Ruth Elder in Lakeland, Florida.
Ruth Elder in Lakeland, Florida.
I think you should read this,” George said as he handed Ruth the copy of the Lakeland morning newspaper. “But you are not going to like it.”
With a glance at the headline on the front page, alongside her photo next to the American Girl, Ruth became upset. “Is Girl Flyer Lady Lindy or a Fraud?” it asked.
She sat down in the extra wooden folding chair in George’s office at Dixie’s and tried to steel herself, but it was no use. By the second paragraph she was incensed.
“How can they print that?” she said, her brow furrowing and her face flushed red. George had never seen Ruth mad before. She was always the perfect composition of Alabama charm and self-assured poise.
“How can they say this is just a publicity stunt? We spent thirty-five thousand dollars on a plane for a publicity stunt?” she said. “They think this is a sham for some advertising scheme?”
“It’s good news, Ruth,” George explained.
“How is this good news?” she said, throwing the paper on George’s already cluttered desk. “They are trying to make a fool out of me, saying that I should just stay a beauty queen and walk around in swimsuits. It’s a good thing I like you, George, because I feel like punching somebody.”
“That’s front-page coverage,” he replied with a smile. “Big picture of you and the plane. This is exactly the kind of thing Cornell and the other West Virginia boys are counting on. They want you to cause a stir. And this here is proof that it’s working!”
“But, George, they said I can’t fly,” she said, and George could see that it hurt her after all of the hard work she had done, especially in the last month. “I am weeks away from getting my pilot’s license. No one has said any such thing about Frances Grayson. No one is spreading lies about her!”
George shook his head. “That’s because the newsreels are full of her taking off and landing, taking off and landing, in that behemoth of a plane,” George reminded her. “Plus, she’s said she knows nothing about flying planes; she’s just a passenger.”
Ruth stopped for a moment and then her eyes grew wide, her eyebrows arched, and her mouth began to form a wry smile.
“Help me find the telephone number to the newspaper, will you, George?” Ruth said as she picked up the receiver from the desk.
“Oh, so you’re going to put on a show for the newspaper, are you?” he said with a laugh.
“Oh, no,” Ruth said, shaking her head, her curls bouncing. “I’m going to do more than that.”
September 17, 1927
Dearest Captain Hinchliffe:
Though I know when we last parted it was under circumstances less than ideal, I hope that you and your family are doing well. I understand that you have returned to your position at Imperial Airways, and that is why I am writing to you at this time.
As you know, Mr. Levine had given me his word that he would fly me across the transatlantic path in order for me to make history and secure the title of the first woman to do so. Understandably, this was not to happen, as my weight proved to be too significant for a successful flight. I was happy to give up my seat in the face of danger, although I was terribly disappointed. To risk the life of a fine man like yourself was simply not a consideration. I chose to remove myself from the flight so that others may live, and although I have never regretted the decision, the urge to make the flight and claim history is one I feel in the deepest part of my bones.
Therefore, I am proposing an offer to you. Since we are already familiar with each other and are aware of the habits that exist, I would be honored if you’d accept my proposal of fifteen thousand dollars to be my pilot in this transatlantic quest. I will secure a plane and pay for all expenses, including meals and accommodation. Naturally, if your family chooses to come along, I cannot provide lodgings for them as well. However, I am happy to supply sandwiches via the hotel for their sustenance. I have heard their chicken sandwich is delightful and they make a very nice cup of tea. Gratuity would be up to you, of course.
Again, I am happy to confirm that you can indeed see out of your solo eye better than most men can see with two; you have the vision of a sharp, monosighted eagle and I applaud you (heartily) for that! In fact, I would insist that you wear a bejeweled velvet eye patch for your comfort during our journey and to commemorate our making history together that I will joyously provide, should you accept.
I have returned to France, as you may have heard, as I have developed some recent and minor legal troubles in London. Departing from Le Bourget airfield in Paris would be a dream; imagine taking off from where Lindbergh landed. Magnifique!
Please extend my deepest greetings to your wife, Miranda, and to your son. I believe you have a dog as well.
My very best,
Mabel Boll, Queen of Diamonds
Sophie spotted Elsie in the far corner of the dining room. It would have been impossible not to: her friend was sporting a glorious—and sizable—halo telescope crown hat embellished with silk ribbon and a gorgeous, thick plume of black ostrich feathers. Elsie, always with her finger on the pulse of emerging fashion, was the first to wear any style. The hat was smashing, if a little larger and bolder than the cloche style on the heads of every other woman eating lunch.
Elsie waved, and Sophie wove her way through the full tables of chatty ladies having tea. When she finally reached Elsie, off in a quiet corner, her friend swooped in and embraced both her elbows, kissing her fully on both cheeks.
“I am so delighted to see you,” Elsie said, looking radiant as the two friends sat. “I’m so sorry it has taken this long for us to get together. My work on the Viceroy is nonstop: Father’s just pushed up the deadline by three months! And with Mother—well, it just hasn’t been very easy to get away.”
“How is Lady Inchcape?” Sophie inquired, taking off her gloves one finger at a time.
“Oh, so much better, such a relief,” Elsie said, shaking her head as the ostrich feathers on the hat swam in the movement. “Sophie, I really thought we would lose her. She was so weak, barely breathing. But she’s recovering more quickly now, and Father’s been talking about taking her to Egypt now that fall is almost here. He thinks the drier weather will do her well. I can’t say that I don’t think it’s a good idea, but it does mean we’ll be separated during the holidays. There’s no way I can leave with all of the work to be done on the Viceroy.”
“I saw that article about you in the Times.” Sophie smiled.
“Hmmm,” Elsie said, crinkling her brow in mild disgust. “What was I wearing this time?”
“No, no, the one about your work at P&O!” Sophie exclaimed, and opened her slim beaded handbag. She unfolded the clipping and cleared her throat. “This is about your work on the Kipling . . . ‘Possessing the dynamic energy of her father and the refined art tastes of Lady Inchcape, the Honourable Elsie Mackay took possession of the new Australian fleet of the P&O, everywhere introducing novel and charming ideas into the furnishings of each steamer.’ ”
“That’s wonderful,” Elsie said, looking pleased. “I hadn’t seen that.”
“And no one told you? It was in yesterday’s edition.” Sophie laughed. “Don’t you read the Times? How else do you know what you’re wearing?”
“Actually, I’ve been a little occupied,” Elsie confessed. “I’ve been settling matters for something I wished to talk to you about.”
“If you need a tester for which luxury beds to put on the Viceroy, count me in.”
Elsie laughed in return. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t have anything to do with pillows or tapestries or wood paneling or torch lights,” she said. “This is something entirely different, and I must ask you a favor, and for your complete discretion. This is something very important to me and not a word can leak out.”
“What is it?” Sophie replied, looking serious. “Is there trouble? Are you all right?”
“I’m completely fine,” Elsie said, reaching for her friend’s hand, which caused Sophie’s expression to upgrade from serious to one of alarm. “I need to use your name. Well, not exactly, but I need to use your name for a bank account. A bank account that only we know about, really.”
Sophie looked confused. This was something strange indeed. Elsie had never confided in her about money. She didn’t have to: she had plenty of it.
“Elsie, whatever is the matter?” Sophie cried, exasperated. “Really, out with it. You must tell me exactly what it is now.”
Elsie shook her head slightly and was about to speak, but she halted. There was no way to drift into the subject gracefully. She was simply going to have to say it. She leaned in and took hold of Sophie’s hand tighter.
“I’m planning to fly the east–west leg over the Atlantic, and I need a bank account in another name to finance it. Otherwise, it’s only a matter of time before Father discovers it and calls a halt to everything,” she said simply and quietly.
Sophie immediately pulled back in shock.
“Have you lost your mind?” she replied sternly. “You can’t, Elsie, this is ludicrous. Princess Löwenstein is still lost and they have presumed her dead. Not only that, but last week a young woman was lost over the Pacific attempting to fly from California to Hawaii. I read that in the paper yesterday, too, and it gave me the most terrible feeling. I had no idea, however, that you would plan such a stupid stunt.”
She was on the verge of tears. Her mouth trembled, and she closed her eyes tightly as she tried to retain her composure.
“I cannot help you,” she finally said after a long pause. “I cannot help you take a death flight over that terrible ocean. How can you even ask me? And what about your mother? What would this news do to her?”
“Please listen to me,” Elsie said calmly. “You are my oldest, most trusted friend, and I would not ask you if I wasn’t planning on taking even the most minuscule precaution. Löwenstein’s plane was so heavy, it almost didn’t take off, and according to people I have talked to, a plane with that kind of weight is almost impossible to fly over the Atlantic storms. I want to get the best plane possible, fly with the best pilot possible, have the best navigator plan our course. But I can’t do any of that under my own name. Do you understand? I’m afraid of what it would do to Mother, but my window is slipping away. There are several German and French teams ready to go. I promise never to take any foolish chances. If the margin of risk is even somewhat questionable, I won’t go. You have my word. But I want to show the world that a woman can do this, Sophie. I want to prove that the skies don’t just belong to men and that not only men are skilled enough to fly in them.”
Sophie listened but only shook her head once in response. While she had stopped trembling, she was still fighting back tears.
“I wish you had an older, more trusted friend,” she said honestly. “I can’t promise you I will, but I do promise to think about it.”
Elsie nodded and smiled. “I think that’s more than fair,” she answered.
Ruth stood next to the American Girl, done up in her finest. She wore a delicate lace drop-waist shift and tiny white gloves, and had tied a billowing scarf in her hair that flew behind like a kite when the wind caught it.
The reporter, taken off guard, started to grin the moment he saw Ruth. Surely, she wasn’t about to pretend that a little girl could fly a big plane into the sky. He had been right all along. This was just one big publicity stunt, and she had invited him out here to bat her long eyelashes and pout her little red mouth at him, hoping he’d take back what he said about her because she was good at flirting.
“Miss Elder, I take it,” said the man in his midthirties, a little pudgy, and beginning his descent into an early middle age, tipping his hat and smiling. “Ernest Simpkins, from the Ledger.”
“I expected so,” Ruth said, pulling her vowels out long and light, just as he expected she would. “This here’s my plane, of course. I wanted to paint her purple and yellow, like an Easter egg. But perhaps for my next plane.”
“I see,” he said, taking out his notepad and flipping over the cover. “So you’re going to fly this thing all the way to Paris, huh?”
“Yes, indeed, that is exactly what I plan to do,” she said. “All the way to Paris is where I’m going to go. Of course, George—George Haldeman—will help me a little every now and then, you know, when I get tired and want to take a nap and all that.”
Simpkins shook his head and grinned to himself, scribbling away furiously.
“You know, most people say women shouldn’t do anything but stay home and make dinner,” Ruth continued. “But the thing is . . . I am not a very good cook. I made a cake once. Got people sick. On my mama’s birthday, even! The eggs, I heard, can’t be warm! Did you know that?”
She laughed, high and gaily.
“So when did you decide to fly this plane to Paris, Miss Elder?” Simpkins asked.
“Oh! Well, when Mr. Lindbergh did his flight, I thought: it can’t be that much harder than driving a car; plus there are no curbs in the air and nothing to run over. You don’t have to worry about hitting another car. Or people. Of course, I got that mess all cleared up. You can’t expect just to hop out in the middle of the street and cross it without paying attention to the traffic! So I do pay more attention now, I swear! Anyway, so I talked to some people and here I am next to my plane,” she said smugly.
“Do you know how to fly a plane, Miss Elder?” the reporter asked.
“Of course!” she laughed. “I know how to drive a car! It’s very similar, as I have been watching Mr. Haldeman fly. There is simply nothing to it! Would you like to have a seat in my plane, Mr. Simpkins? We have the deluxe model, so it’s very comfortable. Go on in—you just hop up on the wing and take that seat right there.”
Ruth, encumbered by her dress, tried to show him how to climb into the cabin. With more verbal direction than visual, he finally got it and plopped himself down in the passenger seat while Ruth walked over to the left side.
“That’s right, you sit there and I will climb in and show you all of the fancy controls we have in this plane,” Ruth said, exhibiting difficulty in getting into the plane herself.
Simpkins smirked and kept writing.
With the reporter’s head down, Ruth pulled up her hem just a little and in two motions hopped from the ground to the wing and into the pilot’s seat.
“Now, here, right here—Mr. Simpkins, are you paying attention?” she said as she reached over and gave him a playful slap on the arm and tittered girlishly. “This here is the heater,” she said pointing it out. “It gets cold over the ocean.”
Mr. Simpkins nodded. “I’m sure it does.”
Ruth clapped her hands like a schoolgirl and hopped up and down in her seat. “Now, this—this,” she said in a high-pitched peep, “is just remarkable. Do you know what this is, Mr. Simpkins? Do you have any idea what this might be?”
He looked in the direction of where she was pointing, but really he had never been on an airplane before.
“I don’t, Miss Elder. No idea.”
“Well, it’s a cigar lighter! Did you ever? Isn’t that just the top? A cigar lighter, so you can smoke a cigar as you fly to Paris!”
Simpkins nodded, looking a little bored.
“And this . . .” Ruth said as she looked a little puzzled. “Now, I don’t recall exactly what this knob does.”
This was all getting a bit ridiculous, even for Simpkins. He was done.
“Well, Miss Elder, I thank you, but I think I have everything I need—” he started.
“Well, I’ll just push it, then!” Ruth said joyously, and suddenly a clatter of knocks erupted, followed by a slight whirring that got louder as the seconds passed.
“Is . . . that the propeller?” he asked, pointing out the large front windows.
Ruth looked stumped. “Why, yes, yes, it is, but how did . . . oh!” Then she collapsed laughing as she slapped the side of her seat. “Oh, Mr. Simpkins! That’s the electronic start button! Now let’s see what this does!”
Ruth pushed the throttle forward; that got the plane rolling slightly, then faster, faster, faster, until she looked at Simpkins and said, “Oh my goodness! What did I do? What have I done?”
The trip down the runway was bumpy and swervy as Ruth steered a little to the left, to the right; then, as she had gained enough speed, she pulled back, lifted the nose into the air, and squealed, “Mr. Simpkins, look! I’m flying! I am flying!”
Simpkins screamed, loud, shrill, terrified. He dropped his notebook, his hands clamped to the seat under him like vise grips.
“Mr. Simpkins, I told you, there is nothing to it. It is just like driving a car!” she said as she gained altitude and, when she got high enough, dipped the plane low and fast, which made the reporter whimper. One hand was still grabbing his seat, but the other hand was splayed, palm open, against the passenger window.
“Oooooh!” she cried. “That was a tummy turner, wasn’t it!”
Mr. Simpkins looked a little pale, so Ruth decided to have a little mercy on him and only give him a small loop, just so he would be upside down for a second or so.
“Mr. Simpkins!” she yelled as she looked over at him sternly. “This may be just like a car ride, but you still need your safety belt!”
The blood had drained from his face, and he might have lost the ability to speak, which did not seem likely to return when Ruth took her hands off the column and reached over to throw the safety belt at him.
It was then that Simpkins, who had taken it upon himself to print that Ruth didn’t know how to fly, opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
And so Ruth looped him.
When Ruth brought the American Girl in for a perfect landing, she reached over and unbuckled Simpkins’ safety belt after she pulled the plane into the spot where they had begun.
“Mr. Simpkins,” Ruth said calmly, dropping the intentional part of her accent. “You’ve lost your notepad. Don’t you want to write down all of the details about what it’s like to ride in a plane with a woman pilot who can’t fly?”
And then she playfully punched him in the arm, threw her head back, and laughed.
“I think you need to rewrite your story, Mr. Simpkins,” she said, then patted him on the back as some of the color returned to his face.
When George emerged from the office, he saw the reporter speeding away and Ruth walking toward him with a tremendous smile on her face.
“Ruth! You took off without me!” he said, shaking his head but smiling.
She dropped back into her Southern belle act. “I wanted to show him that a little ol’ girl could fly all by herself!” she said, removing her gloves.
“But you don’t have a license,” he said, throwing his hands up a little.
“Well, it’s even, then,” she assured him. “Because that man didn’t have any manners.”
Captain Hinchliffe didn’t exactly see going back to the Ritz—the same place he had met Levine—as a terribly good omen. Upon entering the lobby, he still sensed Levine and the bitter taste that came with the memory. He had heard nothing from him and assumed that Levine’s past record predicted that no payment would be forthcoming, not even what they shook hands on. Since the crash of the Miss Columbia, Hinch had returned to Imperial Airways but had lost his seniority, starting at the bottom again, having no choice in flights and spending most of his time waiting to be booked onto one.
Financially, it had become a difficult time, since he was only paid for hours spent in the air and was collecting a small disability pension from the war. It was enough to get his family through for now.
Hinchliffe was worried. With the new health regulations being instituted next year, he knew his time at Imperial was limited. He had hoped the Levine excursion would solve that problem financially for the foreseeable future, but now he was left without what had been promised to him. Without a position and soon unable to qualify for a pilot’s license, he was clearly running out of options.
So he was happy to meet with the Honourable Elsie Mackay at Tony Joynson-Wreford’s request; he had known Tony during the war and found him not only an exemplary pilot until a serious war knee injury knocked him out of the game, but also a very trustworthy fellow. If he felt that Miss Mackay was serious about financing a transatlantic flight, Hinch was willing to listen. It also meant that he didn’t have to answer Mabel Boll’s preposterous and rather thick proposition, which he’d briefly considered in an out-of-character moment of panic. The thought of confinement in a small place with that madwoman caused a terror that forced him to put his head between his knees and breathe deeply.
Elsie Mackay was a pilot. She was respected as such, and elected to a prestigious post. And she didn’t owe a string of pilots any money.
After his tenure with Levine, it all sounded too good to be true. Naturally, Hinch was waiting for the cataclysmic flaw to present itself when he met Miss Mackay, her bank manager, and Tony in the dining room of the Ritz for luncheon. He hoped she wasn’t wearing a king’s ransom in jewels or had brought her dog with her.
The meeting began pleasantly, but with a warning that everything they spoke about was to be sealed in utmost secrecy.
“It’s my father,” Elsie explained. “Lord Inchcape.”
“Lord Inchcape?” Hinchliffe asked. “It was your father who solved India’s currency problems and brokered the Mackay commerce treaty between Britain and China?”
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.