AUGUST 19, 1912
HEMPSTEAD, NY
It was still dark when I opened my eyes to the sound of the telephone. I didn’t have to glance at the clock to know it was four-thirty in the morning. The night before, I had asked the front desk for the wake-up call, knowing I would need to be on the airfield by five for my next lesson. And today would be the most important one of all.
Today I would fly on my own for the first time.
My mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions as I tossed back the covers and stretched. Elation, trepidation, and expectation for today’s flight mingled with grief and uncertainty about what had happened in Salem yesterday.
Five more people had been hanged. Four men and one woman, including the farmer John Proctor and the Reverend George Burroughs. Those who had been at the hanging in Salem Towne had come back to Salem Village visibly shaken. The five accused hadclaimed innocence to the last, begging God to forgive their accusers and praying that they would be the last innocent blood shed. George Burrough’s final prayer had been so moving, people had begun to question his guilt. He finished with a perfect rendition of the Lord’s Prayer, which some considered proof of innocence, but the afflicted who were there said they could see the devil’s specter whispering the words into his ear.
John Proctor’s wife, Elizabeth, had also been condemned, but she was pregnant, and her execution had been delayed until after she could give birth to the child.Ifshe could survive childbirth in prison.
I tried to shake off the heaviness that weighed down my soul, needing to focus on the task ahead of me. We were only thirteen days away from leaving for the cross-country flight, and I had yet to fly on my own.
Turning on a light, I quickly dressed in the rented room at the Atlantic City Hotel near the airfield. Since I needed to be at the flying school every day, I had moved out of my apartment at the Victoria Hotel in New York City and into one that was close enough to walk to the airfield in Hempstead. I no longer needed the two bedrooms we’d had at the Victoria—and without Hope’s income, I could not afford the weekly rent.
I’d had a flying suit created much like Hope’s by the same dressmaker. On suggestion from Luc, it was dark purple to complement the Vin Fiz soda brand. It was surprisingly comfortable, and I didn’t mind putting it on now. Mama had told us that women in the future would wear pants all the time, but it was hard to believe. I received many strange looks from those staying at the hotel, but thankfully, as I exited the elevator and entered the lobby that morning, the only person there was the night watchman, and he was used to seeing me in a flying suit.
“Good morning,” Luc said as he came down the central stairs moments after me. No matter how early we rose, he stilllooked excited to face a new day on the airfield. “Are you ready for your flight?”
We had been working together almost every day for six weeks. Learning how to fly in the French style was slow and tedious, but Luc assured me it would set me up for safety and success.
After days of instruction about the mechanics of the aeroplane, I had graduated to what Luc called grass cutting—I had to guide the aeroplane back and forth across the field in a straight line without letting its wheels leave the earth. Then, after five or six successful rides—which meant over a week of lessons—I had moved on to jumping the aeroplane two or three feet into the air at a time as I rushed across the field. This had been affectionately called kangarooing. Each lesson lasted no longer than ten minutes, though I stayed on the airfield to watch the other students who were taking lessons with me.
Today I would fly for real.
“I think I’m ready,” I said as we walked toward the front doors of the hotel. “I hope so.”
“You’re a natural,” he reassured me for the dozenth time in the past few weeks. “You know everything there is to know about the mechanics of the aeroplane and the mechanisms for flying it. All you need to do is put them into practice.”
I took a deep breath and tried to clear my mind of everything but flying.
It was still dark, and the sun would not rise until just after six o’clock. But there was a lot to do before I could take off for my solo flight, first being the dreaded weather test. If the wind was more than six miles an hour, aviation students were not allowed to fly. It was much too dangerous. I had risen this early several times and been turned away because of the weather. On those days, I would go back to my hotel room and write articles for theGlobeor go into the city to meet with my editor.
It was impossible to make enough money to purchase the orphanage on my income from theGlobe—especially when Ilearned that Mr. Thurston had made good on his threat and upped his offer. Everything rested on this cross-country flight.
The world was quiet as we stepped outside. Darkness blanketed the village of Hempstead, though a few lights glowed from the homes and businesses of early risers.
It was warm but not hot, and the morning stars sparkled with a brilliance that dazzled my imagination. I loved looking at the vast sky. It reminded me of the limitlessness of God. That He would love me, that He would call me His child and choose me for this time-crossing gift, was amazing to contemplate. It was a burden, to be sure, but it was also a blessing. I had heard Mama’s stories of her paths and her mother’s paths, and I believed, without a doubt, that God had orchestrated their stories for their good and His glory. I trusted He would do the same for me—no matter if I chose 1912 or 1692.
But I still had to choose—and that was the problem. I wanted 1912, but I didn’t want to leave Hope. As much as I loved Mama and Daddy, Hope was dearer to me than anything else. Over the past six weeks, I had started to accept that I would choose 1692—and I would tell Mama and Daddy when we got to California.
A heaviness settled over my heart as I thought about leaving this path behind, but I lifted my face and decided to embrace the time I had left. I wouldn’t worry about crashing my aeroplane today or any other day while flying to California. I would enjoy this experience to the fullest and be as fearless as possible so I could win the money for my parents. It afforded me a freedom I had never felt before. A place where fear did not linger on the edges of the unknown.
“I’ve come to love these morning walks,” Luc said quietly beside me, breaking the stillness. His accent was deepest in the morning when his voice was sleepy.
“So have I,” I said just as quietly as we turned down a side street with large Victorian homes. Ancient elm trees spreadout overhead, creating a canopy that prevented us from seeing the stars.
“What will you do after the flight to California?” he asked.
“Assuming I make it?”
He put his hands in his pockets and didn’t even hesitate. “You’ll make it.”
I didn’t answer right away, my heart full of so many things. I would have less than two weeks before my birthday if I got to California by September 30th. What would I do with those two weeks? Spend it with Mama and Daddy, look for Tacy, and finish up any lingering articles I owed to theNew York Globe? Was that what I wanted to do?
“I’m not sure,” I said, honestly.
