The Cavalcade of America. A little ten-year-old boy named Tom wrote this letter not long ago to DuPont, the sponsors of the Cavalcade of America. I like your program. I think we should all realize, even though we're very small, we have a big chance in this big world. Even though I'm only ten years old, I take a great interest in your program. If it hadn't been for DuPont, many of the inventions wouldn't have been. I hope you will have many new adventures in the Cavalcade of America. Well, Tom, I hope you're listening this evening. We have two adventurous stories that I think you'll like. And thanks for your very nice, kind letter. Stories like you and girls, too, make the DuPont research chemists glad that they are able to be of service by creating better things for better living through chemistry. The DuPont Cavalcade Orchestra sets our stage for a tale of the seas with a specially arranged America on the sea. To what better place can one look for so many of the finest traits of American character, the skill and courage, the gallantry and perseverance, the audacity and bravery that have contributed in such rich measure to the nation's development? Let us turn back to the year 1851. A single word has sped with a mighty roar around the world, gold. Swifter ships are needed to carry food and supplies to the clamoring horde in California, and New England genius is called upon to build them. We find Donald McKay, one of the greatest of all shipbuilders, with his friend, the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in McKay's East Boston shipyard, where a great new ship is being fitted out, the Flying Cloud. So the Flying Cloud is ready for the sea, Donald. Ready and eager to be gone. No more so than our new owners, Mr. Longfellow. Sold already, this beautiful, graceful thing. Aye, she sold. The Flying Cloud was bought this morning by measures Grinnell Mentford and Company of New York for the California trade. It did not take them 15 minutes to make up their minds once they'd seen her. That doesn't surprise me greatly, Donald, if I know anything of ships. Ah, but you're a poet. And do you think this ship is not a poem? Look up there, Donald, at your work. Those masts and spars, that intricacy of lines and rigging, so strong and yet so light. Ah, I doubt if I shall ever write a finer poem. Arrited businessmen are different, Mr. Longfellow. They want results. And I have guaranteed that she will reach San Francisco in a hundred days. One hundred days? If they let me choose her captain. And will they? They have. Do you see that man yonder, standing by the after ladder? Yes. Captain Josiah Creasy, as fine a shipmaster as ever from the quarter deck. Captain Creasy! Aye aye, sir. Come in. My friend Mr. Longfellow wants to shake hands with you, Captain. I do, sir. I envy you greatly, Captain Creasy. What a glorious experience to command this noble ship. But aren't you a little nervous about what, sir? Making San Francisco in a hundred days. Why, it's unheard of. Well, not one Mr. McKay says it can be done. Mrs. Creasy sails with me, sir. Between us, if we don't put the flying cloud in San Francisco within a hundred days, well sir, we'll give up the sea and start to plant potatoes somewhere inland. In the private offices of the owners of the flying cloud, Messrs. Grinnell and Mintern on South Street, New York City, Samuel Grinnell looks up from his window. Oh, sit down, man. Take things easy. I tell you, I'm worried that even betting the flying cloud won't reach San Francisco. Yes, and Creasy's had the devil's own time getting a crew together. Nobody thinks she'll ever weather the horn. Look here, Grinnell, we don't know too much about Creasy. It's just possible that he's betting against himself and us. Yes. Well, I'd trust anyone Donald McKay recommended. You can ask Creasy yourself. I just saw him through the window crossing from the ship. Captain Creasy, gentlemen. Show him in. Good morning, gentlemen. Good morning. We're all in readiness, ship's loaded, and the last of the crew signed on. Captain Creasy, what's your honest opinion? Can she make it? Well, Mr. Mintern, I won't fool you. No man can tell for sure. But I do know this, she's the sweetest thing I ever handled. And if hard driving will get her there, you can count on Josiah Creasy to do his best. Out past Sandy Hook sails the flying cloud, the royals and skies are set, and the crew rigging out her stunts. Offshore the breeze freshens. Now to a half gale, then to a gale, but her captain keeps everything on her. Three days out on the quarter deck, Mrs. Creasy is with her husband. There's hard squall coming, Josiah. I see it, Bessie. Here's the helm. Here's the helm, sir. Well, what's wrong, men? The wind's taking charge, sir. Another man after at the wheel, Mr. Boyle. Another man at the wheel, sir. Ah, listen to her, Bessie. Miss Jade knows where she's going. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. Like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. Like a woman, she's a woman. She's like a woman. She's like a woman. Ha. Eventually she's like a woman. Soon she is. Soon she is, sir. Vader that artificial. You think it's all name's Bis Heyer about? Everything'sbook and to you the And the glass has fallen. It did fall, Mr. Burrough. Captain Cracy said the men won't stand this. They're too young and green. Mr. Burrough, I'm master of this ship. And I'm keeping every inch of canvas on it till it blows away. I won't ease up while there's an inch of canvas taken to a yard. Across the equator, into the roaring forties, Captain Cracy drives his ship with a bone in her teeth and the wind screaming through her shrouds. He loses sail, spring spars, sets up new rigging, but always he fights for the last mile he can get out of each day afloat. But as they near the horn in the middle of the southern winter... Oh, look here, lads. It's now or never. Do we stand up for our rights or don't we? We better, for we'll hope to see dry land again. If the old man keeps up his crazy driving, we're done for. I've been round Cape Stiff in midwinter and I know. He's mad, that's what he is. The old woman ain't much better. Willing to kill us to clip a few days off the run. All right, then. We stick together. Here's Mr. Burrough. He's with us. What's this mean, men? Why aren't you just saying? I'll do the talking, boys. We got a complaint to make, Mr. Burrough. We don't hold with the way this ship's being run. Now, that'll do, lads. I can't help you none. I'm in the same position as yourselves, obeying orders. Look here, sir. We're through obeying orders that are as good as suicide. We're gonna save the captain. Yes, sir. Come on, men. We'll go out with you, sir. Come on, lads. What's this, Mr. Burrough? Why aren't these men on duty? It's this way, captain. Well, the men are very resentful, sir. Resentful? Of what? The way this ship's being driven, sir. Mutiny, huh? Mr. Burrough, why wasn't I informed of this before? Well, I didn't know, sir. Well, there's no mutiny, captain. All we ask is reasonable sailing. Reasonable sailing? You'll sail this ship my way or not at all? We're gonna make the Golden Gate in 100 days if I have to put you on all nine to do it. Hands back there! I'll stand for none of this. Bessie. I'm here, Josiah. Have the Bolton call the afterguard. Yes, Josiah. How many of you are mixed up in this? There's not a man aboard. Answer my question. This watch? Mainly. Let's see who's sailing this ship. Bessie, is the afterguard here? They're here, Josiah. Bolton, take these men out. Call out the other watch. I'll attend to them later. All right, sir. Well, we'll call them in. Mr. Burrough. Just a moment. Yes, sir. I have an impression you are in sympathy with the men. Well, sir, you've taken brutal chances. That's all I want to hear. Mr. Burrough, you may consider yourself as supercargo. From now on, Mrs. Creasy will act as maid of the flying clouds. Around Cape Horn in winter blizzard, and the long drive north through the Pacific begins. Day after day, Creasy and his wife drive their ship on, replacing gear, fishing yards, bending new sails. Finally, she drops anchor inside the Golden Gate. The gig is lowered, and Creasy is rowed ashore. On the waterfront, a cloud begins to gather. Look at that. What ship is that? That's what's got us guessing, stranger. I tell you she's a Macay ship. I sail in the stag, and I'm not an old, shouldn't I? Keep cool. Keep cool. We'll find out in a minute. Hey, gig ahoy! Ahoy! What ship was that? The Fire and Spirals. 89 days, 21 hours, not as friendly as we thought. 89 days? Did you hear that, boys? 89 days from New York. It's a record, boys, a record. Let's give them the freedom of the city. Three rousing cheers! Hey! Hey! Hey! From New York to San Francisco in less than 90 days, a record that was never equaled under anything like the conditions encountered by the flying clouds, to China, across the Atlantic, the American Clippers race, showing their heels to all the sailor float, giving the sea the most gloriously picturesque period it had ever known. The Clippers swiftly vanished, but the breed of men who sailed them remained to bring glory to America in later days. The cavalcade of America presented by DuPont moves on. It is January 1926. Raging gales are sweeping the North Atlantic. Midway between Europe and America, a small British freighter wallows in the hurricane-driven seas, her steering gear gone, her decks awash, water rising in her forward holes and engine room. On the bridge, a quartermaster clings to a powerless wheel, while beside him stands the captain. Hold on, sir! Here's another! It's getting worse, quartermaster. Aye, sir. Now life's gone out of it completely, just like a log she is, sir. Yes, I know. I wonder where Mr. Graham is. Lucky if he ain't washed overboard. The wind's blowing 80 miles or more, Captain. There's Mr. Graham now, sir. I'll slide back the door, sir. Hurry, sir! We lose the pilot out! Our things below, Mr. Graham. They look pretty bad, sir. In what way? The chief won't admit it, but he's given up hope of ever fixing the steering gear. He's got his engines turning over? Yes, but not for long, sir. Water's making in the ash pit. What else? Another lifeboat ripped clean out of the davit, sir. Both ported hatches sprung and the glass still dropping. It's down to 28.6. Mr. Graham, I don't want to call for help. Is there no hope forever? I believe not, Captain. There's 25 men aboard, and our wireless way fails at any hour now. I suppose you're right, Mr. Graham. Well, send this S.O.S. British freighter, Antinode. Position unknown. Rough latitude, 46.1. Left longitude, 39.8. 150 miles to the westward, the United States liner President Roosevelt, Captain George Freed commanding, is bound east for Europe with mail and passengers aboard. It is 5 a.m. on Sunday morning. There is a knock on the door of the captain's cabin. Yes? Who is it? Well, I thought there was a captain. Come in. What message, sir? An S.O.S. What ship? British freighter, Antinode. What's the position, Mr. Smith? 46.1 north, 39.8 west, noon yesterday. Present rate of drift to east, 2 knots. I could just pick up a radio, sir. Anything else? Captain of the Aquitaine has been calling, sir. Wants to know our position. Where is the Aquitaine? The south-south-west of here, about 100 miles, sir. Course northeast to quarter east, speed 14 knots. We're much closer, sir. Call the Aquitaine and tell her the Roosevelt is proceeding to the Antinode. Let the freighter know we're on our way. Aye, aye, sir. Ten hours later on the Antinode, Captain Toes and his first officer are inside the battered bridge, staring out into the swirling pile of snow. That's hopeless, Mr. Graham. They'll never find us in this snow. Don't say that, sir. We know the Roosevelt's getting closer. Aye, and she might come full on us in this murk and never know it. This wall will pass, sir. It's clearer now than it was. That's more comfort, Mr. Graham. It'll be dark before we know it. Our lights are gone and the wireless won't hold another hour. Have we a thing on board to signal when? I have a pocket flashlight, sir. That's all. A pocket flashlight in this weather. Captain, sir! Captain! Hold that door, man! Captain, sir! We just heard the steam is whistling. I swear we did, sir. In what direction? We couldn't tell, sir. We heard it twice. Flank light through the storm. Might have been anything, captain. Don't place much while... I tell you, we heard it, Mr. Graham. Oh, look! Look! There she is! Where? At the starboard, sir. Oh, I... I can't see her now. He's right, captain. He's right. She's almost dead ahead, sir. Less than half a mile away. You'll see her when we lift again. On the Roosevelt's Bridge, a short January day has drawn to its close. Boil over, mister. Yes, sir. Keep that searchlight moving. Here you go, sir. Hello, engine. Here is where you missed her, Mr. Miller. Yes, sir. Signal the engine room. Engines flow ahead. Engines flow ahead. The searchlight's worse than useless, Mr. Miller, in this snow. We've lost her again. Keep them moving. They may help give us a hand. Yes, sir. We'll be back in a minute. We've lost her again. Keep them moving. They may help give those poor devils on the ant a little more hope. What do you think happened to her, Mr. Miller? She simply vanished, captain. Do you think she may have pounded? It's possible. But that wheat's swelling in her hole. And if she is afloat, her chance of ramming her is excellent. We must take that chance, sir. We cannot abandon. Keep a sharp lookout for more parts of the ship. We'll maintain steerage away and try to work out her drift. 17 hours later, in the Roosevelt's first-class smoke room, a handful of passengers cling to lashed furniture. I wish someone would do something about that whistle. It gets your nerves in time. Yeah, it got mine 12 hours ago. Well, I can't understand why Freed persisted trying. I'm afraid it was a derelict when we found her yesterday. It's an absolute impossibility that she can still be afloat. I'm afraid she's got a lot of nerve. I'm afraid she's got a lot of nerve. It's an absolute impossibility that she can still be afloat. It's the worst storm I've seen in all the times I've ever crawled. Yes, and if we did, Sider, what then? A lifeboat couldn't last a second in those seas. Not a second. Oh, I'm for bravery, where it can do some good, but... Just a minute. There's a second officer. Mr. Erickson. I'm sorry, gentlemen. There's nothing new. How long is this going to continue, officer? Till we find her or the captain quits the search, I'd say. Yeah, but how could you get those 25 men off the Antonow? I couldn't say, sir. But every man on board the Roosevelt has volunteered to make a try. Say, what's happened to the whistle? Quiet. Stop. Look. Something's doing out on deck. Earth volunteers, do you see this? By Jiminy Pounder. They're going to launch a lifeboat. Come on, men, let's get out there. On board the freighter Antonow, 25 half-frozen, despairing men huddled in the shelter of the after-deck house, staring with salt-encrusted eyes at the nearby liner. For two days now, they have watched a score of attempts to rescue them. Three lifeboats smashed, two men drowned. Lines snapped, gear ripped asunder on the heaving waves. Now another lifeboat has been found. The The The The The The The The The The The There's not one chance in ten million. That boat'll found us, the others have. Look at that. One more wave like that, and she's a goner. She must have taken water that time, Mr. Grim. Yes. But look at those men roll. There are sailors in that boat, Captain. Nimey, what are they doing now? They're not turning back. No, sir, the officials have brought the bolt-on sides to gain more drift again We'll try to gain what Drifty can and clear our bowels. Aye, mate. Look at that. She's going like a runaway express train. But wait till he tries to come around. That'll be the finish. Graham, look at them, man. I'm almost beginning to believe they can make it. Oh, row, you row, row. Dear God, help them. Give up strength. Pray, you sailors, pray. They're going to make it. They're going to clear our bowels. Give them a cheer, lads. Amen. We're not off here yet. How many of you can jump without help? After this path, you want us to stand by there? Not yet. You there, by the corner of the deck house. Can you see the lifeboat? Aye, aye, sir. He's 50 feet off our port bow. Mate, it's a new engine. There she is, sir. Coming out, shipping water as fast as they can bail. Ahoy! Ahoy, the archer, though. And my other double arm. Ahoy! The first lifeboat reaches the liner's side in safety. In the darkness hours later, a second is launched. It makes the freighter turn. The minutes pass. A small white spot is seen in the path of the liner's searchlight. It fights the long climb of a wave, stays poised on awful incident on its crest, and then plunges down, down, down as the passengers on the Roosevelt watch. I can't stand it, John. It's horrible. Now, now, it's all right, dear. They're going to make it. They must make it. They must. Keep this face clear. Oh, John. Now it's all right. We're not in the way here, dear. Look, look, honey. Look, there it is. They're coming in now. Oh, they'll be crushed against the side. No, no, they've got their boat hooks ready to fend it off. See, see, they're lowering the sling. All right, ready to go. Can you see, dear? They're putting them in the nets. I can see. It's... It's wonderful. Take a seat on the net. Take off the sling. All away. All away. They've got them. They're coming on deck. Oh, they're safe. They're safe. Mr. Miller reports all clear, Captain. The last of the Antonos crew on board and safely in the sick room. Thank you, Mr. Erickson. Mr. Smith? Yes, sir. Be good enough to notify the owners. Say the rescue's been affected. Antonos abandoned and the Roosevelt resuming voyage. From the days when the New England fishermen first built their barks and sailed north to the Newfoundland banks, down to the present age of steel and speed, the character of the men who manned the ships has been the same, courageous and skillful, gallant and persevering, audacious and brave. Heroes of the sea, the cavalcade of America salutes you. American persistence in the face of difficulties, the willingness to tackle hard jobs and to carry them through to a successful ending, has always been an outstanding national trait. This spirit exists on land and sea, on farms in cities, and among other places in chemical laboratories. Nothing illustrates the enterprise of chemists better than the story of cotton, that useful crop of our great southern states. I'm reminded of a motor trip I once took through a section of the south at cotton picking time. There's your wife's dress for next summer, I said to my traveling companion, pointing at some acres of white fluff. Well, maybe so, he said, and maybe it's part of your next year's automobile. Then he told me the Duco, the durable, glossy finish of so many fine cars, is based on cellulose obtained from cotton. Cellulose is the fiber forming the structure of most plants, and there seems to be no limit to the magic chemists perform with it. As far as automobiles are concerned, every time you look through a windshield or window of safety glass, you're looking through cotton, because safety glass really is a sandwich of transparent cellulose plastic between two sheets of glass. Pyrrolein is DuPont's name for one of these plastics, and it's also used for making an almost endless number of other things, from toilet articles to scuffless heels for women's shoes, from jewel cases to toothbrush handles. And curiously enough, every year millions of yards of luxurious rayon are produced from cotton cellulose. This gives you some idea about the importance of cotton to you, and the importance of chemistry to cotton. As someone truly said, the future of the South lies in chemistry. These products are visible illustrations of the way DuPont's chemical research creates better things for better living through chemistry. Music Next week at this same time, you will hear the stories and melodies of songs that inspired the nation, when DuPont again presents the Cavalcade of America. Music This is the Columbia Broadcasting Festival. Music WABC New York.
