“It’s hard to believe that folks would take advantage in this sort of calamity,” a young fireman said, and the others laughed tiredly.
“You think so, Patrick?” one said kindly. “You haven’t been working long enough, then.”
“Well, one got his comeuppance down on Montgomery,” another said. “Trying to steal a safe from a burned-out wreck. He pried it open and poof! All the cash went up in smoke. You’d only have to look around you to know that oxygen feeds fires. You’d think he’d have more sense.”
“Speaking of which, look at our General Funston. Who put him in charge, I’d like to know. Using black powder to blow up buildings. He’s causing half the trouble.”
“Need a firebreak, though.”
“Ain’t going to get one if he doesn’t stop making things worse.”
“If only the Chief were here. Tully was down at the hospital earlier, said he’s bad off.”
“If only they listened to him about the mains. Wouldn’t be trying to fight fires with dirt and cistern water.”
“It’ll be the end of the world if the Navy doesn’t get here,” one said.
An older fireman snorted. “If they can help. We’ll have to look mighty sharp to connect our hoses with theirs — no telling if we can get a hose line going. Otherwise they’ll sit in the bay and throw salt water at the waterfront.”
“Do you think the whole city could burn?” I asked.
That stopped their talk. One of them started to say something, some words of reassurance, but he couldn’t get them out.
The only answer was the sound of our footsteps heading down the hill.
They split off from me at Broadway, heading west, they said, to Van Ness. They advised me to do the same — to head west in the morning.
When I got to the Crandall house, I saw that Mrs. Crandall had dropped off to sleep on the sofa on the lawn. Mr. Crandall slept in the armchair, facing the flames of Nob Hill.
I sat on the lawn, hugging my knees, and looked back from where I’d come. I watched the glow in the sky arc and brighten. The mansions of the rich were burning. I could hear the ferocious roar of the fire as it moved.
Suddenly I missed Mama so badly I could hardly breathe. If I could only go back and change our last meeting. I didn’t even kiss her good-bye. She had no doubt heard of the earthquake by now. What was she thinking?
And Papa. I wish that we had said good-bye. That was a word he never used.
He always knew when he was leaving. Why didn’t he ever say good-bye?
He would come home and lift me up and kiss me. For that one moment, I would have his full attention. I would think — he’s gone away and now he’s back, now he knows how much he loves us.
How much did he love us?
I felt as though I couldn’t keep my eyes open a second longer. I wondered how long I would walk that day and where I would go. My feet ached in my too-big boots and my chest hurt when I took a breath, and I was sitting with strangers on the cold ground. I had no comfort and no home anymore. Who was I now? I wasn’t Lily Sump, but I didn’t feel like Minnie Bonner anymore, either. Whoever I had been was gone. I was no one.
I had walked into another life, at first by accident, and then by design. What if I became Lily Sump for good? I could have more money than I ever dreamed. I would never worry about anything again. And people would wait on me.
If I were Lily Sump, I could get on a ship and go anywhere. I could go to Paris. Mr. Crandall would make me hire a companion, but I would be in charge. Being in charge means that you are the one with the money.
Wouldn’t it be easier for Mama if I just disappeared? She could mourn the daughter who died in the quake and never worry about her again. I could send her money somehow, make up a story about a long-lost relative. At least I’d know she was safe and comfortable. I couldn’t do that as Minnie, but I could if I were a Sump.
I fell asleep thinking of silks and satins, warm blankets and soft beds.
Later
1 P.M.
It is a battle we are living through.
When General Funston could not bring down buildings with dynamite, he used artillery. His object was to bring down every building on the east side of Van Ness. All day we’ve heard the crashing and booming and felt that strange push against our eardrums that meant another explosion had occurred. Glass is all over the streets as the windows shatter from the concussions.
Thousands of people are gathered at the bottom of Van Ness, at the edge of the bay. They hope to escape by sea.
The good news is that the Navy ships have arrived. They have set up a system to bring salt water to the fire. I don’t know if it is working. At any rate the hoses will not reach here. I remember what the firemen said about the difficulty of connecting the hoses.
It has been a day of dithering. Mr. Crandall wants to stay and stand with the neighbors who vowed not to leave their homes even when the Army ordered them to vacate. They leave and they come back. They are determined to save Russian Hill, or at least the crown of the hill. The neighbors I had met last night, the Livermores and the Putnams, are staying. There is a cistern they can use for water. They have only towels and carpets to fight the flames. They are determined.
Mrs. Crandall begged her husband to leave. In the battle between the roaring inferno and Mrs. Crandall, Mrs. Crandall proved stronger.
We are carrying all that we can and leaving the house behind.
Later
5 P.M.
We are here in Lafayette Square, just a few blocks west of Van Ness. The square is crowded with people, but you’ve never heard such a silence. We stand on the crown of this hill, and we look east at the fire.
All afternoon the sky was all smoke. We saw the fire spread from one house to another. There were no tears. Only awe. We are at the fire’s mercy now. There is no stopping it.
April 20, 1906
Friday
7 A.M.
We woke to the same red sky.
After a breakfast of a stale roll and some cheese washed down with cider, Mrs. Crandall said we must leave today. There is no chance we can get across the firebreak of Van Ness back to the house, even if she wanted to.
Early this morning the fire reached Franklin Street, which is only a block from us. They fought it and won.
Thousands and thousands of refugees are moving, as far as I can see, thick as ants, some still heading down toward the bay. Some go west toward the ocean.
I think I would feel better with the sea at my back, but Mrs. Crandall insists on going to her sister’s.
Mr. Crandall is reluctant to leave. He says we’re safe here for now. But the fire is too close for Mrs. Crandall.
He is going to try to walk closer to Van Ness, closer to the fire, although he suspects he will get chased away by the soldiers. He is anxious to know if all of Russian Hill is going.
I asked to accompany him and he said it would be all right. I am just as anxious for news. I will report back.
Diary, I hardly know what to think. Just now I walked over to Van Ness with Mr. Crandall. While he spoke to someone escaping from the fire on Russian Hill, I hung back, watching a group of men being rounded up by several soldiers who needed them to carry hoses. From what I could see, they want to connect the fire department hoses with the hoses from the Navy ships at the foot of Van Ness so that they can use salt water to fight the fire.
Some of the men were not happy to pause in their flight to assist them, but the soldiers pointed their rifles and the men agreed quickly.
One of the men stood out with his air of elegance, despite the fact that he was dressed like the rest of us in sooty clothes, his white shirt grimy with ash and his beard dark with sweat. His derby was pushed to the back of his head, revealing his dark blond hair. I recognized him immediately.
It was Andrew Jewell.
“Lily!” Mr. Crandall called to me, and in that strange occurrence that can sometimes happen, the world seemed to go completely silent for a moment — no d
ynamiting, no shouts — and as I turned to Mr. Crandall, Andrew Jewell turned as well. He saw me, and his gaze moved from me to Mr. Crandall. He stood for a long moment, holding the hose, and we locked eyes. I felt his gaze on me as I took Mr. Crandall’s arm and we started back along the sidewalk.
My mind buzzed with questions. Had he heard Mr. Crandall call me Lily? If he had, he had hid whatever surprise he felt. He didn’t raise a cry of greeting.
Why did his gaze linger so long on us? As though he knew exactly what I was doing. As though he saw my scheme.
They are calling me. We’ll press on to Eureka Valley. I will be glad to leave Mr. Jewell behind.
But now I know that there is someone in this city who knows who I am, and where I came from.
My father’s enemy, and mine.
April 21, 1906
Saturday
11 A.M.
I have so much to report! It helps to write to you, diary. When all is confusion, I can look back and see what happened when. Even though I can’t puzzle out the why sometimes of what I do.
Yesterday morning, we walked and walked, carrying our bundles. Even Mrs. Crandall grew too tired and overwhelmed to complain. At one point we passed through where the fire had raged, and I caught sight of City Hall in the distance, smoking and wrecked, its bare dome now just twisted metal, looking rather like one of the birdcages I had seen carried over the past days.
As we circled south to avoid the fires that were still advancing on Mission Street, Mr. Crandall found a horse and cart that for a fee agreed to transport us to Eureka Valley. The driver had just come from the area and was bringing back supplies of food for the exhausted firemen. We climbed among sacks of cooked hams and apples and canned beans.
The going was not easy, with the pavement so torn and buckled, and there were several times that the driver had to stop completely, as landmarks such as street signs and buildings had simply disappeared. It was also slow going because the horse was so tired, and the driver told us he was looking forward to “giving poor Charlie a rest.”
He pointed down Valencia Street, which looked badly torn up. There was a large fissure in the pavement of the street and the houses looked crooked, some leaning over the street in an alarming fashion. I saw a large hotel sitting squat on the ground, and he explained that the hotel used to be four stories, and had collapsed during the quake, flattening like a pancake, with many trapped inside. People on the fourth floor merely had a hard jolt and simply stepped out onto the street. The others, he said, were not so lucky. Passersby were able to rescue a few, but the rest perished. The thought of that horror kept us silent for several blocks.
When the carriage got to Dolores Street and Market, our driver was hailed by a friend who came racing up, waving his arms.
“We need you, Will!” he cried.
“Well, can’t you see I’m coming?” our driver answered with some annoyance in his tone, for he really had been traveling as quickly as he could. “I’ve got the food in the back, just giving these people a lift up the hill.”
“Well, they’ll have to get out and walk, then,” the young man said.
“We will do no such thing!” declared Mrs. Crandall.
“What’s the problem, Mike?” our driver asked.
“The fire has broken through Mission and is almost on us. If it takes us here it will go full west. We’ll lose the whole city. We have a chance to stop it. We’ve got the firemen and the trucks at the bottom of the hill, and we’ve got a fire hydrant on Church and Twentieth that’s working, by Jove! But we can’t get the fire truck to the hydrant. The poor horses are almost dead from the work they’ve done and they just can’t pull it.”
“What are you proposing to do?”
“We’re going to push the thing up the hill to Twentieth Street, what else?”
“Push the fire trucks up that hill? You must be daft!”
“It’ll be a job, that’s for certain! We’ve got hundreds of men up at Mission Park and more coming every minute, pouring in from all over the Mission and the hills and the valley, too. Shoulder to shoulder we’ll be with the firemen, poor exhausted devils. We’ve got carpets and brooms and shovels, and we’re going to stamp out every spark. We’ve got water, thank the Lord, and we’re going to use it. We’re going to fight the fire here and not give up until it goes out.”
Such simple words, spoken from a man streaked with dirt, a man not much older than a boy. But something about the way he said it thrilled me.
For two days we had run from the fire. And here was a chance to meet it and conquer it.
I discovered something at that moment, diary. If you see enough destruction, if you feel helpless in the face of it, if you’ve been terrified enough times, there does come a moment when you cannot bear one more thing to be lost. I was tired of being afraid. Tired of moving away from the fire. I wanted to fight.
“We’ve got to help,” I said to Mr. Crandall.
“No, Hugh,” Mrs. Crandall said. “I will not allow it! You’re not a young man. And you cannot send me up to my sister with only Miss Sump. Who knows what could happen? We need an escort.”
“I want to stay,” I said, but they were not listening to me.
Our driver turned. “Sorry, folks, but you’ll have to get off here. Follow this street down to Noe and head straight up the hill. I’m going to head to Mission Park.”
“You most certainly are not!” Mrs. Crandall sputtered. “We paid you for a ride to my sister’s!”
“Here’s your money, then,” the driver said, handing it back. “And if you won’t get out, I’ll toss you out myself.” He eyed Mr. Crandall. “We sure could use another man to help, though. Didn’t you hear?”
I could see Mr. Crandall hesitate. He didn’t want to look like a coward.
“You heard him, Hugh — they have hundreds of men to help,” Mrs. Crandall said. “What is more important — your wife and your ward, or a fire that cannot be stopped with the addition of just one extra man?”
“Ah,” Mr. Crandall said, “that describes me in your eyes, doesn’t it, my dear. Just one extra man.”
I almost felt sorry for him then.
Slowly, Mr. Crandall swung himself down. He reached up for his wife and helped her down. Then me. I tossed down our bundles before I stepped off.
Mr. Crandall must have seen what I was thinking in my face. “They will not let a young woman help,” he said. “It would do no good for you to go in any event.”
But he was wrong. I knew I could prove him wrong. What am I but what a boy is — with arms to fetch and carry, with legs to run?
So I dropped my bundles and my suitcase, and as they turned to go and the driver urged his horse and the cart began to move, I picked up my skirts and hoisted myself into the back once more.
By the time the Crandalls turned, startled to see I wasn’t with them, I was halfway down the block.
I jumped off the cart as we reached Mission Park and joined the stream of people running, walking, trudging, because we were all headed to the same destination for the same purpose — to fight.
I don’t know what I expected Mission Park to be, but it was hardly a park, just a long rectangle of dirt that stretched for blocks up the hill. It was filled with refugees and I could see the exhausted horses, their heads drooping, standing on one corner.
I was back close to the fire again, and the sound of it was a continuous roar. The smoke was terrible. At first I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. It seemed like chaos.
But it wasn’t, not quite. As I hurried up the hill on the Church Street side I saw that the firemen were already at the top of the hill. There was a gang of men with their shoulders against the fire truck, another on the sides, and still more pulling ropes. Slowly they were getting that truck up the hill. I could hear their shouts as they egged one another on to keep going.
I could see the hot orange of sparks in the smoky air, and cinders as big as my fist were raining down from the sky. The fire was blazing to
the east of us and some of the houses on Dolores were already starting to smolder and burn.
Then I saw that men stood on the roofs of the buildings trying to snuff out the flames with rugs and towels. They were in the yards and on the porches. They were beating out flames. The heat was so intense that within minutes they would be overcome, but others immediately stepped up to take their place. There were hundreds and hundreds of people, maybe more, more than my eye could see, along the fire line. The dynamiting was still going on, and the sound of it was pressure against my ears.
Suddenly through the roar of the fire and the shouting I heard a voice calling.
“Philadelphia!”
It was Jake Jennardi. I barely recognized him. A scarf was tied around his mouth and his face was black with soot. His cap was singed.
“What are you doing here?” he shouted. “It’s not safe!”
“I want to help!”
“We got the steamer up the hill,” he said, his voice raspy with smoke and excitement. He pointed at the fire truck. “We’ve set up a relay of the hoses, we got water, and we’ll get it pumping. Hot dog! We’re just beating out the sparks and we’re filling milk cans to pour on the roofs. We’re going to save the neighborhood, we’ll do it! We’ve torn off some doors from the houses and we’re holding them up for the firemen, to protect ’em, and when they get too hot, we hose ’em down.”
“What can I do?”
“You can help fill the milk jugs, I reckon. My ma and my sister Beatrice are a couple blocks over, setting up a food and aid station for those that pass out — we carry ’em over.”
“Take me there,” I told him. And that was how I got in the thick of it, fighting the last fire of the San Francisco quake.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I do remember falling down somewhere before dawn, right on the dirt of Mission Park. Which I have discovered is mixed with manure. They were about to plant the grass when the quake struck.
A City Tossed and Broken Page 8