The day passed. Neither I nor any other can remember all the details
which marked the hours of suspense. It is to be presumed that others
like myself found various, and what then appeared to them to be
tremendous, things to claim their attention and then--the second day!
The fire had now reached Van Ness avenue and again came the messengers
on horseback who shouted in passing that everyone must move. My home was
on Vallejo street about five blocks beyond Van Ness and it was generally
believed that inasmuch as that street was one hundred and twenty feet
wide that it would form a fire break which could not be crossed.
Backfiring had already been started to meet the oncoming conflagration,
but everything, including the elements, seemed to favor destruction and,
as time passed, the worry and fear increased. Owing to inability to
combat the fire, through the lack of water, doubt began to creep in as
to whether the width of Van Ness avenue and the puny attempts at fire
fighting would check the march of the flames.
About this time the question dawned upon myself and neighbors as to what
we should do with the more precious of our personal belongings. Mr.
Joseph Weisbein, a friendly neighbor, since dead, and myself evolved a
scheme to bury our belongings in the garden at the rear of my house. We
assembled four trunks, packed these with silverware and wearing apparel,
and some of the hardest physical work I have ever done was in burying
these trunks, digging the hole with a worn out shovel and a broken
spade. Then, with the help of our Chinese cook, I brought out of the
cellar a baby's buggy which had lain forgotten and unused for several
years. We loaded it with bedding and other things and trundled it down
the hill to Lobos Park near the bay shore. Trip after trip we made
before we decided that we had all that was necessary or, rather,
absolutely needful for a camp existence. The next question was shelter.
After prowling around the partially quake-wrecked gas works, I found
some pieces of timber out of which I constructed a sort of framework for
a large A tent. I borrowed a hatchet from another refugee, a stranger in
adversity. The disaster had broken down the barriers of formality and we
all lent a willing hand each to the other. I secured some spare rope and
got up my framework. This was covered to windward with some Indian
blankets sewn together by those we were trying to make comfortable.
Under that hastily erected rude shelter nineteen people slept on
mattresses that night. I did not have the good fortune to sleep. Sleep
would not come to "knit up the ravelled sleeve of care," and through the
long hours I watched the intermittent flashes, heard the noises and in
the darkness went through the added suffering of overstrained nerves.
A neighbor, J. F. D. Curtis, since dead, but at that time and for years
after the manager of the "Providence Washington Insurance Company,"
passed the silent watches of the night with me, each of us smoking
ourselves blind and watching--talking but little, although thinking
and feeling a whole lot. We were a mile from the fire, nevertheless it
was so light that a newspaper could easily have been read by its glow
from the time when the sun set on the ruins to the hour when it rose on
the next day of horror. Curtis, turning and pointing to the flaming
city, inquired in quiet tones if the California Insurance Company could
pay the bill. I replied that as a stockholder in the company, I felt
that I was ruined and I feared that the company would "go broke." He
stated that he believed the Providence Washington would weather the
storm and if the worst came to the worst with me, he would like to have
me join him in the management of the company he represented. It was a
ray of sunshine. It was a beacon of hope. It was like a life buoy thrown
to a drowning man, and I shall never forget the encouragement that came
with his offer nor the gratitude I felt, and, although subsequent events
have shown that my first fears were wrong, my gratitude endures to this
day.
The night passed and while we were eating a cold breakfast, principally
composed of sandwiches, the man on horseback arrived again; this time,
however, with the glad tidings that the fire had been stopped at Van
Ness avenue and we could return to our homes. It was afterward learned
that the salvaging of the section of the city beyond Van Ness avenue was
due to the excellent work done by two salt water streams pumped from the
bay by tugs stationed at the foot of Van Ness avenue and carried along
by relays of fire engines. So intense and so furious was the fire that
while one set of firemen, their heads covered with blankets, held the
hose, the second stream was used to drench them, also the engine.
Further proof of the fierce and terrific heat was shown in the
circumstance that houses one hundred and twenty-five to one hundred and
thirty-five feet across the avenue had windows cracked and paint
blistered. The last grand heroic stand of the fire fighters was made at
the corner of Van Ness avenue and Vallejo streets.
A man was found with a wagon to cart our things back to the house and,
while we did not have much worldly wealth in our clothes, we were
prepared to pay liberally. Under the circumstances, when his modest
charge of two dollars was met we felt that he had earned it many times
and in addition, our gratitude. Arriving at the residence, we found the
sidewalks and the street in front of it three inches thick with ashes
and cinders. Now came the task of unearthing the trunks and with it came
the thought that had this section been entirely burned how difficult it
might have been to locate the place where they had been buried.
Necessity for action and to be up and doing was too strong, however, to
allow time for any such conjectures. There was too much going on to
dwell on post-mortems. That night the streets were patrolled by marines
from United States warships in the harbor, whom the government had
hurried to the scene of action with all promptness possible.
No lights nor fires were permitted in houses. It was either retire at
sundown or retire in the dark. Whatever water was needed had to be
carried from the nearest well and even after the mains had been restored
to normal efficiency this practice was continued for fear that the
possibly broken sewers might contaminate or pollute the water. No fires
nor cooking were permitted in any building until every chimney and flue
had been passed upon by the authorities.
In order to obtain water it was necessary first to procure buckets, then
carry it from an old well in Lafayette Square, some dozen blocks away.
Baths were forgotten and shaving was a luxury. It entailed severe labor
to secure water with which to prepare the necessities of life and to
maintain a reasonable degree of personal cleanliness. In common with
every other citizen our stove was placed on the curb and this was our
kitchen and dining room for over six weeks. As there was no oven, baking
and roasting had to be dispensed with, boiling and frying being the
established fashion.
The second day after the fire, a food station was opened across the
street in an old carriage house which belonged to Mr. J. L. Flood. Here
lines would form to receive rations, the millionaire rubbing shoulders
with the laborer. The panhandler got as much as the plutocrat. The
disaster leveled all classes. A million dollars in one's pocket would
have been of little use. Nothing could be bought with it and it could
not serve as either food or drink.