The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

Once the rumbling from the aftershocks had ceased, Mac emerged from the house, carefully lowering himself down over the detached, lopsided porch. He must have run from his room in the barn and through the kitchen door, searching for them. As he approached, Sara noticed he had scratches on his face, and his hair was disheveled, but other than that, he looked unharmed. “Are any of you hurt?” he asked, squatting down beside them, still wearing his nightshirt along with some breeches he must have thrown on.

  “Rose has a cut on her head, but the bleeding’s slowed. The rest of us were a bit frightened, but we’re not hurt.” She extended her hand, and he silently pulled her to her feet. She placed a hand on the small of her back for support. “Mac, would you stay with Rose and the children? I need to go check on Aurora.”

  Mac shook his head. “No, ma’am. Philippe wouldn’t like you traipsing over there by your lonesome, with the baby coming and all. I’ll go.”

  Sara was grateful. “I’m most obliged, Mac, thank you. And bring her back here, will you? I don’t want her to be alone.”

  As Mac set out for Aurora’s, Sara pressed a hand to her aching head. “Rose, rest here with Pippa and Johnny.” Sara stroked the children’s heads reassuringly. “I’m going to walk around the property to survey the damage.” Noticing Rose’s expression of concern, she added, “Don’t worry, I won’t go far.” Rose nodded, hugging the children close.

  Pippa, now eight, glanced up at her mother with wide eyes. “What about Papa and Luc?” she whispered. The torment in her face mirrored Sara’s emotions. Sara cupped her daughter’s chin and said, “Your papa’s smart. I’m sure he and Luc are safe and sound, but it may take them a while to return to us.” She tried to smile, and then turned away before Pippa could read the fear on her face.

  Sara headed north, around the back of the house, to take a look at the barns and winery. The old adobe cellars’ walls had caved in; Sara could only pray that the aging barrels of wine were undamaged. She would wait until Mac returned to go inside and find out. Only one mare remained in the stables, and she was unharmed.

  The barn where Mac slept was demolished. Sara couldn’t fathom how he had only a few scratches. The entire second floor, where he lived, had collapsed onto the first, and was a jumble of splintered wood, nails and crushed glass. As she rounded the western side of the house, she glanced south past the torn-up earth and the acres of rattled vines to the sky, where the blanket of fog was thinning. Sara froze. A cloud of black smoke billowed in the distance.

  She glanced at Rose and the children, still sitting where she’d left them on the front lawn. Their eyes flitted to the sky and their jaws fell open. Sara held up her palm, willing them to stay put. She walked slowly through the vines, cradling her stomach with one hand. She tugged the hem of her nightdress up with the other and broke into a run.

  By the time she’d sprinted halfway down to Cuttings Wharf, she was panting so hard, she had to stop. She leaned over, hands pressed to her knees, and fought to catch her breath. Looking past the intersection of the creek and the river, past the marshlands and south to the bay, Sara saw a pall of black and gray smoke. San Francisco was burning.

  In ten minutes, Mac and Aurora were by her side, half-carrying her back to the house. At Sara’s insistence, Mac guided her gently around to the back and through the kitchen door. She looked around. With the exception of the wrecked porch, the bones of the house seemed unbroken. The floor, though, was covered with broken glass, crockery, bric-a-brac and spilled water, all of which Sara gingerly stepped around on her way upstairs to her bedroom. Mac waited in the hallway while Sara dressed, combed her hair and stuffed all the cash she had hidden behind her hatbox—four hundred dollars—into her bag. She laced up a pair of sturdy shoes, grabbed clothes for the children, some salted ham, cheese and bread, and a jug of water, and returned outside with Mac.

  She hugged Pippa and Johnny. “You be brave and good. I’m going to find Papa and Luc. Aurora and Rose will take care of you.” Rose, Aurora and Mac all protested at once. “Aurora?” Sara pulled her friend aside.

  “What if you die, or lose the baby?” Aurora whispered, scowling. “Philippe will never forgive us.” She glanced at Pippa and Johnny. “Your children will never forgive you.”

  Sara pushed all concern for her own safety out of her head. “If I don’t find Philippe and Luc, I will never forgive myself,” she said fiercely. “Aurora, please do this for me. Please.” Without waiting for an answer, Sara turned.

  Aurora grabbed her arm, halting her in her tracks. “Where are you going?”

  “There’s no time to wait for a train or ferry that may never come. I’ll hire a skiff out of Cuttings Wharf to take me,” Sara said.

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Aurora’s grip tightened. They both looked up as Mac approached.

  “I’ll go with her. I know the route and the waters.”

  Aurora’s face reddened. “You two are insane.” She poked Mac’s chest. “You’d better bring her back alive, you hear?” He nodded. “Bring your gun, and turn back if it’s too rough out there.”

  After Mac had collected his firearm, a bag of food and two lanterns, he took Sara down to the dock. Across the southern sloughs, Sara could see San Pablo Bay, littered with scows, skiffs, barges and huge iron-sided naval ships. Mac walked up to a short, scruffy man he seemed to know. A few minutes later, he was back.

  He jerked a thumb at a flat-bottomed boat loaded with wine and produce. “This scow’s leaving in ten minutes for one of the piers near the ferry depot,” he said. Sara searched her mind, trying to recall Philippe’s delivery route. He usually ended at Nob Hill and stayed overnight at Marie and Matthew’s, but this time, he’d booked a hotel on Market Street. He would have been just blocks away from the wharf when the earthquake hit. The ferry would be his fastest route out of the burning city.

  “Yes, let’s go.”

  Mac held up a hand. “He says he can’t take civilians. Too dangerous. Doesn’t want to risk it.” He looked back at his friend, who was watching them intently. “But as you see, I think he can be persuaded.”

  “Offer him a hundred.”

  “You sure?”

  “Do I look anything but?” Sara reached into her bag, pulled out the cash and handed it to Mac.

  Mac returned to offer the money, but the man just glowered, shaking his head. When Mac came back, Sara couldn’t believe her ears. “He says he needs more because you’re pregnant. More of a risk.” Mac stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Maybe we should just head home and wait for Philippe and Luc,” he suggested.

  Sara pulled out another fifty. “For the baby’s passage.”

  She scowled at the boatman as Mac helped her aboard. They navigated the cluttered Napa River slowly until they reached San Pablo Bay. When they reached San Francisco Bay an hour later, Sara could only stare at the tower of fire rising above the city’s skyline. The heated air created a powerful suction, pulling winds from the east, west, north and south into the burning ruins. Shockingly, the bay waters were calm, but black smoke blocked out the sun and settled over the bay, raining ash on their scow. The creosote tasted bitter on Sara’s tongue, and she covered her mouth and nose with a hanky.

  When they reached the coast, they saw fireboats and naval boats surrounding the Ferry Building, showering the shore and buildings with salt water in an effort to halt the fire. Sara knew then that she’d made a grave mistake: she should never have come.

  They docked at the end of Howard Street, near a huge navy destroyer. Sara climbed the wooden ladder up to the pier, with Mac right behind her. When they reached the top, they just stared at the hordes of people, many injured on stretchers or using crutches, being loaded onto the destroyer. Salt water pooled around her feet, soaking her shoes. And then she remembered. Marie worked near here, at Harbor Hospital. Sara had visited once last year. She waved to Mac to follow her as she walked briskly against the stream of refugees, searching everywhere for Philippe’s face. From Market Street to Sacramento, fire engines
lined the street, pointing their hoses at the inferno, only blocks away now. Sara pushed through the crowds until she finally spied the small wooden building through the haze of gray smoke. Above the double doors, Sara read, in block letters, Harbor Emergency Hospital.

  She rushed inside, unprepared for the sight before her. Patients were everywhere, two to a bed or strewn about the linoleum floor, moaning, retching and bleeding. Some were missing limbs, and others were bandaged around their heads, arms and legs. Sara stood motionless. She looked everywhere, hoping to see Philippe or Luc, but found only strangers’ expressions of fear and resignation.

  She whirled around, determined to scour every inch of the building, when she ran straight into Matthew. He held her arm. “Sara?”

  “Matthew? Oh, Matthew!” She hugged him tightly.

  His face registered shock. “Did you come here looking for Philippe and Luc?”

  “You’ve seen them?” Sara exclaimed, as Matthew frowned at Mac over her head.

  “Yes, come with me. We’ve got to get you out of here. We’ve started to evacuate the rest of the patients. This place will be overrun by fire within the hour.”

  He took her by the elbow and guided her into the street. “Listen, Philippe, Luc, Marie and the children are all on that destroyer.” He pointed at the Howard Street pier, where Sara and Mac’s scow had just berthed. “It’s headed for Mare Island.”

  “Are they—?”

  “They’ll be fine, but the ship’s about to leave and you two need to get on it. Now go!”

  “But you’ll come soon?”

  “I’ll be right behind you, on the next ship out. Tell Marie. Go, Sara. Run!”

  Mac pulled Sara by the hand, and they stumbled over the debris and lifeless bodies in the street. Sara kept her eyes fixed on the long steel boat and its four smokestacks, willing it to stay put until they reached the pier. By the time they reached the gangplank, Sara was huffing, trying to catch her breath. Sharp pains stabbed her back, and her stomach twisted with nausea. As they fell into line behind a hundred injured people, Sara leaned over, cradling her belly. Mac rested a hand on her back. “What’s wrong, ma’am?”

  Sara exhaled loudly. “Nothing, Mac. I’ll be fine.” The truth was that she’d just felt her first contraction. She had to get on that ship and find Marie.

  When they reached the gangway, a cavalryman stopped them. “Only the wounded and their physicians, ma’am.” Sara looked at him dumbfounded.

  He just barked, “Pregnant ain’t injured, ma’am. Please step aside.” He shot Mac a withering look.

  Sara wouldn’t budge. “My family’s on that ship. One of them is a physician, and I’m in labor. Either you let me on this ship, or I’m going to birth this baby right here in the street, and you’ll have an even bigger problem on your hands.” She bent over again, bracing for another contraction. She gulped air and gripped Mac’s arm until it passed.

  High atop his horse, the cavalryman looked unimpressed. “Desperate people will say anything,” he told them. Just then, Sara felt a burst of water whoosh down her legs. Mac jumped back. Sara’s heart hammered. This baby was coming now, and nothing—no one—was going to stop her from finding Marie. Sara looked the soldier in the eye, and then pushed straight past him onto the ship.

  Marie leaned back against a stack of crates, feeling the sharp wind on her face. They’d just cleared the harbor and were charging toward the Mare Island naval shipyard, where they’d dock and, God willing, find a conveyance to Eagle’s Run. Luc, Adeline and Gemma were sleeping, propped up against crates or each other for comfort. Marie scanned the harbor, packed with boats of all shapes and sizes. When she glanced at the city skyline, she saw a tall, spiraling chimney of black smoke engulfing Nob Hill, no doubt gutting their home, and advancing toward the hospital and piers. Her heart sank when she thought of Matthew. How would he escape the burning city? Would he leave in time? She signed the cross, laced her fingers and prayed.

  Wounded people were packed like sardines on the long, narrow deck of the ship. A few physicians and uniformed nurses hovered over patients, checking vitals and reapplying bandages. Sara and Mac wove through the bodies, examining every face. Sharp labor pains stabbed her belly, slowing her progress and breaking her concentration. When she next raised her head, a vivid blue gaze instantly caught her eye.

  Across the ship’s stern, Philippe’s worried face softened, and his eyes brimmed with affection. Then Sara knew: their passion might have temporarily ebbed, but everything Philippe had done since their marriage was out of love for his family. He’d only ever wanted to protect them—the best way he knew how.

  Luc ran up to Sara, burying his face in her embrace and sobbing. “You came for us?” A lump formed in her throat.

  “Always,” she replied, grasping Luc’s hand while holding Philippe’s gaze.

  When she reached him, she collapsed beside his cot. Philippe clasped her face in his hands. “What were you thinking?” he whispered, his expression shattering.

  “I had to come,” she replied breathlessly.

  “You ran into a fire—pregnant! And Pippa and Johnny—they’re unharmed?” he asked anxiously.

  “Everyone’s fine. Aurora and Rose are with them,” she answered. Just then a strange, sickly feeling crept over her. Sara doubled over, writhing with pain. Marie knelt down beside her. “Sara, how far apart? Five minutes?” Sara nodded, gasping.

  “Now? You’re not due until next month!” Philippe wrapped his fingers around Sara’s as she gasped for air. With the contraction, she gripped his hand so hard she worried she might break his fingers.

  Marie rubbed her back, gently kneading away the tension in her shoulders and lower back. “Philippe, move slowly to the floor, and don’t rip those stitches! Mac, will you help him?” When Philippe had vacated the cot, Marie laid Sara down on her left side. “Mac, Adeline—fetch some hot water and clean towels if you can find them.” Marie sifted through a small leather bag. She pulled out scissors and rubber gloves, and doused them with disinfectant. She placed them on thin layers of gauze. “Sorry, Sara, but we have to do this here. Everyone move over there,” Marie ordered. She lifted Sara’s skirts. “You’re fully dilated and the baby’s crowning.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Marie dug under her own skirts to untie her double-ruffle petticoat.

  Sara bore down. After three pushes, she finally felt the release, and within seconds, Marie caught the baby in a cocoon of petticoats. A girl! Marie clipped and tied the cord, cleaned the girl’s mouth and pinched her bottom. The baby let out a high-pitched, vibrating wail. Marie swaddled her tightly and handed her to a stunned Philippe. “Your daughter,” Marie said, smiling.

  Philippe cupped one hand under the baby’s neck and nestled her gently in the crook of his arm. The child was bright-eyed, with a wet tangle of dark hair. Philippe flashed Sara a tender look, and she summoned just enough strength to stroke her new daughter’s pink cheek.

  When Adeline and Mac appeared with water and clean sheets, Marie cleaned the baby’s soft, wrinkled skin and swaddled her in a sheet. She handed her to Sara, sat back against her wooden crate, and sighed.

  The U.S.S. Preble steamed into San Pablo Bay toward the Mare Island naval shipyard. None of them would ever forget the day San Francisco died—and the day Lydia Marguerite Lemieux was born from its ashes.

  Chapter 37

  APRIL 20, 1906

  Marie was losing faith. They’d arrived at Eagle’s Run Thursday afternoon and slept for twelve hours, with the exception of Sara, who rose every few hours to nurse baby Lydie. It was now Friday afternoon, and there was still no word from Matthew.

  Marie was determined to keep busy. Philippe saddled their one remaining horse, and they rode into downtown Napa. She tightened her arms around his waist, keeping a close eye on his injured leg. She knew he probably wouldn’t pay any mind to his doctor’s orders to be careful.

  When they arrived in town, Marie was surprised to see so many people crowding the streets, wearing tatt
ered and soiled clothing—refugees from the city. The National Guard patrolled the area with billy clubs and rifles, even at the church, where Marie and Philippe dropped off used clothing to the ladies of the Red Cross. When they finally reached the central telegraph office, they were turned away. The brick façade of Newman’s store had fallen into Main Street, knocking out the telegraph, telephone and power lines on the south side of town.

  They rode up Main Street to the northern Napa telegraph office. The south wall of the Opera House had fallen into the Napa Hotel annex, and Revere House, where Matthew and Marie had once dined, was demolished. Chimneys had toppled, and dry goods had blown through shattered storefronts into the street. Their mare slowed to a walk, stepping carefully among the scraps of wreckage and avoiding the wagons, buggies and motorcars surrounding them. Marie sneezed and coughed from the thick dust, but at least here there was less evidence of singed flesh and decay. Few lives had been lost in Napa, she guessed.

  They waited in line for hours to send telegrams to Matthew’s parents, who were visiting Los Angeles, to his brother and sister-in-law in St. Helena, and to Marie’s parents. Philippe sent news of their safety to his grandparents in Tours and Sara’s mother in Vouvray.

  They left Napa at twilight. Marie held the lantern high over Philippe’s shoulder, trying to light the dirt road before them. An hour later, she caught sight of the house. She could see the children’s shadows bobbing in the yellow light of the few undamaged windows. Matthew’s face appeared in her mind. Her longing for him pressed against her chest, smothering whatever courage she’d mustered over these last bleak days.

  When she lifted her head again, she caught sight of a tree silhouetted against the indigo sky. A single lantern floated in the air beneath the sprawling maple where Marie had first kissed Matthew. She squinted, and the glow brightened, revealing the form of a man. He was leaning against the trunk, one hand tucked casually in his trouser pocket. Marie’s skin tingled with relief, and a sob escaped her throat. “Stop! Stop the horse, Philippe!” she cried.