My copy of Daniel Cohen’s (1981) “The Great Airship Mystery: A UFO of the 1890s” arrived yesterday, and I’ve started working my way through it. Initial impressions are that it definitely earned its place on my essential Airship Flap bibliography: it’s thorough, well written, and the author is a definite UFO skeptic. Where Cohen has evidence, he’s usually ready to bring it to the fore to support his point.

Having said that, the very first story he tells about the 1896 Californian Airship Flap (p.8) is about the astronomer Professor Swift (this also appears in Loren Gross’ book): but neither Cohen nor Gross expand on the story very much. It seemed that neither had a copy of the story, and recounted it second-hand.

I found it in the Santa Cruz Sentinel, Volume 26, Number 17, 6 November 1896 (p.1, column 6):

Saw the Comet With the Naked Eye

Dr Lewis Swift, astronomer in charge of the Mount Lowe observatory and discoverer of comets, was interviewed in regard to his latest find and said:

“At sunset on Sunday, Sept. 20, I saw an unknown luminous object with the naked eye about 1 degree east of the sun. Examining it with an opera glass, a faint companion was visible. Both were seen by all the visitors at the hotel. My first thought was that it might be a small fire on the mountain, but a moment’s observation dispelled this idea, for one-half of the sun was below and one-half above the mountain, and the object was still above the sun. It was also seen to descend and set, as did the sun four minutes previously. Tuesday evening I essayed to examine them with the 4½ inch comet seeker, but did not succeed until one-half the sun had sunk below the mountain, when it became visible, but whether it was the bright or the faint one I cannot tell. It is not unheard of for a comet to break into several pieces, and, of course, it might be a case of this kind. Through the telescope it was no bright than when seen with the naked eye on Sunday. I infer it was the companion. This time it was north of the sun instead of east as before. It was a strange affair. I hardly know what to make of it, but that it was a comet is certain. Both seem to be growing fainter. Such a discovery has been made on two or three occasions heretofore.” – San Francisco Examiner.

The Marysville Daily Appeal, Volume LXXIV, Number 87, 10 October 1896 had noted that “Dr. Lewis Swift, the astronomer in charge of Mount Lowe Observatory, has discovered two new comets“. Similarly, the Santa Cruz Sentinel, Volume 25, Number 147, 7 October 1896 noted (in an article saying how the Mount Lowe Observatory was likely to soon close) that “[s]ince Professor Swift came to Echo Mountain he has discovered four comets, the last about a week ago, a double comet“. (The same appeared in the Call.)

What I’d really like to do is to cross-reference the location of the “hotel” (from which Professor Swift made his naked eye observations at sunset) against the direction of the sunset on 20th September 1896. However, this wasn’t immediately obvious from the story, though the California newspaper archives didn’t seem to have any copies of the San Francisco Examiner.

Also: while looking through the Californian newspaper archives, I found the following story in the Morning Union, 23 Oct 1896 [Grass Valley, CA]:

A Strange Meteor

Capt. Henry Richards and son, while coming into town from Gold Flat last evening, noticed a meteor or falling star passing through the northern heavens from west to east on a horizontal line, which was of such brilliancy as to attract considerable attention. The star or meteor seemed to be in three parts and the line of fire, resembling the tail of a comet, looked to the naked eye to be about 100 feet in length. The three parts were quite a distance apart and appeared to be as big as footballs. The strange meteor or whatever it was did not fall to the earth, but passed into space.

For reference, Gold Flat is about 3 miles NE of Grass Valley (so not far at all).

This sighting seems almost identical to the one from around the same time by “a Stockton man named John Ahern” (Cohen pp. 8-9), who saw “three large balls of fire [that] were strung together“, with a tail of fire extending from the third, that Ahern estimated to be “about fifteen feet in length“.

I’d note that the Stockton Record ran a story on 10 August 1896 on the tricks John Ahern (watchman at Southern Pacific’s Sacramento railroad depot) and his dog Rodney used to detect different people’s voting persuasions. (Here he is mentioned again in August 1896, though sans Rodney.) So I suspect that despite the Stockton Record’s location in Stockton, this very early sighting is far more likely to have been in Sacramento, where the early bulk of the California sightings happened.

Furthermore, I found another report from Sacramento from 22 October 1896 in the San Jose Mercury-news of 23 October 1896:

Brilliant Double Meteor

Early this evening, a brilliant meteor came out of the west, traveling on a perfectly flat line and apparently quite close to the earth. As it passed easterly across the city, it divided into two parallel lines of light, each with several balls of fire at regular intervals. When lost seen it was traveling on a horizontal line.

The picture I’m getting here is that on the night of 22nd October 1896, Captain Henry Richards (and son), John Ahern, and the third (unnamed) spotter in Sacramento all saw the same aerial object, perhaps travelling from the Grass Valley area to Sacramento (about 50 miles south as the dirigible flies).

It also sounds to me (from the “balls of fire”) as though the airship crew was still fine-tuning the size of the nitroglycerine pellets (make them too big and you’d end up spitting out “balls of fire”, right?)

John Ahern

Finally, I found a record in the Sacramento Bee of John Ahern’s death in 1900 at the age of 71:

AHERN—John Ahern, an old and well known citizen of this city, died this morning shortly after 12 o’clock in the Railroad Hospital, from the effects of injuries which he received a few days ago in the railroad yards. Mr Ahern was an old employee in the yards. The other day, he started to walk between some cars standing on a switch, and as he did, so an engine started to switch the cars to another part of the yard. The cars came together and Ahern was caught between them and severly crushed. An investigation at the hospital revealed the fact that one of his ribs had been broken and he was injured in other parts of his body.

Deceased was a native of County Cork, Ireland, aged 71 years. He was the father of Thomas, David, Alice, and Maggie Ahern.

I’ve previously included a link to Dr Battey’s (1893) “Aerial Machine” patent on Google Patents (it was even cited in a 2018 patent!), because it seems to me to share many features with the mysterious airship in the 1896 & 1897 Airship Flaps. I thought it would be useful to post a description of Battey’s patent, particularly its novel propulsion back-end. So… here we go, then.

Battey’s Aerial Machine

Here’s the artist’s impression of Battey’s airship published in Scientific American. The main sections are the streamlined balloon envelope, the wings on the side (for ascending and descending), the gondola below, and the curious-looking propulsion device on the back, all connected via standard Heath Robinson ropes / pulleys / sprockets straight out of every Victorian schoolboy’s My First Engineering Kit.

Battey doesn’t claim anything inventive about the aerodynamic balloon envelope. He describes this as having “the shape of a double cone with the bases united […] preferably made of light sheet metal, such as aluminum”. Internally, the envelope is “strengthened […] by a suitable framework […], preferably composed of vertical and transversely disposed braces”. His innovation is all in his “propellor”…

Battey’s Propellor

What Battey actually “claim[ed] as new and desire[d] to secure by Letters Patent” is his “propellor”, by which he means the mechanism to propel an airship forward. To illustrate this, I’ve grabbed the two relevant figures from his granted patent, cleaned them up (by removing all the arrows and letters), and then annotated the various parts in red using the terms used in the text.

As embodied here, the entire “propellor” mechanism is driven by the ticking of a clockwork mechanism (driven by a clock mainspring), which at regular intervals pushes a piston downwards along a short vertical cylinder. This piston (somehow) drags a nitroglycerin pellet out from the end of a J-shaped magazine feed pipe, and then pushes that pellet downwards towards a firing cup. When the pellet lands in the firing cup, the pellet itself completes a circuit between two wires connected to a battery (not shown), causing the pellet to explode. The shock from the detonation hits the dish-shaped propellor, and so propels the aerial machine forward: the spring beneath the firing cup yields, and so the firing cup is not damaged by the explosion.

Your thoughts, Nick?

Many people’s immediate reaction to this design would be that anyone who would combine a huge airship envelope full of hydrogen with external explosions every few seconds was a suicidal maniac. But knowing a little more about balloon history, I’m not sure that’s entirely fair.

In the 1930s, one of Jean Piccard’s innovations with his Pleiades multi-balloon setup was to attach explosive charges to ropes to release groups of balloons: before that, balloonists had used knives or even pistols to do the same thing, but these were often highly unsatisfactory. At the time, everyone thought Piccard was insane, but it wasn’t many years before just about everyone started copying him. So maybe Dr Battey’s design wasn’t quite so, ummm, batty after all.

The key limitation on the range of Battey’s airship would seem to be how many explosive pellets would fit in the magazine feeder pipe. If a pellet exploded every, say, six seconds, then you’d need ten pellets per minute. Annoyingly, the design doesn’t seem to have any means of stopping the clockwork piston (the only control over the mechanism seems to be to disconnect the battery), so it seems that once started the piston would keep pushing pellets down the cylinder until the magazine was empty.

So… the maximum length of a single flight would be determined by the number of pellets in the magazine. Even taking the dimensions of the magazine broadly as drawn (say, 5cm diameter x 2m tall), its capacity would be about 4,000 cm³ (and unless anyone knows better, I’d guess each explosive pellet would be about 1 cm³ in volume), so around 3500 or so pellets. This would give roughly 350 minutes of flight on a single magazine load, which would seem to be plenty for reasonable length night flights.

But would these nitroglycerin pellets have been powerful enough to propel Battey’s aerial machine at all? The figures given by Wikipedia are 1.6 g/cm³ for density, and 1.488 kilocalories per gram, so a 1 cm³ pellet would contain 2.38 kilocalories of energy. I believe that this is about half the energy density of gasoline, but I would be happy to be corrected.

I suspect the easiest way by far to determine how much power this would produce in practice (without all the losses to heat, light and sound etc) would be to build a test rig, but given that I have precisely zero desire to have the anti-terrorist squad kicking my door down, I’m not going to be doing this. Sorry for not going 100% gonzo on this etc etc.

After my last post, I went looking for a source for the 1896 Airship Flap that concentrated specifically on the reports of flying machines and strange lights in the California sky in late 1896. Specifically, I wanted to know whether there was anything particular about the California sightings that might differentiate the 1896 Airship Flap in California from the 1897 Airship Flap in other states.

Eventually, I found scans of a privately printed book by Loren E. Gross: this had first been published in Fremont, CA in 1974 as “The UFO Wave of 1896”, before being reprinted (2nd edition) in 1987 as “UFO’S: A History 1896”.

Despite the title, Gross’ overall angle was far more Fortean than Ufological. Apart from quoting a local “W.A.” [I read elsewhere that this was “William Ahern”] at the end (who thought that the airship had been sent by “The Lord Commissioner of Mars” [p.27]), the phenomena were largely reported as if they were man-made, with some dissenters thinking it was a hoax.

William Randolph Hearst

In many ways, the story painted by Gross is as not so much about airships and strange lights in the sky as about how the competition between San Francisco newspapers shaped and presented that unfolding history. On one side, The San Francisco Chronicle and particularly The San Francisco Call eagerly searched out airship stories to an engaged public who couldn’t wait for the mysterious airship to do its (much anticipated) Big Reveal downtown so that everyone could see the unknown geniuses behind it. Yet on the other side, William Randolph Hearst’s San Francisco Examiner went out of its way to rubbish the coverage (particularly from the Call) at every step.

We can see this in a poem (ok, doggerel) in the Examiner 26th November 1896 (reproduced in Gross’ Foreword), where the penultimate verse is aimed squarely at the paper’s competition (might this have been the Call’s editor John McNaught?):

One editor is certain / You really are a ship,
And most adroitly manage / To give his sleuths the slip,
He thinks that now, or later, / The human race will fly;
So can’t you, as a favor, soon / Take him aboard and try?
For if your motive power consists / Of force akin to wind,
He is as large a bag of that / As you will ever find.

The final verse continues the Examiner’s jabbing, basically asserting that the other paper is more interested in profiting from what the Examiner thinks is basically a fake story, designed to catch “suckers”:

Our faith it might be stronger, / But earth is rich in liars
Who do not pause to ponder / The future and its fires.
They’d see a ghost on every cloud / To sell the tale for space,
And spend the price for pie and cake / Wherewith to feed the face.
But come again, oh, toy balloons! / We rather like your style–
We see your catch of suckers / And join you in a smile.

Previously, William Randolph Hearst had taken the reins of the Examiner from his father in 1887 at the age of 17, but by 1896 had switched his day-to-day attention to the New York Journal. Even though Hearst lived on the East Coast, it was well-known that he kept a steely grip on the Examiner‘s editorial policy back in California.

All of which was why The San Francisco Call took so much relish, in late November 1896 at the end the Californian Airship Flap, in pointing out that the two Hearst papers had (in Gross’ words, pp.25-26) “engaged in a two-faced game”. While the Examiner on the West Coast “warred against the Call’s big headlines about mysterious airships by vigorously blaming the aerial visions on people who were under the spell of the Roman god Bacchus”, the New York Journal on the East Coast “excited New Yorkers with sensational tales of powered balloons zipping all over California”.

From the point of view of a modern-day historian looking back at the whole sequence, I think it’s quite clear that there really were plenty of witnesses who saw strange lights in the sky at dusk and at night, many of whom were able to see enough of the shape of the form to identify it as an airship, albeit one with an electric arc-like light and a strange lolloping bat-like motion. The only real reason the Examiner printed so many hoax-y / doubting stories was, I think, to supply a counter-narrative to the Call, not because its editors thought that counter-narrative was actually true.

So, the real battleground here was arguably the bitter American newspaper war of 1896, where Truth was always going to be the first casualty: any pretence at honest reporting was to be jettisoned like useless ballast if it got in the way of elevating Hearst’s newspapers’ circulations yet higher. In fact, my suspicion is that the Examiner‘s dishonest reporting of the 1896 California Airship Flap may well have been what caused so many later writers to erroneously conclude that this was merely some kind of “mass hysteria”. All Hearst’s Examiner needed was a counter-narrative not to inform but to annoy and enrage: you shouldn’t have too far to look these days to find newspapers that still employ this trick to great profit.

The 1896 California Airship Flap begins..

According to Gross, the first substantial sighting of the 1896 California Airship Flap was made by the household staff of silver magnate Mayor Adolph Sutro, at his (somewhat implausible-looking French chateau-style) mansion overlooking the Pacific Ocean west of San Francisco.

It seems a “strange object” had hovered in the air just offshore over Seal Rock. The darkness had masked the features of the unknown aerial thing, but a powerful light had been discernable on the rear portion as well as a row of lights down its side, as the object suddenly flew away toward the east, passing overhead at an estimated 500 foot altitude. [p.1]

We can see Seal Rocks roughly 200m due west of Cliff House in this early map of San Francisco:

What I find hugely interesting about this is that all the key elements of the mystery airship ‘template‘ we see throughout the main 1897 Airship Flap are already fully present here. We have a mystery airship with an unusually strong light (like an electric arc lamp) at the rear, a row of lights down the side, rapid acceleration, dusk or night-time flights, and a flight-path close (but not too close) to large cities and to nearby railway lines.

From a template to a secret history…?

What I’ve been trying to do is to use this template to ‘build’ my way back into the secret history of the device. For what they’re worth, here are my current thoughts:

The only practical means of achieving lift available in 1896-1897 was hydrogen gas: but because there are no descriptions of the airship ascending rapidly, my working theory is that it was not primarily intended to rise by dropping ballast, but that it instead used hydrogen gas to achieve neutral buoyancy. I further suspect that it had no air ballonet inside its main gasbags, to control its height above the ground.

In turn, what I think that means is that despite staying buoyant in the air like an airship, it handled more like an aeroplane (i.e. by driving it forward and adjusting its wings to rise or fall slowly in the air) even though aeroplanes hadn’t yet been invented. This mystery flying machine was, in short, a hybrid.

I also suspect that dusk to night-time flights were chosen not primarily for secrecy, but because of technical problems with maintaining stable buoyancy during the (hot) day-time. This makes me suspect that the airship design had practical problems with managing the pressure of its internal gasbags.

Furthermore, I suspect that railway lines were a hugely important part of the airship’s testing process, because they would have provide a reliable means for night-time navigation, and possibly a way for owners to track progress (via messages from telegraph offices, often located near railway lines).

As an aside, an airship flying at 500 feet or higher should have had no fear of running into things: the tallest building in San Francisco in 1896 was the Chronicle Building, which was a mere 120 feet high.

Finally, I think the bright light has to be a huge tell. Anything on board an 1896 airship would have had to have there as a matter of R&D necessity, not as a luxury or a nicety. And the kind of huge battery that would have been needed to power an arc lamp would have weighed (not literally, but not far off) a ton. Hence something else on board must have been creating that intense light, and it must have been creating it for a really good reason.

Having now spent a while trying to link all these strands together, I come back time and again to Dr Sumter Beauregard Battey’s airship design. This was a dirigible based on neutral buoyancy, with means for (what one might call) external combustion to propel it forward (in a moderately steerable way), and with controllable ‘wings’ to adjust the altitude. My suspicion is therefore that what people thought was the “bright light” was in fact actually the flying machine’s means of propulsion, the core inventive step of Battey’s patent.

I also can’t help but wonder if the mystery airship was built elsewhere in California and followed (on this very early test flight to Cliff House and Seal Rocks) the railway tracks going west through Oakland, specifically the Overland Route that headed way across to Nebraska and Iowa. The most obvious location on this line would have been the state capital Sacramento, some 90 miles distant from Mayor Sutro’s gingerbread-style Cliff House. It is perhaps no coincidence that the first newspaper report of a sighting (on the night of the 17 Nov 1896) was by Charles Lusk “at his place of residence at 24th and “O” Streets” in Sacramento [Gross, p.1].

The attorney E. B. Collins, who claimed to be representing the inventor (and whom the San Francisco Call harassed for days), asserted that it started its flight from “Oroville, in Butte County, and flew sixty miles in a straight line over Sacramento”. But… I have to say that I have my doubts that this was true. Dr Charles Abbott Smith at one point was registered to vote in East Bear River Township near Yuba, so I’m actually wondering whether Collins was representing Smith (and I believe that Smith wasn’t yet ready to build anything in 1896).

Thoughts on Gross

I think that Loren Gross did a very good job of bringing these newspaper reports together, and his book offers an excellent (if necessarily all-too-brief) walk-through of the 1896 California Airship Flap: well worth a read!

His first (1974) edition was based on a set of newspaper clippings collected by Vincent Gaddis. His second revision (1987) relied instead on folklorist Thomas E. Bullard’s “The Airship File: A Collection of Texts Concerning Phantom Airships and Other UFOs, Gathered from Newspapers and Periodicals Mostly During the Hundred Years Prior to Kenneth Arnold’s Sighting” and its supplements.

I cannot, of course, find enough words to say how much I now want to see Thomas Bullard’s Airship Files. I’ve contacted Bullard via Academia.edu, but if anyone has any other suggestions as to how I might get to see “The Airship Files” and its supplements, I am – like an overevolved rabbit – all ears.

The 1896-1897 Airship Flap is a slice of Forteana that I think is tasty enough to satisfy the appetites of both Ufologists and steampunk enthusiasts simultaneously. As such, it has plenty of devotees and debatable documentation, where much of the latter seems (unfortunately) to recycle the same underlying material. This post tries to filter out bibliographical noise to get a little closer to the faint signal beneath.

Essential bibliography

As always, even though there are more complete bibliographies out there, relatively few books and articles genuinely define the topic. So, here’s my suggested essential bibliography (please excuse spoilers):

• Clarke, Jerome (1966) “The Strange Case of the 1897 Airship”
  • (Spoiler: it’s aliens, but disguised as men with beards, because reasons)
• Keel, John (1973) “Operation Trojan Horse” (Chapter 5)
  • (Spoiler: it’s aliens, but somehow outside time and space)
• Cohen, Daniel (1981) “The Great Airship Mystery: A UFO Of The 1890s”
  • (Spoiler: it’s Venus, plus mass hysteria)
• Bartholomew, Robert E. (1990) “The Airship Hysteria of 1896-97”
  • (Spoiler: it’s mass hysteria)
• Busby, Michael (2004) “Solving the 1897 Airship Mystery”
  • (Spoiler: it’s C. A. Smith’s airship design, sort of)
• Danelek, J. Allen (2009) “The Great Airship of 1897”
  • (Spoiler: it’s some San Francisco millionaire in Sacramento / Oroville)

The last two of these are available as ebooks, and focus specifically on airships. Of these, while Busby is better on patents (though didn’t pick up on Dr S. B. Battey’s patent), Danelek is better on logistics (such as the likely connection with railroads). As possible aluminium suppliers, Danelek also flags both Alcoa (actually, Pittsburgh Reduction Company) and Swiss-based Alcan (so gets applause from the gallery for that).

Incidentally, Danelek includes not only the famous etching of Walter McCann’s photograph, but also another picture supposedly of the same airship. However, it looks to me (after a quick Google image search) like he was taken in by a grainy fake (the original was an 1875 etching of “A street in Parsons, Kansas”, below). Notice how everyone is standing in the same place and positions, 22 years later. 😉

Incidentally, Jerome Clarke remarks [p.16] that “one noted ufologist has concluded – and will so argue in a forthcoming book – that the airship was invented by an American scientist“, though I don’t know who that “noted ufologist” was. But in the end, Clarke’s argument seems to boil down to the assertion that “one must conclude, as Thomas Edison did, that “it is absolutely impossible to imagine that a man could construct a successful airship and keep the matter a secret”.” [p.16] The singular problem with Edison’s reasoning is that, for all its cleverness, the airship may ultimately have been unsuccessful – cock-up plus cover-up normally trumps a pure conspiracy argument.

1896 Airship Flap vs 1897 Airship Flap?

One thing to bear in mind is that there were (technically speaking) two separate airship flaps. The first flap was solely in California, started on Thanksgiving Day 1896 and ran for about a month. This was followed by a second (much longer) flap that started in Hastings, Nebraska (about a thousand miles away!) on 2nd February 1897, but then spread through many other states. The final sighting was (probably) over Yonkers, New York in later April 1897 (quoted in Danelek). There was also a report (Denver Evening Post, 13 May 1897) of the crash of a large balloon or airship off the coast of New York (quoted in Busby).

Even though many writers assume that these two flaps were both the same flap, that remains no more than an assumption. Jerome Clarke concurs that “there is no justification for the view […] that the airship worked its way eastwards from California after December 1896“. [p.10]

In fact, the history of invention is full of situations where two or more teams with technologically similar solutions are racing against each other: in this “race to market”, it can be almost impossible to prove who genuinely made the original inventive step. So we should always be suspicious of every source where the two flaps are automatically taken as a single “mega-flap” – right now, we simply don’t know either way.

And finally… William Randolph Hearst?

Nicely, Bartholomew (p.175) quotes Klass’s “UFO’s – Explained” (1976, p.314), that cites William Randolph Hearst in the San Francisco Examiner, 5th December 1896:

“Fake journalism” has a good deal to answer for, but we do not recall a more discernible exploit in that line than the persistent attempt to make the public believe that the air in this vicinity is populated with airships. It has been manifest for weeks that the whole airship story is pure myth.

What I find amusing about this is that Busby highlights Hearst as exactly the kind of capitalist ‘robber baron’ who would look to capture (and, of course, monopolise) this emerging airship mode of transport. Would it therefore be a surprise if Hearst – who himself had become so extraordinarily rich from the same fake ‘yellow journalism’ he criticised here – turned out to be both a critic of the 1896 wave and a backer of the 1897 wave?

Right now, I don’t really think so, but for now that’s no more than a guess. Certainly, though, it would not surprise me one little bit if the secret history behind the 1896 and 1897 airship flaps turns out to be far subtler and technologically competitive than previous writers have imagined.

When dealing with a person who died less than a century ago, it’s almost always a good idea to look at their family tree. Might they have left some papers, articles, diaries, memoirs or photographs? Sometimes this leads to a family member with an interest in genealogy and/or family history: asking is free, and if you’re nice about it you might occasionally even get an answer.

So, let’s look at Dr Sumter Beauregard Battey’s family tree…

Dr Sumter Beauregard Battey

Physician, surgeon, inventor, early aviation enthusiast.

• b. 14 Apr 1861 (Rome, Floyd, GA)
• d. 1 Feb 1934 (Manhattan, New York City, NY)
• m. Dr Sarah Angie Margaret French d. 26 July 1917 (Manhattan, New York City, NY)
  • Bryan Mann Battey, Sr.
  • Rosalind Battey (1898-1914)

Bryan Mann Battey, Sr.

Worked for law firm Fraser, Myers & Manley, New York City. Became Assistant Commissioner of Patents of the U.S.

• b. 1 Aug 1896 (New York City, NY)
• d. 22 Apr 1936 (Los Angeles, CA)
• m. Eleonore Gunther Starke on 23 June 1923 at Oscawana on the Hudson, NY
  • Bryan Mann Battey Jr. (1924-2008)
  • Fraser Jackson Battey (1925-2006)
  • Lawrence Beauregard Battey (1930-2006)

Bryan Mann Battey Jr.

Served in the US Navy in WWII, where he “became an expert in languages“. Later joined the US Foreign Service and moved to Japan with his family.

• m. Jean Lewis (n. 1924 Larchmont NY – d. 12 May 2016) [Obituary]
  • David (of Washington DC)
  • Laura (of Sonoma)
  • Robert (of Alexandria, VA)
  • Megan (1957-2021) Obituary
    • m. George Todd (1992)

Fraser Jackson Battey

• b. 1925
• d. 2006
• m. Shirley Jane Altemus
  • Eleonore Jane Battey (b. 8 Dec 1960) [in Manassas VA]
    • m. Paul Davis Mullen (15 Oct 1983, McLean, Fairfax, VA)
  • Catherine Lynn Battey (b. 5 Apr 1954) = Lynn Battey Hunt, [Marshall VA?]
    • m. Kerry Stephen Hunt (11 May 1974)
  • Susann Fraser Battey (b. 13 Aug 1947, d. 1999)
    • m. Joe Frank Ireland (29 May 1971)
  • Dale E Battey (b. 1949, Iowa)

Lawrence Beauregard (“Bo”) Battey

Obituary

• b. 11 Jan 1930 (Oscawana on the Hudson, NY)
• d. 4 Nov 2006
• m. Jeanette
  • William Battey of Des Moines
  • Karen (John) Lipcamon of Cedar Rapids, Iowa
  • Howard (Cassie) Battey of Andalusia, Alabama
    • 9 grandchildren
      • 4 great grandchildren
• m. 4 Apr 1980 Betty Ann Randell (1929-2010)

Given that the first two well-attested full-scale metal-clad airships (both by David Schwartz and industrialist Carl Berg) were in Russia and Prussia in the 1890s, it should be no great surprise if an American concern built its own similar airship at about the same time.

But entrepreneurs are opportunists; opportunity needs timing; and timing is everything. So what was it about the 1890s and airships? Why was the timing so special?

Affordable Aluminium

In my first post that touched on the 1897 Airship “Flap”, I mentioned that aluminium was the wonder-metal of the second half of the 19th century: but, to be fair, that wasn’t quite the whole story. Though I was correct to say that aluminium had gone into industrial production in 1856, it stayed horribly expensive for decades.

In fact, it wasn’t until 1886 when chemist Charles Martin Hall and his sister Julia discovered (while experimenting “in a shed attached to the family home in Oberlin, Ohio”) how to produce aluminium much more cheaply via electrolysis. The French chemist Paul T. Héroult discovered the same process at around the same time. Ever since, aluminium production has been dominated by the Hall-Héroult Process.

To exploit this new industrial process, Hall initially tried to get backing from investors in Ohio and New York, but without success. Eventually Hall succeeding in bringing together a group of backers including Captain Alfred E. Hunt (a metallurgist whose independent lab served the steel industry) and Arthur Vining Davis; who all on Thanksgiving Day 1888 founded a company called the Pittsburgh Reduction Company.

By 1890, the company had already received an initial investment from the famous Pittsburgh banking family the Mellons: in fact, the Mellons’ shareholding later grew to a third of the whole stock.

By 1891, the company had moved from a pilot site on Smallman Street to much bigger premises in New Kensington, where it started to form aluminium ingots and prefabricated products; and by 1895, it was producing aluminum cookware (such as rust-free kettles). Aluminium frames for bicycles were another big growth area during the 1890s.

Flying machines subsequently proved a focus as well: in 1903, the Wright Brothers’ engine block and crankcase were both made of Pittsburgh Reduction Company aluminium. The company’s aerospace alloy 2017-T4 (developed in 1916) was used for the US Navy’s rigid airship USS Shenandoah.

In 1925, the company listed on the New York Curb Exchange as “Aluminum Company of America”: but you probably have seen the shortened form of its name, still thriving a century later – Alcoa.

Pittsburgh Reduction Company in 1896

For any company or concern in the US looking to make an aluminium airship gondola in 1896 (in time for the airship “flap” in 1897), I think the Pittsburgh Reduction Company was highly likely to have been its supplier. A 290-page book published by the PRC in 1898 (“Aluminum and aluminum alloys in the form of ingots, castings, bars, plates [etc.] (Myers & Shinkle co., printers, 1898)”) describes (in, ummm, riveting detail) just about every aspect (and industrial use) imaginable of aluminium and various aluminium alloys.

If an early customer had – as I suspect – bought a sizeable amount of aluminium from the Pittsburgh Reduction Company in 1896, I think there’s a good chance that a trace of that 1896 transaction remains in the 98 linear feet (191 boxes) of company archives that still exist. These are held by the Heinz History Center, located at 1212 Smallman St, Pittsburgh: “Aluminum Company of America Records, 1857-1992 (bulk 1900-1965), MSS #282, Detre Library and Archives, Heinz History Center“.

Personally, the two sections I’d be most interested in:

• Accounting ledgers / General Ledger #1, 1894-1902 (Shelf Shelf, Volume [2])
• Box 66, Folder 8: Contracts

As always with archives, though, you’re never going to know what’s actually in there until you stick your inquisitive nose in and have a look.

A full account of how Walter McCann came to take two photographs of the mysterious airship appeared in the Chicago Times-Herald on Monday, April 12, 1897. The text of that article is helpfully reproduced in a Tripod website (from 2006) and on Patrick Gross’s website. The second (much better) photograph itself was reproduced by one of the Times-Herald’s etchers (pen and ink artist), who tried to make as good a copy as he could for printing on the front page.

But who was Walter McCann, and might a print of his original photograph (which he didn’t want to sell the negative of to any newspaper) still be in existence?

Walter McCann’s newsstand

The address of McCann’s newsstand was described in the article as “on Greenleaf Avenue”, “near the Northwestern Railway tracks”: according to a list the Chicago Eagle printed every month or so, it was 4340 E. Ravenswood Park. He lived in “Rogers Park”, and (in 1897) had a son, who had “won a camera not long ago in a contest for getting subscribers to a paper”. Nowadays, the shop on the corner of N. Ravenswood Avenue and W. Greenleaf Avenue in Rogers Park (and still right next to the railway line, though that is now elevated) is “Bark Place” (a pet daycare centre).

McCann saw the strange object “coming from the south” at about 5.30am, went inside to get his son’s camera, then “ran to Greenleaf Avenue and Market Street”. A quick look at Tillotson’s pocket map and street map of Chicago for 1900 reveals that Market Street was the old name for E. Ravenswood Park. Additionally, McCann’s newsstand appears to have been right next to where Rogers’ Park Station was.

Hence I think we can almost exactly place where the photograph of the airship was taken. I believe the the row of connected dots down the next road East marks the row of overhead cables (electricity poles? telephone poles?) that appear in the background in the image. Though I must confess that I don’t quite understand why the railway tracks in the image appear to curve off to the right when the railway tracks on the pocket map around Rogers’ Park Station appear to be perfectly straight.

Walter R McCann’s family tree

Familysearch.org suggests a Walter Raymond McCann, which (though not a 100% certain match) does seem pretty good. A quick spin round myheritage.com (where I still have a couple of months of subscription left) and familysearch.org yielded a quick family tree (though I’m less sure about the section in italics):

• Born 17 April 1860 (Paris, Bourbon KY) to Charles McCann and Harriet Current (one of six siblings)
• 1900 living in Chicago, Cook IL
• Died 21 October 1928 (Chicago, Cook IL)
• 8 May 1884 married Hannah Theodora Wright (1864-1959) in Toledo, Lucas OH
  • William Ray McCann (1885-1974)
    • 11 Jan 1913 married Mildred Olive Bates, Ancon, Panama Canal Zone
      • Frank Bates McCann (1915-2003)
        • 10 Dec 1938 married Virginia Elliott Newcomb (1915-1991), Hilton, Monroe NY
      • Walter Ray McCann (1916-1997)
        • 21 Sep 1945 married Katharine Duvall James (1909-1996), Allegheny PA
          • Patrick Keith McCann (1950-2002)
            • 19 May 1978 married Debra R Reel, in San Joaquin CA
      • Adriana McCann (1921-2003)
  • Robert Lee McCann (1887-1976)
    • 3 Jan 1907 married Evelyn Thompson (1888-1948)
      • Florence Evelyn McCann (1908-2006)
        • Married George John Kruchten (1902-1990)
          • Robert Kruchten
            • Married Marian
              • Robert
                • Married Laurie
              • Patrick
                • Married Amy
              • Glenn
                • Married Alison
      • Walter Lee McCann (1911-1967)
        • Married Violet
          • John
          • James
          • Arlene
          • Catherine
      • Jeanette Ellen McCann (1923-2000)
        • Married Philip H Horwitz (1920-2005)

Doubtless Walter McCann had many more descendants not included here. I wonder if one or more of them have online family trees, and a family memory of the two day period in April 1897 when Walter McCann and his son’s camera were the toast of Rogers Park?