“Down to San Jose, then around the bay to the north until his train turned east on the main line over the mountains and across Nevada to Salt Lake City.”
“How long ago did he leave the railyard?” Bell demanded.
“About four hours.”
Bell continued the pressure. “When is he scheduled to reach Salt Lake City?”
Gould shook his head in quick spasms. “Can’t say. His engineer will have to spend a lot of time on sidetracks so the relief trains can fireball through. If he’s lucky, his train will reach Salt Lake by late tomorrow afternoon.”
“What type of engine did you assign to pull Cromwell’s private freight car?”
Gould leaned over a desk and examined the notations in large ledger. “I gave him number 3025, a 4-6-2 Pacific, built by Baldwin.”
“A fast engine?”
Gould nodded. “We have a few that are faster.”
“When will one be available?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I want the fastest engine you’ve got,” answered Bell, menacing Gould with the derringer. “This is a vital emergency. I have to catch Cromwell’s train.”
Gould consulted his big board. “I have number 3455, a 4-4-2 Baldwin Atlantic. She’s faster than a Pacific. But she’s in the Oakland yard for repairs.”
“How long before she’s ready to run?”
“The repair shop should have her ready to go in another three hours.”
“I’ll take her,” Bell said without hesitation. “See that Van Dorn is charged for the time it’s in use.”
Gould looked as if he was going to protest and argue with Bell, but, staring at the derringer, he thought better of it. “If you report me, I could lose my job and go to jail.”
“Just give me that engine and route me around San Jose toward Salt Lake City and I’ll say nothing.”
Gould sighed thankfully and began making out the paperwork to charter and dispatch a route for the locomotive under the Van Dorn Detective Agency. When he was finished, Bell took the papers and studied them for a moment. Satisfied, he left the office without another word, climbed in the Ford, and drove toward the Ferry Building.
41
NEARING THE FERRY BUILDING, BELL THREW A BLANKET over his head as he drove through a shower of cinders. He could see that Chinatown was gone, leaving little more than hundreds of piles of charred, smoldering ruins. The Ferry Building had survived with only minor damage to its clock tower. Bell noted that the clock had stopped at 5:12, the time the earthquake struck.
The streets and sidewalks around the Ferry Building looked like a vast mob scene. Thousands were fleeing, believing the entire city would be destroyed. There was pandemonium and bedlam in the jumbled mass of people, some wrapped in blankets and loaded down with what possessions they were able to carry onto the ferryboat. Some pushed baby buggies or toy wagons, and yet, amid the nightmare, everyone was gracious, courteous, and considerate toward others.
Bell stopped beside a young man who seemed to be merely standing around and watching the fire across the street from the wharfs. He held up a twenty-dollar gold piece. “If you know how to drive a car, take this one to the Customs House and turn it over to Horace Bronson of the Van Dorn Detective Agency and this is yours.”
The young man’s eyes widened in anticipation, not so much from the money but the chance to drive an automobile. “Yes, sir,” he said brightly. “I know how to drive my uncle’s Maxwell.”
Bell watched with amusement as the boy clashed the gears and drove off down the crowded street. Then he turned and joined the mass of humanity that was escaping the destruction of the city.
Within three days, over two hundred twenty-five thousand people left the peninsula where San Francisco stood, all carried free of charge by the Southern Pacific Railroad to wherever they wished to travel. Within twenty- four hours of the quake, overloaded ferryboats were departing San Francisco for Oakland every hour.
Bell showed his Van Dorn credentials and boarded a ferry called the Buena Vista. He found an open place to sit above the paddle wheels and turned back to watch the flames shooting hundreds of feet into the air, with the smoke rising over a thousand feet. It looked as if the whole city was one vast bonfire.
Once he stepped off the Mole in Oakland, a railroad official directed him to the repair shop where his locomotive was sitting. The mammoth steel monster was a grand sight up close. It was painted black from the cowcatcher to the rear of its coal tender. Bell guessed the cab’s roof was at least fifteen feet above the rails. The big drive wheels were eighty-one inches in diameter. In its time, the Atlantic-type locomotive was a masterwork of mechanical power.
To Bell, it looked mean and ugly. The number 3455 was painted in small white letters on the side of the cab; SOUTHERN PACIFIC, in larger type, ran across the side of the tender, which fueled the boiler with coal and water. Bell walked up to a man wearing the traditional striped engineer’s coveralls and striped cap with brim. The man held a big oil can with a long spout and looked to be oiling the bearings on the connecting rods running from the piston cylinder to the drive wheels.
“A mighty fine locomotive,” said Bell admiringly.
The engineer looked up. He was shorter than Bell, with strands of salt-and-pepper hair straying from under his cap. The face was craggy from years of leaning out a cab window into the full wind stream from a speeding
