The San Francisco calamity by earthquake and fire Part 7

"Oh, I'm in the parlor," said Mary calmly, as she wriggled out of the ma.s.s of plaster and mortar below.

At the handsome residence of Rudolph Spreckels, the wealthy financier, the lawn was riven from end to end in great gashes, while the ornamental Italian rail leading to the imposing entrance was a battered heap. But the family, with a philosophy notable for the occasion, calmly set up housekeeping on the sidewalk, the women seated in armchairs taken from the mansion and wrapped in rugs and coverlets, the silver breakfast service was laid out on the stone coping and their morning meal spread out on the sidewalk. This, scene was repeated at other houses of the wealthy, the families too fearful of another shock to venture within doors.

Another story of much interest in this connection is told. On Friday afternoon, two days and some hours after the scene just narrated, Mrs.

Rudolph Spreckels presented her husband with an heir on the lawn in front of their mansion, while the family were awaiting the coming of the dynamite squad to blow up their magnificent residence. An Irish woman who had been called in to play the part of midwife at a birth elsewhere on Sat.u.r.day, made a pertinent comment after the wee one's eyes were opened to the walls of its tent home.

"G.o.d sends earthquakes and babies," she said, "but He might, in His mercy, cut out sending them both together."

There were many pathetic incidents. Families had been sadly separated in the confusion of the flight. Husbands had lost their wives--wives had lost their husbands, and anxious mothers sought some word of their children--the stories were very much the same. One pretty looking woman in an expensive tailor-made costume badly torn, had lost her little girl.

"I don't think anything has happened to her," said she, hopefully. "She is almost eleven years old, and some one will be sure to take her in and care for her; I only want to know where she is. That is all I care about now."

A well-known young lady of good social position, when asked where she had spent the night, replied: "On a grave."

"I thank G.o.d, I thank Uncle Sam and the people of this nation," said a woman, clad in a red woolen wrapper, seated in front of a tent at the Presidio nursing one child and feeding three others from a board propped on two bricks. "We have lost our home and all we had, but we have never been hungry nor without shelter."

The spirit of '49 was vital in many of the refugees. One man wanted to know whether the fire had reached his home. He was informed that there was not a house standing in that section of the city. He shrugged his shoulders and whistled.

"There's lots of others in the same boat," as he turned away.

"Going to build?" repeated one man, who had lost family and home inside of two hours. "Of course, I am. They tell me that the money in the banks is still all right, and I have some insurance. Fifteen years ago I began with these," showing his hands, "and I guess I'm game to do it over again. Build again, well I wonder."

Among the many pathetic incidents of the disaster was that of a woman who sat at the foot of Van Ness Avenue on the hot sands on the hillside overlooking the bay east of Fort Mason, with four little children, the youngest a girl of three, the eldest a boy of ten years. They were dest.i.tute of water, food and money.

The woman had fled, with her children, from a home in flames in the Mission Street district, and tramped to the bay in the hope of sighting the ship which she said was about due, of which her husband was the captain.

"He would know me anywhere," she said. And she would not move, although a young fellow gallantly offered his tent, back on a vacant lot, in which to shelter her children.

THE GOLDEN GATE CAMP.

In the Golden Gate Park there was the most woefully grotesque camp of sufferers imaginable. There was no caste, no distinction of rich and poor, social lines had been obliterated by the common misfortune, and the late owners of property and wealth were glad to camp by the side of the day laborer. As for shelter, there were a few army tents and some others which afforded a fair degree of comfort, but nine out of ten are the poorest suggestions of tents made out of bedclothes, rugs, raincoats and in some cases of lace curtains. None of the tents or huts has a floor, and it is impossible to see how a large number of women and children can escape the most disastrous physical effects.

The unspeakable chaos that prevailed was apparent in no way more than in the system, or lack of system, of registration and location. At the entrance to Golden Gate Park stands a billboard, twenty feet high and a hundred feet long. Originally it bore the praises of somebody's beer.

Covering this billboard, to a height of ten or twelve feet, were slips of paper, business cards, letter heads and other notices, addressed to "Those interested," "Friends and relatives," or to some individual, telling of the whereabouts of refugees.

One notice read: "Mrs. Rogers will find her husband in Isidora Park, Oakland. W. H. Rogers." Another style was this: "Sue, Harry and Will Sollenberger all safe. Call at No. 250 Twenty-seventh Avenue."

There were thousands of these dramatic notices on this billboard, and one larger than the others read: "Death notices can be left here; get as many as possible."

Another method of finding friends and relatives was by printing notices on vehicles. On the side curtains of a buggy being driven to Golden Gate Park was the following sign: "I am looking for I. E. Hall."

That searchers for lost ones might have the least trouble, all the tents, here known as camps, were tagged with the names or numbers. For instance, one tent of bed quilts carried this sign: "No. 40 Bush Street camp."

Most of the tents were merely named for the family name of the occupants, the former streets number usually being given. But these tent tags told a wonderful story of human nature. A small army tent bore the name, "Camp Thankful," the one next to it was placarded "Camp Glory" and a few feet farther on an Irishman had posted the sign "Camp h.e.l.l."

The cooking was all done on a dozen bricks for a stove, with such utensils as may usually be picked up in the ordinary residential alley.

But in all of the camps the badge of the eternal feminine was to be found in the form of small pieces of broken mirrors, or hand mirrors fastened to trees or tent walls, in some cases the polished bottom of a tomato can serving the purposes of the feminine toilet.

One woman, in whose improvised tent screeched a parrot, sat ministering to the wounds of the other family pet, a badly singed cat. The number of canaries, parrots, dogs and cats was one of the amusing features of the disaster.

Among the interesting and thrilling incidents of the disaster is that connected with the telegraph service. For many hours virtually all the news from San Francisco came over the wires of the Postal Telegraph Company. The Postal has about fifteen wires running into San Francisco.

They go under the bay in cables from Oakland, and thence run underground for several blocks down Market Street to the Postal building. About forty operators are employed to handle the business, but evidently there was only about one on duty when the earthquake began.

What became of him n.o.body knows. But he seems to have sent the first word of the disaster. It came over the Postal wires about nine o'clock, just when the day's business had started in the East. It will long be preserved in the records of the company. This was the dispatch:

"There was an earthquake hit us at 5.13 this morning, wrecking several buildings and wrecking our offices. They are carting dead from the fallen buildings. Fire all over town. There is no water and we lost our power. I'm going to get out of office, as we have had a little shake every few minutes, and it's me for the simple life."

"R., San Francisco, 5.50 A. M."

"Mr. R." evidently got out, for there was nothing doing for a brief interval after that. The operator in the East pounded and pounded at his key, but San Francisco was silent. The Postal people were wondering if it was all the dream of some crazy operator or a calamity, when the wire woke up again. It was the superintendent of the San Francisco force this time.

"We're on the job, and are going to try and stick," was the way the first message came from him.

This was what came over the wire a little later:

"Terrific earthquake occurred here at 5.13 this morning. A number of people were killed in the city. None of the Postal people were killed.

They are now carting the dead from the fallen buildings. There are many fires, with no one to fight them. Postal building roof wrecked, but not entire building."

The fire got nearer and nearer to the Postal building. All of the water mains had been destroyed around the building, the operators said, and there was no hope if the fire came on. They also said that they could hear the sound of dynamite blowing up buildings. All this time the operators were sticking to their posts and sending and receiving all the business the wires could stand. At 12.45 the wire began to click again with a message for the little group of waiting officials.

This message came in jerks: "Fire still coming up Market Street. It's one block from the Post Office now; back of the Palace Hotel is a furnace. I am afraid that the Grand Hotel and the Palace Hotel will get it soon. The Southern Pacific offices on California Street are safe, so far, but can't tell what will happen. California Street is on fire.

Almost everything east of Montgomery Street and north of Market Street is on fire now."

There was a pause, then: "We are beginning to pack up our instruments."

"Instruments are all packed up, and we are ready to run," was another message. It was evident that just one instrument had been left connected with the world outside. In about ten minutes it began to click. Those who knew the telegraphers' language caught the word "Good-bye," and then the ticks stopped.

At the end of an hour the instrument in the office began to click again.

It was from an electrician by the name of Swain.

"I'm back in the building, but they are dynamiting the building next door, and I've got to get out," was the way his message was translated.

Dynamite ended the story, and the Postal's domicile in San Francisco ceased to exist.

CHAPTER VI.

Facing Famine and Praying for Relief.

Frightful was the emergency of the vast host of fugitives who fled in terror from the blazing city of San Francisco to the open gates of Golden Gate Park and the military reservation of the Presidio. Food was wanting, scarcely any water was to be had, death by hunger and thirst threatened more than a quarter million of souls thus driven without warning from their comfortable and happy homes and left without food or shelter. Provisions, shelter tents, means of relief of various kinds were being hurried forward in all haste, but for several days the host of fugitives had no beds but the bare ground, no shelter but the open heavens, scarcely a crumb of bread to eat, scarcely a gill of water to drink. Those first days that followed the disaster were days of horror and dread. Rich and poor were mingled together, the delicately reared with the rough sons of toil to whom privation was no new experience.

Those who had food to sell sought to take advantage of the necessities of the suffering by charging famine prices for their supplies, but the soldiers put a quick stop to this. When Thursday morning broke, lines of buyers formed before the stores whose supplies had not been commandeered. In one of these, the first man was charged 75 cents for a loaf of bread. The corporal in charge at that point brought his gun down with a slam.

"Bread is 10 cents a loaf in this shop," he said.