It's 1825 and painter Samuel F. Morse has just landed the biggest commission of his life,

painting a portrait of a French commander in Washington, D.C.

He's having a great time in the Capitol, going to parties, living it up, and writing home to his wife Lucretia in Connecticut.

I long to hear from you, he writes.

But the mail is slow, and before his letter gets to her, he gets a letter from his father.

His father says Lucretia has fallen ill and died.

Morse didn't even know she was sick.

He never had a chance to say goodbye.

He drops everything and gets on a stage coach back to New Haven, but by the time he arrives,

his wife has already been buried.

Eight years later, Morris is on board a ship called the Sully, coming back from Europe, where he'd gone to try to escape his sorrow.

One night at dinner, a doctor from Boston is regaling his shipmates with a story of something he'd seen in Paris. It was a demonstration of

electromagnetism.

Somebody had wrapped a wire around the Sorbonne,

sent electricity through it,

and showed that the electricity hadn't taken any time

to finish the circuit.

It traveled instantly from one end to the other. Can you imagine

if we could send news that rapidly? Another diner asks. The question jolts

mores out of his stupor.

Why can't we, he says?

Morse is a painter, not a scientist,

...