Miracles and Massacres: True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

5

Edison vs. Westinghouse: An Epic Struggle for Power

New York City

Spring 1885

“Fifty thousand dollars? You are mad.”

Nikola Tesla straightened his shoulders. His eyes never wavered from Thomas Edison. He responded, “You promised me fifty thousand dollars if I resolved those engineering problems.” He lifted his chin slightly. “The designs are complete.”

Edison wondered if he had made a mistake hiring this strange young Serb from Continental Edison, his subsidiary in Paris, nine months earlier. Edison had tasked him with designing an improved method of power transmission, but instead of working with direct current distribution—the technology that Edison had championed—he’d concentrated on alternating current. Tesla insisted that alternating the direction of electrical charges was better than a constant flow in a single direction because it allowed electricity to be transmitted from great distances with less power loss. Edison—both for practical and financial reasons—vehemently disagreed.

Edison rose from his chair so he was level with the standing Tesla. “You misunderstood. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work.”

“I won’t leave without my money.”

Edison knew Tesla was odd, but he never expected to be confronted in this fashion. Tesla counted every step he took, worked only with objects and numbers divisible by three, seldom shook hands, and refused to touch another person’s hair. His fastidious attire and precise English annoyed the untidy Edison. Does Tesla really believe that being neat makes him a better man? Edison thought to himself. A better inventor?

“This is absurd, Nikola. You earn eighteen dollars a week, a generous salary. Didn’t we just deny your request for a seven-dollar-per-week raise? How could you possibly believe those designs were worth fifty thousand dollars?”

“Because you promised.”

Edison stared disapprovingly at him, a practiced look that was sufficient to dissuade most employees.

Tesla was not so easily put off. “And because I need the money for my work with alternating current.”

Edison chewed his unlit cigar. This last statement irritated him to no end. Edison had reservations about direct current technology, but he was deeply committed to it. Most of his inventions, the expertise of his companies, and his factory tooling were all aimed at direct current. Was Tesla trying to wreck everything Edison had built?

“Nikola, you have splendid ideas, but alternating current is utterly impractical. I need your mind on your assigned work.”

“Yes, and I’ve completed my assigned work. Now I’ve come for the bonus you offered me to improve the electrical distribution system.”

“To finance work on alternating current?”

“How I use the money is not your business.” The dapper, twenty-eight-year-old engineer looked down for a moment, as so many others had done when coming face-to-face with Edison. But then he quickly lifted his head back up. “Mr. Edison, with deference to your grand accomplishments, the future is alternating current. It’s the only way to transmit high-voltage energy over long distances.”

“You’re wrong Nikola. Now good night.”

“You are not going to pay me?”

“I already paid you—the eighteen dollars a week we agreed to.”

“Then you leave me no alternative but to resign.”

Edison removed the cigar from his mouth and, after a heartbeat, waved it dismissively. “Then go.”

Edison stood by the window and watched Tesla leave his office. He was sure that Tesla would reconsider the second he stepped out of his headquarters and onto Fifth Avenue. But Edison, his mind always racing, quickly realized the flaw in his thinking: Tesla was far too stubborn and fanatical; he would never be dissuaded from pursuing alternating current. Edison wondered if he should run downstairs and stop Tesla from leaving the brownstone. Perhaps, he wondered, the old adage about keeping enemies close might apply here.

Edison shoved his cigar back in his mouth, his decision made. He plopped back into his chair and spun it toward his cluttered desk.

No. It was best that Tesla leave and never return.

Great Barrington, Massachusetts

March 1886

George Westinghouse tugged the lapels of his coat until the finely woven fabric snugged properly against his broad shoulders. He licked his fingers and smoothed his expansive handlebar mustache. He was pleased with his reflection in the mirror.

A voice came from behind him. “We should alert the newspapers.”

William Stanley had invented an alternating current transformer. His outsized ambition, along with his oversized ego, made him eager to make a name for himself. A story in the newspapers would help.

“No. Alerting newspapers also alerts Edison and his backers,” Westinghouse said. “It’s better that reporters cover the story as just another electrification.” He used the fingers of both hands to fluff his mutton-chops.

“Engineers will be impressed that we are making a leap in technology,” Stanley said. “This is a major breakthrough—we both know that. We’re changing the direction of electricity, after all. What do we gain by introducing it so quietly?”

Westinghouse turned from the mirror to face Stanley directly. “Edison likes to shout about his accomplishments from the rooftops. I prefer to simply deliver on my commitments. My ambition is to provide employees an opportunity to make their lives better. That is the reason I build large companies. I pay living wages that are higher than other manufacturers, and my companies are pioneers in safety, benefits, and pensions. Personal glory is not among my concerns.”

Westinghouse saw by Stanley’s expression that he didn’t like his answer.

After a silent moment, Stanley gently took him by the elbow and guided him toward the window. There was a large crowd gathering below. “Mr. Westinghouse, this twilight will soon turn to dark, and then we’ll turn that darkness back into light. Those people think it’s magic, or nearly so.”

“Then why should we disillusion them? There is nothing wrong with magic. Besides, we’ll only incite our competitors if we crow about this evening.”

Westinghouse knew he was not nearly as famous as the flamboyant Wizard of Menlo Park. Edison had a carefully crafted image as a disheveled genius who lived off apple pie. Reporters lionized him as a selfless giant dedicated to changing the world.

Westinghouse, on the other hand, was just another Pittsburgh inventor and manufacturer. He refused interviews. He didn’t make good copy. He was dull. Sure, he was successful and rich, but his wealth came from arcane industries that received little public attention. Electricity, however, was different. Unlike trains, telegraphs, or steam engines, electricity came into the home and made everyday life easier, cleaner, and less expensive. Electric light was soft, odor-free, flicker-free, clean, cool, and soundless—all the things gaslights were not. People believed it was magic.

Electricity was becoming so popular that small companies were formed almost every day in almost every city in the nation. Most were doomed to fail, especially those run by electrical neophytes. So, on January 8, 1886, when Westinghouse incorporated his fifth business, the Westinghouse Electric Company, no one took much notice. He believed it was in his interest to keep it that way.

Tonight, they were going to illuminate the town of Great Barrington with electricity generated many miles away. This was an important milestone because the direct current used elsewhere needed to be generated within a half mile of where it was used due to heat and energy loss. This was somewhat workable in cities, but in a rambling town like Great Barrington, it meant that each business and home would need to install a private generator. Whether placed in the basement or down the block, these generators spewed coal dust, smoke, and noise.

Westinghouse’s alternating current technology made it possible for power stations to be located close to their fuel source, well outside of neighborhoods. It wasn’t hard to see the vision: Westinghouse would build large generating facilities far from population centers and then sell that electricity to the citizens of each city. It would be cleaner, quieter, safer, and far more efficient.

Westinghouse patted Stanley on the shoulder. “Now, let’s go give these fine people a magic show.”

West Orange, New Jersey

December 1887

“Here are today’s copper prices.”

The aide handed Edison the ticker tape and scurried out of his office, indicating the tape carried bad news. Up another penny! Damn the French! He threw the tape into the ash can.

A French consortium had cornered the copper market and driven the price from ten cents a pound to sixteen cents. Even for short distances, direct current required expensive, thick copper wire. He looked at the budget for his latest proposal. Every penny increase would cost him an additional three thousand dollars for copper wire on this one contract alone. He didn’t need another headache right now.

Westinghouse had come out of nowhere to invade his territory. He was making far too much headway with his alternating current schemes and now, because his method used far less copper, the increasing prices were pushing the edge even further in his favor. Edison knew that Westinghouse, through no effort of his own, was gaining an economic advantage.

Edison had fought off competitors like gnats when he’d first electrified Wall Street five years earlier. After he had emerged supreme his name became synonymous with the fastest-growing industry in the world: electrification. His businesses had grown so large so fast that he no longer knew the names of all the people he employed. Was it possible that everything could now be at risk? He had never felt fear like this before. He tried to shake it off, but the foreboding lingered.

Westinghouse’s companies were thriving and he was expanding his electrification reach almost every day. Westinghouse had concentrated on delivering power outside the large metropolitan areas, but he recently captured New Orleans, the tenth-largest city in the country. Edison’s salesmen were now writing letters to headquarters, pleading for help. Westinghouse had to be stopped.

Edison believed he understood Westinghouse because they had followed similar paths, each of them having invented a vital component for one of the two most important industries in the nation. Edison created the Quadruplex Telegraph, and Westinghouse developed air brakes for railcars. Both were fine inventions, but telegraphs and trains were no longer on the technical or financial frontier. Now Wall Street was rushing to invest in electricity, an industry Edison practically owned until Westinghouse had invaded his arena. He knew he had to do something about it.

Edison picked up a letter that had been sitting on his desk and made a decision.

• • •

Last November, Thomas Edison had received a letter from Alfred P. Southwick, a dentist who had been appointed to the Commission on Humane Executions for the state of New York. Southwick wanted Edison’s opinion about execution by electricity. Because of his opposition to capital punishment, Edison had declined to offer advice, but Southwick would not be put off. When Edison received a follow-up letter, he began to think about the question more deeply.

Electricity was, by its very nature, dangerous. New York City, for example, was a web of overhead electric lines. Dangerous lines. When they fell, pedestrians were at risk of electric shock.

When Edison entered the New York market, he had insisted on burying his electric wiring in iron pipes. Trenching had been costly and slow, but safety was of utmost importance—and his focus on it ultimately helped him to win popular support. In the end, his competitors went under, retreated to a remote corner of the electricity business, or were forced to move to an entirely different industry.

Now he would use the same strategy—a singular focus on safety—to destroy Westinghouse.

He began to compose a letter back to Southwick, the dentist.

The best appliance for humane execution is one that will perform its work in the shortest space of time, and inflict the least amount of suffering upon its victim. This I believe can be accomplished by the use of electricity and the most suitable apparatus for the purpose is that class of dynamo-electric machine which employs intermittent currents.

The most effective of these are known as “alternating machines,” manufactured principally in this country by Mr. Geo. Westinghouse, Pittsburgh.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

June 1888

Westinghouse seethed. He read aloud the line again. “Just as certain as death, Westinghouse will kill a customer within 6 months after he puts in a system of any size.”

Nikola Tesla stood very still, his hands folded in front of him. “He wrote that to the president of Edison Electric with full knowledge that the prediction would get whispered around until it became public.”

Westinghouse threw the newspaper onto his desk. “Edison’s trying to paint me as a killer.”

“Precisely,” Tesla said.

“Why is he using such underhanded tactics?” Westinghouse asked. “Why not just come out and say it directly? It’s not as though he doesn’t have access to the newspapers.”

Tesla moved his arms and re-clasped his hands behind his back. “He is wrong about alternating current . . . and at some level he knows it. He’s afraid his preeminence will fade.” He shook his head. “I warned him about this years ago.”

“Nikola, do you have advice for me?”

“Do not underestimate Tom Edison. He’s clever, and he has a knack for grabbing headlines. He used a thousand-volt Westinghouse generator to kill dogs, horses, and even cows. It is impious, but he claims he is researching the relative dangers of direct and alternating current. He says his only interest is in protecting the public, especially children.”

“I meant advice on what action to take,” Westinghouse said, with more irritation than he’d intended.

“You must defend alternating current. You must be its champion. Call reporters and tell them our side of the story. The newspapers sensationalize human deaths from alternating current, but they’ve all occurred from obsolete outdoor arc lighting. There has never been a death associated with Westinghouse Electric.”

“Except for dogs!”

“Mr. Westinghouse, I understand your disgust with what he is doing to animals, but he will not stop there. There are rumors he is helping New York State use electricity for capital punishment.” Tesla paused for dramatic effect. “He intends to use alternating current.”

Westinghouse paced his office. Edison had started this damn war between direct and alternating current and there was no need for it. There was enough business for both of them. The whole world needed electricity.

He understood Edison’s desire to protect his investment; Westinghouse had a similar motivation. He had recently paid Tesla $60,000, plus royalties of $2.50 per horsepower of electrical capacity sold, to use his patents. Westinghouse had further invested in factories, salesmen, and research dedicated to alternating current. He and Edison both had a lot to protect—and Westinghouse had come a long way.

After only two years, Westinghouse had over half as many generating stations as Edison, but mostly in smaller markets. Edison had New York City; he had Buffalo. Westinghouse had commercialized alternating current so electricity would become more than an urban luxury, but now he needed to expand into those larger urban areas as well—which was one reason he had bid below cost to win New Orleans.

“Thank you, Nikola.”

That was a dismissal, but Tesla did not move. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m not going to fight this war in the press. Not yet anyway. Please give me some privacy so I can compose a letter.”

“You will not dissuade Edison with a letter.”

“Nikola, need I be rude?”

Tesla nodded gently and departed.

Westinghouse struggled with the proper tone for the letter to his nemesis. He decided the best approach was to pretend that Edison was not personally behind this seedy campaign. It would offer him a way out. They could both be disgusted that someone was trying to impugn the safety of something they’d each invested so much in.

I believe there has been a systemic attempt on the part of some people to do a great deal of mischief and create as great a difference as possible between the Edison Company and The Westinghouse Electric Co., when there ought to be an entirely different condition of affairs.

As he sealed the letter and flipped the envelope into his mailbox, Westinghouse realized that Tesla had once again been right. In all likelihood, Edison’s response would not come via letter, but instead via another headline in the newspaper. This vicious competition, Westinghouse understood, would not end with a letter or with a partnership; it would only end when one of them emerged as the clear victor.

This was to be a war.

West Orange, New Jersey

July 1888

“You wrote a fine letter,” Thomas Edison said, holding up the weeks-old newspaper so that Harold Brown could see it.

On June 5, Brown had sent a letter to the New York Post describing an accident where a boy had died after touching an exposed wire operating on alternating current. At the time, Brown had been a salesman for Brush Electric Company—basically a nobody in the electrical industry—but he had made such an effective argument against alternating current that Edison kept the newspaper on his desk to read aloud to any and all visitors.

“The only excuse for the use of the fatal alternating current,” Brown wrote, “is that it saves the company operating it from spending a larger sum of money for the heavier copper wires which are required by the safe incandescent systems. That is, the public must submit to constant danger from sudden death, in order that a corporation may pay a little larger dividend.”

The letter went on to recommend a new law to limit alternating current transmissions to 300 volts. This restriction would remove alternating current’s advantage of transmitting high voltage to customers who lived a good distance away from a power plant.

Shortly after the letter was published, Edison had secretly hired Brown and given him use of his lab so he could continue experimenting with electricity on animals.

“Thank you, sir,” said Brown, attempting to stifle a grin.

“I also want to compliment you on the demonstration at Columbia.”

Brown had proven himself to be a zealous executioner. Along with his assistant, Dr. Fred Peterson, Brown had demonstrated the lethal characteristics of alternating current at Columbia University by administering a series of 1,000-volt direct current shocks to a large Newfoundland dog. The dog writhed in agony but quickly recovered after the electric current was shut off. Brown finished the demonstration by killing the dog with an alternating current of only 330 volts. The raucous display in an academic setting had garnered national publicity.

“I apologize it didn’t go better. Some of the audience left in disgust.”

“Nonsense. That only made it bigger news. You and Dr. Peterson showed that direct current only induced pain but that alternating current killed, and at much lower voltage levels. The pain may be pitiful to inflict, but there is no permanent damage. I heard there was some heckling, but don’t let it worry you—it all added to the theater.” Edison chuckled. “I also heard that the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals won a reprieve for a second dog. Splendid.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that as well,” Brown said. He seemed to relax after hearing that Edison had not brought him here for a reprimand, but he kept respectfully silent.

Edison continued: “Harold, as you know, the legislature passed an electric execution law. In the same session, they set up a committee to decide between using direct current or alternating current. My friends have gotten Dr. Peterson appointed as chair of the committee. I presume you’ve heard.”

“Yes. It shouldn’t take too much of Dr. Peterson’s time. We can continue our research.”

“Good. We need more newspaper articles to get our legislators off their duffs. First, we mold public opinion, then we use government power to squash Westinghouse and Tesla.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Brown responded.

“Yes, I believe it will.” Edison made a backward wave with his hand. “You may go. I’m sure you have important duties awaiting your attention.”

After Brown left, Edison fingered another paper he kept on the top of his desk. It was a letter from Westinghouse. Edison had taken the letter as a sign of weakness and had, of course, immediately rejected his rival’s feeble peace proposal. Westinghouse is crumbling, Edison thought. Now it was time to send him back to the simple world of railcars.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

New Year’s Day, 1889

“The New York electrocution law goes into effect today,” Tesla said.

George Westinghouse frowned. “Not the best start of a new year, but we’re winning in the marketplace.”

“That is not enough,” Tesla countered.

“It is. Edison’s costs are high. City property is expensive. I build my generators on cheap land. Copper alone may bring him down.” Westinghouse paced his spacious office, speaking hurriedly as he walked. “That’s why he’s attacking me on safety. He needs a nonfinancial reason for cities to reject alternating current.”

Tesla remained still, watching Westinghouse wear a pattern in his Persian rug. “Copper prices will drop,” he said. “Probably soon.”

Westinghouse quit pacing. “Why do you say that?”

“The French cornered production channels, but they forgot about scrap. Every boy over six is scavenging copper. The consortium will fail and copper prices will collapse. Don’t count on that advantage lasting. You must defend alternating current against these safety attacks.”

“I wrote an article that was published in the New York papers doing exactly that,” Westinghouse replied.

“You defended Westinghouse Electric, you did not attack Edison.”

“I’ll attack in my next bid.”

“Sir, you must refute Edison’s claims or you’ll be branded a killer. Harold Brown and Dr. Peterson have the commission to design an electric chair under their thumb. You know what they will do.”

Westinghouse resumed pacing. He knew that Brown and Edison were up to no good when he had received a request from New York State to buy three Westinghouse alternating-current dynamos. He refused, but Brown—determined to execute someone with a Westinghouse dynamo—deceptively bought the generators through a third company that was in merger talks with Edison Electric.

Westinghouse knew he could handle the public indignity, but Edison’s minions were now working state legislatures all over the country. If they succeeded in restricting or limiting alternating current, Westinghouse Electric was doomed. He hated politicians, especially crooked or stupid ones, and he believed there were very few who didn’t fall into one of those two categories.

“I have my own plan, Nikola.”

“May I ask what it is?”

“I’m going to illuminate the World’s Fair.”

“Mr. Westinghouse—” Tesla was at a temporary loss for words. Finally, he sputtered, “Sir, that is four years away! It will be much too late.”

Westinghouse’s pace quickened. “Only three years until the contract is awarded. And it won’t be too late if I follow your advice. We’ll challenge Edison on safety. There’ll be many skirmishes during the next three years, but the deciding battle will be the World’s Fair. That is where we will establish alternating current as the way of the future.”

Westinghouse stopped directly in front of Tesla. “In the meantime, I’ve hired a lawyer with enough clout to bury the legislation in committees.”

New York City

July 1889

Thomas Edison scooted his chair closer to W. Bourke Cockran. He was infuriated, but he had to put on a good face.

“Would you please repeat the question?” Edison spoke loudly as he played with an unlit half-smoked cigar. “My hearing is not what it used to be.”

Cockran nearly yelled the question. “In your judgment, can alternating electric current be generated and applied in such a way to produce death in a human being in every case?”

“Yes!” he shouted back.

“Instantly?”

“Yes.”

Edison was pleased to see frustration on Cockran’s face even as he worked to keep his own expression blank. Cockran was a formidable foe. A former New York congressman and kingpin in the Tammany organization, he was now a powerful attorney with one of the most prestigious lists of clients in the city. Westinghouse had secretly hired Cockran to appeal William Kemmler’s death sentence by electricity. Unless someone intervened, Kemmler was going to be the first condemned man to die this way.

More than a dozen journalists were crammed into Cockran’s grand office in the Equitable Building, all there to report on an appeal that would determine if electrocution violated the constitutional restriction on “cruel and unusual punishment.” The hearing had been going on for nearly a week and Edison was losing. Cockran had called a string of witnesses who had survived accidental electric shocks or lightning strikes. Academics and government researchers had testified that Kemmler might be set on fire instead of killed instantly. And he’d even called Dash, a dog who had survived contact with a dangling Western Union line, as a witness.

Harold Brown convinced Edison that he needed to testify to turn the momentum around. But Cockran, Edison knew, would not go down easy; Westinghouse had done well to make him the public face defending alternating current.

“What is your relationship with Mr. Harold Brown?” Cockran asked Edison.

“He’s an independent engineer. I allow him to use my laboratories. I let many researchers use my labs. They’re the best in the world.”

“He is not in your employ?”

“No.”

Cockran looked amused. He leaned forward and struck a match to light Edison’s cigar. Edison took two healthy puffs and eyed Cockran quizzically.

“You’re excused,” Cockran said.

Edison stood to the screech of chairs all over the room, the reporters eager to follow him out. Since he hadn’t made a public appearance in the last eighteen months, he knew that he was the news, not this hearing.

Edison was pleased with himself. Cockran had tried numerous tactics to rattle him, but Edison either pretended not to hear or gave single-word answers. He didn’t dissimulate, volunteer extraneous information, or show any doubt in his answers.

Cockran controlled the questions, but Edison knew that was far less powerful than controlling the answers. If that’s all you’ve got, George, Edison thought to himself, then this is going to all be over faster than I thought.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

February 1890

A loud noise at the door drew Westinghouse’s attention away from his work. Ernest Heinrichs stood at his door.

“Have you read this?” Heinrichs asked, still trying to catch his breath. Westinghouse had recently hired Heinrichs, a journalist, to write articles that presented the viewpoint of the Westinghouse Electric Company. He motioned for him to take a seat.

“We need to say something to discredit these slanderers,” Heinrichs said, holding up a copy of a New York newspaper. “They want to popularize the term Westinghoused, like Dr. Guillotin’s name was attached to decapitation.”

Westinghouse held up his own copy of the paper, indicating he’d already read the article. “Don’t play the other fellow’s game. Edison hopes his power and influence will arrest the march of progress. It won’t. I hired you to get our position into the newspapers. Write positive stories about alternating current. Don’t return their slander.” Westinghouse reached behind him and picked up a sheaf of papers. “This is what you will write. These are notes on the Virginia Senate committee proceedings to limit the voltage of alternating current.”

Heinrichs sat up straighter. “We won Virginia?”

Westinghouse handed the papers to Heinrichs. “No, they lost Virginia. Edison himself testified—I think he was emboldened after the Kemmler hearing—and they still lost. Edison’s attorneys were so bent on attacking us that they never saw the coming assault by the arc lighting companies. Arc lighting may predate Edison’s lightbulb, but arc lights are still popular outdoors. They use alternating current, so they’re our natural allies. The people who testified against Edison were local businessmen, and good ol’ southern boys beat Yankee interlopers every time in Virginia. This was the first state legislative test. I want you to write it up so that it gets national attention.”

He picked a pamphlet off his desk and handed it to Heinrichs. “This is my reply to Mr. Edison, published last December. Use it for your articles. In 1888, sixty-four people were killed in streetcar accidents, fifty-five by wagons, twenty-three by gaslights, and five by alternating current. Memorize those numbers. Five is not exactly an orgy of killing. The article points out that at the August meeting of the Edison illuminating companies, a resolution was passed asking the parent company to satisfy criteria that can only be met by alternating current. His own engineers are rebuffing direct current. We now have five times the number of central stations as Edison.” He pointed at the pamphlet. “It’s all in there. These are the key points I want you to emphasize in the press at every opportunity.”

Heinrichs smiled. “You’re winning on every front.”

“No, not every front. We’ve lost our appeal for Kemmler so Edison still has his electric chair to use as a club. But I don’t want you to write about the new Kemmler appeal. I have others assigned to that battle.

“Mr. Heinrichs, you’re young and talented. You have a grand future. Always do your work with self-respect. Forget slanderous attacks. Write about how we are winning in the marketplace, in the state legislatures, and with electrical engineers.”

Westinghouse stood, put a hand on Heinrichs’s shoulder, and led him to the door.

“Do you understand your assignment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Next time, knock before bursting into my office.”

New York City

Six months later: August 1890

“I tell you, this is a grand thing, and is destined to become the instrument of legal death throughout the world.”

Thomas Edison couldn’t tell if Dr. Southwick believed what he had just said or was simply a fool.

“Doctor, do you wish to know what I think of this first electrocution?”

“I do!” he said eagerly.

The man was smiling. He was an idiot. Edison swiveled his chair to look at Harold Brown, who at least had the wit to look chagrined.

“I invested years in associating alternating current with death,” Edison said. “We’ve successfully killed hundreds of animals with it, yet you can’t kill even one deranged axe murderer. Harold, I—”

“Mr. Edison, he’s dead,” Southwick interrupted.

“Dead?” Edison yelled. “Are you sure? You hit him with seventeen seconds of current and he came back to life.” Edison picked up the newspaper account and followed the text with his finger as he read aloud. “One of the physicians yelled in horror. ‘Great God! He is alive.’ Another screamed, ‘See, he breathes.’ A witness shouted, ‘For God’s sake, kill him.’ ”

Edison threw the paper at Brown, who blocked it with a forearm. Edison continued: “The article goes on to say the warden had to reattach the scalp electrode to do the job again. Kemmler caught on fire and smoked. Most of the newspapers say he was roasted. The stench from burnt flesh and feces was unbearable. Several people threw up, adding to the stink. A reporter fainted, the county sheriff started bawling, and everybody fought to get out of that damned chamber.”

Edison reached behind him and threw a stack of newspapers at Brown. “They all say the same thing!” Edison swiveled toward the doctor. “And you call this a grand thing? You two have ruined me!”

Both men stood up sheepishly.

“Harold, I never want to see your name in print. If I ever see or hear of you again, I’ll have you arrested, even if I have to trump up charges. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now get out.”

Edison ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He told himself his reputation could be salvaged, that he never gave up and had never been defeated. Westinghouse would still rue the day he challenged the Wizard of Menlo Park.

He stood. There were reporters downstairs. He had to face them. He composed himself as he descended the stairs and mustered every ounce of optimism he could.

The first reporter’s question was obvious. “What do you think about the electrocution?”

“I have merely glanced over an account of Kemmler’s death and it was not pleasant reading.”

“Why didn’t it go as you predicted?”

“I understand the doctors bungled it. Very unfortunate.”

“George Westinghouse said they could have done it better with an axe. Any comment?”

“No.” Edison turned and climbed back up the stairs to his office.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

June 1891

“Edison is in Chicago. He wants to electrify the World’s Fair.” Tesla sounded peeved.

Westinghouse was calm. “It’s a good sign. His backers are concerned.”

J. P. Morgan, William H. Vanderbilt, and William Waldorf Astor had pledged $15 million to finance the fair if Congress awarded it to New York, but Chicago had won out anyway. New Yorkers had been stunned when they’d learned about the loss. They’d assumed everything west of the Hudson River was wasteland. Westinghouse, however, knew there were more than two hundred hungry millionaires in Chicago, all of them craving recognition, status, and respect. They had met the Wall Street bid and raised it. Edison and his financiers assumed that an electric contract would automatically come with the fair. Now that the contract was no longer assured, they had dispatched the Wizard to personally sell his elixir to the fair’s governing committee.

Tesla seldom paced, but he couldn’t help himself. “Edison can be persuasive.”

Westinghouse smiled. “Sit down or stand still, Nikola. Pacing doesn’t suit you.”

Tesla stood still with his hands clasped behind his back. “You should be worried.”

Westinghouse laughed. “You don’t see me fret, so you take on the mantle of worrier? Relax. Edison’s in trouble. The Kemmler execution put a big dent in his armor. He’s no longer infallible.”

Westinghouse was gaining confidence by the day. The month after Kemmler’s botched electrocution, Westinghouse sales had jumped to their highest levels in company history. In less than five years, revenue had grown from $150,000 to nearly $5 million. In the meantime, Edison had allowed his companies to be reorganized as Edison General Electric. Westinghouse heard that the president of the new company had once boasted that the new capital meant good-bye to Westinghouse.

Tesla took a deep breath. “You have a plan, don’t you, George?”

Westinghouse shrugged. “Not so much a plan as a partner. We’ll feign disinterest in the bidding, but in the end, we’ll be in the game.”

Thomas Edison had received a large amount of cash as part of the reorganization, but he ended up retaining only a 10 percent interest in the new company. That, Westinghouse believed, was a big mistake. One that he himself would never make. He wouldn’t sell his patents and he would never sell his companies. Ownership was control, and control was everything.

He suspected that Edison was about to learn a hard lesson about the ruthlessness of Wall Street moneymen.

West Orange, New Jersey

Late winter 1892

Thomas Edison was surprised to hear that Alfred Tate was downstairs. Tate, who had been serving as Edison’s personal secretary for nearly ten years, was supposed to be in New York City at Edison headquarters, not here at Edison’s West Orange estate.

“Send him up,” Edison said.

When Tate hurried into his private office, Edison cut right to the chase. “Why are you here, Alfred?”

“There’s been a merger.”

“Who?” Edison was suddenly gripped by a fear that Westinghouse had found a powerful ally.

“Edison General Electric and Thomson-Houston. It’s the second-largest industrial merger in history.”

Edison leapt to his feet. “My company? How could that happen without me knowing?”

“J. P. Morgan. He struck the deal.” Tate paused and looked toward the ground. “Sir, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Edison General Electric is the junior partner. Charles Coffin, the Thomson-Houston president, will be the president of the combined company.”

“No! This cannot be.” Edison felt faint. He sat back down and pounded his fist into a pile of papers on top of his cluttered desk. Damn Morgan. Edison’s first electrification was Morgan’s home and now the banker had repaid him by shoving him aside without even the courtesy of a telegram.

How could this happen? Edison thought—but the truth was that he knew how it happened. Even worse, he knew why: He had been maneuvered to relinquish control because of the threat posed by alternating current. The Kemmler electrocution had merely been a public exhibition of his failure to kill this competing technology. Edison salesmen were now clamoring for alternating current and that is what Thomson-Houston brought to the table. Dammit! His entire strategy to discredit alternating current had backfired. Instead of proving how unsafe it was, it proved the opposite: It was hard to kill a man with alternating current even when it was hooked directly up to his skull.

After a few moments of silence Edison had regained his composure. “What is the name of our new enterprise?” he asked Tate.

Tate hesitated. “General Electric.”

“At least they took my name.”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t understand—you said that the new company was called ‘Edison General Electric.’ ”

“No, sir. There is no ‘Edison’ anymore.”

Chicago

May 1893

Westinghouse was nervous. This was an unnatural emotion for him, but in a couple of minutes he would either rule the electrification world or be the biggest dunce in America. It all depended on the flip of a switch.

It had been a circuitous route to this moment. Westinghouse had publicly stated that his company would not bid on the electrification of the World’s Fair. With every other substantial electric company consolidated into General Electric, there was hardly any competition left.

When the bid box was opened, GE’s bid surprised no one: $1,720,000. But a second bid was found: $625,600 from a small Chicago firm. It was far less than GE’s, but the small company was taken seriously when Westinghouse Electric said it would back the proposal.

Westinghouse had, of course, not relied solely on the bid of a silent partner. In advance of the bidding he had dispatched Heinrichs to Chicago to whip up newspaper animosity toward the haughty New Yorkers. Heinrichs never had an easier assignment. The Chicago reporters hated the New York “electrical trust” and embraced Westinghouse as their champion from Pittsburgh, another industrial town familiar with being disparaged by the high-and-mighty Manhattanites.

Westinghouse, knowing the importance of the World’s Fair as a showcase for technology, had surreptitiously worked three years to win the bid. Now the war between him and Edison—between alternating and direct current—all came down to the flip of a switch.

• • •

It had been a long haul. There were business, legal, and engineering challenges. A big-city alternating-current plant might light up as many as ten thousand lights, but the World’s Fair was 160,000 lights, plus a good number of motors. All of this would be powered by twelve oil-fueled engines that had been installed only weeks earlier in Machinery Hall. No dirty coal smoke would rain down to stain the White City—the nickname given the main thoroughfare through the World’s Fair due to the white classical buildings that lined both sides of an immense reflecting pool.

As George Westinghouse stood on the bunted platform with other officiating guests, he fretted that it was all now out of his hands. President Grover Cleveland would press the gold and ivory telegraph key to light the World’s Columbian Exhibition, which celebrated the four-hundred-year anniversary of Columbus’s great voyage of discovery. Westinghouse would just stand there and smile.

Westinghouse didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until the lights came on with a roar from tens of thousands of spectators. It was magnificent. Fountains threw plumes of water a hundred feet into the air, flags unfurled, cannon and boat whistles assaulted the ears, and everybody yelled. The elegant White City instantaneously became the Bright City as it burst out of darkness. The gold dome of the Administration Building glowed; crowds on walkways and steps and lawns abruptly came into view; and the peristyle at the far end of the Great Basin seemed to glow from within. This entire spectacle came from Westinghouse lamps and motors powered by Westinghouse engines. All of it was made possible by the genius of Nikola Tesla and his alternating current.

Westinghouse felt himself smiling. It had all worked. The lamps, the motors, the engines, and the transmission lines. It was an entire electrical system fit for a city. Everywhere he looked there was glittering brightness and happy faces.

It was a new dawn, and a man-made one at that.

Coney Island, New York

Ten years later: January 4, 1903

In the decade since the founding of General Electric, Thomas Edison concentrated his talents on industries like mining and motion pictures. His own mines had not been profitable, but his patented techniques for things such as magnetic separation, blasting, conveying, and crushing had proven to be lucrative. His greatest enthusiasm, however, was for movies. He had watched their effect on audiences. One good film could alter the thinking of thousands of people.

The Edison Motion Picture Studio was making history by filming the first ever movie with a story. He was sure that film, The Great Train Robbery, would make money, but the movie he was about to make on Coney Island was far more important to him: It would be the first death ever captured on film.

Edison’s plan was to film an elephant being electrocuted with alternating current produced by a Westinghouse dynamo. The execution itself would be watched live by thousands of people at Luna Park, but the movie would have a much wider reach.

Edison knew that the war on currents was essentially finished. Even General Electric, the company he’d founded, had embraced alternating current. But he also knew that revenge was best when it was unexpected.

The elephant to be killed was a three-ton female named “Topsy,” who was reputed to have killed three people over the last few years. The latest was a cruel trainer who’d tried to feed her a lit cigarette. Her owners, believing she was too dangerous to keep, first attempted to poison her with cyanide. A thousand people gathered to watch the event, but Topsy didn’t budge.

With New York having abandoned hanging in favor of the electric chair, Topsy’s owners saw the potential for another live event.

So did Thomas Edison.

Sensing an opportunity to strike back against Westinghouse in dramatic fashion, Edison stepped forward to volunteer his electrical expertise on one condition. They’d have to let him film the entire event.

• • •

Edison checked in with his electrical technicians. They assured him that everything was ready. Then he checked in with his camera crew. They were set as well.

Edison waved and a circus trainer led the ill-fated elephant to the electrocution apparatus that he had designed. Edison glanced back and forth between Topsy and the cameraman. The death march was all being captured on film.

Edison directed the filming to stop once Topsy was in position. He did not want to film the long process of fitting Topsy with electrodes and the specially designed copper-lined sandals that would transmit the current.

The trained elephant dutifully raised each foot so the sandals could be slipped underneath. While the animal was being prepared, Edison checked the electrical equipment again and reminded the guards to hold the onlookers away from the camera. There would be only one take.

Finally, all was in place. Edison signaled and the cameraman started filming again.

He waited until he was certain the camera was fully operational, and then he signaled again. Then 6,600 volts pulsed through the sandals and into Topsy.

Smoke billowed from Topsy’s feet and she shuttered violently. She tried to shake one of the sandals loose, but quickly convulsed, then tumbled forward onto her head and rolled over to her side. Smoke continued to billow from her until the alternating current was turned off after a full ten seconds.

Topsy never moved again.

EPILOGUE

In 1893, the same year as the World’s Fair that had showcased alternating current, George Westinghouse won the Niagara Falls hydropower contract that cemented his company’s dominance. After a long and brutal financial battle, New York and Boston bankers gained control of Westinghouse Electric in 1909 and ousted Westinghouse as its chairman. He continued to successfully run his other businesses until his death five years later.

Thomas Edison built a ten-company motion picture trust that tried to monopolize the movie industry. Edison used the trust to limit the length of films to ten to twenty minutes because he believed that was the attention span of audiences. The trust also refused to identify actors by name to prevent them from demanding higher salaries. To escape the Edison Trust, independent producers fled New York for a town in California that was protected by the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals’ distaste for patent infringement claims. The town was called Hollywood.

Alternating current won the war, but direct current has not disappeared completely. Batteries, solar power systems, and electronics with circuit boards still rely on it. However, one of the devices at the center of the Edison-Westinghouse War of Currents does not: the electric chair.

On January 16, 2013, Virginia death row inmate Robert Gleason chose to die from electrocution rather than lethal injection. He was executed with the same system of electricity now used safely in millions of homes around the world: alternating current.