Chain Reactions E-Book

Lucy Jane Santos

• Herausgeber: Icon Books
• Kategorie: Wissenschaft und neue Technologien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 411

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Tracing uranium's past, and how it intersects with our understanding of other radioactive elements, this book aims to disentangle our attitudes and to unpick the atomic mindset. Chain Reactions looks at the fascinating, often-forgotten, stories that can be found throughout the history of the element. Ranging from glassworks to penny stocks; medicines to weapons; something to be feared to a powerful source of energy, this global history not only explores the development of our scientific understanding of uranium, but also shines a light on its cultural and social impact. By understanding our nuclear past, we can move beyond the ideological opposition to atomic technology and encourage a more nuanced dialogue about whether it is feasible - and desirable - to have a genuinely nuclear-powered future.

Leseprobe

 

 

Published in the UK in 2024 by

Icon Books Ltd, Omnibus Business Centre,

39–41 North Road, London N7 9DP

email: [email protected]

www.iconbooks.com

ISBN: 978-183773-156-5

ebook: 978-183773-155-8

Text copyright © 2024 Lucy Jane Santos

The author has asserted her moral rights.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Typesetting by SJmagic DESIGN SERVICES, India

Printed and bound in the UK

 

 

‘Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood. Now is the time to understand more, so that we may fear less.’

Marie Skłodowska Curie

‘You know what uranium is, right? It’s this thing called nuclear weapons and other things, like lots of other things are done with uranium, including some bad things.’

Donald J. Trump

CONTENTS

Prologue

1The Early History

2Uranium, Vanadium and Radium

3Entering the Atomic Age

4Atomic Predictions

5Uranium Fever

6Atomic Cities

7Nucleonics

8Nuclear Nightmares and Nuclear Dreams

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

Endnotes

PROLOGUE

This story starts just a smidge under 5 billion years ago.1

We begin with a solar nebula, a cloud of dust and gas.

Contained within this cloud are various elements. Scientists believe that the heavy elements, which include not only uranium, but also gold and platinum, originate from two neutron stars colliding about 80 million years before the birth of the solar system.

These collisions flung the uranium, along with other stardust, across the universe. For eons they voyaged, carried by interstellar winds and cosmic currents. Gravity doing what it does best caused this matter to condense and eventually form the sun at the centre, as well as the planets, including our own.

Eventually, as smaller rocky worlds like Earth formed through collisions of elemental materials, uranium became an integral part of the planet’s composition and one of the most common elements in the Earth’s crust. It nestled within rocks, soil and even the oceans. Over vast periods of time, geological forces shaped the Earth’s surface, creating mountains and valleys.

Deep within the Earth’s crust, buried as layer upon layer of sediment was built up, uranium found its haven in various geological formations, ranging from ancient sedimentary layers to crystalline structures. At the same time, uranium’s natural life cycle led to a slow radioactive decay, which is the main heat source within the core of our planet.

In the Oklo Valley in Gabon, Africa, uranium deposits built up in such a specific way that they underwent nuclear fission, a reaction when the nucleus of an atom splits and releases a large amount of energy.

For hundreds of thousands of years these sixteen natural reactors, known collectively as the Oklo Fossil Reactors, hummed and buzzed and generated a modest amount of heat and energy in a self-sustaining reaction before eventually dying out.

Time and geological processes sculpted the Earth further, revealing its hidden treasures. Erosion and weathering gradually unveiled uranium-bearing ores, exposing their vibrant hues and eventually ensuring a worldwide search for the element as scientists and governments sought to first understand and then control its powers.

THE EARLY HISTORY

1

Johannes Kentmann was fascinated by rocks. The Dresden-born physician had other passions – he also wrote books about herbal medicine, as well as biology and botany1 – but it was mineralogy that stirred him the most. Kentmann was so passionate about his subject that he had a cabinet with thirteen numbered drawers installed to house his comprehensive collection of minerals, which he called an ‘ark’. In 1565, this collection was catalogued in De Omni Rerum Fossilium Genere, Gemmis, Lapidibus, Metallis, et huiusmodi (On Every Kind of Fossils, Gems, Stones, Metals and the Like), a composite volume of works by seven authors edited by the Swiss naturalist Conrad Gessner.

Kentmann’s volume – described in Gessner’s book as being collated by ‘the first man in Europe to make a collection of minerals’ – consisted of individual entries for 1,608 specimens representing 26 different groups of minerals from 135 locations. And one of these, the ore bechblende, is the beating black heart in the story of uranium.

Pechblende (somewhere in the fourteenth century there was a shift in German vowels and the b became a p) seems to have been named for both its appearance and for its reputation. As Kentmann’s catalogue entry indicates, the substance was black, hence ‘pech’, which in German can mean dark and sticky. ‘Blende’ means mixture, which is a fitting description, as pechblende can be made up from up to 30 different elements. But there was a double meaning to the name as well: ‘blenden’ means to deceive and ‘pech haben’ is to have bad luck. While Kentmann was the first to publish a formal identification – listing it as a sterile lead similar to black pitch – the mineral wasn’t totally unknown.

In fact, miners were very familiar with pechblende, much to their annoyance. Finding pechblende meant the valuable stuff you were looking for, like silver or gold, was almost running out. Pechblende was a sign to move on.

Later, the sheer quantity of pechblende would be a huge problem for miners working in the Erzgebirge mountain range, which ran between the borders of Saxony and Bohemia. But it wasn’t always that way; in the early 1500s a rich vein of silver ore had been discovered in the Bohemian part of the Erzgebirge, an area that is now part of the Czech Republic.

The owner of the land, Count Stefan Schlick, built a castle called Schloss Freudenstein to fortify a newly built town to house the miners. By 1518, there were over 400 houses and 8,000 miners working the site, and the town came to be known as Sankt Joachimsthal.2

Thanks to the rich pickings in the mine, St Joachimsthal grew in importance, being granted royal status in 1520.3 As befitting of their new significance, the Schlicks were also given permission to mint their own coins, an honour which allowed them to consolidate the power of the town. Schlick brought in two mint masters, Ulrich Gebhart and Stephan Gemisch, and developed a new currency based on coins known as ‘Joachimsthalers’. By the seventeenth century the use of these large silver coins had spread across central Europe and they became the dominant unit of currency, accepted in neighbouring kingdoms without the need to exchange for local monies.4

The Schlicks had been appointed as administrators and the principal suppliers of the silver used to mint all the coins. However, these privileges only lasted a few years. The state treasury soon realised they were missing out on the profits from producing their own coins and took the Schlick mint and placed it under royal administration and operation. Nevertheless, the Schlicks still profited greatly from the arrangement, with an estimated 250,000 kilograms of silver mined between 1516 and 1554.5

Joachimsthal was a prosperous and vibrant town that attracted many influential people, including Georg Bauer, who was better known by his pen name Georgius Agricola. Bauer was a linguist, scholar and teacher who was appointed as the town’s physician in 1527, having obtained his medical degree from the University of Bologna.6 During his few years in the town, he became very interested in the mines and its workers and went on to publish ten texts on the topic, the first one in 1530.

His best-known work, De Re Metallica (On the Nature of Metals) was published posthumously. Written in Latin, the book is divided into twelve chapters, each of which deals with a different aspect of mining and metallurgy. It is also known for its vivid, detailed illustrations, made by artists and woodcutters.7 Some of the images in De Re Metallica show miners digging for ore, using hand tools and explosives to extract minerals from the earth. Others show the refining process, such as the smelting of metals in furnaces and the casting of metals into moulds. The book also includes images of various technologies in use at the time, such as bellows to provide air to furnaces and waterwheels to power mills.

Bauer was specifically concerned about the working conditions of the miners and, ultimately, the perils of following profits at all costs warning:

It remains for me to speak of the ailments and accidents of miners, and of the methods by which they can guard against these, for we should always devote more care to maintaining our health, that we may freely perform our body functions, than to making profits.8

While mining was, and still is, an incredibly dangerous occupation in its own right, Bauer was particularly concerned about a respiratory illness known as bergsucht, which had first been described by the alchemist known as Paracelsus in 1533 and referred to as ‘Mala Metallorum’.9

Although no one knew exactly what caused this often-fatal illness, it was widely accepted that it was caused by some kind of poisonous dust. And while arsenic, one of the many toxic minerals found in the mountains, was the official suspect, the miners had their own theory: evil mountain gnomes who were intent on punishing those who violated their underground domain.10

Bauer didn’t discount this:

In some of our mines, however, though in very few, there are other pernicious pests. These are demons of ferocious aspect, about which I have spoken in my book De animatibus subterrabeis [On Underground Spirits]. Demons of this kind are expelled and put to flight by prayer and fasting.11

Bauer didn’t just report on the problems; he also suggested practical ways to improve the conditions within the mines, including masks, gloves and protective clothing.12 Over fifteen pages Bauer discusses the construction of different types of ventilation machines, using wind, fans and bellows, which could help provide fresh air rather than the stagnant air naturally present in the mines.13

Bauer died in 1555 at the age of 61 – his recommendations either not carried out or found ineffective against the dreaded bergsucht. His contemporary Paracelsus was also unable to pinpoint what was ailing the miners, but he did distinguish between the acute and chronic toxic effects of metals.14

By the latter half of the sixteenth century, Joachimsthal’s prospects were in a downward spiral that it never really recovered from. There were outbreaks of plague, a change of ruling empires, suppression of nationalism, the town was sacked and Freudenstein castle was destroyed by fire. Competition from outside of Europe was also driving the price of silver down, most notably the discovery and exploitation of vast silver mines in Mexico and Peru following the conquests of Cortés and Pizarro. These mines were worked on a massive scale, using forced labour, including African slaves. The Spanish colonisers in Peru even encouraged coca-chewing by the workers to increase their energy and therefore their productivity.15 And compounding these issues was the fact that the silver in the Joachimsthal mines, or at least the silver that the technology available at the time allowed them to reach, was running out.16

Decades after Joachimsthal had begun its freefall into historical obscurity, a man started a journey that would change the town’s fortunes once again. Martin Heinrich Klaproth might have set out on the path to priesthood, but fate had other plans for him. Instead of pursuing a religious vocation, Klaproth became a self-taught expert in analysing minerals, investigating hundreds of different samples in his lifetime. And he made some game-changing discoveries along the way. Arguably the founder of the new science of analytic chemistry, he discovered zirconium (1789), separated strontium-28 from calcium and confirmed the discovery of the substance that came to be known as titanium (1792).

But Klaproth’s most groundbreaking work came in 1789 while investigating two of the minerals found in Erzgebirge’s silver deposits: pechblende and torbernite. What he encountered during his analysis of torbernite led him to a stunning discovery, but it was pechblende that he used to conduct his further investigations.17 Dissolving the ore in nitric acid and neutralising the solution with sodium hydroxide, he found a yellow compound that he heated with charcoal to obtain a black powder. As his experiments had determined that this sample was chemically indivisible, i.e. he couldn’t separate anything else from it, Klaproth was convinced he had discovered a new element.

On the evening of 24 September 1789, Klaproth addressed the Royal Prussian Academy of Sciences in Berlin and reported his results:

The number of known metals has been increased by one – from 17 to 18. This I have called a metalloid, a new element which I see as a strange kind of half metal. It is not related to the zinc, iron, or tungsten found in so-called pitchblende. For some reason, however, I have found it associated with lead. Consequently, I suggest that past errors in naming should be eradicated – such as iron pitch ore, pitchblende or black tin ore. I have chosen a name. A few years ago we thrilled to hear of the discovery of the final planet by Sir William Herschel. He called this new member of our solar system Uranus. I proposed to borrow from the honour of that great discovery and call this new element – Uranium.18

Klaproth’s discovery was later called into question in 1841 when Eugène-Melchior Péligot, a professor of analytical chemistry at the École Centrale des Arts et Manufactures in Paris, utilised advancements in chemical analysis and tested the pechblende ore again. He determined that Klaproth had not found a pure element but, instead, uranium and oxygen as a compound – uranium oxide. Péligot was the first to create pure uranium and study its properties, including its atomic mass.

Of course, once something new has been discovered there is often a race to monetise the substance. And uranium had some unique properties that meant it was easily and quickly utilised in all manner of things. However, its greatest use was really in the ceramic and glass industries. And while this use snowballed in the late-nineteenth century, it is also apparent that uranium may have been used on a non-commercial basis as a colouring agent prior to its formal identification.

In particular, the discovery of uranium oxide in a Roman glass mosaic has caused some discussion among glass experts, as it is the earliest known use of uranium oxide in existence.

The mosaic was found in a 1912 archaeological dig carried out by Robert T. Günther, historian at the luxurious villa of Publius Vedius Pollio at Posillipo, an area to the south-west of Naples, overlooking the bay. After the death of Vedius Pollio in 15 BCE,19 it was given to the Roman emperor Augustus, and was levelled, rebuilt and extended to become an imperial villa. It remained an imperial possession until at least 183 CE.

Fast-forward to the early-twentieth century and the ruin was being worked over by Günther and his team. In one room that was decorated with light-coloured walls, divided into panels by lines painted in black and the colour the Romans called Sinopsis, which is today better known as Pompeiian red, was a small niche encrusted with a mosaic. This portrayed a white dove hovering with wings outstretched and tail spread in the blue sky over green plants. It is a striking image with great attention to detail and was dated by the team to around 79 CE.

After photographing and sketching its position in the room, Günther’s team took a few pieces for analysis but left the mosaic in situ. The samples were taken to J.J. Manley, a chemist at Magdalen College, Oxford. The blue tesserae were simply cobalt, a relatively common find, but the green tiles were of more interest. Manley determined that some of them contained trace substances of uranium oxide.20 Unfortunately the mosaic itself disappeared around the Second World War and the samples were lost and never recovered.21

As this is the only example of uranium found in glass of this period it does rather beg the question of how it got there. One possibility, of course, is that it was accidental. In this scenario the Roman glassmaker used sand that just happened to contain trace amounts of uranium. After all, to make glass you just need sand, nitrate and a tremendous amount of heat to fuse everything together. On the other hand, Roman glassmakers knew how to colour glass by adding in metallic oxides, and there are beautiful examples from all periods, including those blue cobalt oxide tiles at Posillipo, so it could have been a deliberate, albeit seemingly one-off experiment.

There is also a hypothesis that the mosaic glass could have originated from Roman Britain, specifically from Cornwall, an area that was a significant mining centre for various metals, including uranium.

We know this from Charles Sandoe Gilbert, a druggist and historian who published An Historical Survey of the County of Cornwall in 1817, a comprehensive account of the county’s history, geology and natural resources. The book covers a wide range of topics, from pre-history to the nineteenth century, and provides detailed descriptions of Cornwall’s towns, villages and notable landmarks.

Cornwall was one of the most important mining centres in Europe, comparable to those in the Erzgebirge mountains, from pre-Roman times until the twentieth century. The region commercially mined several metals, including antimony, arsenic, cobalt and manganese.22

The first reference to uranium minerals in Cornwall dates back to 1805, when what is thought to have been torbernite was identified in mine dumps at Tincroft Mine near Camborne.23 And Gilbert mentions mines at Carharrack, Huel Garland, Tolcarne and Huel Unity.

Gilbert notes that uranium could be used in glassmaking: ‘it combines with oxygen, and its oxides impart bright colours to glass, which are according to the proportions brown, apple green, or emerald green’.24

While there is no suggestion that uranium glass was being produced commercially or in any significant amount in Cornwall, or indeed anywhere else, at this time, this changed shortly afterwards, with a number of companies exploring the use of uranium glass in the second quarter of the nineteenth century.25

So, we see the Harrach glassworks in Saxony exhibiting their yellow-green glass at the Prague Exhibition in 1831.26 We know, thanks to records held by the Museum of London, that the British glass manufacturers Whitefriars used uranium as a colouring agent from 1836. And it appears to have been a technique that was embraced quickly by manufacturers keen to show off their skill and create new forms of beautiful glassware. Hence the silver mounted candlesticks with prisms of topaz glass coloured with uranium that were presented to Queen Adelaide in 1836.27 And the twelve finger bowls, also made by Whitefriars, of uranium topaz glass that were used at the Corporation of London Banquet for the new queen, Victoria, held at the Guildhall on 9 November 1837.28

Those examples were celebratory, one-off pieces made to welcome queens, not for everyday use. And while, as with many historical advancements, there may be some debate and uncertainty about the exact origins and timelines, the originator of commercially available uranium glass is typically recognised to be the Riedel company, which was founded by Josef Riedel in Bohemia. The Riedel company developed two types of coloured glass using uranium: Annagelb and Annagrün.

Recognising an opportunity to capitalise on a new trend, the Austrian–Hungarian monarchy assigned a young chemist named Adolf Patera to discover the most economical way to produce uranium glass.29 Patera worked for a glassworks in Teplice, and conducted experiments on the effects of various elements on glass colouration. He successfully developed uranium yellow dye for glass and china in 1852.30

The following year, in Joachimsthal, the government opened a factory, K.K. Urangelfabrik, aka the Uranium Dye Factory,31 housed in a building that had originally been a silver smelting manufacturing works owned by the Schlick family.32 It soon began production of six to eight varieties of yellow dyes, including light greenish yellow, one orange and one black dye.33

Joachimsthal had one great advantage over other glass manufacturing areas: they had a ready source of uranium from the massive amounts of pitchblende that had already been found – and discarded as worthless – in the town’s mines. With the success of the dye factory and the corresponding need for even more uranium, the derelict mines in the town were reopened and Joachimsthal experienced a revival of fortunes. By 1897 they were the world’s largest uranium colour factory, making more than 12,000 kilograms per year.

In France, the glassworks Baccarat, based in Choisy-le-Roi, was known for its innovative designs and techniques, including uranium glass, which was sold under the names cristal dichroide and chrysoprase, an opaque apple-green colour.34 Their technical advisor was Eugène-Melchior Péligot, and his knowledge of chemistry and materials science helped the company improve its recipes, contributing to its reputation for producing high-quality glass.

In the US in the late 1880s, La Belle Glass Company developed what became known as Ivory or Custard glass by increasing the concentration of uranium oxide, which made the effect more opaque. Heat-sensitive chemicals, such as gold, were added to the mix, which, when reheated during the manufacturing process, resulted in a shading effect that ranged from clear yellow to milky white at the edges.35 Meanwhile, Burmese glass was developed by the Mount Washington Glass company. The recipe included white sand, lead oxide, purified potash, niter, bicarbonate of soda, fluor-spar, feldspar, uranium oxide and colloidal gold.36 This formula produced an opaque glass that came in different shades, from pink to yellow. It is thought that its name was bestowed after Queen Victoria remarked that it reminded her of a Burmese sunset.

And while there were many different shades, it was the yellowish-green effect that became the most popular choice among buyers. Much later it became popularly known as Vaseline glass, due to its supposed resemblance to the famous brand of petroleum jelly.37 There were also plenty of other companies who were using uranium to colour their glass at this time. The various producers were vying with each other to produce new colours, effects and transitions among an atmosphere of commercial secrecy.38

However, one of the strangest uses for this colouring was noted in 1847, when Scientific American reported that uranium, along with platina, titanium and cobalt, had a secondary application as a colouring agent for artificial teeth made from feldspar and quartz. By incorporating uranium as a final step in the glassmaking process, just before being fired, the teeth were given an orange-yellow hue.39 While it sounds a bit strange that this was the desired effect, throughout history dentures and false teeth had been made with ivory, gold, silver, mother of pearl or enamelled copper.40 It was only later in the nineteenth century, mainly with the introduction of porcelain teeth, that looking natural or realistic was a desirable quality in artificial teeth.41 And, even then, the technology wasn’t quite up to scratch. Artificial teeth looked unnatural, and it was only due to a robust social contract of pretence that allowed the wearer to remain in blissful ignorance about their appearance.

Uranium oxide, along with the salts of other metallic substances, was also considered a potentially important weapon against disease and illness. This theory had a long history, dating back to the time of Paracelsus, who used toxic minerals and metals in his treatments. Considered the founder of the discipline of toxicology, Paracelsus challenged the then dominant Galenic ideas of medicine, which argued that good health was derived from a balance of the four humours – blood, phlegm, yellow and black bile. If your humours were unbalanced then illness was the likely result. The treatment for such imbalances included the therapeutic methods of bloodletting, purgatives and emetics. By contrast, by the sixteenth century, for Paracelsus and those who agreed with him, a poison in the body was best cured by a similar poison. In his mind, the therapeutic use of toxic substances could be beneficially wielded – as long as the physician was in control. After all, he asked: ‘What is there that is not a poison? All things are poison, and nothing is without poison. Solely the dose determines that a thing is not a poison.’42 The principle that this established was that everything could be toxic if taken in large enough quantities. Therefore it, was entirely possible to control the dosage and prevent harmful effects.

With this theory in mind, Christian Gmelin, a professor at the University of Tübingen, Germany, further investigated the toxicology of uranium. This research was part of a chemistry treatise, published in 1824, that described the physiological effects, on both humans and animals, of the salts of eighteen different metals, including uranium.43

Gmelin’s Handbuch der Chemie described the experimentation process using uranium salts, which had been obtained from pitchblende.44 Gmelin fed the uranium salts to dogs and rabbits in different ways and dosages to study its effects in a controlled environment. Two dogs were given their doses with food, while another dog and a rabbit received larger doses through stomach tubes. Additionally, two further dogs were even given higher doses through intravenous injection. By using these various methods, Gmelin was able to draw a conclusion about the toxicity of uranium.

He determined that while uranium was a ‘feeble poison’ when consumed, when administered through intravenous injection the substance proved swiftly fatal.45

Another researcher, C. Le Conte, carried out more experiments, this time using uranium nitrate, a yellowish crystalline substance that dissolves easily in water and is made by reacting uranium oxide with nitric acid. In 1853, Le Conte reported to the Parisian Society of Biology that he had induced nephritis, a kidney disease, by giving dogs small doses of the chemical compound.46

With several researchers reporting that they were able to use uranium to induce particular symptoms, the idea developed that it would also be useful to treat illnesses that presented the same side effects. Nephritis, for example, is a serious complication of diabetes mellitus, and Le Conte had noted that he observed ‘sugar in the urine of dogs slowly poisoned by small doses of nitrate of uranium’.47 From studies like this developed the hope that uranium could be used to treat the disease.

One of the first known descriptions of diabetes was back in the second century, when the Greek physician Aretaeus characterised it as ‘a puzzling disease’. There had been little advancement in understanding in the intervening years and it remained untreatable, with distressing side effects and the inevitability of the death of the patient. Medical advice was limited to bed rest and a strict diet which, by the nineteenth century, included commercial products like Bonthron’s Diabetic Biscuits and Bread, and The G.B. Diabetes Whisky, which promised a ‘sample on application’.

Samuel West, a physician at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, gave a boost to the potential of a uranium treatment for diabetes, publishing the results of his clinical experiments using uranium in the British Medical Journal in 1895 and 1896. West had given eight patients a treatment schedule of uranium salts dissolved in water, which was to be drunk after meals. He started them off with a mere one or two grains of salts and then increased slowly until they were consuming up to twenty grains two or three times a day.48 There were often dramatic effects reported, with glycosuria – glucose in the urine – practically disappearing, and many of the patients showing improvements in their symptoms. However, there were some patients in the trial that reported gastrointestinal problems, and when treatment was discontinued for all, the effects of the disease returned practically immediately.

While the results of these tests were inconclusive, uranium treatments continued to be used in medicine and for a wide variety of ailments. According to a Dr Cook from Buffalo, uranium was great for treating urinary incontinence. An unnamed doctor claimed he had used it to cure a stomach ulcer in 1880.49 One reported its success in haemorrhage control while another for the treatment of consumptives.50 The pharmaceutical periodical Chemist and Druggist carried a recipe for a snuff, a kind of smokeless tobacco, containing one grain of uranium acetate and coffee, which was ‘the latest cure for cold in the head’.51

A more conventional form of medication was produced by the pharmaceutical company Burroughs and Wellcome, in the form of tabloids of uranium nitrate.52 Or by Oppenheimer, Sons & Co of London who sold palatinoids containing two and a half grains of uranium nitrate. These palatinoids were marketed as combining the benefits of uranium, which ‘has been recently recommended in the treatment of diabetes by Dr S West’ without the ‘repugnant flavour’ of his treatment.53 Their tablets could be swallowed whole or crushed into a handkerchief and inhaled.54

And if you think all of that is pretty strange then step into the fascinating world of medicated wine and discover Vin Urané Pesqui! Each 24-fluid-ounce bottle of this uranium wine came with a book called Diabetes and Its Cure by Vin Urané Pesqui.

The book described the beverage as a powerful elixir that could instantly quench thirst, restore strength and improve bodily functions. Breathing difficulties, fatigue and lassitude were also said to be alleviated. It was even claimed that patients who drank Vin Urané Pesqui experienced a significant improvement in their appearance and temperament.55

The dosage – which was outlined on the label – was suggested as: ‘Three small sherry-glassfuls per day, with or without water, 5 minutes before, or immediately after meals, and at night before bed time.’56

Uranium also found a practical application through photography, which was a relatively new field at the time. Indeed, uranium and photography were practically contemporaries. It was only a few years before Péligot had isolated the element in 1841 that the first two practical methods of permanently recording images had been developed.

In France, Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre invented the daguerreotype, while in Britain, William Henry Fox Talbot developed the calotype. Both methods utilised sunlight to capture images. Daguerre made plates out of tin and later glass, while Fox Talbot used paper.

In the early days of photography, it was largely a scientific curiosity practised by wealthy men. The real breakthrough in popularity came in 1851 with the introduction of glass negatives, which allowed for multiple copies of the same image to be easily produced. This led to a fashion for cartes-de-visite, photographs mounted on a piece of card, which became a form of social currency. As the craze intensified, the number of portrait studios also correspondingly increased. London, for instance, had about twenty studios before 1853, but by the late 1860s this had increased to 284.57

The main technological issue with photographs at the time was the problem of fading, and the Photographic Society of London set up the Fading Committee to address the issue.58 For some the most promising solution to the fading problem was provided by using uranium in the development process.

Charles John Burnett was a Scottish photographer who is credited with inventing the uranotype printing process in the 1850s. The uranotype used a salt, such as uranyl nitrate, to sensitise paper or other materials to light. The paper was developed with a reducing agent to produce a brown or sepia-toned image. This technique was popular in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, particularly in scientific and technical applications.

Another photographic process that used uranium was the Wothlytype, which had been pioneered by Jacob Wothly. The Wothlytype wasn’t a single idea but, as we can tell from subsequent patents, was instead a specific process, determining the way the paper was prepared and the use of uranium as a photochemical compound. The variety of tones achievable was limited, but salts such as uranium nitrate added to silver nitrate produced tones ranging from warm black to chocolate brown and brick red.59

Wothly’s method was greeted with great enthusiasm and a bidding war to secure the patent. The patent eventually sold in France, Australia, Spain, Portugal and the United States. In Scotland permission to use the process was sold to John Urie, a photographer at 33 Buchanan Street in Glasgow. In November 1864 an advert was placed by Urie’s photographic studio informing the public that they had: ‘just obtained the patent rights to produce these wonderful Wothlytype Portraits so highly commended by the London Times. By the aid of this important discovery, Mr. Urie will be enabled to produce these exquisitely beautiful portraits at one-half the usual price.’60

In England the patent was granted to Archibald H.P. Stuart Wortley and William Warren Vernon through the company the United Association of Photography at a cost of 25,000 francs.61 To make a return on their investment they offered licences – at a cost of ten guineas each – to photographers to use the process. Wortley had a gift for self-promotion and an impressive family connection – his sister was the goddaughter of the Duchess of Kent, Queen Victoria’s mother. It was probably this family connection that allowed Wortley to proclaim: ‘Her Majesty had expressed great interest in the new printing-process known as the “Wothlytype”, and a portfolio of choice specimens has been, by command, forwarded to Balmoral for her inspection.’62

And, in an entry from her personal journal of 1865, Victoria herself wrote that she had seen ‘some beautiful new kinds of Photos: called Wothleytypes [sic], printed in carbon, and which are supposed to be permanent, besides being so beautifully smooth’.63

Between the interest shown by Queen Victoria and positive reviews in trade and popular publications, the Wothlytype had a promising start.64 Unfortunately the process did not gain a hold with photographers amid the eventual decline of the cartes market, rumours of fading, professional jealously and a flawed business model:

The truth is that M. Wothly was an excellent operator and a good man of business. He produced first class negatives and made exquisite prints from them. He sold his patent; but he could not sell the skill to which and not to the patent the production of his capital ‘specimens’ was due.65

In August 1867 a fire broke out on the premises of the United Association of Photography, which was at 213 Regent Street, in London. It destroyed the basement laboratory and staircase to the first floor. The source of the fire was uncertain, but it was suspected that it was caused by a bursting bottle of ether or a spirit lamp that had been left burning under a vessel containing a preparation of uranium.66 The disaster, combined with a lack of sales, led to the company’s voluntary liquidation in the same year.67

Uranium continued to be used – as one of many chemicals – in photography, but never with quite the same enthusiasm as before. It did, however, find use in scientific experimentation, in particular one known as ‘Gassiot’s Cascade’, or the ‘electric fountain’. The cascade was described by John Peter Gassiot in 1854 in Philosophical Magazine. Later, the scientist and inventor John Henry Pepper offered his readers careful instructions on how to reproduce the effect so that ‘a continuous series of streams of electric light seem to overflow the goblet all round the edge, and it stands then the very embodiment of the brimming cup of fire, and emblematical of the dangers of the wine-cup’.68

The cascade was later modified to use uranium glass, which utilises the fluorescence of the material to create an even more stunning effect, as the glass glows green. Indeed, the study of fluorescence via experiments with uranium glass was an important part of science at the time.

Gassiot’s Cascade was part of a series of experiments conducted to explore the puzzling and remarkable phenomenon that had been observed while studying the effects of passing electricity through gases. This type of investigation had a long history, dating back to the eighteenth century, when it was discovered that a discharge of static electricity could be accompanied by a flash of light.69 By the mid-nineteenth century, technology had advanced to the point where scientists could investigate the discharge of electricity through gases confined within sealed glass vacuum tubes.

Michael Faraday, an English scientist, had hypothesised that matter could exist in a fourth state, which he called radiant matter.70 In 1838 he passed electricity through low-density gases and observed that a luminous glow developed in the discharge tubes where the electric current flowed. Faraday suggested that this glow was caused by electromagnetic radiation acting upon the gases sealed up in the tubes, much like how ultraviolet light acts on mineral crystals.71

Faraday lacked the technology to thoroughly test his hypothesis,72 but his work sparked interest from other experimenters.73 Among these was Heinrich Geissler, a German instrument maker who specialised in making blown-glass apparatus for scientific experiments. Geissler developed a new type of glass tube – sealed at both ends – that was used to enclose different luminescent gases. When electricity from a coil was passed through these tubes, they glowed brightly like an early neon sign, producing a variety of colours depending on the composition of the gases.

Geissler’s tubes were fitted with two metal electrodes, which conducted electric current through the gas from one end to the other. One was called the cathode, and the other the anode. A vacuum pump was used to remove the gas, which usually was air. This resulted in a low internal air pressure, and when a high-voltage electric current passed between the electrodes, the remaining air in the tube began to glow faintly blue.74 Even more interestingly, the rays were still observed to be present even when the more efficient vacuums had reduced the number of gas molecules inside. When the tube was coated with fluorescent material, or if the beam was pointed at a fluorescent screen, the rays became visible.75 German physicists gave them the name Kathodenstrahlen, which means cathode rays.76

In 1869, English scientist William Crookes was experimenting with a high-voltage induction coil to create discharge. He also added a paddle wheel, which cast a shadow on the glass wall of the tube. The shadow allowed him to determine the path of the cathode rays, which were emitted from the cathode and travelled towards the anode. This led him to discover that cathode rays were actually streams of negatively charged particles, which he named ‘radiant matter’ and later became known as ‘electrons’.

Scientists tried to change the path of these rays by using magnets to deflect them. They found that they could pass through metal foils. In 1892, German physicist Heinrich Hertz reported that the cathode rays could penetrate thin metal, gold and aluminium foil windows at the opposite end of the tube.77 Hertz’s pupil Philipp Lenard continued these experiments, replacing a portion of the vacuum tubes’ glass with a piece of aluminium foil and found that this allowed some of the cathode rays to escape the tube.

The German physicist Wilhelm Röntgen became interested in these experiments and wrote to Lenard for more information. After having had a detailed response, Röntgen replicated them and then set about exploring his own ideas. He covered his tube, which had all of its air removed, with black cardboard to prevent any fluorescence inside the tube from interfering with his observations of what was happening outside. He then placed a cardboard screen coated with barium platinocyanide nearby, which was very sensitive to light. Finally, he turned off all the lights in the laboratory. Every time he turned on the electrical current, he noticed that the screen glowed. There were various signs that this was not because of any stray cathode rays, most notably the distance they travelled – which was up to two metres. More experiments showed that these new rays could not be deflected by magnets and could pass through paper, copper and certain metals, glass and bones, producing shadows. Röntgen also discovered that if he replaced the screen with photographic plates, it was possible to develop an image that showed the different absorptions of the different materials in the image. So, materials that were of a low density were practically invisible, but denser substances, like bone, were much more clearly seen.

It was evident that Röntgen’s rays were new. And in November 1895 he clarified: ‘For brevity’s sake I shall use the expression “rays”; and to distinguish them from others of this name I shall call them X-rays.’78 Röntgen published a paper outlining his discovery, and in January 1896 reprints of this article, including copies of a radiograph of his wife Anna Bertha Ludwig’s hand, were sent to prominent scientists in Europe. The news was picked up by many publications, including the Neue Freie in Vienna, Chronicle of London, New York Sun and New York Times.

Inevitably, scientists were the first to express their excitement. And due to the ease of replication, many took up the challenge to experiment with the new technology. But interest in X-rays extended beyond the scientific community, particularly in their potential use for photography. Both Cassell’s Magazine and the Clarion published articles on the new photography in 1896, with Cassell’s Saturday Journal reporting the following year that ‘almost every week brings forth a new practical application of the Rontgen Rays’.79

X-rays also quickly found medical applications, with their diagnostic and therapeutic potentials being tested in hospitals. A.A. Campbell Swinton took the first clinical X-ray photograph, or skiagram, in early January 1896.80 In July 1897, Dr William J. Morton achieved a significant milestone by taking the first whole-body radiograph of a living person in a single exposure.81 It’s a remarkable image, with some of the items worn by the patient visible, including a hatpin, necklace, rings, high button boots with nailed on heels, and a whalebone corset.

Morton also authored a well-regarded book titled The X-Ray or Photography of the Invisible and Its Value in Surgery. Conflicts in Europe soon highlighted the potential of X-rays in diagnosing fractures, broken bones and foreign bodies, which were commonly found on the battlefield. This led to an increased interest in X-ray technology among European military forces. Similarly, the United States army found X-rays to be useful in treating injured soldiers during the war with Spain in 1898.

At first, the technology was unreliable and required long exposure times of at least 30 minutes. Patients had to hold the film cassettes against the part of their body being photographed.82 However, despite these limitations, by the year 1900 most major urban hospitals in the United States had already acquired X-ray machines.83

The technology continuously adapted and improved, and X-rays were also used for customs inspections at checkpoints and railway stations, where passengers and luggage were exposed.

But it still wasn’t clear exactly what they actually were. Several theories sprang up almost simultaneously, including that the Röntgen rays were simply transverse waves or particles or sound waves or even pulses. The work on the subject was so intensive that new findings were reported almost on a weekly basis.

In January 1896, the scientist and mathematician Henri Poincaré had reported Röntgen’s experiment at the weekly meeting of the French Academy of Sciences. He finished off the report with a little speculation – asking the question whether Röntgen’s penetrating radiation could be found in any naturally fluorescent or phosphorescent substances.84

Henri Becquerel, who was present that day in the audience, became intrigued with the connection between X-rays and fluorescence and decided to investigate further. He was well-suited for the task, as he was the third physicist in a line of four who had researched the properties of both fluorescence and phosphorescence. The previous two were Antoine César and Edmond, his grandfather and father respectively.

As the chair of applied physics at the National Museum of Natural History in Paris, Henri had a vast collection of luminescent minerals at his disposal. These materials, when exposed to sunlight, absorb it and then emit light of different wavelengths from the original source. If the luminescence disappears once the light source is removed, the mineral is considered fluorescent; if it continues, it is classified as phosphorescent.

Intrigued by what he had heard that day at the Academy, Becquerel developed a hypothesis that any substance capable of emitting the radiation observed by Röntgen must possess luminescent properties. Drawing from his previous research on the phosphorescence of uranium compounds, he selected various other samples from his collection for testing. Henri suspected that some of these materials might emit penetrating radiations similar to Röntgen’s X-rays.

In a methodical manner, Becquerel covered unexposed photographic plates with heavy black lightproof paper to prevent fogging by sunlight. He then placed the mineral sample on top of the paper and exposed it to sunlight for several hours by putting it on the windowsill. Depending on the specific sample, the mineral would either fluoresce or phosphoresce, both of which would have an effect on the photographic plate.

During one of his initial attempts, Becquerel exposed minerals containing uranium in this way. After developing the plate, he discovered that the radiation had indeed penetrated the paper, confirming, as Poincaré had originally suggested, that luminescent minerals emit penetrating radiation. He made several attempts and identified only one substance that emitted such radiation: a double sulphate of uranium and potassium called potassium uranyl sulphate.

At the meeting of the Academy of Science in February 1896, Becquerel presented his findings. He reported that various materials emitted rays capable of penetrating the thick black paper and exposing photographic plates, even if only faintly. His claim was fairly unremarkable; he simply asserted that the radiation was strong enough to darken the plates.85

Becquerel worked to refine his results and confirmed that any material containing uranium caused the plates to darken images to be imprinted on the photographic paper, regardless of whether they exhibited phosphorescence or not. While this should have cast doubt on Becquerel’s theory that the radiation was related to phosphorescence, he remained committed to this idea.

On 26 and 27 February, Becquerel prepared sets of potassium uranium sulfate crystals and photographic plates, intending to expose them to sunlight by placing them on a windowsill as before. However, inclement weather prevented him from carrying out this plan, and he postponed, placing the samples in a drawer to wait for better weather.

When Becquerel retrieved the samples from the drawer a few days later and developed the photographic plates, he was surprised to find imprinted images. He had expected to find faint images, but the uranium had affected the plates without exposure to sunlight. This discovery contradicted the notion that sunlight activated the minerals and suggested that the connection between phosphorescence and X-rays would have to be abandoned. Upon further investigation, Becquerel found that the emission of the penetrating radiation was not affected by changes in temperature or chemical reactions. This led him to conclude that the uranium itself emitted rays, representing an entirely new property of the material.

His discovery of a radiation emitted by uranium was published in Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Sciences (the Proceedings of the Academy of Sciences). While he received a great deal of acclaim for this discovery, including a shared Nobel Prize for Physics in 1903, Becquerel played down his contribution, claiming that it was more of a family affair: ‘These discoveries are only the lineal descendants of those of my father and grandfather on phosphorescence and without them my own discoveries would have been impossible.’86

And indeed, this muted response to the discovery of these ‘rayon uraniques’ or ‘Becquerel rays’, as they were known at the time, was rather typical of their overall reception. Surprisingly little work was done on them over the next few years. Even Becquerel himself wasn’t that interested. He published seven papers on the phenomenon in 1896 and two in 1897, before returning to his other topics of study.87

But while there wasn’t much interest in Becquerel’s rays, the popularity of X-rays was going from strength to strength. Beyond the world of medicine and photography, there were some entrepreneurs who recognised X-rays’ potential for entertainment and profit. Public exhibitions of X-ray photographs were a popular attraction in many cities, and traveling X-ray shows emerged, offering curious viewers the opportunity to see the inside of their bodies.

At the forefront of this style of scientific entertainment was the inventor Thomas Alva Edison, whose team at Menlo Park developed an enhancement to Röntgen’s original technology and promptly licensed it to a local manufacturer. The device was later introduced as the Thomas A. Edison X-ray Kit – a handheld device where the image was projected onto a screen, allowing viewers to get a glimpse of their own bones.

There were also other demonstrations of X-rays, such as coin-operated technologies which were likened to a ‘match or chocolate automatic machine’.88 These devices were glass cases that housed an X-ray tube and a high-voltage coil, with a slot for inserting a hand or an object, like a purse containing coins. By looking through a double eyepiece on top, one could see the bones or the coins inside. These were marketed as a way for public places like restaurants and bars to generate money, with adverts promising: ‘The latest application of its remarkable power is the X-ray slot machine. A nickel and you look through anything. Increases cigar, drug and other trade 50 per cent. Big money exhibiting it.’89

People were fascinated by the ability of X-rays to reveal the hidden and often mysterious aspects of the human body. However, this new form of entertainment was not without risks, as many of the early X-ray machines were poorly regulated, and some operators used excessively high doses of radiation, causing burns, radiation sickness and even death. Later, as the dangers of over-exposure to X-rays became more apparent, those X-ray slot machines instead dispensed a little card with an illustration of a skeletal male or female with a hat or a pipe or a bonnet.

There was also unease about the moral implications and the potential indecency they posed, especially around the fears of being able to see through clothes. A concern, expressed in rhyme in an 1896 edition of Electrical Review.

The Röntgen rays, the Röntgen rays –

What is this craze?

The town’s ablaze

With this new phase

Of X rays ways.

I’m full of daze,

Shock and amaze;

For nowadays

I hear they’ll gaze