Back home, army officials vowed to continue their efforts. "It is a very sad happening and one to be deeply regretted," said Secretary of War Luke Wright, but he blamed the accident on a mechanical flaw rather than any miscalculation of basic principles. "I see no reason why this accident should give any serious setback to the experiments in aeronautics by the army." Others echoed this sentiment. Augustus Post, secretary of the Aero Club of America called Selfridge a "martyr to the cause" but added, "It is not likely that the accident, as deplorable as it is, will have any serious effect in retarding the work of progress that has been so pronounced within the last few week."

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An accident investigation revealed that the right propeller blade had broken and flattened somewhat, and the difference in thrust between the two blades caused the mysterious tapping sound. Aerodynamic pressures forced the right blade out of position enough for it to clip the wires controlling the vertical rudder. According to the army’s official report, "The rear rudder fell to the side and the air striking this from beneath, as the machine started to glide down, gave an upward tendency to the rear of the machine, which increased until the equilibrium was entirely lost. Then the aeroplane pitched forward and fell straight down, the left wings striking before the right. It landed on the front end of the skids, and they, as well as the front rudder was crushed."

Orville Wright was absolved of any blame. He had done the best he could under the circumstances. One week later, Selfridge was buried with full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery. One year later, the Signal Corps purchased a Wright machine for $30,000. It was the world’s first military airplane.

Though heart-sickened by their companion’s death, the members of Bell’s association were not deterred in their work–at least for a brief period. Four months later McCurdy successfully flew his Silver Dart in Canada. Shortly thereafter the association disbanded, ostensibly for having achieved its primary objective. But Mrs. Bell, who had financed the group’s efforts, may have identified the real reason when she wrote, "The beautiful bond of companionship, which we called the Aerial Experiment Association, was broken when Tom Selfridge sealed his devotion to our cause with his life."

Its members went their own ways. Curtiss kept the competition with the Wrights alive by forming his own aviation company. Using the AEA’s patents, he built new planes even as the Wrights battled with him in court. In 1912 Wilbur died of typhoid fever, weakened, his family believed, by the pressures involved in trying to protect the family business from men like Curtiss. Orville finally won a patent infringement case against Curtiss in 1914, but his triumph was short-lived. With the outbreak of World War I, the federal government stripped away Wright’s patent protection to facilitate a free exchange of ideas among aircraft manufacturers.

By then Bell had returned his attention to the growing telephone industry, staying instrumental in the expansion of long distance service. If he felt any ill will toward the Wright brothers, he never showed it. In 1908 Bell wrote to the secretary of the Smithsonian, Charles Walcott, and suggested that the Institution do something to honor the brothers. Walcott agreed, and two years later the Smithsonian Institution awarded Wilbur and Orville its first Langley Medal for achievements in aviation.

Wyatt Kingseed is a freelance writer from Columbus, Ohio. His article "The Great Escape" appeared in the February 2000 issue of American History. 

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