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  In a scramble to locate the newlyweds, reporters tried to bribe members of the Morrow household staff, as well as offering the public rewards for information on their whereabouts. When they were spotted by airplane aboard the boat ten days later, a public controversy broke out as to Lindbergh’s right to privacy. An editorial in one tabloid said that a grade-A celebrity like Lindy did not have any. The New York World replied that a grade-A celebrity had every right to lead his own life. The New Republic pointed out that whatever the merits of the argument, Lindy owed his fame and fortune to the press and that some reporters didn’t enjoy having to cover him any more than he liked them being there. Another disagreement was over just how the young couple had tricked the media at the Englewood estate. Several writers contended that the Lindberghs had eluded them by wearing disguises and that Anne’s dress had nothing to do with the matter.6

  Despite polemics, Lindy and Anne remained the world’s most publicized couple, and aviation had a great deal to do with it. His name had become synonymous with flying and the aircraft industry, and much of what was happening there wasn’t good. Several attempts to duplicate his Atlantic crossing had ended fatally, as had countless other flights throughout the world. Flying was hazardous, a fact that added to its appeal and romance. Whatever the crash or casualty, Lindbergh’s advocacy of aviation helped maintain the public’s confidence in progress in the sky. So did new flying records between here and there that someone or other always seemed to be establishing. Not that Lindy didn’t add a paragraph or two to his own legend aloft. On Easter Sunday of 1930, flying from Los Angeles to New York in a new Lockheed Sirius airplane, and with Anne as his navigator, he broke the transcontinental speed record.

  Word that Anne was pregnant resulted in the media again massing outside the Morrow estate in Englewood, where the delivery was to occur. Reporters—generally more aggressive than when the Lindberghs had been married—attempted to enter the house disguised as servants and again tried to bribe staff members for information.

  It was a chancy world that the Lindbergh baby would be entering. Japan was waging war on China, and many diplomats were urging America to intercede. The Great Depression was worldwide, and while Britain, which had gone off the gold standard and reorganized its empire into a commonwealth, remained the predominant world force, America had replaced Germany as the second greatest power. Germany, with only half the population of the United States, had nearly a million more unemployed, a crisis of which an Austrian-born rabble-rouser living in Bavaria made the most by extolling his philosophy of fascism. Adolf Hitler’s National Socialist (Nazi) party numbered in the millions, and his paramilitary brown-shirted Storm Troopers were creating havoc in the streets they did not already control. The New York Times’s year-end list of top world leaders would include Hitler and Hoover along with the premier of France, Pierre Laval; Soviet Russia’s Joseph Stalin; Britain’s prime minister, James Ramsay MacDonald; and a man who was causing Mr. MacDonald a great deal of grief and whom the British authorities would soon slap into jail again, India’s sixty-two-year-old Mahatma Gandhi.

  Many a Republican power broker doubted that Herbert Hoover was up to coping with the other international heads of state, let alone with his own domestic problem. One particularly potent group of GOP pols was even suggesting that a far better candidate for the coming presidential election would be Dwight W. Morrow, the maternal grandfather of the highly anticipated Lindbergh baby.

  4

  The Eaglet

  When Charles Augustus Jr. arrived on June 22, 1930—his mother’s twenty-fourth birthday as well—radio programs were interrupted to spread the news, and a song composed for the event aired within the hour. President Hoover and world leaders sent congratulations, as did tens of thousands of ordinary people. So many gifts were received that the family could no longer fit them into the room assigned them. The press dubbed baby Charles the Eaglet, and the entire nation of France “adopted” him as its own. The demand for photographs was enormous. Lindbergh provided them only to journalists he deemed friendly, which prompted one blackballed editor to offer a bounty of five thousand dollars for a picture of the baby.

  Dwight Morrow, the Eaglet’s grandfather, was also making news. An often-mentioned presidential candidate by anti-Hoover Republicans, Morrow had entered the New Jersey senatorial race. The fifty-seven-year-old former ambassador, who advocated repeal of the Eighteenth Amendment, won the GOP primary by three hundred thousand votes, the statewide election by two hundred thousand, and took office in December of 1930. By then Lindy and Anne lived in a rented farmhouse outside of Princeton, New Jersey, but had purchased a 360-acre tract of land they spotted from the air. It was on the southern slope of the nearby Sourland Mountain, and construction of their house was under way.

  In a Saturday Evening Post magazine article that appeared in early summer of 1931, Lindbergh disclosed that even though his fan mail was down to a hundred letters a day, he and Anne had recently taken to wearing disguises, since it was the only way they could go out in public without attracting a crowd.1 Another revelation was that the Lone Eagle often referred to his son and heir as It. An attempt was made by the story’s author to answer charges of Lindy’s being a mean-spirited practical joker who had intentionally splattered mud on fans watching him taxi his plane along a runway and, in another moment of mischief, had intentionally put a passenger-filled plane he was piloting into a nosedive. The magazine attributed to Lindbergh an “inflexible policy” of dealing only with the conservative metropolitan press and of having made a “clean break” with his old nemesis, the exploitive newspapers that continued to infringe on his personal life even though he would issue them an occasional press release. The story left no doubt that the new home they were building near the remote Sourland Mountain would provide him and his family with the privacy he had so long sought and so well deserved.

  In February of 1931, pretty Bessie (“Betty”) Mowat Gow came to work at the Lindberghs’ home near Princeton. A highly recommended nursemaid for the baby, Betty joined a household staff that consisted of herself and two other servants: Ollie Whateley, the family butler-chauffeur, and his wife, Elsie, who was the Lindberghs’ cook. The Whateleys were English; Betty Gow, Scottish. With the onset of summer and the Lindberghs preparing to embark on an extended flying expedition, Betty and the baby went to the Morrow vacation home at North Haven, Maine. Whether in New England or Princeton or at his grandmother’s estate in Englewood, it was an isolated existence for the Eaglet. The Lindberghs and the Morrows were different: richer, more famous and sought after, more adored and hated. For every letter of adulation the Lone Eagle or his family received, there seemed to be another containing threats and expletives.

  Charles and Anne Lindbergh were back in the news. It was the end of July 1931, and with a Lockheed Sirius floatplane checked out and supplied, they began an epic air flight over the top of the world. The journey was to be an unscientific assessment of the commercial aviation possibilities of what was being called the Great Circle Route to China via Canada, Alaska, and Japan. Anne, by now a licensed pilot, acted as the radio operator. Because the Sirius had pontoons rather than wheels, they could land only on water. The Lindberghs flew from North Haven, Maine, to Ottawa, Canada, and later landed at Moose Factory, Ontario. Then they followed the northwestern shore of Hudson Bay to Churchill, Manitoba. The next night they reached Baker Lake in Canada, a place so far north the sun never set and they had no problem spotting a welcoming committee of Eskimos, a Northwest Territories mounted policeman, and several Caucasian trappers. The visage of Anne in the eternal twilight fascinated two small Eskimo boys, who had never seen a white woman before. The following day’s eleven-and-a-half-hour flight to Aklavik, Canada, was the longest leg of the journey to date. Three days after that, flying over the fog-choked Alaskan coastline of the Arctic Ocean, they lost radio contact with Point Barrow, the northernmost stop on their travels. They were too far from Aklavik to turn back, and they couldn’t see to land. The Lin
dberghs continued blindly on by instrument. The Barrow radio finally beamed gratuitous word that the weather was lifting. They set down safely on a Point Barrow lagoon.

  Eighteen days later the Lindberghs landed in Nemuro, on Japan’s island of Hokkaido. By September 17, they were in Osaka, Japan. Two days after that they landed on Lotus Lake, in Nanking, China. The country was being ravaged by disastrous floods. Told that their aircraft was the only one in the country with sufficient range, Charles and Anne spent the balance of the month making survey flights over the inundated terrain for the Chinese government and shuttling doctors and medical supplies to isolated areas. They took off and landed on the Yangtze River. On each return the Sirius was hoisted onto the British aircraft carrier Hermes for the night. While being lowered back into the river one morning, with Charles and Anne inside, the plane was spun around by the rapid currents and capsized. The Lindberghs swam to safety and were given doses of castor oil to protect against the Yangtze’s contamination.2 The plane was lifted onto the aircraft carrier badly in need of repair.

  News that U.S. Senator Dwight Morrow, Anne’s father, had died on October 5, after only ten months in office, ended any chance that America’s First Couple would continue their journey. They returned home on the state-of-the-art transportation of the period, a ship.

  Over the summer the Eaglet’s nursemaid, Betty Gow, found herself a beau. He was a twenty-five-year-old Norwegian seaman by the name of Finn Henrik Johnsen, better known as Henry (“Red”) Johnsen. They met when Thomas W. Lamont’s yacht, Reynard, on which Red worked, was berthed at North Haven. In mid-October, Betty and the Eaglet moved from North Haven to the Morrow estate in Englewood. With the Reynard in dry dock and not expected back in service until March of 1932, Red was soon a regular visitor to Englewood, where he took a room at a local boardinghouse. When he wasn’t in Englewood, he stayed with his brother in West Hartford, Connecticut.

  On October 23, fresh from the Orient, the Lindberghs reached Englewood and were reunited with their baby son. Two days later, Sunday, October 25, accompanied by Mrs. Morrow and Anne’s older sister, Elisabeth, they visited the new estate near Hopewell. Work was still under way, and since there were no beds in the newly constructed house atop Sorrel Hill, they returned to Englewood the same day. The next Saturday, October 31, Anne, her mother, Elisabeth, and the baby spent their first night at Sorrel Hill. Betty Gow was not along, and the women tended to the child with help from Elsie Whateley. Elsie and her husband, Ollie, had moved from the Lindberghs’ Princeton house three days earlier and were now in permanent residence at the new estate’s servants’ quarters.

  The Lindberghs had a suite of rooms at the Morrow estate, Next Day Hill, but with their child under the watchful eyes of Betty Gow and Anne’s mother, Anne was able to work on a book about their trip to Asia, which when published would be titled North to the Orient. She was also active on behalf of Chinese flood relief. Charles spent time in New York City, where he had an office in the law firm of his attorney and close friend, Henry Breckinridge.

  For Charles Jr. life provided an unexpected trauma. Anne’s older sister, Elisabeth, who was still unmarried, had founded a Montessori-type preschool in Englewood that Mrs. Morrow seemed determined that her grandson attend. Named the Little School, it catered to children between two and five years of age. Anne was not keen on the idea and protested that her son was too young to enroll. Anne’s resistance may have also been rooted in her ongoing competition with Elisabeth, who was vivacious, charming, and beautiful and who, prior to Anne’s marriage to Lindbergh, had been romantically linked in the newspapers to the Lone Eagle. Family pressure and assurances from the school staff that Charles Jr. would receive special care made her capitulate. His first morning there he got punched in the back by a fellow classmate. Charlie did what any well-protected, unworldly sixteen-month-old could be expected to do: He sat right down and cried. The Eaglet continued on at the Little School, being chauffeured back and forth to the Morrow estate, often in the company of Aunt Elisabeth.3

  During November and the early part of December, the Eaglet’s weekends were usually spent at Sorrel Hill with his parents. Very often the Lindberghs brought him from Englewood themselves. On other occasions he was driven there by one of Mrs. Morrow’s chauffeurs. After missing three weeks in December, the Lindberghs and their baby returned to Sorrel Hill for New Year’s Eve. With them was Lindy’s mother. Anne, Charles, and Charles Jr. were back the weekends of January 16, 23, 30, and February 6. Because Anne and the baby came down with a cold, the weekend visits of February 13 and 20 were canceled.

  Charles Lindbergh’s bent for order and routine was reflected in the trips to Sorrel Hill. The family always arrived on Saturday morning and never stayed overnight beyond Sunday. Monday mornings usually saw Lindy drive to his office in New York City while Ollie Whateley chauffeured Anne and the baby back to Englewood. This changed drastically the weekend before leap year day, February 27, 1932. So did Lindbergh’s meticulous record of never missing an appointment. Manhattan newspapers carried word that the coming Tuesday, March 1, New York University would be celebrating its one hundredth anniversary with a gala dinner for eighteen hundred guests. Lindbergh was to be a guest of honor, and he confirmed the date before the weekend began.

  For what was to happen next, history, to date, has relied solely upon the word of Charles and Anne Lindbergh and their staff.

  Weekend before Leap Year Day 1932

  According to Anne Morrow Lindbergh,4 on Saturday afternoon, February 27, she and the baby were driven from Englewood to Sorrel Hill by Charles Henry Ellerson, one of Mrs. Morrow’s two chauffeurs. Since Betty Gow had weekends off, they were accompanied by Miss Root, also of the Morrow household staff. They arrived at the Hopewell estate at approximately 5:30 P.M. Anne, Miss Root, and Elsie Whateley fed, undressed, and washed the baby and had him in his crib by 7:30 P.M. About the same time, Lindbergh arrived from New York by car with the couple’s weekend guests, Henry and Aida Breckinridge. Anne checked on the baby at 10:00 P.M. He was sneezing, and she held him for a time. An hour later, accompanied by her husband, Anne checked on the child and put some medication in his nose.

  On waking the next morning, Sunday, February 28, the baby was attended to by Elsie Whateley. After breakfast he seemed fretful. Anne put him back to bed and stayed with him in his room most of the day. After treating him for his cold, she tucked him in for the night. Anne joined her husband and her guests for supper. Following the meal, she and Lindy drove the Breckinridges and Miss Root to the Princeton Junction railroad station. The Lindberghs returned home at approximately 9:00 P.M. Anne called her sister Elisabeth at Englewood and told her of the child’s cold. At 10:00 P.M. she gave the baby nose drops and other medication. Then the nursery lights were turned off and the shutters closed, but a French window was left open.

  On Monday morning, February 29, leap year day, Lindbergh drove off to New York City. Finding that the baby “was quite miserable with his cold,” Anne, rather than motoring to Englewood after lunch, called her mother’s estate and informed Betty Gow that she intended to stay on at Sorrel hill so her son could remain in his room.5 Except for two short walks, Anne was with the ailing Eaglet throughout the afternoon and early evening. He was medicated and tucked in for the night at 7:00 P.M. Three hours later Lindbergh called to say he was spending the night in New York City. Learning that Anne was unsure as to when she and the Eaglet would return to Englewood, he said he would join them wherever they were the next evening. Anne and Elsie again medicated the baby. The cold had moved down to his chest, which Anne now rubbed. She slept with the connecting door open between her bedroom’s bathroom and the nursery. It was the first time ever that a family member had stayed overnight on a Monday.

  When by midmorning Tuesday, March 1, the Eaglet’s cold was still relatively thick, Anne had Ollie Whateley ring up Betty Gow at Englewood. Once on the line with Gow, Anne instructed the young Scotswoman to come to Sorrel Hill and help with the baby.

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sp; Gow had been to the Hopewell estate on three previous occasions. Twice, while the house was under construction, she had been driven there by her boyfriend, Red Johnsen. These were Sunday sightseeing excursions, and on one of them the Whateleys gave the young couple a tour of the home. Betty’s only working assignment at the new estate had come on New Year’s Day 1932. Again she had been driven there by Johnsen, who dropped her off. On March 1, it was Mrs. Morrow’s second chauffeur, Henry Ellerson, who drove her to Hopewell. Before leaving, Betty called Henry (“Red”) Johnsen, at his boardinghouse. She had a date with him for that night, which now had to be canceled. Henry wasn’t in. Betty left word with his landlady, Mrs. Sherman, for him to call her at Sorrel Hill.

  Betty Gow arrived at the Lindbergh estate at 2:00 P.M., had a quick bite of lunch, then went upstairs, took the baby out of his crib, and dressed him. His cold had improved, and Betty minded him as he played in the nursery. Anne and Elsie Whateley joined her around 4:30 P.M. Later, at Anne’s suggestion, Betty and Elsie brought the baby downstairs to the living room. It was about 5:00 P.M., and Anne was having tea. Anne took the child while Betty and Elsie went to the servants’ sitting room, off the kitchen, and had their own tea with Ollie Whateley. They were back in the kitchen when the baby ran in, babbled “hello Elsie” at Elsie, and began to race around the table. Betty caught him, took his hand, and led him upstairs to the nursery. She read to him until about 6:00 P.M., left for two minutes to go downstairs and fetch some cereal, and fed him his dinner. Anne came in and helped Betty ready the little boy for bed. They took off his clothes, put drops in his nose, rubbed his chest and gave him a physic. The two women decided to replace the flannel bandage he was wearing with a flannel nightshirt. Anne brought in scissors and thread and played with her son while Betty cut and sewed together a garment. Wearing the newly fashioned flannel shirt over his Dr. Denton sleeping suit, he was put into his crib. Anne and Betty now moved to the windows and locked the shutters. A shutter at the back of the room was warped and wouldn’t completely close. When Anne departed, Betty went to the French window fronted by the warped shutter and pulled it halfway open. She then put out the light, closed both doors to the nursery, and left. The time was approximately 7:30 P.M. She washed some of the baby’s clothes in the baby’s bathroom and looked in on him again.6 He was fast asleep and breathing comfortably. She took two large safety pins and fastened the covers over him to the mattress. It was now about 7:50 P.M. Betty turned off the light in the bathroom as well as in her own room, which was across the hall from the nursery; then she went down into the cellar to hang up the clothes she had washed. According to subsequent statements by the Lindberghs and their staff, Betty was the last one to see the child alive.