The train jolted and halted again, then jerked to a complete stop. The journey was over. They could see at once that the train sheds were crowded with excited people—people who seemed ready to force themselves aboard the train even before the current passengers left it.
Mrs. Forrest held her suitcase firmly in one hand and grasped Melora's wrist with the other. "Don't let anyone come between us. We mustn't be separated. Let's get into the open and find out what's really going on."
They had to struggle through a crowd that fairly pushed them back into the train. Mrs. Forrest's hat was tilted sideways and she had no free hand with which to right it. Melora's small sailor, well pinned, fared better, but she was glad to move in the comparative safety of Mrs. Forrest's large wake.
Everywhere now they heard the word "fire" and on the air there was a faint smell of smoke drifting across the bay. Once in the open they stumbled into a cleared space away from the crowd's path and stood where they could look across the bay to the city. Billowing black columns of smoke poured upward from several parts of the area south of Market Street. And even at this distance they could see clouds of white smoke too, and the flash of flame.
"Looks like there is a bit of a fire," Mrs. Forrest said. "May take the fire department a while to get it under control after all." But her voice shook a little as she spoke.
"What are we going to do?" Melora asked.
Mrs. Forrest took a deep breath, seemed to steady herself. "Do? Why, we'll go across, of course. The fire's all in one location—you can see the rest of the city is all right. The main thing is to rejoin our families and do whatever they do. Don't you agree?"
"Of course," said Melora faintly. "But do you think the ferries are running?"
Mrs. Forrest gestured with one hand, while she held her hat with the other. "Of course they are. You can see one bringing in a boatland of people now. Probably they'll go back for more, and we'll get on board."
But it was not to be as simple as that, as Mrs. Forrest discovered when she and Melora tried to move in the direction of the ferry slip. A man leaving the boat told them that General Funston had sent troops in from the Presidio and that only authorized persons were being allowed to disembark at the Ferry Building.
"People are coming out, not going in," he said, "You're headed the wrong way!"
Across the bay the City of St. Francis still gleamed upon its hills even as it wrapped itself in a pall of smoke.
THE FLAMING CITY
Mrs. Forrest was not one to give in easily when an obstacle was placed in her path. Her determination to rejoin her son in their suite at the Palace was as strong as ever.
"But what if he has left by now?" Melora asked hesitantly, wondering if her own family too might be coming out of the city while she followed Mrs. Forrest in.
The older woman shook her head. "Nonsense! Howard isn't one to give up the ship. His magazine is published over there. Besides, he's like me—San Francisco bred and born and he'd stand by when there was trouble. Melora, you sit right here on these suitcases and don't budge an inch. I'm going to see what I can find out."
She was off before Melora could object. There was nothing to do but seat herself on the two suitcases and wait. It was hard to believe in what was happening. The morning was cold but beautiful. The sun was brilliant over Oakland, where drifting smoke had not yet obscured its rays.
The refugee group came straggling up from the ferry, wearing every possible assortment of dress and undress, carrying what worldly goods they could save on their backs and in their arms. Watching them, Melora felt somehow remote and unconcerned, as if she were attending a play. Her family could be taking no part in this. She had the quiet conviction that at home Quong Sam would be preparing to serve lunch and everything would be as usual. But as the refugees stumbled past she caught snatches of conversation that were hardly reassuring.
"The quake started it—lamps and stoves in those wooden shacks south of Market..."
"Earthquake broke the water mains ..."
"Fire chiefs been killed ..."
"Not a drop of water to fight it with ..."
"Nope, it's not across Market yet..."
Melora sat on the suitcases, watching, listening. This was all something out of a bad dream. Market Street was wide. Surely the fire couldn't leap Market. But with no water . . . Panic began to rise in her—a contagion that fairly oozed from the crowds surging past her. It was all she could do to suppress an urge to rush aimlessly off among the refugees.
It was a relief to see Mrs. Forrest coming back. Her graying pompadour straggled in wisps about her forehead, but the feathers on her big hat waved like flags of triumph.
"They still remember the Senator in these parts," she said. "And of course money talks a bit too. There's a little tugboat that came to the mole with some refugees. Its captain is willing to take us across. We'll go around by Fisherman's Wharf, far away from the fire. Then I'll get downtown somehow. I'll leave you at your house and go on to the Palace." Mrs. Forrest plainly had her teeth in this and she was not the deviating sort.
"Have you heard about the water mains breaking?" Melora asked. "They're saying there's no water to fight the fire. And the Palace is on the wrong side of Market."
Mrs. Forrest reached for her suitcase without a pause. "The Palace will be the safest place in town. The hotel's not dependent on the city for water. There's a 630,000-gallon water supply right under the Grand Lounge. Come along now. We'll have to get rid of these suitcases. Goodness knows how far we may have to walk."
It was good to spring into some sort of action. Once more they crowded into the station and found the checking desk deserted. Mrs. Forrest shoved their suitcases across the counter and dusted her hands.
"They'll be safe enough here. Our names are on them. That boat won't wait for us forever."
They hurried down to the dock and clambered down a ladder, clinging to their long hampering skirts with one hand and the rungs with the other. Below them the little boat bounced gently.
As the tug nosed off across the bay, Melora and Mrs. Forrest sat in its small cabin, peering through smeary windows. Now they could see the fire clearly and the area it covered was appallingly large. At the foot of Market Street the white tower of the Ferry Building stood up squarely, silhouetted against the smoke and flame behind it.
The tugboat captain said he had some grub aboard and suggested that they'd better eat hearty while they had the chance. They accepted his cold baked beans and rye bread gratefully and ate while they watched the spreading canopy of smoke over the shore. The sun was dimming now in the haze and the smell of the burning grew stronger.
Melora's peaceful imaginings of her family having lunch had faded. She was thankful for the presence of Quong Sam in her father's house. For as long as she could remember he had met emergencies with more presence of mind than anyone except Gran. Once Gran could have been counted on to take charge, but lately she had seemed increasingly frail, and the family had worried about her. How awful if she should now be thrust out on the street, forced into a hurrying, frightened crowd.
There was a sudden flash of light over near Market Street, followed by a puff of white smoke. The clap of the explosion reached them seconds later.
"Something's blown up!" Melora cried.
Mrs. Forrest nodded. "They're dynamiting. If they can clear a path before the fire perhaps they can stop its spread. Don't worry. They won't let it cross Market."
But Melora was frightened. If only they could hurry this boat! Time seemed to be the most important element. She had to get home before the family moved out. If they left, how would she ever find them? Where would they go?
Mrs. Forrest seemed to sense her growing anxiety. "Don't rush ahead in your mind, my dear," she advised. "We can only do one thing at a time."
When they reached Fisherman's Wharf the hills cut off the fire and only the smoke pall gave evidence of its existence. They left the boat to find this part of the city much as it had always been. The lit
tle houses of the Italian folk clung to the steep sides of Telegraph Hill, the homes on Russian Hill looked peaceful and unthreatened.
Mrs. Forrest led the way down the long wharf to shore and looked about purposefully for their next conveyance. She found it in the form of a milk wagon drawn by an aging horse. The weather-beaten driver had apparently been delivering his wares as calmly as if no threat of disaster hung over the city.
Mrs. Forrest ran into the street to hail him and after a few moments of discussion she waved to Melora.
"Come along! Hurry! This man is going to get us as far as Nob Hill. He hasn't had a look at the fire yet himself, so he's willing to take a couple of passengers."
They piled into the wagon and the driver whipped up his horse. In spite of the way the air was shattered now and then by an explosion, all this part of town seemed secure, remote from danger. Only the shingles and broken glass in the street, the occasional chimney bricks gave evidence of the recent earthquake. But as their wagon bumped over cobblestones, the milk cans rattling, they began to meet more throngs of refugees pouring down cross streets carrying everything from bedding to pets. Some people pushed baby carriages and doll carriages—anything on wheels that could be loaded with possessions. Some had even managed to attach wheels to the trunks they dragged or pushed.
Now there was an ominous rain of cinders from smoke clouds overhead. Melora could hear them pattering on the roof of the wagon. There was sifting ash too, smudging their cheeks, leaving sooty streaks on their clothing. Still the horse plodded on through streets where homes stood as usual. The uncertain populace, earthquake-wary, gathered on doorsteps, or on the sidewalk, watching the refugees, calling to them for news, wondering whether to join their flight.
A dozen times men stopped their wagon, tried to bargain with the driver to turn about, take them and their goods in the opposite direction. But Mrs. Forrest's will still prevailed. Melora felt they might make faster progress by getting out and walking. Mrs. Forrest, however, shook her head.
"Wait," she said. "Not yet. There'll be walking enough before we're through."
Then, just below the crest of Nob Hill, a soldier in uniform and tightly wound puttees stopped them and commandeered the wagon, turning them out. In their place he put two old women and several younger women with babies, ordering the driver to turn and head for Golden Gate Park.
Melora was glad enough to be on foot. Now they needn't wait impatiently while the milk wagon struggled against the tide of humanity coming down the streets. The soldier made no attempt to stop them and they hurried on their way.
Nob Hill was black with thousands watching the fire, and more thousands pouring away from it. Now Melora could hear the roar and crackle. The dynamite explosions seemed frighteningly close. Through and around and intermingled with all other sound was the throbbing hum of the throngs. She had never heard anything like it before. It was like the rush of a sea, murmuring and pounding. The sound was made up of many things—of voices and the treading of feet on pavements, of the dragging of trunks and the wails of children, with now and then, strangely enough, the ripple of laughter.
The new Fairmount Hotel, still in the process of being completed, stood at the crest of the hill, its great white mass presiding serenely over lesser establishments. All about were the mansions of the wealthy, built in "bonanza" times when gold and silver lodes were making men wealthy overnight. This was not "old" San Francisco, perhaps, but it was silver-spoon San Francisco. Somehow one could not imagine such vast residences as Mrs. Leland Stanford's house, and the Mark Hopkins Institute of Art next to it, going up in flames. Melora experienced a sense of solid security in passing them on the street. While people stood at the windows of every tower that faced south, there seemed to be no undue alarm. Nob Hill was powerful and safe.
At the top of California Street Melora looked about, listening automatically for something she did not hear. For a moment she could not place the strangeness, and then she knew. The cable slots were still. For the first time since she could remember there was no clattering and chattering in those slots where the cables ran which pulled cars up and down San Francisco's hills.
Mrs. Forrest found her way to a place where she could climb upon a low wall and see the whole city toward the south. Melora clambered up beside her, thinking that Quent Seymour lived only a block or two from this spot, wondering about him for the first time. He'd written her once while she was away. A very proper letter without any reference to the little game they'd been playing. His mother had gone to New York, he said, to visit his sister Gwen until her school was out. So he and his father were rattling around in the Seymour house with nobody but a few servants for company. He'd sounded bored with his father's insurance office, where he had recently gone to work, and he wished Melora would hurry home so they could stir up some excitement around the place.
But as she followed Mrs. Forrest, inching her way along the wall, Melora forgot about Quent or where he might be at this moment. A good section of the town beyond Market showed only smouldering ruin and the smoking skeletons of burned buildings. But down near the Embarcadero along the water front, and in other sections across Market the fire burned furiously.
"The Palace is all right!" Mrs. Forrest cried in a relieved voice. "I knew it would stand!"
Melora sought out the square white building with its dozens of bay windows reflecting the light. It was true that the Palace was untouched, but all too close, flames leaped and roared. You could hear the sound of them clearly.
"I've got to get down there," Mrs. Forrest said and once more there was a tremor in her voice. "Melora, do you think—"
A man on the wall nearby heard her and spoke. "No use trying to get near the Palace, ma'am. They won't let you through the fire lines. That whole section's nothing but history now."
"But what about the Palace water supply?" Mrs. Forrest protested. "I understood— "
He shook his head. "That's been exhausted wetting down the nearest buildings. I was over there earlier. There's no hope—everyone's moved out."
Mrs. Forrest gave a long, shuddering sigh and the feather flags on her hat drooped a little with their burden of soot and cinders.
"I—I'm sorry," Melora said softly.
For a moment or two longer Mrs. Forrest stood on the wall watching the deceptively calm look of bay windows, as yet uncracked, unmelted by fire. Then she got stiffly down from the wall.
"Of course Howard is safe by now and has saved what he can. We'll get together later. For the time being I'd better stay with you, Melora."
Without further words they left the wall and started downhill.
"We'll go straight to your house now," Mrs. Forrest said. "I'll breathe easier once you're reunited with your family."
They walked quickly along, sometimes picking their way over the bricks from a fallen chimney, sometimes skirting a collapsed wall. For the most part the earthquake damage didn't seem too serious. The city would repair itself in no time, if only the fire could be stopped.
There were still moments when the earth jarred and trembled. Then Melora and Mrs. Forrest clung to each other, their hearts pounding. But these quakes were nothing and Mrs. Forrest said they were likely to continue for months until the earth settled into its new creases.
Now, as they neared Melora's neighborhood, it was plain that some of the houses along the way had already been deserted. Other families were standing their ground, unwilling to give up until the fire was upon them. Here and there soldiers stood guard against looting, but the actual fire lines were still close to Market Street.
By the time they reached the Cranbys' block, the air was hot with the smell of burning. Every breath of wind carried stinging cinders. Constantly Melora dusted her clothes free of white ash and fine black particles.
They hurried down the block, anxiety lending speed to their steps. There was no telling how long it would be before the fire leaped across the protection of Market Street and exploded in this direction, sweeping everything be
fore it.
Melora could see her own house now, her own front door. The sense of relief made her feel almost limp for a moment. Until now there had been an unspoken dread at the back of her mind. But little outward damage was apparent. The windows were open and she took further heart from that. Surely it meant the family was still home.
"You go up to the front door and see what's what," Mrs. Forrest said. "One of us needs to stay outside to keep an eye on the fire. If your family's gone, Melora, come right out."
Melora nodded and hurried toward the steps. A soldier crossed the street and called to her.
"Where're you going. Miss?"
She turned, hoping he wasn't going to stop her.
This is where I live. The windows are open, so the family must still be inside."
"Doesn't mean a thing. Miss," the soldier said. "Windows are left open by orders because of the blasting. They'd all blow out otherwise and make that much more flying glass. Anyway I think everyone's out of that house."
"May I go in anyway?" Melora pleaded. "There's —there's something I want to save." If the family had left, she must make sure that the statue of Kwan Yin from her father's study had gone with them.
Evidently he'd decided that she wasn't a looter because he grinned and stepped out of her way. She waited for no more, but gathered up her heavy broadcloth skirt and ran up the steep flight of steps from the sidewalk. At the turn she looked back and saw that Mrs. Forrest was talking to the soldier and not even looking her way. She covered the remaining steps and, finding the door ajar, slipped through into the dim hall.
THE GOLDEN FACE OF RWAN YIN
The house was utterly quiet. The quiet of desertion. Broken glass from a hall mirror crunched under her feet. The newel post was tilted at an odd angle. She held her breath, listening, but there were only the creaking sounds of emptiness.
The fire and the gold Page 2
