1906: A Novel

by Dalessandro, James

  "That pocket around Union Square was safe," Dougherty raged, "the fire went right around it!"

  "A police officer saw some soldiers break into Delmonico's," Bertrand answered sheepishly. "They lit a fire in the kitchen stove to make coffee. They caught the place on fire."

  Schmitz stared, disbelieving, as the fire moved up toward the most expensive real estate in the West. "Remind me to have Funston court-martialed and shot," he said to Donen.

  Schmitz marched to the other side of the roof and looked above Rolf's mansion. His heart sank at the sight of a long, thin tail of smoke trickling skyward from Van Ness. Seconds later came the sound of three explosions.

  "What the hell is that?" Schmitz asked.

  "Looks like smoke," Bertrand answered.

  "I can see the smoke, Bertrand. I want to know what those noises are! I thought Funston was going to stop the dynamiting!"

  "That's not dynamite," Donen responded. "It sounds like cannon fire." A second plume of smoke began wafting skyward along Van Ness. "It's flaring up again, dammit," Dougherty said. "Maybe telegraphin' Washington how great things were was a bit premature after all."

  "Bertrand, send a messenger to the firefighters we pulled off Van Ness. Have them return to their former positions."

  Dougherty fumed. "After they lugged all that heavy equipment down to the Ferry Building, you want them to haul it back up Van Ness?"

  "That's what I said," Schmitz answered, his patience at breaking point.

  "Get the car, Bertrand. We're going to pay General Funston a visit."

  "Sir, I can't do ten things at once," Bertrand pleaded.

  "Then get nine people to help you! Grab all the maps and situation reports and evacuate the hotel! After I deal with the General, meet me at the Fort Mason Officers' Club. If the fire makes it that far, we can strip to our drawers and swim to Sausalito from there."

  "Strip to our drawers and swim from there, yes, sir."

  Schmitz charged outside and climbed into the passenger's side of the Ford. He looked anxiously over his shoulder at the flames advancing up Nob Hill toward the Stanford mansion.

  Donen cranked the Ford and jumped behind the wheel as Dougherty settled into the back seat behind Schmitz.

  They approached Van Ness as the explosions grew louder and more frequent. "Funston won't need a court martial when I'm through," Schmitz stated angrily. "I'll just have him hung and call it civil defense."

  Donen stopped the car at Van Ness near Clay as soldiers fired a cannon at an apartment building on the east side of the street. The iron ball ripped through a fourth-floor window and tore off half the roof. The shot from a second cannon shattered the wall and sent the building crashing into the street.

  While the men reloaded, Donen slipped the Ford into gear and roared up next to them.

  "General Funston?" Schmitz screamed. The soldiers pointed to their ears and shook their heads in bewilderment.

  "Funston!" Donen screamed, running three fingers across his shoulder to indicate stripes. The soldiers gestured toward the bay.

  Funston was reading a map atop a caisson full of dynamite when they arrived. He set the map aside and sauntered toward them as slowly as he could, his bloodshot eyes bulging from his grimy face. "What the hell is it this time?"

  Schmitz was distracted, staring toward the bay. Through the Golden Gate streamed a small flotilla led by the flagship of Admiral Goodrich.

  "What the hell do you want?" the General demanded. "I've got work to do."

  Schmitz leaned his face closer to Funston's. "Yes, you do, General. Your first job is to stop. I told you hours ago to stop the dynamiting. I did not tell you to replace the dynamite with artillery fire! I want you to send runners to every dynamite team and artillery position and order them to stop at once. The Navy's here. I want you and your men to assist them and the fire department in any way they require, understood?"

  "You forgot who is giving the orders here, Mayor Schmitz."

  "That's right, General, I did. But it all came back to me. You have no authority in civilian affairs unless granted by President Roosevelt. If you disobey my orders, I will have Chief Donen haul you off to jail in Oakland where you can stay until your court martial. Now, stop blowing us all to hell, and help us put this damn fire out while there's still something left! Is that clear, General?"

  Funston wheeled about and started toward a nearby artillery team. He held his hand up just as they were about to fire.

  On Nob Hill, from behind the wall of the Crocker estate, Hunter and Francis studied the Rolf mansion. They were convinced that only Rolf, Tommy, and Scarface were inside.

  In his ruined office, Rolf pulled a folder full of papers from his safe and gave them to Scarface, then handed a box to Tommy. Rolf closed the heavy door and turned the dial.

  "You two go ahead," Rolf said. He reached into his desk drawer, withdrew a revolver and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.

  He was halfway to the door—Tommy and Scarface already in the front hallway, near the front entrance—when the door exploded inward.

  Tommy and Scarface dug for their guns as Francis burst in with a smoking shotgun, Hunter right behind him.

  Tommy fired, the bullet whizzing inches from Hunter's neck.

  Scarface fired wildly, missing Francis, and bolted toward the library.

  Francis' next blast caught Tommy flush in the chest, ripping him open like a ripe melon. He was dead when his hulking form hit the oak floor.

  Scarface ran into the library across from Rolf’s office, where he leapt over mounds of fallen books. He banged through the swinging door at the rear and entered the main dining room, his boot heels crunching through piles of broken crystal and shattered china.

  Hunter made the dining room as the door to the kitchen was swinging back. He took several steps and launched himself a few inches above the ground, crashing headfirst through the door.

  Scarface was waiting on the other side. When the door burst inward, he fired at where he thought Hunter would be, splintering the door chest high.

  Hunter slid across the floor, firing wildly. One of the shots tore through his opponent's calf.

  Scarface stumbled backward through the kitchen's rear door and into the hallway. He dragged himself down the hall, toward the servant's entrance in the rear, leaving behind a bloody trail.

  Hunter sprang to his feet and followed cautiously. Peering into the hallway, he spotted the rear entrance ajar and Scarface limping down the steps. Hunter approached the rear porch. "Drop your weapon!" he screamed.

  Scarface wheeled, raising his revolver.

  Hunter squeezed his trigger: the cylinder would not move. He squeezed again, still the gun would not fire. He spotted a fragment of metal shell casing wedged in the cylinder. He dropped to a knee, popped open the cylinder and dug at the hot sliver.

  Scarface aimed, snarling, "Nice work, cop!"

  Francis ran toward the rear entrance, saw Hunter crouching, Scarface towering just ahead of him, his gun pointed.

  A shot rang out. Then another.

  Scarface toppled over.

  Hunter cleared his revolver and pointed his gun at Scarface just as the big man crashed to the ground.

  A filthy man in a filthy duster stood in the circular driveway, his smoking derringer pointed at Scarface, who convulsed on the ground, blood foaming in his mouth. The man in the duster walked over and took Scarface's gun. He kept his gun trained on the prostrate man until the shaking stopped and a final breath escaped Scarface's lungs.

  "You a cop?" he asked Hunter.

  "We're both cops," Francis said as he emerged, his gun pointed at Scarface's body.

  "I'm Sheriff Lincoln Staley. I'm looking for my daughter, Kaitlin."

  "She's with Enrico Caruso," Hunter said. "We sent them to Golden Gate Park. She was fine last I saw her."

  "Much obliged. You should always carry a backup weapon, young man. These little derringers come in real handy."

  "We better move," Francis sa
id to Hunter.

  They heard footsteps behind them.

  I had my hands up before they could raise their weapons. I breathed an enormous sigh when I saw that Hunter and Francis were unharmed. "Rolf, is he dead?" I asked

  "Not unless he died of fright," Francis said. "I got him manacled in the other room. Let's grab him and get the hell out of here."

  After refusing our pleas to accompany us, Lincoln left for Golden Gate Park to look for Kaitlin.

  Hunter, Francis, and I guided a scowling Adam Rolf up California Street, toward the waterfront. On Van Ness, we passed rows of weary soldiers as yet another fire sprang to life along the east side of the boulevard. A groan traveled up and down the ranks.

  We arrived at the wharf to Hunter's Whitehall boat. Francis loaded Rolf aboard and climbed in next to him.

  The dozens of fires had merged into three major infernos. The only areas untouched by the conflagration were North Beach and Telegraph Hill.

  I climbed aboard the boat and reached out for Hunter's hand. He hesitated and looked at me.

  "You're a good sailor, Annalisa, you and Francis can handle the boat."

  "This is getting to be a very old story, Hunter. Where are you going this time?"

  "After the documents Christian hid at the house. Without them, my father might have died for nothing."

  "You can't go back there, Hunter. It's crazy."

  "The fire's not there yet and we need those papers."

  It took all my strength to mount even the feeblest debate. "Don't do this, please. I'm begging you. The wind can change again, the fire can move."

  Hunter stared at Telegraph Hill, silhouetted by the flames eating through the Barbary Coast behind it. I realized it was not the papers drawing him back.

  "Hunter, it's a house, not a life," I pleaded, tottering from fatigue. "We can rebuild it, you and I. Please, Hunter."

  He gently pressed my arms against my sides. "That house is all that's left of my family, Annalisa. It's safe now but if things change, I won't give up without a fight."

  Hunter kissed me, an act that set my head spinning further. He dropped me into Francis' arms and shoved the boat clear of the wharf.

  Before I could scream, we were twenty feet from shore and Hunter was running down the pier.

  I sat down hard in the boat and looked toward the Ferry Building, to a sight that might have rallied my heart had it not been leaden with fatigue.

  Preparing to dock were five ships of the Navy's Pacific Fleet, their decks crammed with young sailors and Marines, many of them with fire hoses coiled around their shoulders.

  Chapter 63

  THE EMBARCADERO

  APRIL 19, 1906. 1:10 P.M.

  At the Spear Street pier near the Ferry Building, Eugene Schmitz paced fitfully as the Chicago was secured to the dock. The Mayor's face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth unable to raise an ounce of spittle.

  Hundreds of sailors and Marines lined the decks before him, ready to face the biggest inferno men had ever fought. The gangplanks fell and the young men charged ashore, not a trace of fear in any of them.

  At the head of the column, a lean man in an officer's uniform approached. "You Mayor Schmitz?" he asked calmly.

  "Yes." The Mayor's voice was barely audible.

  The officer motioned to Ensign Arthur, who handed over a canteen. Schmitz guzzled and passed it to Dougherty.

  "Admiral Goodrich, at your service, Mayor Schmitz."

  "This is Police Chief Donen and Assistant Fire Chief Dougherty. The situation is ugly and getting uglier. Every time we have a grip on it, the wind shifts and the fire outflanks us. Our problem is lack of water."

  Schmitz brushed soot from atop a bollard and unrolled Sullivan's map. "This street is the city's widest boulevard, Van Ness Avenue. Right now, the east side is in ruins."

  Donen touched Schmitz' shoulder and pointed toward Russian Hill. The buildings on its eastern slope, facing Telegraph Hill, had begun to smoke and embers had begun to glow along the roofs. One by one, the houses burst into flame, the fire racing up the hill, rooftop to rooftop, gaining momentum until a fireball arched into the sky.

  Schmitz clutched his chest, having taken almost all he could stand.

  "We have to evacuate the city, Mayor Schmitz," Dougherty barked. "Washington Square is full of refugees. If the fire races down the hill and hits North Beach, you'll have thousands trapped."

  "Chief Donen. Take the car and get every police officer and soldier to evacuate the city!"

  "The only way out is the waterfront," Donen replied. "We're going to need boats, every damn boat we can find."

  He ran to the Ford and sped away.

  "Commander Badger," Goodrich yelled to a stocky man standing behind him. "Send out launches, commandeer every barge, fishing boat, pleasure craft, and ferry on the bay, I don't give a damn who they are or what their business is. At gunpoint if necessary. Establish an evacuation line the entire length of the waterfront."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Alright, Admiral," Schmitz said, trying to shake the fatigue. "Van Ness. If the fire leaps to the west side, it will burn to the Pacific Ocean. A couple of thousand buildings, Golden Gate Park, the Presidio."

  "Is there a place we can dock near there?"

  "There's a pier at the foot of Van Ness. The second line is the obvious one," Schmitz gasped. "This waterfront is everything. If we can't hold the fire back, we'll never evacuate all these people. Without the docks and piers, we might never rebuild this city."

  "How long is the fire line along the waterfront?" Goodrich shouted over the roar.

  "At the rate it's going, the fire on top Russian Hill will spread down the eastern slope to North Beach, then follow Montgomery Street to the waterfront. We have a few hours maybe, depending on the wind. The fire on the east side of Van Ness—the western slope of Russian Hill—is already headed this way. That's maybe three miles between those two fires. If they link up, the fire line would be that long."

  The scope of it gave Goodrich pause. "Three miles. And what about Van Ness?"

  "We have to save the west side of it. At least a mile," Dougherty replied, "from the bay to California Street. That's four, four and a half miles of fire lines we need between the whole lot. Can you do it?"

  "I have five ships, a thousand good men, and more than five miles of hose. We can pump a greater volume of water, faster, than anyone on earth. If there's any chance it can be stopped, we will stop it."

  Goodrich motioned Ensign Arthur over. "Divide the men into two teams, Ensign. Signal the Slocum to dock at the foot of Van Ness, that wide street on the edge of the fire line, and run hoses to the highest point of the hill. Have the other half of the crew run hoses along the waterfront and be prepared to save these buildings."

  "Aye, sir."

  Goodrich turned again to Schmitz and Dougherty. "We can run our hoses along the waterfront directly from the ships but we'll need your pumpers to attack Van Ness."

  "They should be there by now," Schmitz replied, and turned to Dougherty.

  The old man was already hurrying toward a passing buggy. He flashed his fireman's shield, shoved the driver off, and seized the reins. Before Schmitz could call to him, Dougherty was gone.

  "I'll be setting up a new command post at Fort Mason," Schmitz told Goodrich. "Right at the foot of Van Ness there. These people are going to need everything we can muster when this is over."

  "We'll take it from here, Mayor." Goodrich saluted and ran back aboard his ship.

  Dougherty sped along the waterfront to Van Ness, whipping the unwilling horse up the cluttered street toward the jaws of Hell. Exhausted firemen lay next to their equipment, unable to lug their pumpers another foot. On the east side of the street, building after building was ablaze.

  Doherty charged among his men, screaming with all the fury his tired lungs could muster. "Get up, dammit, you lazy bastards! No man lies down until the job is done, understand me? Pull these engines and run those bloody hoses! Any
man caught slacking on the job, he answers to me! Get up, damn it and do your bloody jobs!"

  Enraged by Dougherty's taunts, the filthy men rose, tears streaming down their swollen faces, and dragged their hoses and engines.

  At the Ferry Building, spent firefighters and soldiers witnessed a miracle. Hundreds of sailors and Marines trotted toward them, rolling out hoses, coupling brass fittings and organizing fire lines with mechanical precision. Some passed out canteens of water and rations, seizing hoses from exhausted men, who collapsed to their knees, weeping, unable to open their broiled fingers. A gravelly cheer sped along the fire line.

  Hunter Fallon was unaware of any of it. After witnessing the fire billowing above Russian Hill, he had to struggle upstream against the crowd abandoning North Beach. He labored up the slope of Telegraph Hill, the temperature climbing with each weary step, his clothes little more than sweat and soot-caked rags.

  He paused at the summit, a half-block from his house, sipping from a canteen and struggling to catch a breath that did not sting his lungs. Hunter gained momentum the final hundred yards and stumbled into the house, his boots crunching over layers of broken glass.

  He ran down the basement steps to the wine cellar. In the dim light, he discovered his laboratory in rubble. All four of the fifty-five-gallon wine barrels had rolled from their mounts, crushing his slides and test tubes like a steamroller, and yet the barrels had not yielded a drop.

  He pried open a wall panel normally hidden by the wine barrels, and removed the telephone recordings, photos, and affidavits that Christian had hidden there the previous day. Stepping gingerly over the wreckage, he took a shovel and dug a deep hole in the dirt floor, the earth so cool he finished the hole with his bare hands.

  He buried the evidence along with Kaitlin's diary, which he had found on the table. He ran to Byron's bedroom on the second floor, which was littered with smashed furniture and shards of broken mirrors.

  In the bathroom, Hunter shoved a pail beneath the faucet, rejoicing when water streamed out. He filled his canteen and drank, wincing as the water hit his parched throat, and then splashed his burning face and neck. The faucet sputtered to a stop.