This was the end of the world, Philippe thought. Smoke raced down Market Street toward them. The conflagration, fueled by high winds, was devouring what remained of City Hall, the Donahue Building and the Phelan Building. The heavy smell of creosote permeated the air, leaving a smoky taste in his mouth. His nails bled as he dug for any living creatures. Philippe unearthed a middle-aged man whose legs were trapped under a pile of debris. His nose and mouth made a whistling sound as he strained to breathe. He clenched Philippe’s wrist.
“Help me,” he begged, writhing in pain.
“What’s your name?” Philippe wiped the man’s forehead with the corner of his shirt.
“Sam. Sam Freeman.” His voice broke. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“I know.” The man’s body was crushed from the waist down, and his spine was probably irreparably damaged. “We’ll do our best, Sam,” Philippe said, swallowing hard, his throat gritty and dry. For half an hour, seven men and women dragged wooden beams and piles of brick off the man until Luc tugged on Philippe’s shirt. “Papa, we have to go,” he said, his eyes darting to the fire raging only a block away.
Philippe scanned the street. The wind was blowing fiercely, the sky raining ash, and the funnel of fire, fueled by the suction of rising hot air, was growing taller and more menacing every second. He searched the faces around him. One by one, they patted Sam on the head, or whispered words of comfort, and fled the scene. When Luc and Philippe were the only ones who remained, Philippe crouched down next to him and gripped his hand. Sam’s eyes flinched. “Wait,” he gasped. With a quivering hand, he reached down, pulled the pistol from his belt and placed it in Philippe’s hand. Philippe saw the shock on Luc’s face. The boy spun away and threw his hands over his ears. He knew.
Philippe’s stomach lurched. His scarred hand twitched, reminding him of the searing pain of fire melting flesh. How could he allow this man to suffer burns a thousand times more painful than he’d experienced? But how could he shoot him in front of Luc? Philippe’s mind flashed to the memory of his father lying dead on his bedroom rug. He broke into a cold sweat. This was not much different. Both, in their own way, were mercy killings.
“Please,” Sam wailed, sobbing like a child now. “I’ve already forgiven you, and God will, too. Please!” he howled, squeezing his eyes shut, gnashing his teeth.
Philippe felt the fire’s heat—only a minute more and their skin would start to blister. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Luc was still facing away. He held Sam’s trembling fingers and whispered, “Godspeed, my friend.” The man took one long, last breath. Philippe gently stroked Sam’s head, positioned the gun above his heart, looked away and fired. Luc jumped at the sound of the shot. Sam’s arm fell lifelessly to the ground. Philippe refused to look at what he’d done. He dropped the gun, grabbed Luc’s hand and they ran for their lives.
Chapter 35
APRIL 18, 1906
Marie sipped her water, looking out over the calm, windless bay. She checked her watch: twelve minutes past five. A pale pink blush swathed the horizon. In another fifteen minutes, the sun would rise in the eastern sky. Marie loved this time of morning at Harbor Emergency Hospital, when drunkards and gunshot victims stopped arriving and the surgeries were complete. Today, she had only a few patients to examine before driving home. She was finishing her surgical internship at the hospital, which stood at the edge of the San Francisco waterfront, not far from the Ferry Building. She thought of Matthew, Adeline and Gemma tucked in their beds, sleeping soundly, and her heart warmed. She couldn’t wait to drive the twelve blocks up California Street, quiet and peaceful in the early morning, to their comfortable home on Taylor Street. She’d be home by seven, spend a precious ten minutes with Matthew over a cup of coffee, and then he’d leave for his day of surgery and teaching. She’d spend an hour catching up with the girls before Adeline walked to school and Gemma settled into the nursery with her nanny. Marie would sleep from nine to five and repeat the entire schedule again on Thursday. She’d promised the girls she’d dine with them every evening this summer, once she joined Matthew’s practice.
“Marie?” Dr. McMann called from the doorway. Marie spun around. Before she could answer, the ground beneath her swayed violently, and she dropped to the linoleum floor on hands and knees. The supply cupboard doors flew open. Its glass panels shattered, and metal instruments crashed to the ground. The room writhed and convulsed like an injured animal. Marie crawled to the doorway, gripped the doorjamb and pulled herself up with Dr. McMann’s help. Then everything stopped.
Shrieks and moans filled the corridor. “Are you hurt?” McMann’s face was white.
“No,” Marie groaned. She thought of Matthew, Adeline and Gemma. Were they hurt? Then another jolt sent her flying back into the room, reeling and staggering like a drunk. She fell to the floor, hitting her head on the way down. She stayed there, arms crossed protectively over her head, until the rattling ceased.
Marie grabbed a square of gauze and pressed it against her head to stop the bleeding. Dr. McMann ran down the hallway toward the hospital ward. She scrambled into the hall, picked up the telephone and dialed Matthew. No clicks, no operator. Silence.
Dr. McMann’s shouts awakened her from her bewilderment. He urgently waved her down the hallway. As the floor lurched again, Marie pushed one shoulder into the wall for balance and slid down the corridor toward the receiving room, packed with hospital beds. She passed a small window and dared to peek out. Tangled telephone wires and fallen, splintered poles blocked half the road. The asphalt-covered streets had buckled and piled up, chimneys had crumbled, and rooming houses had tumbled like dominoes, their walls and timbers in ruins. Marie’s hand covered her mouth as she thought of all the people who must be buried beneath the devastation. Then she spied men, women and children emerging from the wreckage. They rushed from their homes, most wearing only gowns and nightshirts, hobbling, limping and swarming toward the hospital.
Marie instantly shifted back into a surgeon’s mindset.
By half past ten, the hospital was bursting at the seams, filled with the injured and dead. Patients arrived in droves, and the physicians and uniformed nurses huddled around operating tables. Marie sent orderlies out to the nearby drugstores to fetch as many supplies as they could bring back. Hotel workers carted over hot water and coffee. Crewmen from the destroyer U.S.S. Preble arrived with stretchers, ready to transport victims from the Howard Street pier to the naval hospital on Mare Island.
Around two o’clock, Marie finished her eleventh surgery. She untied her apron, scrubbed her hands and leaned on the cast-iron sink for support, staring at the puddle of blood in the clogged drain. She was so weary that she didn’t hear her name being called. Someone tugged her sleeve. “Tante Marie?”
“Luc!” she cried, hugging the boy tightly to her. Scanning the room, she spied Philippe sitting on one of the beds, clad only in his nightshirt. He raised a hand and grimaced. The anguish in his eyes told of a nightmarish day. His face, hands and feet were black with grime. She choked down a sob. She’d completely forgotten they were staying in the city overnight. Marie rushed over and, taking his face in her hands, asked anxiously, “Where are you hurt?”
He looked down. He was pressing a bloodied cloth to his thigh. Marie lifted it gingerly, and saw the foot-long gash running vertically down his leg. Philippe winced. “In all the panic, I don’t even know when it happened.”
“Luckily it didn’t go deep enough to sever your femoral artery, but you do need stitches.”
“You’ll do it?” Philippe asked weakly.
“Of course. Luc?” His face was sooty and tired. “Come with me. We’ll find you a place to rest.”
Marie fashioned a makeshift bed for Luc beneath one of the supply tables and brought him a cup of water. As Luc curled up on his side, Marie caught sight of his bare feet. They were bruised and caked with blood. She grabbed cotton swabs and disinfectant from the supply table and gently blotted the many tiny cuts. He balke
d at the sting of the disinfectant on his skin, but he never cried. His eyes were far away, unreachable. “You rest here, and I’ll go fix up your father,” Marie said soothingly. She wiped sweat from his forehead, trying to comfort the exhausted child. His weary face made her ache for her own girls.
Marie went back to Philippe’s side. “We need to do it here, but I’d advise you to look away. I’m going to numb the skin and irrigate the wound with saline before I start stitching.” She pricked his skin with the needle and pushed the cocaine anesthetic deep into the flesh. “Lie back and close your eyes. You won’t feel anything,” she said reassuringly.
Philippe did as she instructed. “Where’s Luc?” he asked shakily.
“Sound asleep under a table in one of the supply rooms.”
“And Matthew, Adeline and Gemma? And weren’t Bridget and Jimmy staying with you, too?”
“I haven’t had word. I was here all night. Bridget and Jimmy had to return to Napa earlier than expected, so just Matthew and the girls were at the house this morning.”
Philippe’s eyes widened with compassion. “They will be safe. The fires started south of Market, near our hotel. They haven’t reached Nob Hill yet. I’m sure Matthew left with the girls right away. He wouldn’t take chances.”
Marie brushed her tears away with the heels of her palms, and stood up. “Let me wash up again, and I’ll get to work,” she said, smiling weakly.
She stitched slowly, precisely, closing each layer of skin. In a strange way, the repetitive motion was comforting. Philippe told her about the destruction of the rooming houses and Palace Hotel along Market Street, about people beating back the fire with wine-soaked rugs and drapes, about policemen smashing bottles of liquor, carrying out the mayor’s orders to destroy all alcohol except beer.
Marie heard explosions in the distance. “What’s that?” she said, alarmed.
“Dynamite. They’re blasting the perimeter of the fire, hoping to snuff out the flames with the showering debris.”
Marie was too fatigued to understand that logic. She finished the last stitch, prepared bandages and tied them over and around Philippe’s thigh to cover the wound. “Keep the bandages on for three days, and don’t wet them.”
“Marie?”
“Hmm?” she asked, tying the last strip.
His blue eyes blazed. “You have to come with us when they ship us over to Vallejo.”
“I can’t. Not without them. I won’t.”
“Matthew will know where to find you. If the situation were reversed, I would expect him to take Sara to safety.”
Marie stood up, unwilling to argue. “I’m going to check on Luc. You rest.”
The boy was snoring lightly beneath the table, undisturbed by the activity around him. Marie staggered outside, hoping for a breath of fresh air, but encountered a shroud of smoke, despite gusts of wind blowing at her back. Thousands of people were streaming toward the Ferry Building and hospital, carrying bundles of bedsheets and family treasures in baby carriages, toy wagons and go-carts. Others dragged trunks or carried limp children on their backs. Every soot-streaked, battered, panicked face chipped away at Marie’s heart. Behind them, a gruesome burning tower raged, reddening the sun and blackening the sky.
And it was headed right toward her.
Marie gazed westward. Nob Hill was not yet engulfed in flames, but Marie knew it was only a matter of time. Suddenly, she heard a squeal of delight, and turned around. Gemma. “Mama!” the little girl cried out, running to Marie with her arms extended. Matthew and Adeline followed behind her, stumbling with relief. Marie’s vision blurred through her own tears, but she gathered all three of them in her arms and kissed them.
Matthew wiped her tears with his thumbs. “You look so tired, sweet.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and she leaned into him for support.
“You brought the girls—here?”
“Marie, there’s looting throughout the city, and the fire will reach the house by dawn tomorrow. What else could I do?”
Of course he was right. Marie rubbed her sore eyes. “What about your patients?”
“That’s what took me so long. Some left with their families, others we carried down here.” Behind Matthew, Marie saw Virginia, Jane and two other nurses tending to three of the more critical patients, who were lying on stretchers.
“Philippe and Luc are here,” Marie said. “Philippe’s hurt, but as long as infection doesn’t set in, his leg should be fine. They’re leaving for Mare Island within the hour.”
Matthew squeezed her hand. “You and the girls are going with them. I’ll join you in a day or two, after things settle down here.”
Marie laughed mirthlessly. “Things aren’t settling down, Matthew. The water mains and gas lines have broken, and fireboats are pumping salt water to those fire engines over there, hoping they can save the hospital and Ferry Building. I’m not leaving without you.”
Matthew pulled her aside and whispered, “Marie, the girls need you. Philippe and Luc need you. And you’ve been operating for nearly eighteen hours straight. You need rest. You’re boarding that ship with the rest of your family. I’ll meet you at Eagle’s Run by Friday if I have to swim across the bay. I promise.”
Marie was too tired to argue, too tired to stand. Her knees buckled, and Matthew caught her in his arms. “C’mon now, love,” he soothed, walking her toward an open area on the ground, next to a row of wounded. “Sit here. I’ll get Philippe and Luc. Adeline and Gemma, you take care of your mother. I’ll be right back.”
Matthew ducked into the hospital and Marie looked up into Adeline’s sad eyes. She took her daughter’s hands. “What’s that?” she asked, her gaze shifting to a small wood-and-leather trunk at Adeline’s feet.
“Papa stuffed it with bandages, surgical knives, catgut thread, as much as he could fit.” Adeline knelt down and opened the box. “And this.” She dug to the bottom, pulled out a small velvet bag and offered it to her mother. Marie recognized it instantly. She shook the bag until her diamond engagement ring fell into her palm. She slipped the ring on her finger and stared at it, sparkling like a ray of sunshine, here in the bowels of hell.
Chapter 36
APRIL 18, 1906, EAGLE’S RUN
Sara’s lower back ached again. She always had trouble sleeping when Philippe was gone, but something about this trip with Luc had worried her. Pregnancy had a strange effect on her. She was hungry all the time, and every emotion she experienced, good or bad, seemed intensified twenty times over. She sat up in bed, stretching and yawning. When she walked downstairs, she held the railing tightly, for the weight of her belly unbalanced her. Upon reaching the kitchen, Sara looked out the picture window at the pink line on the horizon. The sun would rise within half an hour, and Rose would pad down the hallway to make breakfast, but Sara couldn’t wait.
She gathered rolls, butter and jam in her arms, and was just about to step out of the larder when the floor beneath her started rattling. Sara’s heart was in her throat—another earthquake. The earth rumbled and roared for what seemed like an eternity. She dropped the food and tried to run upstairs to fetch the children, but the shaking intensified, causing the walls to lurch as though they were mounted atop a carousel. Sara was thrown against the wall, and then sank to the floor. She covered her head as glass jars of preserves danced on their shelves and crashed down beside her. The dishes in the cupboard clattered and shattered when they hit the wood floor. Sara heard what sounded like a thunderclap upstairs. The desperate screams of Pippa and Johnny rang through the air.
She had to collect the children before the next shock hit. When the ground finally stopped pulsating, Sara ran to the foot of the stairs, carefully dodging bric-a-brac from the curio cabinet and glass shards from the picture frames that had hung on the wall. Pippa was already rushing down the stairs, holding hands with Johnny, tears streaming down her face.
Before Sara could comfort them, another shock knocked them to the floor. “Stay on your hands and knees! Watch
out for the glass!” she cried, as she opened the front door and shepherded the children outside. “Rose!” Sara screamed. Rose appeared from her room at the back of the house, tottering and dazed, a gash on the side of her head. Sara lunged toward her, grabbed her arm, and pulled her outside. The four of them huddled on the front lawn, clear of the danger of falling debris, trembling to their cores.
Sara pressed her children to her chest, trying to cover their eyes. She glanced at the house: windows shattered, timbers splintered, front porch torn in two. She squinted to see the winery behind the house, to the northeast: the ground leading up to its doors had buckled and split, the windows and doors were broken and unhinged, but miraculously, its stone walls stood solidly. Thank God Philippe had listened to Matthew and insisted on steel bars to reinforce the structure. Sara’s breath caught in her throat. Philippe, Luc. Matthew, Marie, Adeline and Gemma. Had the quake reached San Francisco, too?
Sara looked over her shoulder, south toward the bay. The morning fog was too thick to see anything yet. She turned to Rose, stood up and pressed the hem of her nightdress to Rose’s wound. “What happened, Rose?”
“Oh, missus,” she said, placing a quivering hand on her head. “The quake pushed me off the bed, and I hit the corner of the nightstand.” She burst into tears.
Sara rubbed her back. “You’re all right, Rose. We’ll be all right.” She wished she felt as calm as she tried to sound. Her stomach churned. How would she discover if Philippe and Luc were safe?
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