From Darkness to Light: The Plot to Sabotage the Invention of the Electric Light

By Thomas Gillen

From Darkness To Light is a gripping tale of the events surrounding the invention of the electric light by Thomas A. Edison and the plot to sabotage the invention. Based upon on the historical facts, this page-turning narrative is told through the love story of Rockwell Kent who discovers his lover, Fiona Wakefield, is in life-threatening danger because of her involvement in a plot to either steal or sabotage Edison's invention. A controversial scientific undertaking right from the start, the novel reveals the frustrations, failures and successes of the invention and answers the intriguing question of why the powerful financier, J. P. Morgan, would agree to finance the experiments of the young, self-taught, and mercurial Edison who audaciously claimed he had discovered a key principal of electricity that had eluded the leading scientists of the time. In short, this is an against-all-the-odds story of the birth of the age of electric power and modern technology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 29, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469790541

Thomas Gillen

Thomas F. Gillen has written biographical sketches of Thomas A. Edison and J. P. Morgan published in Cigar Aficionado. He knew Edison's son, Theodore, and daughter, Madeleine, who gave him his first biography of her father. He lives in Maplewood, NJ, not far from where the electric light was invented.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE MEMOIR OF ROCKWELL KENT

November 1931, a month after the death of Thomas Alva Edison

I am writing this memoir to give the details, details that otherwise would be lost to history, of the greed and envy behind the plot to sabotage what I believe is the greatest invention in history—the electric light.

I decided I had to do this after the death last month of my good friend, Thomas A. Edison, at the great age of 84, and because of the huge outpouring of admiration for him. I was stunned to see an estimated fifty thousand people who came and stood in line, despite the chilly October weather, over two days, waiting for the chance to file pass in silent tribute as he laid-in-state in his huge library at his laboratory facility in West Orange, New Jersey. Ordinary people, I mean, who knew how much his work had changed their lives. For them I have to tell this story.

Then, of course, there were the many notable figures who came as well to attend the funeral, including his good friends Henry Ford and the president of the United States, Herbert Hoover. The world mourned, and as a final tribute to my friend, the president asked that at 10 P.M. on the day of the funeral all unnecessary electric lights be turned off for one minute. I did just that, but then knew I couldn’t turn the lights back on without realizing it also meant the end of an era for me as well. Sitting alone in the darkness for hours, I couldn’t stop the flood of memories about the life I enjoyed working all those years with Edison. It was then that I realized I might be the last person alive who knows the details behind the invention of the electric light, his greatest invention. So I decided I had to make this record for history in order to set things straight about the plot to sabotage the invention and discredit Edison. But in particular, I will tell you of my involvement in those events and which, except for my good friend Charles Batchelor, is a part of the story unknown by anyone, unknown even by Edison.

In order to understand the events I am going to describe, it is important to know that Edison’s idea for the invention was filled with controversy right from the start. To begin with, there was the claim made by a rival inventor, William E. Sawyer, that Edison had stolen his design for an electric light, a claim that actually had no basis, but a disturbing one nonetheless. Then there was the criticism of the scientific community. At the time, in the mid-1870s, very little was understood by scientists, who usually were university professors conducting research for purely academic purposes, about the principals of electricity. Edison, the brash, young inventor he was, announced that he had solved a major mystery of electricity, namely, subdivision, or as we know it today, the parallel circuit. The leading scientists at the time believed the laws of electricity made it an uncontestable fact that subdivision was impossible. As a result, the criticism by the scientific community of Edison for making his claim was harsh to say the least. He was even accused by some of attempting to perpetrate a scientific hoax. The amount of public ridicule he had to endure as a result was just astonishing.

And then, of course, there was the money, and I do mean a lot of money, that was at stake. If Edison proved to be right, it would mean the end of the gaslight industry, the main source of lighting in major cities like New York. Annual revenues from gas lighting in the US were an estimated $150 million, a considerable amount of money even today as I write this memoir. Edison, if successful, represented a huge financial threat to the wealthy owners of the gaslight companies-more than enough reason, I’m sure many would agree, for some people to want to see him fail. That’s how Fiona became involved in the events surrounding the invention, or I should more accurately say, the events surrounding the efforts to steal Edison’s work.

But, sadly, to tell this story, I will have to reveal my relationship with Fiona, the woman I loved, loved more than I will ever be able to tell you, and then lost forever because of my role in the invention. For having to disclose our relationship, I apologize to Fiona, if she is still alive and should ever read this memoir, since it means revealing secrets about her involvement, particularly the murder. As for me, this is a painful story. It means digging up those loving memories of Fiona and having to admit that she still haunts me, still lives in my heart after all these years.

I’m talking many years later—more than half a century—since when Fiona and I last saw one another. But don’t misunderstand me. The story of Fiona and me is just one of those little stories overshadowed by the main events, the kind no ones cares about at the time but still necessary to fill in the holes for history about what is truly not just a great invention, but more importantly one of the greatest scientific breakthroughs in the history of mankind—the ability to produce and distribute electric power.

Looking back on it all now, my only regret is that I should never, never have let Fiona get away from me, and I would trade it all to have had a life with her. Maybe that also is, in part, the reason why I feel the need to write this memoir, as an exercise to face those memories of Fiona and, hopefully, put my soul to rest.

I know what it is you’re thinking: this is just the lament of a hurt lover, and you’ve heard the same expression of regret from others who have made the same mistake. And, no doubt, when you read this story you’re going to want to know why I still loved her after finding out she used me, lied to me, deceived me.

My excuse is that it was the circumstances, the circumstances of her life. If you want to place blame, then I was probably as much at fault as Fiona for what transpired. I knew what she was, and knew the choices she faced. I also know she loved me, truly loved me. In the end, why she did what she did doesn’t matter because we were meant, I believe, to meet and fall in love, just two souls on a collision course from the very beginning. Unfortunately, I think all too often we let other things in our lives get in our way of accepting that fate.

Let me explain what I mean before I get into the details of my story. It is what I learned from that entire experience. I now call it Rockwell’s rule: The only thing in life that matters is love. And if you find that person to share love with, that one person who is your soul mate, who brings contentment, peace, music, poetry, calm to your soul, to your very being, then don’t, don’t ever, let that person go, no matter what the hardships, and especially no matter how many other people you think you’re going to hurt, otherwise the only person you’ll hurt is yourself—and that’s the must damaging hurt of all. Everyone else will survive—but not you. You will carry the pain inside forever! Believe me, I know. I learned this rule the hard way.

She taught me this. Fiona that is. Without her knowing, she taught me, but I just didn’t listen to my heart. And that’s the message: trust your heart.

The problem, I guess, is that the events we got swept up into had serious consequences, particularly for Fiona. The truth is, while it was in self-defense, Fiona may have killed a man. At the time, however, if some very powerful people

wanted to make it other than self-defense, to ruin Fiona and me, they could have. That left only one choice: Fiona had to go away.

But why didn’t I ever hear from her again? I can only think she thought that it would bring me trouble, or maybe shame, for my loving her. That’s real love. But sometimes I think real love is just plain stupid. We think we have to deny ourselves the person we really need because we love them. Sacrifice. Sacrifice what? Yourself? And yet, I would bet that is what Fiona did for me. Oh, how I miss my dear sweet Fiona.

But no more reminiscing. I’ll let you be the judge after you read my account of how the electric light came to be invented and of how I lost, a long time ago, the woman I will always love—Fiona Wakefield.

CHAPTER 2

A NEW AGE BEGINS

Summer 1878

Now, Miss Wakefield, Rockwell said as he leaned closer to the woman sitting next to him, how about another oyster?

Without waiting for an answer, Rockwell held a large specimen of the mollusk quivering on its shell to her lips. They both giggled as he poured the delicacy into her mouth and she swallowed it. Oysters, Rockwell had on the authority of his friend sitting at his other side, also busy charming a young woman, were good stimulants to arouse the sexual passions. But as he watched some juice drip from the corners of her lips and run down her chin, Rockwell felt the passion rise inside of him. Maybe his friend was right. Maybe eating oysters did stir the passions. He didn’t really care. He only knew the woman beside him was the only stimulant he needed.

For the moment, as far as Rockwell was concerned, life was good. The kind of good he always enjoyed on nights like this when he and his friend, Charles Batchelor, spent their time in shameless cavorting. Batchelor was the chief assistant to the young and boastful inventor, Thomas A. Edison, and Rockwell’s mentor on the finer things available to young men in New York City.

It had been a year since Rockwell moved to the city from philadelphia after finishing his law studies. His father, a successful philadelphia businessman, had arranged for Rockwell to apprentice as the legal assistant for Grosvenor P. Low-rey, a prominent Wall Street lawyer and general counsel to Western Union. The plan was for Rockwell to obtain a few years of experience under Lowrey and then return to Philadelphia to establish a law practice. But Rockwell had already decided it was unlikely he would ever leave New York.

To be 25 and living in a vibrant city with a growing law career on Wall Street, which was fast becoming one of the great financial centers of the world, was a combination not to be matched anywhere else. It afforded him the means to enjoy sumptuous dinners at the city’s finest establishments such as the one they were at, Cutter’s, his favorite tavern and restaurant. What’s more, because of Lowrey’s prominence, he was meeting some of the most influential businessmen in the country including the successful inventor Thomas A. Edison, also one of Lowrey’s clients. That’s how he met Batchelor. And to top it all off, New York had many young and beautiful ladies such as the woman at his side, even though she was, as Batchelor described, a lady of the evening whom they had coaxed, along with her friend, into joining them for a dinner of roasted duck and plenty of wine. No, life here was too good Rockwell concluded, and he was sure it would be his home for a long time to come.

Please, the woman pleaded as she dried her lips with her napkin, please call me Fiona.

Rockwell smiled at her request. No matter how much he tried, he could not stop his eyes from darting from her beautiful face to the cleavage revealed by the low neckline of her dress. He was amused by how she adroitly and teasingly could reveal just slightly more of her breasts as she leaned in his direction from time to time. Her playful nature aroused him, and he dreamed of being more intimate with her later in the evening.

O.K., Fiona it is, Rockwell answered cheerfully. He rested his arm on the back of her chair and laid his hand on her shoulder touching her soft, pearl-white skin as images of her naked body flashed through his head. You’re so beautiful, Fiona, he said softly, preparing to offer what he believed would be more words of seduction when Batchelor nudged him. Rockwell turned intending to register his annoyance at the interruption, but Batchelor was motioning with his thumb at the three men walking towards their table.

It’s Sawyer, Batchelor whispered in his distinctive British accent, be careful what you say.

Why? Rockwell asked quietly. Sawyer was an inventor and Edison’s archrival. Rockwell knew they had a mutual distain for each other, which often appeared in the press with each claiming the other had borrowed an idea the other had already patented. Until now, Rockwell had never laid eyes on Sawyer, but he was familiar with the accusations of piracy since Lowrey represented Edison in his patent disputes.

Cause he’s a prick. Maybe he’ll just pass by us, Batchelor whispered as he kept his back towards Sawyer.

Sawyer’s manner told Rockwell he had no such intention. Brazenly, he walked up to their table and stood over Batchelor. Rockwell thought Sawyer intentionally stood so that he could glare down at Batchelor. In order to look up at Sawyer, Batchelor had to lean back in his chair. Sawyer was clearly inebriated, a state that Rockwell would come to understand was his trademark. This only made his rude behavior more pathetic to Rockwell.

Well, Mr. Batchelor, I see you are taking liberties and enjoying the pleasures of the city while your boss is on his trip out West, Sawyer said sarcastically. I suppose he thinks that because he’s off rubbing shoulders with some of the prominent men in science it will make him a real scientist. I’m afraid that will never happen. He’ll still be just a simple inventor, Sawyer said mockingly with a grin of satisfaction.

Rockwell watched Batchelor’s jaw muscles tighten beneath his thick, black beard as his teeth bit down into his cigar. He could tell Batchelor was struggling to control his British rage and feared his friend would at any moment rise from his chair and choke the life out of Sawyer. That was the last thing Rockwell wanted. It would spoil his plans for later with Fiona. He just couldn’t allow that to happen. Rockwell nudged Batchelor in his back with his finger hoping to defuse his friend’s anger. Batchelor turned slightly towards Rockwell and nodded, indicating he got the message.

Well, Batchelor began, as he removed the cigar from his mouth and let the smoke drift into Sawyer’s face, when you have as many patents to your credit as we do, you can afford to take a break now and then. Besides, I can understand how you think that inventing is a simple thing since you have borrowed many of our ideas as your own! Batchelor quipped sarcastically.

Rockwell watched as Sawyer’s eyes enlarged with rage. Batchelor’s jab at Sawyer’s lack of inventing skills, not exactly untrue when compared to the accomplishments Edison had to his credit, as well as the insinuation of piracy, had obviously hit a nerve.

Oh there’s no need to be so rude, Mr. Batchelor. It’s not as if your boss, Mr. Edison, hasn’t pirated an idea or two from others! Sawyer said in a raised voice, purposely loud enough to attract the attention of the other dinner patrons.

Rockwell began to fear the situation might become a scene when one of the men with Sawyer suggested that they should move on gesturing for Sawyer to remain calm. Sawyer regained his composure but didn’t move.

Well, you can tell your Mr. Edison he may think he knows something about electricity, Sawyer continued, but I tell you he has reached his limits. I will have the last laugh when I finish my work on my latest invention. I will be known as the greatest inventor in the field of electricity and your Mr. Edison will be finished, Sawyer boasted loudly. You should come work for me, Mr. Batchelor, and stop wasting your time with Edison!

Sawyer swiftly moved away before Batchelor had a chance to respond.

What’s that all about? Rockwell asked Batchelor, who was pouring large quantities of beer into his mouth. Neither Batchelor nor Rockwell understood that Sawyer was referring to work he was performing on an electric light. Sawyer would get a patent on his light design and would later threaten Edison with having infringed on it.

Just the ravings of a drunk, old boy, Batchelor said. Nothing important. Besides, there’ll be no business discussion tonight, my friend, and don’t pay that bloody arse no mind, Batchelor continued as he finished his beer. Let’s enjoy our dinner and then get the hell out of here and take these charming and lovely ladies to someplace quiet, away from this nonsense, shall we? After all, their beauty is not to be wasted, he declared, as Rockwell watched his friend’s anger turn into amusement.

Rockwell quickly forgot about Sawyer.

* * * *

Rockwell. Rockwell wake up, old fellow. Even at just a whisper, the sound of Batchelor’s voice echoed through Rockwell’s already pain-filled head. We need to get going, Batchelor continued, his head so close Rockwell could feel his hot breath on his ear. And don’t make too much noise. We need to get out of here without waking the girls, Batchelor instructed.

Warily, Rockwell opened one eye only to see Batchelor peering down at him. Slowly, and with a desire not to, he lifted his tried and naked body into a sitting position on the side of the bed. The room appeared to be swirling around him. The urge to fall back onto the bed was almost more than he could resist.

Rockwell couldn’t believe the pain pounding through his head as he bent down to gather his clothes from the floor. As he stood upright, his eyes drifted over towards Fiona lying naked on her stomach and uncovered because of the July heat wave that made even the nights unbearable. He let his eyes slowly move down her back and across her buttocks to her taut, long legs. Thoughts of the pleasures he enjoyed with her aroused him causing his head to throb with more pain. He held his hands to his head praying the pounding under his scalp would stop. Undoubtedly, he reasoned, it was his punishment from the gods for his overindulgences with the forbidden pleasures, especially those taken with Fiona while wrapped in the soft, warm flesh of her slender legs.

He turned away to avoid looking at her, thinking it would help to sooth his pain. Slowly the throbbing began to subside as he leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, trying to steady himself and stop the room from swirling. He decided he would savor the images of Fiona later when he could enjoy the experiences without the headache.

Rockwell followed Batchelor as they slipped out onto the street. Head down, and trusting Batchelor knew where he was going, Rockwell didn’t want to risk enduring more pain by raising his eyes to allow the early sunlight pour through his dilated pupils. He began to question whether it was worth it; that is the drinking and the women. Chastising himself for his intemperance, he vowed he would exercise more restraint in the future. But he knew he never would. You liar, he said to himself. He always made the same promise, and always, he knew, broke it—nights like the last one were just too much to resist.

I’m not ever going out with you again, he mumbled while walking next to Batchelor. They often played this little game where one blamed the other for the sins of the night before.

Horse manure, you cad. That’s what you say until tonight when you’re feeling better. While I’m in the woods of New Jersey seeking knowledge, you’ll be discussing such and such with another young maiden whom you intend to compromise, Batchelor protested.

Compromise? Rockwell asked playfully, as if he didn’t understand. He knew Batchelor was going to play their little game.

Yeah, show your manhood in full regalia and then complain to me later how difficult it is to be a young, single man in New York, Batchelor jeered.

Rockwell knew Batchelor was right, but he wasn’t going to concede easily. You’re the one who gets me into these situations, he pleaded.

Oh stop, please stop, Batchelor begged, unable to control his laughter. You’re the one who walks up to the girls and says ‘Hi, I’m a writer looking for a story. Would you help me?’

Yeah. Well it works, Rockwell said as he too began to chuckle.

Oh stop it my friend. It’s only my British accent that saves the day, and you know it.

Sure. Go ahead, take all the credit, Rockwell said, baiting Batchelor into protesting even more.

Get in here, Batchelor said, pointing to a small coffee shop. I’ll sober you up, and then we can have an intelligent conversation.

Now you’re the one who’s trying to be funny. You’re not in the city for intelligent conversation. You’re here for the ladies and… Rockwell was interrupted by Batchelor waving his hands in the air as a signal that he wasn’t listening to him.

Nonsense! Just pure nonsense, he demurred. Now I can’t tell if you’re still drunk or talking like the true lawyer you are, twisting the truth and hoping no one notices. Like you don’t hear the piper’s tune when around all those pretty maidens? Get in here, Batchelor commanded, and we’ll order some breakfast and bring you to your senses.

Rockwell slumped into a chair. I’ll never do this again. I feel terrible, he remarked holding his head in his hands.

Here, take a swallow of this, Batchelor ordered, handing him a small bottle.

What’s this? Rockwell inquired suspiciously. It wouldn’t be the first time he had been tricked into some sort of practical joke by Batchelor.

Just drink it. It’s something we whipped up in the lab. The old man has been experimenting with some medicine concoctions. He thinks most doctors are lacking an understanding of chemistry.

Rockwell examined the small bottle. It contained a dark, thick liquid, which he inspected by tilting the bottle back and forth. He was unsure.

What is it? Rockwell asked, doubtfully.

Ah, the perfect solution to a hangover. That’s what it is, Batchelor assured him as he grabbed the bottle from Rockwell, pulled the cork, and took a big swallow. Now, do the same, he said, handing the bottle back to Rockwell.

Rockwell closed his eyes and took a mouthful of the concoction. Once swallowed, he wished he had never followed his friend’s advice. Suddenly, his mouth was filled with a horrid taste that took his breath away and made him wonder how Batchelor had swallowed it so easily. Almost immediately, Rockwell’s stomach began to roll, twisting in pain with violent movement through his bowels. He felt as if his insides were going to explode. Jumping from his seat, he fled as quickly as he could through the rear door of the cafe to the outhouse. With no time to spare, he dropped his trousers as the contents of his bowels poured uncontrollably out of his now too small anal hole. Weakened from the ordeal, he made his way back to the table where Batchelor sat patiently munching on bread rolls and sausage.

You’ll feel better in a few minutes, Batchelor said matter-of-factly as he stroked his beard. Eat some of these rolls. It’ll soak up the alcohol as well.

How come you can drink that terrible stuff and not have to shit your brains out? Rockwell asked, as he slowly began to test his stomach with some bread.

British cast-iron stomach. Can tolerate anything, he said with obvious amusement as he consumed more sausage.

Rockwell had to admit he was beginning to feel better. The creator of the concoction Batchelor had given him was a young man of 31, the brilliant and successful inventor—Thomas A. Edison. Batchelor, as well as Edison’s other assistants, affectionately referred to him as the old man even though his cherub and clean-shaven face made him look younger than his years.

I need a cast-iron head, Rockwell complained. I’ll have this headache all day, and I need to get to the office to finish some documents before Lowrey shows up.

You’ll lose the headache soon. This stuff works, Batchelor said as he held up the bottle before slipping it into his pocket.

Why doesn’t the old man patent it? Rockwell asked, amused at the idea of referring to someone as old when Edison was only a few years older than himself. He answered his own question before Batchelor could speak. Actually, I know why, Rockwell continued. He’s afraid it’ll kill someone, and he’ll get blamed for it.

I don’t know if he ever will. He’s just playing around, I think.

Yeah, playing around with my stomach.

The old man likes to study medicine. He thinks doctors need to know more good chemistry to cure aliments, especially with the trouble Mary is giving him, Batchelor explained as he sipped his coffee. He was referring to Edison’s wife and her pregnancy with their third child. You’ll feel better, I would bet. It’s not foolishness, my friend. The man does know his chemistry, Batchelor said as he poured more coffee for Rockwell and himself.

Is Mary sick? Rockwell asked.

Well, this kid she’s got growing inside must be giving her trouble. Seems she’s always out of sorts. Constantly complaining. Doctor can’t seem to help either. I’m not sure what the problem is. Mary never did like the move to Menlo Park to begin with, so being in her condition and being unhappy anyway may be the reason she’s not feeling well. Besides, the old man is tired. He’s not in a mood for her complaining, Batchelor continued to explain. I think the trip will do him good.

Batchelor was referring to the trip Edison was on in Rawlings, Wyoming, with his friends, George Barker, a professor at the University of Pennsylvania, and Marshall Fox, a reporter with the New York Herald, along with a group of well-known scientists to observe a total eclipse of the sun. Lowrey had convinced Edison to go in part as a scientific expedition and also as a vacation. Afterwards, Edison would then go on to visit the West all the way to San Francisco. It was planned that he would be gone for six weeks and return in plenty of time for the birth of their third child expected in the fall.

I know Lowrey was concerned about him. Said he never saw him so cranky, Rockwell explained, sipping the hot coffee. It felt good to him even on this already hot July day.

Well, I think it was a miracle he agreed to go. He never goes on vacation. A day or two fishing, maybe, but not a vacation, Batchelor said sarcastically. He’s worried about the lab. We’re running out of projects and need something big. An invention that will make lots of money and keep the lab going otherwise it may shutdown. I think he thought the phonograph would be the one, but it fizzled, he added somberly.

Edison had boldly announced a couple of years before that he intended to invent for a living, or in other words turn scientific research into a commercial venture. The scientific community denounced his intention suggesting that it was impossible to earn a living from inventing. They predicted he would fail and now Batchelor was suggesting that the business of inventing had come to an end. If it were true, Edison would face severe embarrassment and more ridicule.

You think the phonograph is dead? Rockwell asked, amazed that a machine could record and repeat sounds.

Yeah, probably, I guess. I don’t know, really. Nice idea, but no one can make a business out of it. Besides, there are some difficult problems with making recordings, Batchelor replied. It needs work, and without a good commercial use, I don’t think the old man will pursue it.

As Batchelor spoke, Rockwell’s thoughts wondered back nearly seven months earlier to a December day in 1877 when he arrived on a routine trip out to the lab. Edison’s lab was located in rural New Jersey about 25 miles south of New York City on the Pennsylvania Railroad. He remembered finding Batchelor and some of the lab assistants as they were gathering around Edison who was sitting at a table. Rockwell approached Batchelor and inquired what was going on.

Damned if I know, he remembered Batchelor saying.

Rockwell watched as John Kruesi, Edison’s chief machinist, placed a strange looking device on the table in front of Edison. What’s this going to do? Kruesi asked in his thick, German-accented voice, speaking loudly into Edison’s ear. Edison was almost totally deaf, so someone speaking to him had to speak directly into his ear.

Edison’s face lit up with a broad grin at Kruesi’s question. Why John, he said softly and with confidence, this machine is going to talk!

Edison had a playful nature and was notorious for practical jokes that would make people appear foolish. A low murmur began to circulate though the staff. Kruesi pulled back with a startled look on his face. Mumbling something in German that Rockwell didn’t understand, he announced he would not be the brunt again of one of Edison’s jokes.

Immediately, the lab boys began wagering with Edison in the usual currency of the lab: cigars. There was a high level of uncertainty, Rockwell could see, as everyone found it difficult to believe Edison’s claim. Still, they weren’t quite sure they should doubt him. The old man was capable of solving difficult problems with his inventions and often found solutions for problems others had not been able to master. But this just seemed too outrageous. The betting was heavy against Edison.

As all watched, Edison took a piece of tin foil and carefully wrapped it around a drum approximately five inches long that was mounted with a screw crank handle though the drum’s center. In this way, the drum could be rotated. Just above the drum now wrapped with foil, was a small diaphragm with a needle attached to its back. The room fell silent as Edison then adjusted the diaphragm so the needle was just touching the surface of the tin foil.

At any moment everyone expected Edison to admit it was just a joke. Rockwell remembered noticing the intense look on Batchelor’s face as smoke from his cigar curled around his head. Batchelor was lost in his thoughts as he focused on the machine. It suddenly struck Rockwell that his friend had realized this was not one of Edison’s jokes.

The tension grew with each passing minute, and Rockwell could recall how his heart began to pound in anticipation of what would happen next. He watched as Edison began to rotate the drum and spoke the words to the familiar nursery rhyme into the diaphragm, Mary had a little lamb…

The sound waves from Edison’s voice caused the diaphragm to vibrate, which made the needle track a groove into the tin foil. When he finished speaking, Edison set the drum back to the beginning and adjusted another diaphragm on the opposite side of the drum with a blunt needle into position to retrace the grooves indented on the surface of the foil.

The room, Rockwell remembered, was deadly silent. Edison began to rotate the drum. To everyone’s shock, the machine not only repeated the rhyme, but it did so in Edison’s own voice!

Rockwell recalled his body going numb. His brain told him it couldn’t be, but he had heard the sound coming from the machine, as had the others. He remembered looking at Batchelor and seeing his eyes fixed on the device. All at once the other witnesses began to stir in a chorus of surprise and disbelief.

Kruesi mumbled something again in German. Rockwell recalled Batchelor turning towards him and simply saying, Well I’ll be damned! He could still see them both bursting into laughter and shaking their heads in amazement.

For the rest of the night, everyone tried the machine recording all sorts of sounds. Rockwell had the foresight to begin taking notes and making drawings of the device, which Edison called a phonograph, for the patent filings. The patent was granted within fifty or so days, the fastest a patent had been approved up to that time, since nothing like the phonograph had ever been submitted before. It was both astonishing and ironic to Rockwell that the secret to recording sound had been discovered by a deaf man.

Overnight Edison was turned into a worldwide celebrity. Demonstrations of the amazing machine were held in cities across the country and in Europe. Batch-elor and the others at the lab were kept busy over the next several months turning out phonographs for demonstrations. Edison even went to Washington to give a demonstration to Congress, and afterwards, he was invited to the White House to show off his invention to President Hayes. For months, the world was dazzled by the phenomenon of recording sound. Often at demonstrations in New York City, the crowds were so large the police had to be called to restore order.

And then a strange thing happened. People stopped coming, and interest in the phonograph dropped off almost as quickly as it had begun. Rockwell recalled that was when Edison began to show signs of stress.

He tumbled Batchelor’s comments over in his head about finding a use for the phonograph. He had to admit he too could not think of what the phonograph could be used for either. Well, Rockwell began, there’s still the telegraph and the contract with Western Union, wishing to be optimistic.

Yeah, but, Batchelor paused to light his cigar, our quadruplex may be the last big invention as far as the telegraph is concerned. It doesn’t leave mush more to be done, if anything.

Rockwell wondered if his friend was predicting the end of a long era of development for the telegraph. By the mid-1870s, the telegraph industry had reached critical physical capacity limitations in cities such as New York and was faced with the crucial problem of increasing capacity to handle the growing demand for its service. Messages could only be sent one at a time over a single line. To increase capacity, additional lines had to be constructed at considerable capital expense. In a city like New York, so many telegraph lines already crisscrossed overhead in certain parts of the city that the sky was blocked from view. Adding more lines was impractical.

A solution was desperately needed. The remedy was to somehow create phantom lines or, in others words, increase the message capacity with the existing working telegraph lines. If it could be done, it would be worth millions of dollars to the telegraph industry from reduced installation expenses. Like a true genius, with a stroke of brilliant insight, Edison stepped forward with a solution, a device he called the quadruplex, which demonstrated his superior understanding of the principals of electricity.

Rockwell was familiar with the details of the quadruplex from the patent filing. Edison had designed a system with a series of circuits, relays, rheostats and batteries, that controlled telegraph signals enabling the transmission of four messages simultaneously over a single telegraph line—two messages at a time in each opposite direction. Instantly, the messaging capacity of the telegraph was quadrupled. The apparatus made Edison the envy of other inventors, not just because of its value to the telegraph industry but for its ingenious design. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind at this point that Edison was one of the foremost experts in the application of electricity.

What about the work on Bell’s acoustical device? Couldn’t that be interesting? Rockwell asked.

Alexander Graham Bell had patented his telephone and was threatening to take business from the telegraph. But Bell’s telephone used a transmitter and receiver all in one, a design that limited the distance that sound could carry. As a challenge to Bell’s patents, and to protect against any competition Bell’s new invention might create, Western Union had Edison conduct research on the telephone.

Edison, in his design of the telephone, separated the transmitter and receiver into two separate devices. His transmitter used a carbon cake held between two thin metal plates. It was a unique design using principals of electrical resistance, which amplified the sound of someone’s voice. Rockwell was unsure how it worked, even with Batchelor trying to explain it to him, but the transmitter was a huge development. A test on it had been performed only a few months earlier where sound was transmitted 107 miles over a telephone line between New York and Philadelphia. Edison’s was by far the better telephone.

I don’t think the boys at Western Union are rushing to develop the telephone. I think they believe the telephone is only an electrical toy. Could be they don’t think it can compete with the telegraph. They paid the old man off for the rights for his patent improvements, but I’m not sure they want to spend a lot more on it, Batchelor said.

Rockwell agreed. He recalled Lowrey suggesting Western Union was unsure about the future of the telephone. The company paid Edison the fabulous sum of $100,000 for the rights to his telephone patents but showed no sign of wanting to spend money on developing the invention into a business.

Interesting. That must have been difficult for him working on the telephone. You know, experimenting with sound I mean, Rockwell said.

Damn near impossible. He’s almost totally deaf. I had to do the listening for him. But think about it, he conceptually understood how we could cause it to be done by varying electric current! Do you realize it was the work on understanding how to transmit sound that gave the old man the idea for the phonograph?

I didn’t know that, Rockwell said. "What’s the device he took with him to Wyoming? Is that a possible