happy reading Ernest Simpkins’ rewritten story about his daring flight with the pilot Ruth Elder. She almost felt bad, terrifying the man the way she had; but then again, he really did have it coming. His story, however, never reflected his panic and his flailing about, nor the loss of his voice. Instead, he detailed their meeting as a charming flight with a couple of stunts thrown in for good measure, likening it to an amusement park ride. He did, however, make it a point to mention the cigar lighter.
And then, in the last paragraph, he didn’t hesitate to note that Mrs. Frances Grayson had secured former navy pilot Wilmer “Bill” Stultz, who was trained in seaplanes, navigation, aerology, meteorology, and radio communications, and was planning to embark on her transatlantic journey as soon as possible, perhaps within the week.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FALL 1927
Elsie Mackay.
She’s a rattling good pilot,” Ray Hinchliffe said to his wife, Emilie, after he walked through the door of their cottage as Joan, their three-year-old daughter, ran toward him with her arms outstretched.
He picked her up and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“No surprises?” Emilie said, setting the table for dinner.
“Only good ones,” he said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t her money that gave Miss Mackay the seat on the advisory committee. She has good skills; she’s steady and has hundreds of hours in the air. I’m far more confident with her than I was with Levine.”
“Well, Levine—” Emilie said, then stopped herself. She had not liked that man from the moment she met him, but it was pointless to carry on about him now. He seemed bullish, wanting to reign over things he knew little about, not the sort of person who could be easily tr
usted. Still, she understood why Ray took the proposal. They needed the money. The house wasn’t finished and this baby was due in a matter of weeks. And she knew her husband. He was the best pilot out there. If anyone could make this flight, it was he.
With the new baby coming, she could have objected more, but they were in Paris on the day that Lindbergh landed. Upon hearing that he successfully completed the flight, Ray looked at her and said, “How I envy that man: he has really done something.” The comment had stayed in the forefront of her mind. Ray deserved a chance at making history before he was forced to leave flying.
“If I do this, Millie,” Ray said as he set Joan down in her chair and placed a napkin across her lap, “I’ll have to resign from Imperial. After that issue with the leave of absence, they won’t grant me another. I’ll be forced to sever ties completely.”
“Yes,” Emilie said as she emerged from the kitchen with the small roast on a platter. “I imagined that’s how things would go.”
She placed it on the table and Ray pulled out her chair, then returned to his own place across the table.
“After the flight with Miss Mackay, I was thinking about starting a passenger airway,” he said, pulling his chair in underneath him. “I could still be involved with flying. What do you think?”
Emilie put the serving fork down and looked at her husband.
“You are the most experienced pilot in England, perhaps the whole world,” she said easily. “And, no matter what, I want you to feel that you have really done something.”
* * *
The Atlantic Ocean produces the world’s worst flying weather. It is unpredictable, with massive banks of drifting fog, brutal gales, and strong north winds. Icy conditions happen suddenly due to the North Equatorial Current, and where it meets the Gulf Stream, rainstorms and heavy seas are average conditions. There was no way to predict what would be waiting for Ruth and George in the mid-Atlantic, where the weather was fierce and unforgiving. Two planes attempting to make the crossing had just disappeared that week: the Sir John Carling, a Stinson Detroiter sponsored by Carling Brewery, and on the same day, Old Glory, a plane financed by William Randolph Hearst and piloted by Lloyd Bertaud, the navigator on the original crew of the Miss Columbia, who had kept Levine’s plane grounded at Roosevelt Field while Lindbergh took off. It was essentially a promotional flight, staged to increase readership of Hearst’s paper, the New York Daily Mirror, and Bertaud joined for another chance. Also on board was the Mirror’s managing editor, who was deadweight on a plane that was already five hundred pounds overloaded. Neither aircraft was ever seen again; only a thirty-four-foot piece of Old Glory’s wing was ever found, floating and rocking among the black waves.
Ruth, who sat on the edge of the desk in the office at Dixie’s, nodded as George explained the dangers that faced them en route, pointing out on the map where the currents and wind patterns swept up and around in one giant, swirling circle. Following Lindbergh’s route, George continued, would be the shortest distance, but Lindbergh had flown in May, when the weather was much more favorable. As the weeks passed quickly into fall, the weather over the Atlantic changed and turned brutal and erratic, which would force them to take a much greater risk.
“I am not liking this sort of talk at all,” said Mr. McArdle, who was studying the map with George’s finger still on it. “This seems too dangerous. There’s a whole lot of nothing in that ocean.”
Cornell agreed. “I think waiting until spring is the better choice,” he said, his hands crunched in his pockets and nodding his head. “It’s too foolish to try and attempt this now.”
Ruth stood up and looked over the map, then at the three gentlemen. “Frances Grayson is preparing her plane this very moment. If she thinks she can fly through these storms, so can I. We have a better, lighter plane, and I have a better copilot. My vote is to go,” she stated adamantly.
McArdle sighed and looked down, then back up at Ruth. “My dear, you are a charming twenty-three-year-old girl with fire in her blood and no healthy fear,” he told her. “But even someone with as much determination as you is no match against the fury of the ocean. There have been five deaths already this week, trying to attempt this same crossing.”
“He’s right, Ruth,” George added. “Every day that passes, the weather will be getting worse and worse. Maybe it’s best to wait out the winter and start again in the spring.”
Ruth bit her lip and shook her head, determined. “By then we’ll just be one in line at Roosevelt Field waiting to take off, and the challenge will be gone. Grayson will get it, or someone else who figured out how to get over,” she said. “I’m not waiting.”
Her patience with everything was at a minimum. Ruth was terrified that Grayson would take off first, never giving her the opportunity to prove that this was more than a publicity stunt. Simpkins had run another story about their flight, but she knew there were more people out there who thought the whole thing was phony.
If that wasn’t enough, Lyle had offered to come home for several weekends, but Ruth just didn’t have the time. She had test flights to take for both endurance and distance, there were revisions they had to make to the plane in order to carry more fuel, and Ruth was working on flotation suits for both her and George, since neither one of them could swim. Taking a rubber raft on board the American Girl was impossible; it took up too much room. Instead, Ruth had proposed that the rubber used in the rafts be cut out in a pattern like coveralls that could be inflated with the same concept as the rafts. Wood fiber would act as insulation in between the rubber sides, in case they were in the water for a while. They could be put on easily and quickly.
But the more excited she became about the preparations and the flight, the less Lyle wanted to talk about it, until he couldn’t bear to hear a word about it at all.
In fact, he told her to stop writing him letters if she could only write about flying. Considering that all her days and nights were spent at Dixie’s, she stubbornly took Lyle’s advice and stopped writing to him altogether. If he wasn’t interested in what she was doing, it was fine with her, but he didn’t have any business yelling at her about it. She had just about had it with everything, but when she turned and looked at the map on George’s desk, and an idea struck her.
“Why do we have to follow the northern route?” she said, tracing her finger over the line that George had drawn as Lindbergh’s flight.
“It’s the shortest distance, so it will take us less time,” George explained.
“What difference does the time make if we’re more concerned about storms and safety?” she asked, and then moved her finger lower on the map. She made a loop from New York to Portugal. “What’s down here? What are these lines?”
George saw that she was pointing to dotted lines that crisscrossed each other at the Azores. “Those aren’t currents,” he realized, taking a closer look. “They’re major shipping lanes.”
“So steamers, tankers, that sort of thing?” she asked, clearly thinking, and then smiled. “If we follow those, we can skirt around a lot of the awful parts of the northern mid-Atlantic by heading along these southern lanes. And if the worst happens, well, that’s a whole lot of something in a sea full of nothing, isn’t it?”
* * *
Mabel ripped open the letter as soon as Marcelle handed it to her, hastily tearing it in half, both sides fluttering to the floor.
It had been a month and a half since she had seen Charles Levine, who had not even offered her an apology as she was tossed off the plane. Not a word had been exchanged since, but she had kept up with him. His victorious return to New York was greeted with a ticker tape parade, although she was happy to see that the flags flew limply along his route that took place in the middle of a downpour and that watchers were few. Mayor Walker welcomed him with the key to the city, followed by a luncheon in his honor at the Hotel Astor, during which the mayor proclaimed, “How proud we are of you, Mr. Levine! Stories we hear about you make you eligible to fill the of
fice of Mayor of New York. I can’t tell you anything about flying, but from my experience, I would make you a little suggestion. No matter what they say, if you feel right and know you are right, pay off all knocks with a smile.” Mabel choked on her morning martini when she read that one, almost swallowing the olive whole.
She didn’t miss the story in the paper that Mrs. Levine and plenty of her neighbors had seen a “news picture of her husband disporting himself with a cut-away bathing suit with Miss Boll, who wore a cloak trimmed in white fur and a smile that would make Peggy Hopkins Joyce go into training without delay.”
Mabel threw back her head and simply chortled at that. Peggy Hopkins Joyce! What a socializing, diamond-grubbing trollop! The woman had no shame. A rival to Mabel’s Queen of Diamonds title, that old tart had been hopping about Paris and London as she got older. And older. And older. Mabel despised Peggy after a snub on the Leviathan during a voyage from France to New York years before. The first night, Peggy entered the dining room wearing every jewel she owned, and people took notice, indeed, until Mabel walked in five minutes later and not only stole the show but swept it out from underneath her. Peggy had ignored her ever since, so as revenge, when they landed in New York, Mabel walked into a shop on Fifth Avenue and bought a silver fox coat just because she heard Peggy desperately wanted it for herself but still had to find a man to buy it for her.
But Mrs. Levine, oh, Mrs. Levine. Talk about shameless.
“I’ve been the victim of much gossip,” Mrs. Levine was quoted in the same story. “I am not jealous of Miss Boll. Levine has my undivided confidence in everything he does, and I have no intention of suing for separation. We are happily married.”
“Mmmmmmm,” Mabel hummed to herself, only a moment away from rubbing her hands together. I love a challenge, Mrs. Levine. I love a challenge.