Abby’s thoughts raced. Mama leave without her? It seemed unlikely.
The policeman frowned as if reading her thoughts. “Your family would want you safe, Miss. Go to Union Square. There are people there who can help.”
Gazing into his smoke-reddened eyes, she nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Thank you, but no.
Falling in with the crowd walking toward the square, Abby glanced over her shoulder, watching as the policeman stopped to converse with a soldier on horseback.
Abby crossed the street and edged around the corner of an alley. Darting down the street and into another side alley, she raced up the hill. After the hubbub of the crowd and the roar of the fires, the silence descending on O’Farrell Street pressed against Abby’s chest. Even with the roadblocks, a few people still skulked about, presumably retrieving belongings.
The house appeared unchanged. Abby thundered up the wooden stairs and pushed on the door. The knob turned freely, but the wood stuck in the frame. Abby threw a shoulder against it and burst into the front hall.
“Mama?” Abby’s chest tightened until it became hard to draw a breath. She stole to the bottom of the stair, the silence disconcerting. “Mama?” Her voice shook, rising in pitch until it ended with a whimper.
Abby searched the house, her heart growing heavier with each step. As she opened the back door, a piece of Mama’s best yellow stationery fluttered like a waving hand. Mama’s handwriting was scrawled, as if her fingers had trembled while she wrote.
Dearest Abigail,
I am praying fervently you are safe and will find this message. I was so scared when the soldiers came and told us to leave. They said Aunt Mae’s neighborhood will be evacuated also. I suppose you must be with Gerald and Aunt Mae. I am going to Union Square. Meet me there. I am waiting and praying for you. Do not delay. Come at once.
All my love,
Mama
Abby clutched the note to her chest, an ache building in her heart. Another small shock rumbled the earth, like a toddler trembling with fear. As if in response, a child’s cry cut through the air, the voice so similar to Davy’s it brought tears to Abby’s eyes. At least she knew he was safe with Mama.
The shaking ceased and she tucked the note into her pocket with Aunt Mae’s book. I will find them. And after this, nothing else will separate us.
2:00 p.m.
Smoke rolled like fog through the streets, tickling Robert’s throat as he plodded behind Gerald. After fleeing the fire zone, they’d stopped three more times to treat the wounded. Sweat dripped down his back. “Where did you leave your automobile?”
Gerald shifted the medical bag to his left arm and dug into his vest pocket, pulling out a watch. “At the hospital.” He held the timepiece at arm’s length, staring at the numbers. “It’s getting late. Have you eaten?”
When had he last eaten? “No.”
“Let’s head to my house, then. Mother’s probably going crazy with worry. She can work through some of it by feeding us.” He glanced at Robert, his gaze traveling up and down his frame. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m trying not to dwell on it.”
His friend chuckled, but his brows pulled into a frown. “Stay with us tonight. After the blow to the head you took this morning, I’d feel better keeping an eye on you.”
“I won’t argue.” Robert ran a hand over the knot on his scalp. “Are you going to check on the Fischers?”
Gerald nodded. “Once we reach the hospital, we’ll drive over there first. Maybe we can collect them. I wouldn’t mind having my entire family under one roof tonight.” He clapped a hand onto Robert’s shoulder and squeezed. “Good work today, by the way.”
A smile pulled at Robert’s lips—for perhaps the first time all day. Whether it was from Gerald’s words or the prospect of seeing Abby again, he wasn’t certain. His pace slowed, leg muscles cramping as they pressed up the steep hill. All he really wanted was to see her safe—and then to close his eyes for a few moments. The rest of the world’s problems would have to wait until tomorrow.
28
2:15 p.m.
A bby’s feet dragged as if she had bricks attached to the bottom of her shoes. Every street seemed blocked. People walked westward now, like the tide shifting. Spotting a soldier helping a gray-haired woman into a heavily laden wagon, Abby rushed toward him. “I’m trying to get to Union Square. Can you help me?”
“The road’s closed off between here and there. They’re sending everyone to Golden Gate Park and the Presidio.”
Abby crossed her arms. “My mother and brother went to Union Square for refuge.” The dryness squeezed at her throat until her voice crackled.
The man focused on the cart, refusing to meet her eyes. “Sorry, Miss. Just keep heading west. Find someplace safe to wait out this mess. You can find your family after the danger has passed.” As he handed another elderly woman up onto the wagon, he spoke to Abby over his shoulder, “Just be glad you got strong legs. A lot of folks are having trouble today.”
Abby swallowed, fighting down the sob wanting to climb her throat. Leaning against a storefront, she closed her eyes for a heartbeat, imagining the joy of a long cool drink of water and falling into bed. Weary of the crushing crowds and the uncertainty, the peaceful darkness of Maple Manor’s attic sounded like a haven. If she were there right now, she’d bury herself in Cecelia’s quilt and hide.
Golden Gate Park was miles away.
Opening her eyes, Abby pushed off the brick wall and joined the stream of people plodding westward. Her stomach rumbled. She’d only eaten a few bites of breakfast, not aware it would be her only meal of the day.
A hysterical wailing from across the street caught her attention. An old woman, a blanket wrapped around her frail shoulders, huddled near the ruins of a fallen building.
So much grief. So much loss.
Abby stumbled over a pile of rubble, turning her ankle, hot tears stinging her eyes. She sank down onto abandoned trunk pushed up against the side of a building and rested her back against the brick wall. A few moments’ rest might help her regain her strength. Abby dug into her pocket after Mama’s note, her hand brushing against the book. Pulling it out, she stared at the aged leather, worn smooth by use. The pages crackled as she leafed through, flowery script covering each yellowed sheet from edge to edge. Abby flipped back to the beginning.
Mae Robinson, 1853.
A journal? Several sheets broke loose, fluttering to the ground. With a cry, she slid off the trunk and collected them before the wind could carry them off. Checking the dates at the top of each, Abby matched the loose pages to their locations in the journal before leaning back against the wall to read.
April 19, 1853
It’s hopeless, Doc Meyers says. Mama’s cough worsened last night and now she’s coughing blood into her handkerchief. She tried to hide it, but I saw the wadded piece of linen under her pillow when I changed the bedding. I asked her about it, and she said I was too young to worry. She doesn’t seem to realize I’m ten years old and not a baby anymore. Plus, everyone says how smart I am. I know consumption when I see it.
It’s not right. She shouldn’t have to be in so much pain. I planned to pray for her for a whole hour last night, but I fell asleep on the floor beside my bed. Not sure if God heard me or not.
April 20, 1853
God must not have heard. I’ll try again tonight.
Abby kneaded her ankle with firm fingers as she read, the diary braced on her lap.
April 24, 1853
Mama’s getting worse. Her skin is a queer gray color and it’s hanging loose on her like an old woman. She’s got more shadows on her face than I’ve got under my bed. But I’m still praying. Preacher came by this morning. He didn’t talk to me, but told Papa he’s praying for a miracle. If the preacher is praying, God must be listening, right?
April 27, 1853
Dear God, I hope you don’t mind me writing my prayers. I keep falling asleep when I’m praying and I can’t get
all the words out. Save my Mama. Make her better. I’ll do anything. Just don’t take her away. Papa is real sad these days. He didn’t mean what he said this morning. He’s just worried and doesn’t like me asking so many questions. I won’t bother him anymore, if You’ll just help. Please, God. Please.
Abby’s heart cringed at the familiar words of someone crying out to an uncaring God. A lump formed in her throat. She wedged the loose sheets into the journal and slammed the cover shut.
2:30 p.m.
The soldier scowled in the roadway, rifle at the ready, more like a guard at a prison camp than a sentry over a peaceful neighborhood. “This whole area has been evacuated. You’ve got no business here.”
Gerald leaned out of the automobile and waved his medical identification. “I understand. We’ll take responsibility for our own safety.”
The man didn’t blink, his mouth an unwavering line. “I have my orders.”
They’d already been stopped three times, each time their status earning them reluctant nods. This statuesque soldier, however, refused to budge. Robert pushed down the heat rising in his gut, consumed by the urge to throw the throttle into high gear and drive around the blockade, but the man’s grip on his rifle made him think twice.
Gerald blew out a long breath. “Maybe Clara and Abby went ahead to my house.”
“I hope so.” Robert braced his arm across the seat back as he looked behind, shifting the automobile into reverse and turning back toward his friend’s home. The car lurched as the tires lumbered over loose cobbles during the slow journey.
When they finally drove into the side alley, Mrs. Larkspur rushed out onto the porch. “Thank the Lord, you’re safe. I’ve been so worried.” The woman pushed fingers through the tight silver curls above her brow.
Robert climbed out of the car, his joints aching like an old man’s, and followed his friend to the house.
Mrs. Larkspur grasped her son’s hand, drawing him up the final few steps and into her arms.
Gerald leaned down to return his mother’s embrace. “Mother, are Clara and her family here?”
She pulled back. “No. Abby came by this morning, but I haven’t seen them since. I keep trying the telephone, but I can’t seem to get the foolish thing to work. Maybe you could take a look at it.”
Robert halted midway up the stairs, grabbing the railing for support. Where were they?
Gerald’s shoulders slumped. “Wires are down all over the city. I’m afraid the telephones won’t be working for some time.”
The older woman settled a hand on one hip. “Well. We get so accustomed to these conveniences and then what happens? We’re lost without them.” She clucked her tongue. “Just look at you boys. Come in, come in.”
Gerald turned to face Robert, lines forming on his face. “We’ll get some dinner and then I’ll head out and look for them. You need to get some rest.”
Robert climbed the steps until he reached eye-level with his friend. “I’m coming with you. An extra set of eyes might be necessary.”
29
3:00 p.m.
Weary of the scenery and the people about her, Abby focused on her dusty shoes, counting the city blocks as they passed under her feet. Most people walked in silence, the mood darkening by the hour. A cacophony of strange-sounding voices caught Abby’s attention and she glanced up, noticing a large group of Chinese—young girls and a few women—the musical tones of their words cutting through the general hush on the cobbled road.
Their long white shirts and loose-fitting white trousers flapped as they walked. Many carried bulky sheet-wrapped bundles clasped in their arms or tied to their backs. A few of the young women toted babies. Two older matrons walked beside the line, like shepherdesses guarding the flock.
Abby fell in behind, transfixed by the unique cadence of their voices.
The girls chattered, staring about the street like sightseers touring the ruins of ancient Rome. One started singing and within a few paces, the whole group joined, smiles spreading across their faces. An elegant woman walking in front of the group turned her head, her gaze traveling over each girl as she joined in the song.
Abby’s breath caught at the sight of the familiar figure—the missionary she’d met at the hospital. Abby pressed a hand to her chest. Was the young woman here, too? Kum Yong? She quickened her steps, the melody drawing her in. The tune crept around the edges of her memory. She began to hum and within a few bars she stopped, her fingers traveling up to touch her locket. Cecelia’s song.
After finishing a verse in Chinese, they switched into English.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood.
The song tugged at Abby’s heart. She hastened her steps, following as close as she dared, searching the group for the familiar face. The song returned to Chinese, the melody unchanged.
A lump rose in her throat. Cecelia. The song wafted through the air, as if her sister called from beyond the grave. Abby shook her head, chasing away the image. Their voices were nothing like Cecelia’s, and yet her sister’s presence seemed almost palpable, buoyed along by the music.
A young woman at the rear of the line paused, leaning down to examine the twisted rails. The bundle slipped from her back and landed with a thump on the cobblestones. Ducking her head, she grasped the package with both hands, her dark hair glistening in the late afternoon sunshine. Hoisting it to her back, she staggered under the weight.
Sudden boldness gripping her heart, Abby hurried forward. “Let me help you.”
A timid smile brightened the woman’s smooth face. “I remember you. Hospital—yes?”
“Yes, right. I’m Abby.” Abby helped her balance the awkward load, holding it steady while the young woman tied the corners of the sheet around her sides.
White-edged scars twined about the Chinese woman’s forearms from elbows to wrists. She tucked her hands up into her sleeves, offering another shy smile and bobbing her head. “Thank you, Abby. Again.”
Abby stepped back, stomach fluttering. “How is the little girl?”
The woman grinned. “Yoke Hay is much improved.”
One of the older women stopped and frowned back at them. “Is everything all right, Kum Yong?”
“Yes, Mrs. Ling.” Kum Yong’s hair bounced as she nodded. “This is Abby—she’s the one who helped Yoke Hay at the hospital the day she ran in the street.”
“My friend Dr. King helped her. I didn’t really do anything.” The memory of Robert’s gentle manner with the tiny girl flooded through Abby’s heart.
Kum Yong beamed. “No one else would help until you stepped in.”
Abby smiled, fascinated by the way the familiar words were altered by the exotic accent.
The matron clucked her tongue as she looked at the bulging sheet. She touched the makeshift pack. “What are you carrying that is so heavy?”
Kum Yong stared at her feet, clad in simple black slipperlike shoes. “I am carrying Ma-Yi’s box of letters.”
Mrs. Ling’s face darkened. “Lo Mo said to leave those. Only necessities.”
The young woman tucked her chin against her chest. “Lo Mo told Ma-Yi to leave them. She did not say I could not carry them. Lo Mo also says ‘Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.’ ” The Chinese girl’s chin lifted as she recited the verse, eyes shining.
The older woman huffed. “I’m not sure this is what Lo Mo intended.” She pressed her lips into a line. “I suppose one cannot argue with the words of the apostle Paul. And what you wish to carry is your problem. But make sure to keep up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Kum Yong bobbed her head.
“Thank you, Miss Abby,” Mrs. Ling bent forward in a slight bow, “for your kindness to little Yoke Hay and also for helping this foolish girl with her heavy, unnecessary burden.” Mrs. Ling’s thin eyebrows pinched. “Are you alone? Where is you
r family?”
Abby lowered her eyes, the woman’s stern, but motherly, gaze sending an ache to her chest. “We’ve gotten separated. I can’t find them.”
Mrs. Ling clucked her tongue a second time, shaking her head. “We are taking the Mission girls west to Old First Presbyterian Church. You come with us.” She patted Abby’s arm. “Miss Cameron would agree.”
Unease rippled through Abby. Why should these women help her? She craned her neck for a better glimpse of the graceful missionary at the front of the line.
Mrs. Ling swung her arm, gesturing to the group of girls. “These girls are from the Chinese Mission home, most rescued from slavery in Chinatown. We are going to the Presbyterian church on Van Ness until the fires are over, and then—God willing—we will go home to the Mission.”
The hair on Abby’s neckline prickled at the word slavery, remembering the scars on Kum Yong’s arms.
A bright smile lit Kum Yong’s face. “You will join us, Abby, won’t you? We could help you, like you helped us.”
“Jesus helps all, Kum Yong, not just foolish women carting around love letters,” Mrs. Ling flicked her fingers against Kum Yong’s shoulder.
One of the little girls stumbled, falling forward onto one knee with a cry. Mrs. Ling rushed forward to help her. “Don’t tire Abby with all your chatter, Kum Yong,” she called back.
Abby and Kum Yong caught up to the group, walking in silence for a few minutes, exchanging shy glances. Questions bubbled in Abby’s mind. “Love letters?” The words finally escaped from her lips.
Kum Yong lifted her fingers to her mouth with a giggle. “Ma-Yi has been writing letters with a Chinese man from Minnesota who wishes a bride. They are to be married on Thursday at the Mission house.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Now? The fire might eat up the Mission along with Chinatown. But Lo Mo—Miss Cameron—says, it only matters we are safe. The Mission is just a building.” She shook her head. “But Ma-Yi is worried her fiancé will not be able to find her if we leave.” She pointed at a tall, thin girl near the front of the line, wads of sheets and clothing gripped under one arm. Abby recognized Yoke Hay clutching her free hand.
Out of the Ruins Page 18
