Down, as though drawn by some giant, unseen hand, sinks the surface of the land; and you yourself, save for the wind which comes whistling past the hull, might be suspended motionless in the air. Smooth, seemingly quite effortless, is the progress of the machine; and the air aloft is—well, such air as, for sheer exhilaration, you have never breathed before; and, although it has an early-morning chill, you are shielded by the snug, covered-in body of your craft. The machine as it thrusts its way forward, is rising steadily—now 500, now 1000 feet; and as you fix your eyes again upon the pilot, you see that he is making a turn. He is in fact swinging his craft so as to steer for Kempton Park, where a tall chimney forms a landmark for many miles; and the reason for the manœuvre is this: you are bound, as a first flight, for the aerodrome by the sea which has been established at Shoreham; but to fly there straight from Hendon would mean passing above London, and this by aerial law is not allowed. For the safety of the public, indeed, all flights over towns are prohibited, it being held that there might be danger, for those below, from the fall or collapse of a machine. So pilots make detours round areas that are populated; and your steersman, having no desire to infringe the rules, points his bow south-west and soon covers the fourteen miles to Kempton Park. Round the chimney to which he has been flying you make your turn; then he corrects his course due south and steers steadily for the sea-coast, still rising gently; while around and below—like a scene from fairyland—lies the panorama of the landscape.
Photo, F.N. Birkett.
PLATE XVI.—THE GRAHAME-WHITE AEROBUS.
This machine, which is seen above with Mr. Grahame-White at the steering wheel, holds a world’s record for weight-lifting, having flown for 19 minutes at Hendon, carrying nine passengers. The craft has a wing-span of 60 feet, and is driven by a motor of 100 horse-power.
A flight of 40 miles now lies before you. The motor throbs rhythmically, the altitude is 3000 feet, and your craft sways a little sometimes, ever so slightly, as it encounters a gust of wind. Below lies Surrey, with its commons, parks, and woods; and the effect of your height is now peculiar. You have a fixed delusion that the aeroplane is standing still, and that you are moving neither forward nor sideways; and yet your speed, as a matter of fact, is more than 50 miles an hour, and the sea-coast creeps nearer mile by mile. This illusion, this strong belief that you are motionless, is due to your height above the ground. Looking down upon the earth, from an altitude of several thousand feet, you have no near object by which you can gauge your speed. It is the same when one glances from the window of an express, and catches sight of some distant hill. Even in a train running at sixty miles an hour, if you watch a landmark that is remote, it will seem that your pace is slow; and yet if you note the telegraph poles close beside the track, you see that they are flying past your carriage window.
Soon, after peering steadily ahead, your pilot turns towards you with a call: “Look—the sea!”
Your eyes follow the direction of his outstretched arm, and there, faint upon the sky-line but quite distinct, and reflecting the glint of the sun, lie the waters of the Channel. The land at its brink is only dimly visible at first: there is a slight sea-mist; but soon, as your craft speeds closer, the wide sweep of the coast is open to your view. Westward lies Selsey Bill, at the extremity of a stretch of shore which juts boldly to the sea; and then from west to east, as you turn your head, you follow the line of the coast until Beachy Head, standing clear-cut and distinct, caps to the eastward this fine-drawn curve. You call an inquiry, and your pilot points ahead: almost in the centre of the bay, at a point where a glint of water, seen a little way inland, reveals the location of Shoreham Harbour, lies the aerodrome that is your goal.