The fire and the gold (2 page)

Outside on the train platform the crowd was increasing and the noise and confusion brought Melora back to the present. The passengers were growing curious and some of the men had left the train to join in the excited talk on the platform. Obviously something unusual had happened.

Once more Mrs. Forrest put her head out the window and spoke to a man running by. "What's happened?" she called. "What's wrong?"

The fellow stopped, breathing hard. "Dunno for sure. Big earthquake, I guess. Looks like the whole bay area around San Francisco's been wiped out."

Mrs. Forrest gasped and sat back in her seat Melora stared at her, shocked, but not really believing.

"Don't let's get excited," Mrs. Forrest said. "San Francisco's had earthquakes before and it's still standing. People always exaggerate. Why, this will just be something to write about in that diary you're always bringing out. Stay right here, dear, I'm going to see what I can learn about what's really happened."

She rose and went down the aisle, the feathers on her large hat waving a little at the swiftness of her passage, her heavy skirt brushing past the seats. Melora pinned her own little sailor hat more securely lest the wind send it soaring, and leaned out the window herself.

The group down the platform seemed to be having a considerable disagreement. Some of the men were shouting and waving at the engineer and he was shouting and waving back. Once Melora caught the word "Fire!" but everyone was making so much noise that it wasn't possible to get any sense out of the talk. She looked around anxiously as Mrs. Forrest returned to her seat. Her calm manner was reassuring.

"There does seem to have been an earthquake in San Francisco early this morning," she said. "Unfortunately communications have broken down. The only news that's coming through is from cities outside the earthquake range. There's a rumor that a fire has started in the city, but I don't think we need to worry about that. Our fire department is one of the best in the country and it will have matters under control by now."

The train gave a jerk that threw them back in their seats, and began to chug its way out of the little station. On the platform the excited throng stood waving them off. Some few newcomers had boarded the train, evidently wanting to go on to the disaster section.

In a few moments the conductor came through and announced that the train would continue to Oakland as scheduled, since there appeared to be no reason not to enter that city.

The remaining time into Oakland seemed to stretch out endlessly. Of course everything would be all right, Melora told herself. It was as Mrs. Forrest said—people were ready to scream murder when someone was pricked by a pin.

They got their suitcases from under the seats, since the porter had his hands full with demands, and lined up in the aisle so they might be among the first to leave the car when the train reached the mole. Glimpses out the windows were both reassuring and troubling. There had, indeed, been an earthquake of some violence. You could see that a number of chimneys were down, and here and there a wall had collapsed. But most of the houses stood with no visible damage, though one could imagine how bric-a-brac must have been flung about within.

As she stood in the aisle behind Mrs. Forrest, clinging to the back of a seat, Melora found herself thinking of her father's third-floor study at home. A long-time Chinese friend of Captain Andrew Cranby had given him a beautiful and valuable statue of the Goddess of Mercy, Kwan Yin. Melora could see the golden-faced statue clearly on its shelf in the study and she hoped the precious porcelain figure had not been damaged.

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.

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 little 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.