Into the Firestorm

by Deborah Hopkinson

  “Mr. Pat will be so upset,” Nick said to himself, looking at the rubble around him.

  The neat shelves of magazines and paper journals had toppled, spilling everything across the floor. Every glass case and window was shattered.

  “Mr. Pat’s inkwells!” Nick began to pick his way across the floor.

  “Ouch!” Something sharp made him stop. Glass. Nick looked down at his stockinged feet. He’d forgotten all about his shoes. He’d been about to head to Market Street without them. He wasn’t thinking straight.

  Walking more carefully, Nick found a paper sack Mr. Pat used to wrap up purchases. As quickly as he could, he filled it with the best pens and inkwells. Some of the inkwells had been smashed, but a few still looked perfect.

  I should try to save more, Nick thought, looking frantically at the broken glass, the upturned display cases, and the merchandise strewn across the floor. But he felt torn. He should go—now! He should be out looking for Shakespeare. What would Mr. Pat want him to do first?

  Nick couldn’t fit anything else into the sack. At least he had grabbed the best.

  Trying not to get cut on the broken glass, Nick made his way back and climbed out again, the bag banging against his leg. In the little room downstairs, Nick stashed the treasures behind the tattered green sofa. For now, he hoped, the bag would be safe.

  He was almost up the stairs again when he looked down at his feet. His mind was still fuddled. Everything was taking so long. He was wasting so much time.

  He’d forgotten his shoes again.

  On Montgomery Street, Nick joined a flow of people. Everyone seemed to be heading toward Market Street.

  Above the jagged line of the tall city buildings, the early morning sky seemed almost as blue as in Texas. That surprised Nick. He hadn’t been here long, but he’d already gotten used to the cool, foggy weather.

  And so it seemed especially strange that today—of all days—should be sunny. The earthquake had been so violent and sudden. Nick wouldn’t have been surprised to find himself in the midst of a terrible storm, with thunder, lightning, and howling winds.

  Instead, it was clear and pleasant, without a trace of the usual damp fingers of fog. Nick shook his head, like a dog shaking water off its coat. It didn’t help. His arms and legs ached, bruised from when he’d fallen. He felt fuzzy, off balance. He rubbed his elbow, which still hurt from when he’d banged it.

  Nick put one foot in front of the other and concentrated on walking. He jumped at a shout behind him.

  “Out of my way, boy,” growled a man dragging a trunk. “I’m heading for the Ferry Building. We’re gettin’ out of this city before anything else happens.”

  The trunk scraped along the cobblestones, the man huffing with its weight. Just behind him, a small woman with a pinched white face was trying to run while she held a birdcage containing a fluttering yellow canary. “Wait for me, Amos. Poor Jerry here is twittering his head off.”

  Nick watched men, women, and children stream out of buildings and fill the streets. Some people were weighed down with heavy bags and boxes. Others carried odd, surprising objects—bulky paintings in gilded frames, kittens in birdcages, teakettles and dolls.

  Beside Nick walked a man still wearing only a nightshirt, his thin legs poking out like white sticks. His wife had on a long dressing gown, a fancy white hat with long feathers perched precariously on her head. The couple had probably raced out of their house as soon as the earthquake stopped, Nick realized. They’d just left their beds for the street and grabbed the first thing that came to hand.

  Just like me, Nick thought. I forgot my own shoes.

  Nick reached Market Street. Without knowing exactly why, he turned right, toward the Palace Hotel. When it came in sight, he breathed a sigh of relief. It looked magnificent. Nick could almost imagine the rich, fancy ladies and gentlemen inside.

  When they’d walked past the day before, Mr. Pat had pointed to it and said, “It’s the grandest hotel in America, Nicholas. The pride of San Francisco.”

  Almost without knowing it, Nick spoke out loud. “The Palace survived!”

  A short, thick man with white hair turned to Nick. “Survived, did you say? Of course the Palace survived! Why, that building was designed to withstand earthquakes, son. The brick walls are two feet thick, and there’s three thousand tons of iron in just those seven stories.”

  “How…how do you know?”

  “Helped build it, now, didn’t I? And I was here in 1875 when it opened,” the man said, straightening his shoulders. He seemed to look past Nick. “October second, it was. Gleaming white marble, crystal chandeliers. I remember they had a grand banquet, but—”

  “What about now? Will the Palace be all right?” Nick interrupted impatiently. The earthquake was over. The Palace looked fine. Nothing could be worse than what had just happened.

  But before the man could answer, someone strode up to him and stopped short. “Bill, is that you?”

  “Hullo, Mike!” The white-haired man next to Nick shook his friend’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re safe. Glad to see you. Everything all right?”

  The man called Mike sighed and shook his head, sending a spatter of plaster and dust into the air. “I just came from south of the Slot. Bad news there. The Valencia Street Hotel’s collapsed. Do you know it?”

  “One of those cheap wooden boardinghouses, ain’t it? Built on filled land, like those others—Brunswick Hotel, Nevada House.” Bill shook his head. “Restin’ on nothin’ but swamp, those places are.”

  “You’ve nailed it,” Mike said. Nick thought the man’s face looked as white as the plaster in his hair. “Those poor creatures in the Valencia Street Hotel didn’t have a chance. Four stories just collapsed into the swamp. Killed. I dunno how many. Maybe hundreds.”

  “Some of them on the bottom probably drowned, I’ll wager,” said Bill in a low voice. He cleared his throat. “You headed to the ferry, Mike? I’ll go with you.”

  Then he turned to Nick. “You should go home and tell your parents to leave now, kid.”

  “But why? The earthquake’s over.” Nick’s head was spinning. He couldn’t believe what the man had said about the Valencia Street Hotel. He knew that building. After he’d met Tommy, he’d gone by there looking for work and a place to sleep. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Pat, he might have been sleeping there or in some alley south of the Slot. I could have sunk into the swamp, Nick thought. It might have been me.

  Mike pointed. “See over there?”

  Nick followed the man’s finger. “That puff of smoke? I don’t understand.”

  “Fire. Probably got started from a broken gas main or sparks from stoves,” said Bill.

  “There are lots of fire stations,” said Nick. “And firemen with their fast horses and long hoses. I’ve seen them.”

  Mike shrugged. “Maybe. Let’s hope you’re right, kid. Friend of mine told me that Dennis Sullivan, the fire chief, is hurt bad. Part of the California Hotel toppled off and tore through the station where he and his wife were sleeping.”

  Bill cast another glance at the Palace Hotel. “Let’s hope someone else besides Sullivan has water and a plan. Otherwise, we’re in for the worst.”

  The two men walked off before Nick had a chance to ask: What was the worst?

  Woof. Woof!

  Nick jumped at the sound. He turned. But it wasn’t Shakespeare. Instead, he saw a large black dog with a white spot on his face barking at a kitten on a man’s shoulder.

  “People, dogs, cats, birds—everywhere,” Nick said to himself. “I’ll never find him in this crowd.”

  Everyone seemed to be heading straight down Market Street toward the Ferry Building. The ferry. Nick snatched at the idea. Mr. Pat had gone in that direction last night. Shakespeare had probably gone with him in the past. Maybe that was where he’d made for.

  Nick joined the wave of people. It felt strange to be walking in the middle of the wide avenue, usually so crowded with cable cars,
wagons, and automobiles. Ahead stood the Ferry Building’s tall tower, boasting four giant clocks, one on each side.

  Just a few days ago Nick seemed to be the only one without a place to be—the only person out of place. Now everyone had that same look he must have had—lost, uncertain, scared.

  No wonder. This morning the solid earth had twisted, danced, and rolled. Nick felt a little dizzy. It was almost as if just thinking about the earthquake took him back inside it.

  All at once the earth did begin to tremble. Nick came to a halt, planted his feet wide. He was shaking. Around him he could hear shouts and screams.

  “Oh, no! Help me!”

  “It’s coming again!”

  An older woman near him with a deep, musical voice called out, “Don’t panic. It’s just a strong aftershock.”

  Aftershock. It was like a bad dream that returned night after night.

  “Are you all right, young man?”

  Nick looked up into the woman’s lined face. “Is it dangerous?”

  “It’s just the earth settling. I expect we’ll have many of them,” she said. Then she added, “But, dearie, make sure you keep away from walls and the sides of buildings. You don’t want loose bricks collapsing on top of you.”

  As he drew close to the pier, Nick’s heart sank. This was impossible. He’d never find Shakespeare here. The pier was packed with people everywhere he turned.

  The crowd surged forward suddenly, and a shout went up. “Here’s the ferry now!”

  I could go, too, if I wanted, Nick realized.

  He didn’t have to go back to Mr. Pat’s store. He could escape San Francisco right now. Maybe the earthquake was a sign he didn’t belong here after all.

  For a second Nick closed his eyes, shutting out everything else. He wished he knew what to do. He imagined himself on the ferry, turning back to look at the tall buildings as they shrank smaller and smaller across the bay.

  He could make his way to another city or turn himself in at some orphanage. Mr. Pat Patterson wouldn’t miss him. But what about Shakespeare?

  He’s just a dog. Mr. Pat’s dog. He’s not even mine, Nick told himself.

  Nick opened his eyes and sighed.

  He took two steps and bumped into a man loaded down with belongings. “Hey, watch it!” the man cried. “You’re headed in the wrong direction, kid.”

  “Sorry,” Nick mumbled automatically, pulling his cap down close over his unruly hair.

  Nick broke into a trot. He pushed through the crowd and headed back to Jackson Street.

  FORGOTTEN

  Nick’s heart sank when he reached Montgomery and Jackson. No dog in sight.

  “Shakespeare!” he called. He tried to conjure up the dog from his imagination, tried to will him to suddenly appear on the street, tail wagging so hard his whole body shook.

  “Shakespeare,” he shouted, louder. Nick was about to turn onto Jackson Street when he heard something. It wasn’t a bark, though. Someone was calling his name.

  “Nick!”

  Annie appeared in the doorway of her rooming house, her cheeks streaked with tears and dirt.

  Nick sprinted toward her. He felt ashamed. He’d run right by the rooming house earlier without even giving a thought to little Annie Sheridan and her mother.

  A large red bump protruded on Annie’s forehead. She hiccuped. “Mama needs help, Nick. The ceiling fell on her.”

  Nick’s heart pounded. He thought about the fire chief and his wife. “You’re hurt, too,” said Nick, reaching out his hand to touch Annie’s forehead.

  Annie pulled away. “Where were you? Why didn’t you come sooner? I thought you were my friend.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Annie…,” Nick stammered.

  “Come now,” Annie urged, turning toward the door. “You are not a very good rescuer, Nick.”

  “It’ll be all right, Annie,” Nick said, feeling stung. He tried to sound sure, but his words sounded halfhearted even to him.

  The first thing Nick noticed as they climbed the rickety stairs was how quiet it was. No talking or laughter. No children crying, or smells of cooking, or someone playing a fiddle.

  There was an eerie, deserted feel to everything. Nick figured the other tenants had been so frightened they’d thought only of themselves. No one had bothered to stop to look for people left behind.

  “Annie, do you have any other friends or some family you and your mother can stay with now?”

  Annie shook her head. “Just Mama. We came on the train from back east. We came to wait for Daddy.”

  On the first landing, Annie stopped and pointed to a doorway. All at once Nick felt the floorboards tremble. Another aftershock.

  Annie gave a little cry. Nick reached out to hold on to her in case she fell. But the shaking passed quickly.

  Annie looked beyond Nick at the door, which stood ajar. “In there,” she said. “I fell out of bed and couldn’t get up. I think I bumped my head, or maybe I fell back to sleep. I’m not sure.”

  “What happened next?” Nick moved toward the door.

  “When I woke up and yelled for Mama, she was still on the bed. Real still. I think…I think the ceiling is on top of her.”

  Nick stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He hoped Annie wouldn’t notice how his hand was trembling. “You wait here, Annie. Let me go first.”

  She shook her head and fixed him with her startling eyes.

  Nick pushed open the door and peered inside. Annie was right. Part of the ceiling had fallen across the bed. There were boards and beams sticking out all over. He could just make out a figure huddled under a blue blanket.

  Nick’s heart was pounding so loud it made his head hurt. He kept Annie behind him, pushing his shoulder in front of her so she couldn’t see.

  “Hello? Mrs. Sheridan? Ma’am, can you hear me?”

  Nick drew closer to the bed. Please be all right, he breathed silently. Please.

  “Mrs. Sheridan, wake up,” he called, louder this time. “Mrs. Sheridan!”

  A faint groan came from the bed. Annie’s mother moved her head.

  “Mama!” Annie cried. “Mama, talk to me.”

  Under the rubble Nick caught sight of a slender white hand with a thin gold ring on one finger.

  “Annie, here’s her hand,” Nick said, relief flooding through him. “Hold on to it and squeeze it hard while I see about getting all this off her. Then maybe she’ll be able to talk.”

  Nick set to work pulling off plaster and wood with both hands. The debris had left large gaps as the pieces fell. He thought there was a chance she hadn’t actually been crushed under all this rubble.

  Nick uncovered the top of the bed first. “There, that’s better.”

  Annie drew closer and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. It seemed to Nick the woman on the bed looked young, for a mother, anyway. Or maybe he’d just gotten used to Gran.

  “Mama!” Annie said urgently.

  Mrs. Sheridan opened her eyes. Nick could see where Annie got her large eyes. Unlike Annie’s, though, her mother’s were both the same color—a soft, light blue. Her face was pale and drained. She was covered with dirt, dust, and flecks of paint.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” Nick asked.

  Mrs. Sheridan turned to Annie. She tried to smile. “I don’t know. I think so. What about you, Little Big Eyes?”

  Annie burst into tears and buried her face on her mother’s neck.

  “My name is Nick, ma’am. I’m a neighbor. I’ll see about getting you out.” Nick ran to the foot of the bed, where a section of the ceiling had fallen over Mrs. Sheridan’s ankles and calves. “It looks like you’re pinned under this, but it’s not quite touching your legs. Can you wiggle your toes?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Sheridan said. “That’s not what hurts.”

  Annie was brushing dirt and specks of plaster from her mother’s hair. “Mama, the baby? Is the baby all right?”

  “Yes, I think so. I can feel it moving. But something hit my right s
ide.” Annie’s mother clutched her daughter’s hand. “Are you sure you’re all right, Annie? You were so quiet.”

  Nick swallowed hard, feeling guilty all over again. Annie might have been badly hurt.

  “Well, Annie does have that bump on her head as big as an egg,” Nick told Mrs. Sheridan. “But I expect she’ll be talking away as much as ever any minute now, won’t you, Annie of the North Star?”

  As he spoke, Nick studied the pile of rubble. Carefully he worked at clearing it away, piece by piece. Before long he was done, except for a section of wallboard and plaster that lay across Annie’s mother’s legs.

  “Ma’am, if I can lift this, do you think you can wriggle out from under?”

  “Well, I…I can try.” Annie’s mother looked doubtful. What if she couldn’t walk?

  Nick remembered how Gran used to rub her legs to “get the blood flowing” after she’d sat awhile. He called Annie over.

  “Annie, I’m going to use a lever to lift this big piece of wall,” he told her. “Come and rub your mother’s legs so she can move them.”

  Nick hoped his idea would work. He grunted, trying to lift the piece as high as he could. Finally, with Annie’s help, Mrs. Sheridan was able to pull first one leg free and then the other.

  Nick and Annie helped her to sit up on the edge of the bed. She was weak and dizzy.

  “Can you walk, ma’am?” asked Nick. “We’ll support you.”

  Mrs. Sheridan leaned, putting weight on her feet. “Yes, I think I can. Nothing’s broken. Except—ah, my right side. It hurts, especially when I move.”

  Suddenly they felt another shake. The building trembled and creaked.

  “Aftershocks, Annie,” her mother whispered. She shook her head and held her side. “Sorry…it hurts to talk.”

  “Mrs. Sheridan, I know it’s painful. But we can’t stay here much longer.” Nick glanced at the ceiling. He didn’t like the look of the gaping hole above their heads. “This building isn’t safe. It could collapse any minute. Everyone else has gotten out.”