Shuddering under the memories of what seems more like a nightmare than actual reality to the survivors of this frightful calamity, they have tried to picture in words far from adequate the days of terror and the nights of horror that fell to the lot of the people of the Golden Gate city and their guests.
They recount the roar of falling structures and the groans and pitiful cries of those pinned beneath the timbers of collapsing buildings. They speak of their climbing over dead bodies heaped in the streets, and of following tortuous ways to find the only avenue of escape—the ferry, where men and women fought like infuriated animals, bent on escape from a fiery furnace.
These refugees tell of the great caravan composed of homeless persons in its wild flight to the hills for safety, and in that great procession women, harnessed to vehicles, trudging along and tugging at the shafts, hauling all that was left of their earthly belongings, and a little food that foresight told them would be necessary to stay the pangs of hunger in the hours of misery that must follow.
We give below an especially accurate picture from the description of the well-known writer, Jane Tingley, who, an eye-witness of it all, did so much to help the sufferers, and who, with all the unselfishness of true American womanhood, sacrificed her own comfort and needs for those of others.
“May God be merciful to the women and children in this land of desolation and despair!” she wrote on April 21st.
“Men have done, are doing such deeds of sublime self-sacrifice, of magnificent heroism, that deserve to make the title of American manhood immortal in the pages of history. The rest lies with the Almighty.
“I spent all of last night and to-day in that horror city across the bay. I went from this unharmed city of plenty, blooming with abounding health, thronged with happy mothers and joyous children, and spent hours among the blackened ruins and out on the windswept slopes of the sand hills by the sea, and I heard the voice of Rachel weeping for her children in the wilderness and mourning because she found them not.
“I climbed to the top of Strawberry Hill, in Golden Gate Park, and saw a woman, half naked, almost starving, her hair dishevelled and an unnatural lustre in her eyes, her gaze fixed upon the waters in the distance, and her voice repeating over and over again: ‘Here I am, my pretties; come here, come here.’
“I took her by the hand and led her down to the grass at the foot of the hill. A man—her husband—received her from me and wept as he said: ‘She is calling our three little children. She thinks the sounds of the ocean waves are the voices of our lost darlings.’
“Ever since they became separated from their children in that first terrific onrush of the multitude when the fire swept along Mission Street these two had been tramping over the hills and parks without food or rest, searching for their little ones. To all whom they have met they have addressed the same pitiful question: ‘Have you seen anything of our lost babies?’ They will not know what has become of them until order has been brought out of chaos; until the registration headquarters of the military authorities has secured the names of all who are among the straggling wanderers around the camps of the homeless. Perhaps then it will be found that these children are in a trench among the corpses of the weaklings who have succumbed to the frightful rigors of the last three days.
“Last night a soldier seized me by the arm and cried: ‘If you are a woman with a woman’s heart, go in there and do whatever you can.’
“‘In there’ meant behind a barricade of brush, covered with a blanket that had been hastily thrown together to form a rude shelter. I went in and saw one of my own sex lying on the bare grass naked, her clothing torn to shreds; scattered over the green beside her. She was moaning pitifully, and it needed no words to tell a woman what the matter was, I bade my man escort to find a doctor, or at least send more women at once. He ran off and soon two sympathetic ladies hastened into the shelter. In an hour my escort returned with a young medical student. Under the best ministrations we could find, a new life was ushered into this hell, which, a few hours before, was the fairest among cities.
“‘There have been many such cases,’ said the medical student. ‘Many of the mothers have died—few of the babies have lived. I, personally, know of nine babies that have been born in the park to-day. There must have been many others here, among the sand hills, and at the Presidio.’”
“Think of it, you happy women who have become mothers in comfortable homes, attended with every care that loving hands can bestow. Think of the dreadful plight of these poor members of your sex. The very thought of it is enough to make the hearts of women burst with pity.
“To-day I walked among the people crowded on the Panhandle. Opposite the Lyon Street entrance, on the north side, I saw a young woman sitting tailor-fashion in the roadway, which, in happier days, was the carriage boulevard. She held a dishpan and was looking at her reflection in the polished bottom, while another girl was arranging her hair. I recognized a young wife, whose marriage to a prominent young lawyer eight months ago was a gala event among that little handful of people who clung to the old-time fashionable district of Valencia Street, like the Phelan and Dent families, and refused to move from that aristocratic section when the new-made, millionaires began to build their palaces on Nob Hill and Pacific Heights. I spoke to the young woman about the disadvantages of making her toilet under such untoward circumstances.
“‘Ah, Julia, dear, you must stay to luncheon,’ she said, extending her fingers just as though she stood in her own drawing-room.”
MISERY DRIVES SOME INSANE.
“I looked at the maid in astonishment, for I had never met the young society woman before. The maid shook her head and whispered when she got the chance:
“‘My mistress is not in her right mind.’
“‘Where is her husband?’ I asked.
“‘He has gone to try to get some food,’ said the girl. ‘She imagines that she is in her own home, before her dressing table, and is having me do up her hair against some of her friends dropping in.’
“‘She must have suffered,’ I said, ‘to cause such a mental derangement.’
“The girl’s eyes filled with tears. She told me that her mistress had seen her brother killed by falling timbers while they were hurrying to a place of safety. A little farther on I saw two women concealed as best they might be behind a tuft of sand brush, one lying face down on the ground, while the other vigorously massaged her bare back. I asked if I might help, and learned that the ministering angel was the unmarried daughter of one of the city’s richest merchants, and that the girl whom she succored had been employed as a servant in her father’s household. The girl’s back had been injured by a fall, and her mistress’ fair hands were trying to make her well again.
“Thus has this overwhelming common woe levelled all barriers of caste and placed the suffering multitude on a basis of democracy. On a rock behind a manzanita bush near the edge of Stow Lake I saw a Chinaman making a pile of broken twigs in the early morning. The man felt inside his blouse and swore a gibbering, unintelligible Asiatic oath as his hand came forth empty. Observing my escort, the Chinaman approached and said:
“‘Bosse, alle same, catchee match?’
“My escort gave him the desired article, and the Chinaman made a fire of his pile of twigs. ‘Why are you making a fire, John?’ I asked.
“‘Bleakfast,’ he replied laconically.
“I asked him where his food might be, and he gave us a quick glance of suspicion as he said briefly, ‘No sabbe.’
“We stood watching him, evidently to his great distress, and finally he made bold to say, ‘You no stand lound, bosse. You go ‘way.’
“We left him, but after making the tour around the lake came back to the same place. There sat four people on the ground eating fried pork, potatoes and Chinese cakes. In a young woman of the group I recognized one whom I had seen dancing at one of Mr. Greenway’s Friday Night Cotillion balls in the Palace Hotel’s maple room during the winter. They offered to share their meal with us, but we told them that we had just come from breakfast in Oakland. I told them about the strange conduct of their Chinaman, who was traveling back and forth from his fire to the ‘table’ with the food as it became ready to serve.
“The father of the family laughed.”
SOCIETY FOLKS COMPELLED TO CAMP.
“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is Charlie’s way. He has been with us many years, and when our home was destroyed he came out here with us in preference to seeking refuge among his countrymen in Chinatown. Yesterday we were without food, and Charlie disappeared. I thought he had deserted us, but toward dark he came back with a bamboo pole over his shoulder and a Chinese market gardener’s basket suspended from either end. In one of the baskets he had a pile of blankets and a lot of canvas. In the other was an assortment of pork, flour, Chinese cakes and vegetables, besides a half-dozen chickens and a couple of bagfuls of rice.’
“‘Charlie had been foraging in Chinatown for us before the fire reached that quarter. He made a tent and improvised beds for us, and he has the food concealed somewhere in the vicinity, but where he will not tell us, for fear that we will give some of it to others and reduce our own supply. Charlie boils rice for himself. He will not touch the other food. Without him we should have been starving.’”
G. A. Raymond, who was in the Palace Hotel when the earthquake occurred, says:
“I had $600 in gold under my pillow. I awoke as I was thrown out of bed. Attempting to walk, the floor shook so that I fell. I grabbed my clothing and rushed down into the office, where dozens were already congregated. Suddenly the lights went out, and every one rushed for the door.
“Outside I witnessed a sight I never want to see again. It was dawn and light. I looked up. The air was filled with falling stones. People around me were crushed to death on all sides. All around the huge buildings were shaking and waving. Every moment there were reports like 100 cannon going off at one time. Then streams of fire would shoot out, and other reports followed.
“I asked a man standing by me what had happened. Before he could answer a thousand bricks fell on him and he was killed. A woman threw her arms around my neck. I pushed her away and fled. All around me buildings were rocking and flames shooting. As I ran people on all sides were crying, praying and calling for help. I thought the end of the world had come.
“I met a Catholic priest, and he said: ‘We must get to the ferry.’ He knew the way, and we rushed down Market Street. Men, women and children were crawling from the debris. Hundreds were rushing down the street, and every minute people were felled by falling debris.
“At places the streets had cracked and opened. Chasms extended in all directions. I saw a drove of cattle, wild with fright, rushing up Market Street. I crouched beside a swaying building. As they came nearer they disappeared, seeming to drop into the earth. When the last had gone I went nearer and found they had indeed been precipitated into the earth, a wide fissure having swallowed them. I worked my way around them and ran out to the ferry. I was crazy with fear and the horrible sights.
“How I reached the ferry I cannot say. It was bedlam, pandemonium and hell rolled into one. There must have been 10,000 people trying to get on that boat. Men and women fought like wild cats to push their way aboard. Clothes were torn from the backs of men and women and children indiscriminately. Women fainted, and there was no water at hand with which to revive them. Men lost their reason at those awful moments. One big, strong man, beat his head against one of the iron pillars on the dock, and cried out in a loud voice: ‘This fire must be put out! The city must be saved!’ It was awful.”
TERRIBLE SCENE AT THE FERRY.
“When the gates were opened the mad rush began. All were swept aboard in an irresistible tide. We were jammed on the deck like sardines in a box. No one cared. At last the boat pulled out. Men and women were still jumping for it, only to fall into the water and probably drown.”
The members of the Metropolitan Opera Company, of New York, were in San Francisco at this time, and nearly all of these famous singers, known all over the world, suffered from the great disaster.
All of the splendid scenery, stage fittings, costumes and musical instruments were lost in the fire, which destroyed the Grand Opera House, where the season had just opened to splendid audiences.
Many of the operatic stars have given very interesting accounts of their experiences. Signor Caruso, the famous tenor and one of the principals of the company, had one of the most thrilling experiences. He and Signor Rossi, a favorite basso, and his inseparable companion, had a suite on the seventh floor and were awakened by the terrific shaking of the building. The shock nearly threw Caruso out of bed. He said:
“I threw open the window, and I think I let out the grandest notes I ever hit in all my life. I do not know why I did this. I presume I was too excited to do anything else.”
GREAT SINGERS ESCAPE.
“Looking out of the window, I saw buildings all around rocking like the devil had hold of them. I wondered what was going on. Then I heard Rossi come scampering into my room. ‘My God, it’s an earthquake!’ he yelled. ‘Get your things and run!’ I grabbed what I could lay my hands on and raced like a madman for the office. On the way down I shouted as loud as I could so the others would wake up.
“When I got to the office I thought of my costumes and sent my valet, Martino, back after them. He packed things up and carried the trunks down on his back. I helped him take them to Union Square.”
It is said that ten minutes later he was seen seated on his valise in the middle of the street. But to continue his story:
“I walked a few feet away to see how to get out, and when I came back four Chinamen were lugging my trunks away. I grabbed one of them by the ears, and the others jumped on me. I took out my revolver and pointed it at them. They spit at me. I was mad, but I hated to kill them, so I found a soldier, and he made them give up the trunks.
“Ah, that soldier was a fine fellow. He went up to the Chinamen and slapped them upon the face, once, twice, three times. They all howled like the devil and ran away. I put my revolver back into my pocket, and then I thanked the soldier. He said: ‘Don’t mention it. Them Chinks would steal the money off a dead man’s eyes.’”
They say that Rossi, though almost in tears, was heard trying his voice at a corner near the Palace Hotel.
TEDDY’S PICTURE PROVES “OPEN SESAME.”
“I went to Lafayette Square and slept on the grass. When I tried to get into the square the soldiers pushed me back. I pleaded with them, but they would not listen. I had under my arm a large photograph of Theodore Roosevelt, upon which was written: ‘With kindest regards from Theodore Roosevelt.’ I showed them this, and one of them said: ‘If you are a friend of Teddy, come in and make yourself at home.’
“I put my trunks in the cellar of the Hotel St. Francis and thought they would be safe. The hotel caught fire, and my trunks were all burned up. To think I took so much trouble to save them!”
In spite of the news of all the woe and suffering which we hear, it is cheering to learn also of the many thousands of heroic deeds by brave men during the terrible scenes enacted through the four days passing since the eventful morning when the earth began to demolish splendid buildings of business and residence and fire sprang up to complete the city’s destruction. The Mayor and his forces of police, the troops under command of General Funston, volunteer aids to all these, and the husbands of terrified wives, and the sons, brothers and other relatives who toiled for many consecutive hours through smoke and falling walls and an inferno of flames and explosions and traps of danger of all kinds, often without food or water—toiling as men never toiled before to save life and relieve distress of all kinds—all these were examples of heroism and devotion to duty seldom witnessed in any scenes of terror in all time. There are brave, unselfish men and heroic women yet in the world, and all of the best of human nature has been exhibited in large dimensions in the terrible disaster at San Francisco.
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