And then it happened. Just as my students and I turned to go back up to the laboratory, the three of us were violently tripped off balance and thrown to the earth by a tremendous shaking of the ground. I’d experienced several small earthquakes before, but nothing of that intensity or tenacity. The brutal tremors continued unabated for at least twenty of the longest seconds I have ever experienced. The disorienting momentum was sharply accompanied by the familiar signature of shattering glass. Instantly my mind’s eye foresaw crashing laboratory cradles cluttered with beakers and test tubes, overturned aquariums, and hazardous shards of laboratory glass liberally distributed everywhere. Hardest of all to dismiss were the distressed and frightened pleas for assistance, and the screams of the students still trapped within the laboratory. And then abruptly, in a nerve-wrenching instant, the quake ceased. And again it was still, motionless, and even more frightening.
Upon regaining our feet, we three immediately went about searching for those people who had cried out for help. Thankfully, there were few injuries requiring serious attention, and the cries for help were coming from people who were trapped by jammed doors or upended equipment. The physical damage to the laboratory itself was not quite as bad as my fears and ears had led me to expect. Most of the broken glass had come from the many windows and dry aquariums stacked for storage, though we did part with a fair inventory of expensive and necessary laboratory glassware. I gauged that replacing all the broken windows would require more labor than all the other repairs.
On one of my trips escorting dazed students out of the building, I happened to look back toward the bay momentarily, and there I spied a curious sight. The water, which had been glass-smooth but moments before, now rippled out in all directions without the benefit of wind or swell. The moving water appeared similar to the effects of a large pebble tossed into a still pool. And out of the silence emerged a sound I shall never forget. It was the broad release of laughter, both joyful and nervous, coming from the villagers on board the fishing junks. I found this fascinating, and ten minutes later I took the opportunity to look out over the bay once more. I was pleased, if somewhat confused, to find the sea conditions had returned to normal and that all the boats had safely returned to the beach with their precious cargo of children and livestock. I have since been plagued with the nagging suspicion that the Chinese knew what was about to happen long before it occurred, and trusted their safety afloat better than they did ashore.
As we went about our search and recovery, my students and I were relieved to discover that aside from a few cases of shock and disorientation, the injuries suffered were indeed minor. I only wish I could say the Almighty had been as kind to the rest of northern California.
With the telegraph wires down, and rail travel at a standstill, it took days for us to discover the terrible scope of the tragedies inflicted upon San Francisco, San Jose, and numerous smaller towns. Even Salinas, which is far closer to home, had its whole main street reduced to smoldering piles of broken masonry in just moments. I was later informed that the parcels I had placed in the bank there were destroyed in the subsequent decimation.
Perhaps it was because Pacific Grove rests upon an extensive granite shelf, or because the town is mostly of newer timber-frame construction and therefore more flexible, but in general the community suffered only modest structural damage. In many cases little was really noticeable beyond drifting porch pillars, toppled garden walls and arbors, or doorjambs and window frames skewed out of all true alignment.
At every church in town, the bewildered population expressed prayerful gratitude for its survival. And afterward many people noted that, aside from the shared demolition of window glass, storage jars, household crockery, and mantel-ensconced family treasures, the overall destruction in Pacific Grove and Monterey was mercifully kept at a minimum. Indeed, coastal communities like Santa Cruz fared far worse.
Barring the loss of a score of roof tiles, a half-collapsed rose arbor over the walk, and a few shattered potted plants, my own little cottage was where I had left it, more or less. However, I soon discovered that the homey interior of my quaint residence had been transformed into a chaotic mound of collapsed bookshelves, scattered books and papers, broken crockery, dinner dishes, and shattered lamps; in short, an unqualified disaster that took many weeks to sort out. Nonetheless, my first obligation was to help get Hopkins Laboratory back in working order, and for a while that hobbled all other priorities.
In the long, distressing weeks following the earthquake, Monterey County experienced a noteworthy increase in population. The influx consisted of shocked and jaded refugees from the more heavily damaged areas to the north. They came to seek shelter with parents, siblings, cousins, distant relatives, or just friends. Some arrived in tatters, friendless and alone, and just camped out where they could.
My friend Mr. Henry Kent owns the Mammoth Livery Stables. When I mentioned all the sad-boned strangers in town, Henry shrugged with Christian resignation and told me he was presently supporting seven heartbroken relatives, late of Hollister and San Jose, at his own house. He said they had all lost their homes and intended to move to someplace safer like Pacific Grove or Monterey.
In that same vein Mr. Tuttle informed me that since the disaster, a general indulgence in mercenary practices had taken hold, and property values had climbed rather considerably. I now believe it was this situation, coupled with traditional racial bias, that caused further hard feelings in the community. It also brought to the fore a renewal of serious interest on the part of the Southern Pacific Railroad and the Pacific Improvement Company (owners of the El Carmelo Hotel and other lucrative commercial properties) to increase the value of their estate holdings by manipulating which land leases, whether commercial or domestic, they would continue to service, and which they would terminate to facilitate their own future development.
Serious land speculation thrives now that Pacific Grove and Monterey have achieved a notable status as popular visitor’s destinations. With the peninsula presently serviced by two scheduled railroads, the number of visitors to places like the splendid Hotel del Monte or the El Carmelo Hotel or Chautauqua-by-the-Sea, increases every year. Even Pacific Grove, as small as it is, can boast a fine little depot of its own. In fact, profits and prosperity are increasing in most all areas of endeavor, and for all classes of our population, except one, the Chinese. I have noted that they seem to function on an arcane monetary philosophy that is incomprehensible to westerners. The Chinese receive less compensation for their labors than anybody else, but they also prudently subsist on far less than most people could imagine. Therefore, they realize profit and, to a greater or lesser degree, even property and prosperity.
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THE CHINESE FISHING VILLAGE AT China Point had been in existence for over fifty years, and its profitability had been such that, in all those years, not once had the village ever been in default or arrears on its lease payments to the Pacific Improvement Company, which owns the land. For that matter, the Chinese are acknowledged for their prompt attention to debts of any kind. They are just as insistent that others do the same.
The village corporation is managed by what the Chinese refer to as a tong. I don’t know about other Chinese enclaves, but in Pacific Grove the village tong is more like a mayoral arrangement: the tong supervises all the village’s business and maintains social order within the community. In effect, it is judge and jury in all matters of local importance. I’m well aware that in places like San Francisco, Seattle, and other large ports, some tongs are little more than organs of criminal extortion backed by threats of violence, but that wasn’t really the case at China Point. There, the local tong was, for the most part, a righteous set of old gentlemen who genuinely cared for the well-being of their constituents and conducted village business on their behalf.
I am convinced that the underlying conflict was basically aesthetic in nature, though racial considerations
