Bronson held out his hand. “Good luck to you, Isaac.” He gestured around the room with one hand. “This building isn’t safe. And if it doesn’t fall down on its own, it will probably be consumed by the approaching fire. We’ll have to take our records and abandon it.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“We’re setting up a command center in the Customs House; it was only slightly damaged. The army units that are arriving to maintain order and help battle the fires are also setting up their headquarters there.”
“One of us has to report what has happened to Mr. Van Dorn.”
Bronson shook his head. “Not possible. All telegraph lines are down.”
Bell shook Bronson’s hand. “Good luck to you, too, Horace. I’ll be in contact as soon as I learn Cromwell’s whereabouts.”
Bronson smiled. “I bet nothing like this happens where you live in Chicago.”
Bell laughed. “Aren’t you forgetting the great Chicago fire of 1871? At least your calamity came from an act of God. Chicago’s came from a cow who kicked over a lantern.”
After saying his good-bye, Bell retraced his route down the twisted stairs to the devastation on Market Street. He quickly made his way over the rubble and past the crowds of people who had assembled to watch the fire that was now burning throughout Chinatown and relentlessly moving toward the city’s primary business district.
He reached the Palace Hotel, which had fared better than the Call Building. Standing just outside the entrance was a man Bell instantly recognized: Enrico Caruso, who had sung the role of Don Jose in Carmen the night before at the Grand Opera House, was waiting as his valet pulled his trunks out onto the sidewalk. He was dressed in a long, bulky fur coat over his pajamas and smoking a cigar. As Bell passed, he heard the great tenor muttering, “’Ell of a place, ’ell of a place. I never come back.”
The elevators were not running due to the lack of electricity, but the stairways were relatively clear of debris. After entering his room, Bell did not bother to pack his clothes. He saw no reason to burden himself with luggage. He threw only a few personal items in a small valise. Not planning on life-threatening danger in San Francisco, he had left his Colt .45 and the derringer in the room. The Colt went in the valise and the derringer back into its small holster inside his hat.
As he walked up Powell Street toward Cromwell’s mansion on Nob Hill, he saw a small group of men frantically struggling to lift a huge beam from a pile of rubble that had once been a hotel. One of them motioned to him and shouted, “Come give us a hand!”
The men were frantically working to free a woman pinned in the debris and the wreckage around it was burning fiercely. She was still dressed in her nightgown, and he saw that she had long auburn hair.
He gripped her hand for a moment and said softly, “Be brave. We’ll get you free.”
“My husband and my little girl—are they safe?”
Bell looked up into the somber faces of the rescuers. One of them slowly shook his head. “You’ll see them soon,” he said, feeling the intense heat of the fire closing in.
Bell lent his strength to the others and vainly tried to lift the beam that covered the woman’s legs. It was an exercise in futility. The beam weighed tons and could not be moved by six men. The woman was very courageous and watched the efforts in silence until the flames began scorching her nightgown.
“Please!” she begged. “Don’t let me burn!”
One of the men, a fireman, asked for her name and wrote it on a small piece of paper he had in his pocket. The rest of the men retreated from the intense heat and menacing flames, horrified at losing their battle to save the woman.
Her nightgown ignited and she began to scream. Without hesitation, Bell held up his derringer and shot her in the forehead between the eyes. Then, without a backward glance, he and the fireman ran for the street.
“You had to do it,” said the fireman, his hand on Bell’s shoulder. “Dying by fire is the worst death. You couldn’t let her suffer.”
“No, I couldn’t do that,” Bell said, his eyes rimmed with tears. “But it’s a terrible memory I’ll take to my grave.”
38
CROMWELL AWOKE IN HIS BED TO SEE THE CHANDELIER in the middle of the room swinging like a wild pendulum, its crystal pendants tinkling madly. The furniture danced about as if possessed by crazed demons. A large painting of a fox hunt dropped from the wall with a loud crash as it struck the polished teak floor. The entire house creaked as the stone blocks of the walls ground against each other.
Margaret came staggering into his room, struggling to remain upright as the quake continued. She was wearing nothing but her nightgown, too shocked to throw on a robe. Her face was as white as the breast of a seagull, her golden brown eyes wide with fright, and her lips trembling.
“What’s happening?” she gasped.
He reached out and pulled her against him. “An earthquake, dear sister. Nothing to fret about. It will pass. The worst is over.”
His words were quiet and calm, but she could see the nervous tension in his eyes. “Will the house fall on us?” she asked fearfully.
“Not this house,” he said resolutely. “It’s built like the Rock of Gibraltar.”
The words were no sooner said than the great chimneys above began to topple and crash down. Fortunately, they were constructed on the outside of the house walls and collapsed outward without smashing through the roof.
