Part 49 (1/2)

”Do I suppose--much you know about our earthquakes! San Francisco always gets the worst of it, or seems to, there is so much more to shake. Your mother is probably in hysterics, although up on the hills one is safe enough. It is the sandy valley and the made ground down by the ferries--up to Montgomery Street, in fact--that get the worst of it. I have ordered the launch.”

”Good. I wish my mother had gone east from El Paso, as she had half a mind to do. But she wanted to see her doctor again. I am afraid she won't look at this as we do. I never was so interested in my life. Was sure we were going to smash, but that it was worth while in anything so stupendous. I suppose it is too early to telephone.”

Isabel pointed to the wires. They were sagging, and two of the telegraph poles were down. ”Doubtless the tracks are twisted, too. We are fortunate to have the launch.”

X

Mac, so swollen with the prideful experience which enabled him to compare two great earthquakes, and his acc.u.mulations of practical data bearing thereon, appeared ten years younger, and, as Gwynne and Isabel rode up, was lording it over his fellow-hirelings. He had forbidden Chuma to make a fire in the kitchen stove until the chimney, what was left of it, had been repaired, directed him to bring down-stairs the oil-stove Isabel had bought for the old rheumatic's comfort, and cook breakfast upon it. As even the stovepipe in the out-building, used for preparing the elaborate repasts of the Leghorn, was twisted, Abe had been ordered to drag the great stove into the open, build a screen about it, and ”do the best he could, and be thankful he was alive.” Poor Abe, who had not been extant in 1868, and had even missed the considerable earthquakes of the Nineties, was in a somewhat demoralized state, and wondering audibly what people supposed he cared about chickens, anyhow.

Isabel and Gwynne sat down in the dining-room and ate their breakfast--on fragments--calmly and methodically, talking constantly of the earthquake, it is true, but instinct with that curious casuistry that a certain safety lay in following the ordinary routine of life; perhaps--who knows?--so great is the egoism of the human spirit--that the unswerving march of man in his groove might restore the balance of nature.

After breakfast Isabel went up to her room and dressed hastily and mechanically in a short walking-suit, as mechanically expecting the same earthquake to return to the spot a.s.sociated with it. Gwynne wore his khaki riding-clothes, but it was doubtful if any one would be critical in San Francisco that morning. Nothing, as it happened, could have suited his purpose better, and it was long before he took them off.

When the launch was under way Isabel told Gwynne of the blue flames that had danced over the marsh during the convulsion. ”If electricity is not a cause of earthquakes, it certainly is let loose by them,” she added.

”I expected every moment that we would blow up and fly off into s.p.a.ce.”

”I saw something of the same sort on the hills, and expected to see St.

Helena spout flames.”

In a few moments they were sensible that the constant artificial vibration of the boat was the most grateful sensation they had ever known, and of the wish that they could leave it only for a train, to be transferred at the end of a long journey to another train, and still another. But these sentiments were not exchanged, and their conversation was purely extrinsic. Here and there along the sh.o.r.e an old shanty lay on its side, or had tumbled forward to its knees; but for the most part dilapidated chimneys and fallen poles were the only visible symbols of the tumult beneath the smiling beautiful earth. Never had Earth looked so green, so velvety, its flowers so gay and voluptuous. Even the sky, now its normal deep blue, had this same velvety quality, the very atmosphere seemed to breathe the same rich satisfaction. But no birds were singing, and there was nothing normal in the groups of people, gathered wherever there were habitations: they wore bath-robes, blankets, overcoats, anything, apparently, they had found at hand, and had not re-entered their treacherous habitations. No trains were running, but the drawbridge that separated the marsh from San Pablo Bay opened as usual.

Gwynne steered the launch, and his conversation and Isabel's drifted to speculations as to what had happened in the city.

”Thank heaven I had the foundations of that old house replaced,” she said, ”or I am afraid your mother would have shot right down to the Hofers' doorstep. I am fairly at ease about The Otis, for in spite of the old drifting sand-lots that district is built on, its foundations go down to bed-rock, and thanks to the strikers there is nothing to fall off the steel frame. But I am rather worried about the islands. San Francis...o...b..y is supposed to have been a valley some two hundred years ago, and if it dropped once it might again. Those islands are only hilltops.”

The islands, however, looked as serene as the rest of nature, although most of the chimneys were fallen or twisted, and there were the same groups of people in the open, awaiting another throe. These, however, had had time to recover their balance and clothe themselves. The launch, which had a new engine, had been driven at top speed, and it was not yet seven o'clock, barely the beginning of day to these luxurious people, but a day that would doubtless be remembered as the longest of their lives. On the military islands, routine, apparently, had received no dislocation, and on the steep romantic slopes of Belvedere the villas might have sunken their talons to the very vitals of the rock. The most precariously perched had paid no toll but the chimney.

As the launch bounded past the long eastern side of Angel Island, Gwynne contracted his eyelids. ”Have you noticed that black cloud over the city?” he asked. ”At first it did not strike me particularly--but--it looks as if there might be a big fire.”

Isabel, who faced him, turned her head. ”There are always fires in San Francisco after an earthquake,” she said, indifferently. ”And about seven a day at any time. There are none on the hills, so your mother is not having a second fright. Poor thing! I am afraid she is terribly upset. I wish she had gone.”

She sat about, to observe the city more critically. Already its sky-line was changed, for every chimney, smokestack, and steeple, commonly visible, was shattered or down. The smoke cloud, which looked like a great ostrich plume bent at the tip, was as stationary as the hills, and had a confident permanent air that they would lack for some time. And fixed as it was it seemed to grow larger.

”Steer to the east of Alcatraz,” said Isabel, suddenly; ”and towards Yerba Buena. I should like to see where the fires are.”

When the launch was well off the point of Telegraph Hill, they saw several large fires on the western side of East Street, the wide roadway that divided the city from the water-front and Ferry Building. Far down, in the South of Market Street district there appeared to be other large fires.

”Warehouses, probably,” said Isabel. ”What a sight!” She indicated the collapsed sheds about the moles, and the twisted and toppling appearance of the tower on the Ferry Building, which stood on the edge of the made ground. It was an immense structure of great weight, and only an uncommon honesty--and vigilance--in building had saved it from destruction. Had the piles been hollow, or too short to reach bed-rock, it would either have sunken or tumbled.

And then they noticed that the bay was silent and deserted. It was a moment before they realized that of the several lines of ferry-boats none appeared to be running. ”That means that the tracks are out of working order,” said Isabel, grimly. ”We may have had the best of it, bad as it was. Ah!” One of the Oakland ferry-boats pushed out of its San Francisco mole. It was black with people. Isabel stared with wonder. ”It looks as if people were running away from the city. Or perhaps a good many that live across the bay came over on the same mission as ourselves, and have been turned back. That would mean that all East Street was on fire and they could not get into the city. Well, let us hurry. Even although the fires are so far off they may terrify your mother. I remember she told me once in England that she had never seen a fire. I have a queer sensation in my knees.”

Gwynne laughed. ”I should think you might be used to fires by this time.

And you have a celebrated fire department. I fancy you are just feeling the reaction.”

”I was not a bit frightened during the earthquake!” said Isabel, indignantly. ”But there is nothing _phenomenal_ in fire to brace one up--and those had a sinister determined look--and that boat-load of people! I only hope your mother has not run away--under the impression that San Francisco alone was shaken. We wouldn't find her for a week.”

”My mother's nerves are not what they were, but I am positive she will not run. She is certain to wait for us at the house.”

A few moments later they ran the launch up to the landing at the foot of Russian Hill. There were a few tumbled shanties on the slope, but none of the well-built houses had been dislodged, and the great buildings on this water-front were in good condition. Mr. Clatt was not visible, but left his cottage at Isabel's call, and gave them something more than his usual surly greeting.