IT WAS but a few seconds until Roderick was again on his feet Hurriedly
taking his bearings, he started off through the little park in the
direction of the Palace Hotel. In the uncertain morning dawn the
people from innumerable bedrooms above the stores were pouring into the
streets. They were scantily attired, most of them simply in their night
garments, and all were dazed and stunned with a terrible fright Before
Roderick had reached Market Street the thoroughfare was almost blocked
by this frantic and half-clothed mass of humanity. His powerful athletic
frame and his football experience stood him in good stead, although
here roughness had to be exchanged for greatest gentleness. He was very
persistent, however, in his determination to reach the hotel in time if
possible to be of assistance to Gail.
Less than ten feet in front of where he was crowding his way through
the throng of people a portion of a cornice came tumbling down from
far above. A wailing cry went up from the unfortunates pinned beneath.
Roderick leaped quickly forward and with the strength of a Hercules
began to heave aside the great blocks of stone. Others recognized his
leadership, instantly obeyed his commands and lent their united strength
in helping to release three men who had been caught under debris. The
cries of the injured were piteous. Indifferent to the danger of falling
bricks and mortar Roderick caught up one poor fellow in his arms and
carried him as if he were a babe into a receding doorway.
“My legs, my legs,” the victim moaned. “They’re
broken—they’re broken.”
Quickly removing his coat Roderick placed it beneath the man’s head
for a pillow, and leaving others to guard, he hastened back to the scene
of the tragedy, only to find that the spark of life had now gone out
from the other two bodies pitifully maimed and crushed.
He pushed his way into the middle of the street amid the surging mob,
and again turned his steps toward the Palace Hotel. At last he found
himself near to the entrance of the great hostelry. But everyone was
seeking to escape and rushing to the street in riotous disorder. By dint
of indefatigable efforts he managed to get within the gateway and then
to the large trysting room across the hall from the hotel office. A
group of women were endeavoring to revive a poor sufferer who evidently
had fainted. Approaching, he saw blood coursing down the fair face of
the unfortunate.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “It is Gail.”
An instant later he had gently pushed the helpers aside and gathered
the girl in his strong arms. Moving backwards, forcing a passage step by
step with the determination of one who acts intuitively in a crisis,
he managed to gain the open. He hoped the air would restore Gail to
consciousness.
Crossing to the other side of the street where the throng was less dense
he started toward a high hill that rose up far away. It was covered
with residences, and if he could once reach that vantage point with his
charge he felt sure it would be an asylum of safety. The distance was
considerable and presently the way became steep. But he was unconscious
of any weight in the burden he carried. His only thought was to get Gail
away from the burning, falling buildings—away from the central part of
the city which was now a fiery pit wrapped in sheets of devouring flame.
Finally attaining the eminence—it was Nob Hill although he did not
know the name—he found the porches and front lawns of the beautiful
houses filled with frightened people viewing the scene in awe and
amazement. Formalities were forgotten; solicitude and helpful kindness
reigned supreme among all the people of the stricken city.
He called to a little group huddled on the front porch of their home.
“Here is a lady,” Roderick explained, “who has been injured and
fainted. Will you please get water and help to revive her?”
In hurried eagerness to assist they quickly brought a cot to the porch
and upon this Roderick gently placed the still unconscious girl. Her
face was deathly white, and a great red gash was discovered across one
side of her head, from which the blood was trickling down the marble
cheek. The wound was bandaged by tender hands and the face laved with
cooling water. After a little Gail opened her eyes and asked piteously:
“Where am I? Where am I?”
“You are safe,” said Roderick as he knelt by her side.
“Oh, is it you, Mr. Warfield? How glad—how glad I am to see you.
Where am I?”
“In San Francisco. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, yes, I remember now,” she replied weakly and lifted one hand
to her aching head. “But papa?—where is my father?”
“I am going to look for him now. You are with kind people and they
will care for you. Rest quietly and be patient until I return.”
Her dark blue eyes looked helplessly up into his for a moment; then he
turned and was gone.
Roderick rushed down the hill, back to the scene of devastation where
he might be useful in helping to save human life, determined also in
his heart to find General Holden. But where was he? In some hospital, as
Gail’s telegram had told.
He was debating with himself whether he should return to seek some
directions from Gail. But just then the surging, swaying crowd pushed
him irresistibly back, then swept him away along Market Street. The
Palace Hotel was on fire. Policemen and firemen were thrusting the
people away from the known danger line.
Just then he heard a voice crying out in heart-rending anguish: “My
little girl’, my little girl.” It was a frantic mother weeping and
looking far up to the seventh story of a building she evidently had just
left. There leaning out of a window was a curly haired tot of a child,
perhaps not more than four years old, laughing and throwing kisses
toward her mama, all unconscious of danger.
“I came down,” sobbed the weeping mother to those around, “to see
what had happened. The stairway is now on fire, and I cannot return.
Will no one, oh Lord, will no one save my little girl?”
Roderick looked up to where the woman was pointing and saw the child.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “smoke is coming out of the next
window.” He noticed that the adjoining building was already a mass of
fire. At a glance he took in the situation.
“Hold on a minute,” he shouted. “I will try.”
There was an outside fire escape that led from the top story down to
the first floor. Roderick made a leap, caught hold of the awning braces,
pulled himself up with muscles of steel, and grasped the lowermost rung
of the escape. A moment later he was making his way up the narrow
iron ladder, pushing through the aperture at each floor, with almost
superhuman swiftness. When he reached the window he lifted the child in
his arms and hastily started on the downward journey.
“Hold tight, little girl,” was all Roderick said as he felt the
confiding clasp of her tiny arms about his neck.
Many of the people below besides the almost frenzied mother were
watching the heroic deed with bated breath. Just then a cry of terror
went up. The great wall of a burning building across the street was
toppling outward and a moment later collapsed, burying many unhappy
victims beneath the avalanche of broken brick and mortar.
Whether the little girl’s mother had been caught by the falling wall
or not Roderick had no means of determining. A choking cloud of dust,
ash, soot and smoke enveloped him in stifling darkness; he could hardly
breathe. The very air was heated and suffocating. But down and down he
went with his little burden clinging tightly to him. Arriving at the
awnings he swung himself over, secured a momentary foothold, then
grasped the braces with his hands and dropped to the littered sidewalk
below.
The mother of the girl was nowhere to be seen. He turned down the street
to get away from the horrible sight of the dead and the piteous cries of
the dying. He had scarcely reached the next corner when the child, who
was mutely clinging to him as if indeed she knew he was her savior,
released her arms and called out gleefully: “Oh, there’s mama, mama,
mama.” Then the mother stood before him, weeping now for joy, and
through her tears Roderick saw a face of radiance and a smile of
gratitude that time or eternity would never erase from his memory.
Nothing mattered now—her little girl was safe in her arms. “I
don’t know who you are, sir,” she exclaimed, “but I owe to you the
life of my child, and may the good God bless you.”
But this was no time for thanks. Roderick was looking upward.
“Come quickly,” he shouted, “come this way—hasten.” And he
pulled them down a side street and away from another sky-scraper that
was trembling and wavering as if about to fall.
They turned, and ran along a street that was still free from fire and
led toward the St. Francis Hotel and the little park fronting it where
Roderick had sat at dawn. Carefully he guided the woman’s steps,
keeping to the middle of the street, for the sidewalk was encumbered
with debris and threatened by partly dislodged brickwork above. Here and
there the roadway was rumpled and rough as a washboard by reason of the
earthquake, while at places were great gaping fissures where the earth
had been split open many feet deep. But soon they were in the open
square, and mother and child were safe. Knowing this, Roderick allowed
them to pass on—to pass out of his life without even the asking or the
giving of names.
For there was other work to his hand; he hurried back to the last
crossing. There under the fallen débris, was a woman obviously of
refinement and wealth whose life had been vanquished without warning.
One hand was extended above the wreckage. It was shapely and encircled
with a bracelet, while a single diamond solitaire ring adorned her
finger—perhaps a betrothal ring. Two human ghouls—not men—had
whipped out their ready knives and were in the very act of severing the
finger to obtain the jewel. It was these brutes that Roderick had come
back to face.
Like a flash he leaped forward and with a well directed sledge-hammer
blow felled one of these would-be robbers of the dead. Then he grappled
with the second scoundrel. The man in his grip was none other than the
outlaw, Bud Bledsoe!
With knife already open and in his hand the inhuman wretch slashed
Roderick’s cheek, and the red blood spurted down his face and neck.
Roderick loosed his hold and stepped back a pace—the next gash of this
kind might easily be a fatal one. But not for one instant did he lose
his presence of mind or nerve. As the cowardly miscreant advanced, cruel
murder in his eyes, Roderick by a swift swing of his right parried the
upraised hand that held the knife, and then, seizing the opening, he
delivered with his left a smashing uppercut. Bledsoe reeled for a moment
like a drunken man, then sank to the ground a huddled heap, and finally
rolled over kicking convulsively and quite insensible.
The knockout had been effected quickly and well—like a butcher would
fell a bullock.
Already the devastated city was under martial law, and three or four
soldiers coming hurriedly up just then, and having seen from the
opposite corner the hellish attempt of the two wretches to despoil the
dead, shot them instantly, Bledsoe where he lay writhing, the other as
he staggered dazed-like to his feet.
Roderick wiped the blood from his face, and thanked the soldiers.
“Good for you, young fellow,” cried one of them as they continued on
their way.
His wound forgotten, Roderick again looked round to see where he could
render the most efficient service.
The night came on, and he was still at work, rescuing and helping. He
had been recognized by the Citizens’ Committee of Safety and now wore
a badge that gave him the freedom of the streets. In all his goings
and comings he was ever looking for General Holden, and he also made
numerous trips to Nob Hill, searching for the house where he had left
Gail. But he could never find the place again, for the raging fire was
fast obliterating all guiding landmarks.
Thus for two days—terrible days, pitiful days—for two
nights—terrible nights, pitiful nights—Roderick drifted with the
bands of rescuers, doing deeds of valor and of helpfulness for others
less strong than himself. His face was black with soot and clotted with
blood, his coat he had parted with at the beginning of the disaster,
the rest of his clothing was tattered and torn, his sombrero had
disappeared, when and how he had not the faintest notion.
The fire had now burned out its center circle and was eating away at the
rim in every direction. Roderick suddenly remembered he had tasted no
food since his early breakfast at Tate’s an hour before the earthquake
crash. The pangs of hunger had begun to make themselves felt, and he
concluded to turn his steps toward the outer fire line and endeavor to
find something to eat.
As he walked along from house to house he found them all deserted. Some
of the household goods were scattered about the lawns, while boxes,
trunks, and bulky packages were piled on the sidewalks. Presently he
found a basket which contained a single loaf of bread. This he ate
ravenously, and counted it the greatest feast he had ever had in
his life. He ate as he hurried along, thinking of Gail and General
Holden—wishing he might divide the bread with them.
The roar of consuming, crackling flames, the deep intonations of
intermittent dynamite explosions, and the occasional wail of human
beings in distress, rose and fell like a funeral dirge.
His feet intuitively turned back to the burned district. There might
yet be more work for him to do.
He determined to pick his way across the ruins, and ascending the hill
opposite make another desperate effort to find Gail. After a fatiguing
climb over hot embers and around the twisted steel skeletons of
burned-out buildings he finally stood on the rim of the hill above the
saucer-shaped valley of flames. Only charred and smoking ruins were
about him. The beautiful residential district had like the business
sections below, been swept with the fires of destruction.
Where was Gail? Was she safe? Was she dead? Would he ever find her?
These were some of the questions that kept him in agonizing incertitude.
There was a weird uncanny attraction about this great amphitheatre of
flame—an attraction like that of a lodestone; and he feared lest Gail
had left her refuge in a vain search for her father and met with another
serious accident. Roderick had visited all the unburned hospitals, but
no trace of General Holden had he been able to find. The quest for both
must be resumed; so down the hill he trudged again.
Ashes and burning cinders were falling like huge flakes of snow.
Once more Roderick was in the midst of a throng of people—gaunt and
hollow-eyed, wearied and worn-out, just staggering along. At last he
recognized the little park in front of the St. Francis Hotel. Yes, he
would go there, stretch himself on the grass, and rest and sleep for at
least a few hours. This would make him ill the fitter for his task of
searching.
Just as he was about to cross the street a dozen people shouted for him
to look out; but he did not turn quickly enough to discover nor escape
a burning wooden rafter that fell from the upper story of a building and
struck him an ugly glancing blow on the head. Roderick dropped to the
ground unconscious.
At this very moment a Red Cross automobile was passing. It stopped
abruptly at the sidewalk. Two men stepped quickly down and lifted the
almost lifeless body into the machine. A moment later the auto glided
away down a side street in the direction of Golden Gate Park.
That night there were many in the camps of refuge around the burning
city who thought about the tall, strong-muscled, square-jawed young
stranger in khaki garb, while their hearts welled up with gratitude
for his timely assistance and chivalrous deeds of bravery. Had they
but known of the fate that had at last befallen their nameless hero,
grateful thoughts would have been turned into fervent prayers.