The Great Fury

by RhodesTer on April 18, 2010

in NOT Humor/Satire, San Francisco, The BEST of tRc

April 18th, 1906

As I put my pen to paper and write, I fear that the shaking of my hand shall render all illegible, for it will not abate. One could hardly blame me for it was less than two hours ago that I lost all, and not just myself, but many around me. The flames still leap in testament of the destruction that has ensued this Wednesday morning from the shaking of the earth under our very feet, and I expect they too shall go on unabated for days to come.

We came to this great city just over two months ago, my love and I, crossing over on a ferry and stepping foot onto the dock at exactly six in the evening.

San Francisco Ferry Building 1905

I still hear the clock tower of the ferry building chiming a welcome to us as the brisk wind of February tugged at our coats and threatened to blow our hats into San Francisco bay. It was as if the city were playfully teasing us with a joyful ceremony in which nature herself took part. We’d arrived at last, and the wind opened its very arms to embrace us with cool, chilly kisses.

We hired a carriage upon arrival and went looking for a proper hotel. Not too expensive, but one free of miscreants and the like, or at least as free of them as can be for the price range we sought. We happened onto the Hotel Marybelle and have been ever since. That is, until this morning.

I’ve been trying to get on with the paper and working on a book in my spare time. She was helping out at the hotel with finances and expense reports, a task which lowered our rent. We didn’t expect to meet such amiable hosts as our current hotel owners and feel lucky that divinity steered us in their direction. Our savings amount to only so much and they agreed to help us by letting us help them.

It may seem silly to some that we came here with only dreams in our heads and no plans in our pockets, but what do they know? We’ve long since considered this place our home and always had intent to return, but it wasn’t until late 1905 that it even became a possibility. I was here years before, serving on a merchant vessel as a yeoman, but I gave up the seafaring life upon meeting her. We both hailed from different parts of California so it was no surprise to me to discover that she had visited the city on frequent occasion during childhood, when her mother brought her to see the ocean, and she had fallen in wide-eyed wondrous love with the essence of it.

I came as a child too, taking annual treks in with my parents to visit a great aunt and uncle who have long since walked off into the foggy mist of eternity, but who still hold a special place in my heart. It was my uncle who first took me aboard a ship in the port of San Francisco and watched with a wily grin as I peppered the crew with questions. I think he knew he had a young seaman in the making!

We love visiting this city, even though we now live here, because of its grandiosity and things yet undiscovered. We revisit places that we’ve grown fond of and seek out new things, and rather constantly at that. The diverse peoples provide an endless source of amusement and wonder, and we feel as if we’ve both traveled the world while not even stepping outside the borders.

San Francisco 1905

Lately we have seen a need to watch our expenses despite the benevolence of our current landlords, but last night we went out despite our frugality. Odd for a Tuesday, but I have no work to worry me yet and she wasn’t to begin her next round of bookkeeping for the hotel owners until this coming Monday. We felt restless, as if something were stirring in the very air we breath, and it jiggled our bones to the core. We needed to be together, and not holed in a room, as nice a little room as it is, reading our respective books. We needed to be out together, somewhere to dine, and take in the sights of this city that’s of such proportions I’ve never seen the like. It’s a grand and busy city, full of light and souls and song.

Word was that Enrico Caruso, the great tenor, was in town and performing in Carmen at the Tivoli. Had we the funds to attend such a gala, we would have! But our meanderings took us to a small, inviting restaurant not far from the Marybelle and it was there we had a quiet supper and conversation. I’m now glad that’s the way it turned out.

We were back by ten and snuggled in by eleven. Our second room floor overlooks busy Mission Street, so the clip clop of horses with the occasional motorcar and conversation from inebriated passersby expertly lulled us to sleep as usual.

I awakened hours later with a need for the chamber pot. I made my way through the dark without taking the trouble to light a candle because it’s an easy trip through the door and just on the other side to the left. I’ve gotten to where I can hit the pot with my eyes closed and half asleep, so that’s what I did, unaware of the time but aware of the darkness and the silence. The drunken ones had long since laid down to sleep it off and with the horses stabled, the street was eerily quiet at that time in the morning.

I’d just finished my business with the pot and was headed back through the doorway when hell paid a visit. A tremendous roar rushed in and I was thrown against the wall with such force I imagined a thousand stampeding horses of fury had just trampled the building. The shaking was of such a violent nature I screamed out but the sound of it was immediately engulfed in the cacophony. All around me the building shook as if it were a stuffed doll in the teeth of a vicious dog, who was rendering it into little shreds. Works of art, vases and books flew past me and became debris, flashes of bright light accompanied sounds of sudden explosions all about, and the room I had been about to walk into suddenly disappeared in a swirling flash.

All I could think of was her. She was sleeping so peacefully in that room and now it was gone, seemingly in the blink of an eye but during a ferocious buffeting that seemed to go on endlessly. It eventually ceased but I couldn’t tell you if it had endured for seconds, minutes or the entire month of April.

As dust settled and parted from around me I saw that I still stood in that doorway, but it was now a precipice, with rubble below and sky above. I don’t know how it was that I was unscathed except for a few cuts and bruises, but for that I praise and thank the Lord while cursing him at the same time for taking my loved one and leaving me to grieve. I wasn’t resigned to her exit yet, though, so I grabbed some pipes that hadn’t seemed to be there moments before and slid down to the rubble to dig and dig and dig, until my hands were bleeding and nails tore from my fingertips, and then to dig some more.

It’s not that I watched the time, but in retrospect now I think it was a good half hour before I uncovered the awful truth that the Lord had taken half my life away. I used the bed sheet to wrap her for the sake of dignity and then I forced myself to the duty of attending to those who could still utter breath enough to slightly scream. It was a small hotel, this Marybelle, and the thirty rooms seemed to have yielded about four or five survivors including myself.

I saw Grace Jackson stumble out onto the street holding her little dog, and Max Sherwood was able to help me pull some rubble off Mrs. Swenson, so he’s attending to her wounds now. I ripped up another bed sheet and applied it to old Mr. Willis’ arm to stanch the bleeding, so now I’m taking a breather to gather my wits about me for the task I know lies ahead.

San Francisco Sacramento Street 1906

While digging through the rubble to find my loved one, I managed to come across my journal. I hope you can read the hastily scrawled words despite the blood smears that my hand creates. I tried to clean off as best I could, but there doesn’t seem to be water, which is unfortunate given the fires that are growing increasingly fierce all around me. I’ll soon have to finish up this journal and tuck it away for the future, then Mrs. Swenson and Mr. Willis must be moved to the street before this rubble is rendered into an inferno. I was hoping for something to be done for my love, even in this state, but I guess cremation awaits. That’s okay because I know she’s no longer there, but awaits me in heaven instead.

But first I have much to do, so I best be at it. It’s now seven in the morning and I know I’ll be tending to the injured for days if not weeks to come. God help us quench these fires that are just beginning to cause the air to reek of the stench of death.

I must not think of her. Not yet. I have much to do. So very much to do.


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