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Unit 11
The Story of
an Eyewitness
Jack London
1
The earthquake
shook down in San Francisco hundreds of thousands
of dollars
worth
of
walls
and
chimneys.
But
the
conflagration
that
followed
burned
up
hundreds
of
millions
of
dollars
worth
of
property.
There
is
no
estimating
within
hundreds of millions
the actual damage wrought.
2
Not
in
history
has
a
modern
imperial
city
been
so
completely
destroyed.
San
Francisco is gone.
Nothing remains of it but memories and fringe of
dwelling houses
on its outskirts. Its
industrial section is wiped out. Its business
section is wiped out.
Its
social
and
residential
section
is
wiped
out.
The
factories
and
warehouses,
the
great stores and newspaper buildings,
the hotels and the palaces of the nabobs, are
all
gone.
Remains
only
the
fringe
of
dwelling
houses
on
the
outskirts
of
what
was
once San Francisco.
3
Within
an
hour
after
the
earthquake
shock,
the
smoke
of
San
Francisco’s
burning
was
a
lurid
tower
visible
a
hundred
miles
away.
And
for
three
days
and
nights this lurid tower
swayed in the sky, reddening the sun, darkening
the day, and
filling the land with
smoke.
4
On
Wednesday
morning
at
quarter
past
five
came
the
earthquake.
A
minute
later the flames were
leaping upward. In a dozen different quarters
south of Market
Street, in the working
class ghetto and in the factories, fires started.
There was no
opposing the flames. There
was no organization, no communication. All the
cunning
adjustments of a twentieth-
century city had been smashed by the earthquake.
The
streets were humped into ridges and
depressions, and piled with the debris of fallen
walls.
The
steel
rails
were
twisted
into
perpendicular
and
horizontal
angles.
The
telephone
and
telegraph
systems
were
disrupted.
And
the
great
water
mains
had
burst. All the shrewd contrivances and
safeguards of man had been thrown out of
gear by thirty seconds’ twitching of
the earth
-crust.
5
By Wednesday
afternoon, inside of twelve hours, half the heart
of the city was
gone. At that time I
watched the vast conflagration from out on the
bay. It was dead
calm. Not a flicker of
wind stirred. Yet from every side wind was pouring
in upon the
city. East,
west, north, and south, strong winds were blowing
upon the doomed city.
The
heated
air
rising
made
an
enormous
suck.
Thus
did
the
fire
of
itself
build
its
own
colossal
chimney
through
the
atmosphere.
Day
and
night
this
dead
calm
continued, and yet, near to the flames,
the wind was often half a gale, so mighty was
the suck.
6
Wednesday night saw the
destruction of the very heart of the city.
Dynamite was
lavishly
used,
and
many
of
San
Francisco’s
proudest
structures
were
crumbled
by
man
himself
into
ruins,
but
there
was
no
withstanding
the
onrush
of
the
flames.
Time and again
successful stands were made by the firefighters
and every time the
flames flanked
around on either side, or came up from the rear,
and turned to defeat
the hard won
victory.
7
An
enumeration
of
the
buildings
destroyed
would
be
a
directory
of
San
Francisco.
An enumeration of the buildings undestroyed would
be a line and several
addresses.
An
enumeration
of
the
deeds
of
heroism
would
stock
a
library
and
bankrupt
the
Carnegie
medal
fund.
An
enumeration
of
the
dead
―
will
never
be
made. All vestiges of them were
destroyed by the flames. The number of the victims
of the earthquake will never be known.
South of Market Street, where the loss of life
was particularly heavy, was the first
to catch fire.
8
Remarkable as it may seem,
Wednesday night, while the whole city crashed and
roared into ruin, was a quiet night.
There were no crowds. There was no shouting
and
yelling.
There
was
no
hysteria,
no
disorder.
I
passed
Wednesday
night
in
the
path of the advancing flames, and in
all those terrible hours I saw not one woman
who wept, not one man who was excited,
not one person who was in the slightest
degree panic-stricken.
9
Before the
flames, throughout the night, fled tens of
thousands of homeless ones.
Some
were
wrapped
in
blankets.
Others
carried
bundles
of
bedding
and
dear
household
treasures.
Sometimes
a
whole
family
was
harnessed
to
a
carriage
or
delivery
wagon
that
was
weighted
down
with
their
possessions.
Baby
buggies,
toy
wagons and go-carts were used as
trucks, while every other person was dragging a
trunk. Yet everybody was gracious. The
most perfect courtesy obtained. Never, in all
San Francisco’s history, were her
people so kind and courteous as on this night of
terror.
10
All night these tens of
thousands fled before the flames. Many of them,
the poor
people
from
the
labor
ghetto,
had
fled
all
day
as
well.
They
had
left
their
homes
burdened with possessions. Now and
again they lightened up, flinging out upon the
street clothing and treasures they had
dragged for miles.
11
They held on longest to their trunks,
and over these trunks many a strong man
broke his heart that night. The hills
of San Francisco are steep, and up these hills,
mile after mile, were the trunks
dragged. Everywhere were trunks, with across them
lying their exhausted owners, men and
women. Before the march of the flames were
flung picket lines of soldiers. And a
block at a time, as the flames advanced, these
pickets
retreated.
One
of
their
tasks
was
to
keep
the
trunk-
pullers
moving.
The
exhausted creatures, stirred on by the
menace of bayonets, would arise and struggle
up the steep pavements, pausing from
weakness every five or ten feet.
12
Often, after surmounting a
heart-breaking hill, they would find another wall
of
flame
advancing
upon
them
at
right
angles
and
be
compelled
to
change
anew
the
line of their retreat. In the end,
completely played out, after toiling for a dozen
hours
like
giants,
thousands
of
them
were
compelled
to
abandon
their
trunks.
Here
the
shop-keepers and soft members of the
middle class were at a disadvantage. But the
working-men dug holes in vacant lots
and backyards and buried their trunks.
13
At nine o’clock
Wednesday evening, I walked down through the very
heart of the
city.
I
walked
through
miles
and
miles
of
magnificent
buildings
and
towering
skyscrapers.
There
was
no
fire.
All
was
in
perfect
order.
The
people
patrolled
the
streets. Every building had its
watchman at the door. And yet it was doomed, all
of it.
There was no water. The dynamite
was giving out. And at right angles two different
conflagrations were sweeping down upon
it.
14
At
one o’clock in the morning I walked down the same
section. Everything still
stood
intact.
There
was
no
fire.
And
yet
there
was
a
change.
A
rain
of
ashes
was
falling.
The
watchmen
at
the
doors
were
gone.
The
police
had
been
withdrawn.
There were no firemen, no fire-engines,
no men fighting with dynamite. The district
had been absolutely abandoned.
15
I stood at the
corner of Kearney and Market, in the very
innermost heart of San
Francisco.
Kearney Street was deserted. Half a dozen blocks
away it was burning on