He set his load down. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
Soon a line formed. I continued to hand out food and drink to an assortment of people fleeing the fires: a woman carrying her new spring hat in a band-box, while her servants carried her trunks behind her; several painted ladies; and an Italian vegetable peddler with his entire family—dozens of them. Every one of them appeared extremely overweight until I realized they wore all their clothes in layers. Easier than trying to carry them. Newlyweds, quite cheerful, stopped next, the husband exclaiming that this was a honeymoon never to be forgotten. I felt more connected to these people, more a part of the city, than I had at any time since moving here.
Two couples still dressed in opera attire asked for a drink. Th e men wore tuxedos, but incongruously the stout one’s feet were clad in bedroom slippers. One of the women was wrapped in gold lamé; the other, in a pearl-encrusted cape. They seemed in good spirits, chatting about Caruso and how there’d never be another Carmen like the one they’d seen the night before. “Not in our opera house anyway,” the pearl-encrusted lady said. “Did you know it’s on fire?” she asked.
“No.” I looked anxiously at the smoke-filled sky. A great boom reverberated somewhere at a distance from us, south of town. What was happening now?
“Yes, indeed, and City Hall collapsed as if it were made from playing cards,” the one in gold said.
“The walls were stuffed with newspaper,” a tall fellow added. “Saw it with my own eyes. Newspaper! Heads will fall over that, I can tell you.”
Two horses clopped by, hauling a wagon loaded with a grand piano, and a man banged on the keyboard and sang, “It’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight.” The opera refugees laughed. One shouted, “That’s the spirit!”
“Rosella,” Mindy Kenneson called out from a mule-drawn wagon. Her father held the reins. “Nellie told us you’d headed this way. We came over to check on you. Whole city’s on fire! Come on.”
The pearl-caped woman waved. “Ta-ta!”
Mr. Kenneson helped me up into the seat. Once I was settled, he put Ben’s toy wagon and what was left of its contents in the back. A strong aftershock rattled my nerves all over again as the wagon jittered and the mules brayed their fear. Mr. Kenneson did his best to steady the poor beasts. Bricks tumbled from a house across the street. Supports on a porch collapsed. And then, the ground stilled again—temporarily. I tried to steel my nerves against the shocks I knew to come.
“Where’d you get the rig?” I asked. I had never seen Mindy’s father so disheveled. He always dressed impeccably. Even his mustache looked unkempt, unwaxed, as was his custom.
Mr. Kenneson snapped the reins. “Volunteered as an emergency policeman, and we’re commandeering every available transport.”
“What are the booms I keep hearing?”
“Gas mains exploding. They say they have shut down the gas supply to the city, but the lines keep exploding. Dozens of burn victims, heard some died.”
I shuddered. Burn victims. Like Jack. I shuddered again—and began to cough. The air, so thick with smoke, made breathing difficult. I held a handkerchief over the lower part of my face.
“We’re going to pick up bedding from buildings nearest the fires and take them to the hospital they’re setting up at the Mechanics’ Pavilion. Mindy insists on coming with me.”
“I want to help, too.”
“I’d feel better if you young ladies stayed somewhere safe, but if you insist.”
Safe? An illusion. There was no safety—anywhere. “I appreciate your concern, but I can make beds up as well as anyone. I can clean a wound. I want to be useful.”
Seeing he couldn’t win the argument, Mr. Kenneson turned the rig around and drove it to within a block of burning buildings on Powell Street. We filled the wagon with mattresses and linens. I noticed a cistern behind the building and filled several containers Mr. Kenneson had brought along with water. We dropped off our load at the makeshift hospital.
“Thank God you brought water,” a nurse said.
Next they sent us out to procure groceries. At the first store we happened upon, angry customers clustered outside. I approached a woman with a bandana wrapped around her head to keep off the cinders. “What’s going on here?”
“Fifty cents he charged for this bread—it’s robbery, that’s what it is!” Others around her shouted agreement. Two soldiers, bayonets drawn, barked orders and parted the crowd to enter the store.
Less than a minute later they emerged, one soldier holding the grocer by the scruff of the neck, the other poking the fellow’s ribs with the bayonet. The mob fought their way into the store and plundered the shelves.
Tight-lipped, Mr. Kenneson tried to steer us toward the wagon. “Let’s try another store. We don’t want to get in the middle of those folks.”
The soldiers pushed the grocer down the alley beside the store. I stepped tentatively, toward them, drawn yet repelled by the tense drama. “But what are they—”
Two shots resounded. Instinctively Mindy and I jumped backward. The grocer bucked against the brick wall of his store. As blood seeped through his apron front, I could feel my own blood draining from my head. I staggered, woozy, as he slid to the ground. Mr. Kenneson gripped one of my elbows. He had his arm around Mindy’s waist and almost carried her to the wagon.
This couldn’t be happening. Not in the United States of America. “They can’t do that,” I whispered.
Mindy’s father helped us into the wagon. “The mayor issued a proclamation this morning. No price gouging. No looters. Violators will be shot.” The wagon moved on. “Shall I take you girls home now?”
Mindy’s chin came up. “No.”
I felt lost in a nightmare and would have liked nothing more than to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. It was so tempting, but I would never forgive myself if my courage failed when my neighbors needed me most. I shifted my shoulders back and adjusted the gathers of my skirt. “Let’s find another grocery.”
We delivered two wagonloads of supplies to the hospital before Mr. Kenneson received word that the fire had marched through the Emporium and was headed toward the Mint.
He whipped the wagon around toward Market Street. “I have to go. We have to save the Mint.”
At the corner of Market and Powell, soldiers stopped them. One recognized Mr. Kenneson and let him through the barricade on foot.
Reins now in hand, Mindy shouted, “Papa, be careful, please.”
He tipped his hat and bowed slightly. “You girls do the same.”
We entered the hospital and went to work.
~~~
Someone kept calling my name. An unwelcome intrusion. Go away, I wanted to say. But then I’d have to wake up, something I was trying to avoid. A catnap—that’s all I wanted. I’d been on my feet since the first tremors. I’d helped move over three hundred patients and supplies out of the Mechanics Pavilion when it caught fire. I made beds, washed the dead, cleansed wounds, secured and prepared food for the injured and the medical staff. I deserved a nap.
“Ro.”
All right. All right. My eyelids raised halfway and I jerked my neck upright, kneading it with my fingers. It ached abominably.
Val had squatted down beside me. Soot begrimed his face and his clothes reeked of smoke. “Sorry to disturb you.”
I pushed a loose hank of hair back from my cheek. I must look a sight. To sleep, I had found the only unoccupied space, a tiny corner of the hospital floor, where I had slouched against the wall. “What time is it?”
“Near eleven.”
I tried to focus, to pull sense from his words. “Eleven when?”
“Eleven o’clock Thursday night. The earthquake was yesterday morning.”
“What news?”
“Nothing good. A broken water main flooded Valencia Street and three whole stories of the hotel sank into the old marsh. Everyone drowned. Hundreds of people.”
“Dear God!”
“I wouldn’t ha
ve disturbed you, but fire is creeping up Russian Hill. I want to take you and Mindy home so you can rescue some belongings. Mr. Kenneson has already fetched his wife, Nellie and Little Cuss. I promised him I would bring you and Mindy.”
Home. Yes. The house that Jack built.
Slowly I rose and brushed off my skirt. “The Mint—did they save it?”
His teeth shone white against the grime of his face. “They did. Every building surrounding it is gone. Everywhere you turn in the city, it’s utter devastation, but the men watered the Mint down from the inside and saved her. She stands.”
“Your father—he is all right?”
“He is. He took charge of the men who saved the Mint. You can’t imagine how important She’ll be to rebuilding the city.”
I would stay. Long enough to help my neighbors and nurse the injured. Long enough to get started with the rebuilding. Afterward, I thought I would go back to West Virginia. I missed those gentle rolling hills. I’d heard the postal service would accept letters at all the refugee camps the next day. My family would be so worried. I would get word to Timmy somehow, even if I had to write my message with ashes on a remnant of my petticoat.
The night sky glowed an eerie orange, the air clotted thick with smoke that stung my throat. We rode in an Oldsmobile, a vehicle Val had commandeered. I made a mental list of the things I wanted to take. The framed photo of Ben, my sketchbooks, the afghan Nellie gave me as a wedding gift, a change of clothing, water, food, my favorite teacup—one Nellie had given me. The cash box Jack insisted we keep in the chiffarobe for emergencies like earthquakes. Another boom shook the ground. Dynamite. Soldiers were blowing up houses and buildings, whole blocks of them, trying to create a firewall. They’d been blowing things up since yesterday afternoon. One boom after another.
“The dynamite doesn’t seem to be doing much good,” I said.
Val turned left to avoid soldiers blocking the road ahead. “It isn’t. I tried to tell General Funston’s aide they shouldn’t be using black gunpowder. The sparks are only setting more fires.”
“What did he say?”
Val lowered his pitch and mustered an uncharacteristic sternness. “He said, ‘Sir, what exactly are your qualifications to contradict the army’s dynamite expert?’ And I said no particular qualifications were required, other than common sense and sobriety. Why, the fellow they have directing the dynamite operation is so inebriated he can barely stand up.”
Nothing could surprise me anymore. Val turned right at the next intersection and ran into another blockade. “I’ll talk to them.”
He argued with the young soldiers and flashed his medical pass. No luck.
He returned. “Come on then. We’ll have to walk in.”
On foot we worked our way around the blockades. Mr. Gray stood in his front yard. His wife, he said, was inside collecting her treasures. “I’ll warn you if the soldiers come this way or if I hear talk of dynamiting.”
I thanked him. “Austin? You found him?”
“Safe and sound, though the bank where he worked is gone.”
I smiled. “That’s good news about Austin indeed.” I walked slowly across the road to my home, absorbing the details: the arched brick supports for the front porch, the square windows, the clay-tile roof. Jack had built a fine house and selected beautiful furnishings for it. Now they would all disappear. It seemed nothing in life was permanent. Nothing stayed the same.
Quickly I gathered my precious keepsakes and belongings and tied them up inside a sheet, hobo-style. Val raided the pantry for food, piled it in a deep drawer he pulled out of a chiffarobe. He looped a belt through the slot in the front of the drawer. From torn linens he fashioned a harness. We joined the Grays and other neighbors drifting up the street. It was an exodus, just like in the Bible. Val hauled the food up the hill, and I trudged behind. Halfway up, it dawned on me that Val didn’t have a change of clothes.
He tugged on the harness, which had shifted to one side. “Afraid they burned up while I was putting out the fire at the Mint. My cello, too.”
Mr. Gray overheard. “Son, I can’t replace your cello, but run back down the hill. My bedroom’s on the second floor, first room on the right. You’re about my size. Take anything you want.”
The Kennesons, Nellie, and Little Cuss waved to us from the top of the hill. The Grays and I joined them to wait for Val. He returned in fresh clothing with spare clothes wrapped in a sheet. The pants revealed two inches of Val’s socks and the jacket revealed wrists, but so what? I could alter them for him—if I could find a needle and thread.
By now orange and golden flames licked the walls of the house beside the Grays’. The heat warmed my face and sweat rose on my brow, yet we seemed to have reached a tacit agreement. We would stay and watch our homes burn.
“I almost forgot.” Val dug in the pocket of his jacket—Mr. Gray’s jacket—and took out a handful of Tootsie Rolls.
I burst out laughing. “Where did you find those?”
“I can tell you,” Mrs. Gray said. “The dish on my dining room table.”
After Val distributed the chocolate, he pulled a bottle from his other pocket. “That’s not all I found.”
Mr. Gray slapped Val’s back. “Good man!” He took a swig.
Mrs. Gray coughed. “These ashes are mighty irritating to the throat. I believe I’ll have a sip for medicinal purposes. No sense asking for a cold.”
My father and brothers drank moonshine, but I had never tasted hard liquor. If ever there was a time for new experiences, a time to stick together, this was it. I asked for the bottle and took a small sip and choked. Everyone laughed. I had to cover my mouth to keep from spewing it out. What awful stuff! And then I was laughing with them, and it seemed so strange and yet so right to laugh while fire approached first the Grays’ home and then my own. Nellie’s and the Kennesons’ were already gone.
As fire engulfed the walls, the roofs, and furnishings with its terrible roar, we watched in silence. We breathed in the smoke. We shed no tears.
Val was the first to speak. “We’ll be safe at the Presidio.” He referred to Fort Mason, about ten blocks away.
Safe. There was that word again. As if safety was something we could control. With our few belongings, we survivors moved on.
June 27, 1906
Val Martin heaved the door upright and I steadied it while he guided the hinges into place and secured them with pins.
I stood back to admire the handiwork and laughed, hands on my hips. “I’ll feel like a queen, having a door instead of a tent flap to call my own.”
I figured I was more useful than most queens, doing my best to be a helpful resource to everyone in the Golden Gate tent city. If my ailing neighbor needed a cup of tea, I scoured the countryside for herbs and brewed a pot. I knew how to find wild chicory to make a substitute coffee. Every day I cooked massive amounts of food for the displaced citizenry. When I saw the children weren’t learning to read, I found primers and taught them. They learned their letters by writing with sticks in the dirt until I could obtain better supplies. Eventually, I organized makeshift classrooms for the children. I took Little Cuss on visits to the hospital where he cheered patients by tilting his head from side to side and wagging his tail. He had gotten quite plump from successful begging.
A girl had come to San Francisco, but a woman emerged from the earthquake. All the energy suppressed by grieving had accumulated and was pouring out in every direction at once.
Thousands had evacuated to other cities, but Val, Nellie and I chose to stay. Right after the quake, the Bank of Little Italy gave out loans to refugees when none of the other banks could open their vaults—they were too hot. I wondered what Alexandra Underwood thought of Italians after hearing about that.
The time I spent in the shack was the happiest I’d been since Ben died. I felt connected to everyone, a vitally important piece of the community. In the tent city, rich and poor, immigrant and blue-blood, mingled. There I discovered neither money
nor position had anything to do with character. Despite the losses people endured, few whined or cried or bemoaned their fate. I felt shamed by their strength and vowed never to allow myself to sink into self-pity again.
I had been pounding nails into walls since early in the morning, both in my own new shanty and a neighbor’s. Around noon, I took a break. To my surprise, a letter awaited me, a missive from Timmy that set me yearning to return home to the hills where I’d grown up.
June 1906
Dear Ro,
You will hardly know Father when you come home. Sometimes I hardly recognize him myself and I have witnessed his decline. One side of his face droops and it takes near to forever for him to spit out a word. Not that he was ever much a one for words cepting behind a pulpit, but now even less so. His energy is jest gone. I fear Martha abuses him with near constant fussing. Time hasn’t softened her atall.
We are very proud of the way you’re helping those children in the tent camps. Seeing those sweet smiles every day must be very rewarding. Thank you for sending the newspaper photographs. Now that much of the rebuilding is done, perhaps you can find your way back to us.
I have been walking out with Ava Wallace after church on Sundays.
Josiah and Pauline took an anniversary trip to Chicago. The gowns, the traffic, and the entertainment up there are all she can talk about. I think she’d move to the city if Josie would agree.
We do hope you’ll come for a visit soon. Better yet— move back. Family doesn’t hold you to San Francisco any longer, and we miss you terribly.
Much love, Timmy (Still your favorite brother)
~~~
Little Timmy was too young to walk out with a girl, and I couldn’t wait to tell him so. How I missed him! I put the letter aside. If only I could go home for a visit. But I had to wait for the insurance money for the house. With that check in hand, I could go east as an independent woman. A woman who could take care of her own needs, beholden to no one.
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