Lightning Man_ The Accursed Life of Samuel F. B. Morse - Kenneth Silverman [84]
Arriving at the capital early in February, Morse and Vail put up at Gadsby’s Hotel for $17.50 a week. Vail had grown used to shelling out family money for Morse’s expenses—$35 to $75 here and there—but the steep rate dictated a move to some less expensive boarding house. Vail found such lodging for $10 a week, but Morse decided to stay at Gadbsy’s—for the sake of having servants to cater to him, Vail believed. He did not mind the separation, for he had become miffed at Morse. Morse had printed up invitations to the Philadelphia performance—without asking the Vails, but at their expense, and in his own name. And now in Washington, Vail discovered, when invited to meet with President Van Buren or other distinguished people, Morse was inclined to go alone, “unwilling that I should accompany him to see any of the Great Folks.”
A week at Gadsby’s taught Morse that despite its enormous prices the hotel offered poor service. But his move to Fuller’s, a $9-a-week boarding house, made Vail no less disgruntled. It galled him that, although they had signed articles of agreement, Morse called him an “Assistant.” When he protested the title Morse apologized and explained, not convincingly, that he “supposed it synonymous with Partner, Colleague.” Many inventors of the period, imbued with the ideal of the Creative Genius, failed to credit the mere craftsmen and mechanics who were essential to their work. Vail nevertheless felt used, resentful at being handed such menial chores as packing and shipping: “Professor Morse is indisposed when there is anything to do.” And his brother George griped that Morse failed to keep the family posted and granted them no recognition. Vail did not turn away, certain that he had embarked on a great and noble adventure. But he was beginning to see his former teacher as imperious, exploitative, and vain, a hierarch who gave him the dirty work, let his family pay the bills, and took the glory for himself.
Morse’s Washington demonstrations apparently began around February 15 and lasted several days. He used the numerical code rather than trust his alphabetic method. The city was cold, the ground covered with a half inch of ice, boys and men skating over the streets. Morse and Vail performed in the carpeted room of the Committee on Commerce, warmed by a hickory wood fire, the wire circuit spooled on two five-mile reels. Despite the stormy weather, members of Congress crowded into the room, some bringing back other witnesses, who came again and again. John C. Calhoun alone sent down a dozen other senators. Morse gave a special showing, upon request, for President Van Buren and members of his cabinet, including the Secretaries of State, Treasury, War, and the Navy. He had the President convey a message to him silently, which he then set up on the port-rule, in numbers, for Vail to decipher. Van Buren sent “The enemy near.”
But to Morse’s delight, there were no enemies, only dumbstruck admirers of his telegraph. “Members of Congress who, when told of its operation, scouted it as impossible and visionary, come and are for a while mute and then go away with exclamations of wonder.” To Vail the events seemed unreal, “as though some strange thing had happened.” He recorded some of the amazed comments he heard: “what would Jefferson think, could he arise up … where will improvements and discoveries stop … it is the most wonderful discovery ever made … it must belong to the government.” Patent Commissioner Henry Ellsworth, from whom Morse had obtained a caveat, reportedly said that “nothing has ever been in Washington that has produced such a noise.”
The Committee on Commerce asked Morse to draw up a full report on his invention. They planned to recommend that Congress appropriate funds to test the device over a much longer distance. Morse believed that if the experiment succeeded, the