The fire and the gold (3 page)

Melora was glad enough to be on foot. Now they needn't wait impatiently while the milk wagon struggled against the tide of humanity coming down the streets. The soldier made no attempt to stop them and they hurried on their way.

Nob Hill was black with thousands watching the fire, and more thousands pouring away from it. Now Melora could hear the roar and crackle. The dynamite explosions seemed frighteningly close. Through and around and intermingled with all other sound was the throbbing hum of the throngs. She had never heard anything like it before. It was like the rush of a sea, murmuring and pounding. The sound was made up of many things—of voices and the treading of feet on pavements, of the dragging of trunks and the wails of children, with now and then, strangely enough, the ripple of laughter.

The new Fairmount Hotel, still in the process of being completed, stood at the crest of the hill, its great white mass presiding serenely over lesser establishments. All about were the mansions of the wealthy, built in "bonanza" times when gold and silver lodes were making men wealthy overnight. This was not "old" San Francisco, perhaps, but it was silver-spoon San Francisco. Somehow one could not imagine such vast residences as Mrs. Leland Stanford's house, and the Mark Hopkins Institute of Art next to it, going up in flames. Melora experienced a sense of solid security in passing them on the street. While people stood at the windows of every tower that faced south, there seemed to be no undue alarm. Nob Hill was powerful and safe.

At the top of California Street Melora looked about, listening automatically for something she did not hear. For a moment she could not place the strangeness, and then she knew. The cable slots were still. For the first time since she could remember there was no clattering and chattering in those slots where the cables ran which pulled cars up and down San Francisco's hills.

Mrs. Forrest found her way to a place where she could climb upon a low wall and see the whole city toward the south. Melora clambered up beside her, thinking that Quent Seymour lived only a block or two from this spot, wondering about him for the first time. He'd written her once while she was away. A very proper letter without any reference to the little game they'd been playing. His mother had gone to New York, he said, to visit his sister Gwen until her school was out. So he and his father were rattling around in the Seymour house with nobody but a few servants for company. He'd sounded bored with his father's insurance office, where he had recently gone to work, and he wished Melora would hurry home so they could stir up some excitement around the place.

But as she followed Mrs. Forrest, inching her way along the wall, Melora forgot about Quent or where he might be at this moment. A good section of the town beyond Market showed only smouldering ruin and the smoking skeletons of burned buildings. But down near the Embarcadero along the water front, and in other sections across Market the fire burned furiously.

"The Palace is all right!" Mrs. Forrest cried in a relieved voice. "I knew it would stand!"

Melora sought out the square white building with its dozens of bay windows reflecting the light. It was true that the Palace was untouched, but all too close, flames leaped and roared. You could hear the sound of them clearly.

"I've got to get down there," Mrs. Forrest said and once more there was a tremor in her voice. "Melora, do you think—"

A man on the wall nearby heard her and spoke. "No use trying to get near the Palace, ma'am. They won't let you through the fire lines. That whole section's nothing but history now."

"But what about the Palace water supply?" Mrs. Forrest protested. "I understood— "

He shook his head. "That's been exhausted wetting down the nearest buildings. I was over there earlier. There's no hope—everyone's moved out."

Mrs. Forrest gave a long, shuddering sigh and the feather flags on her hat drooped a little with their burden of soot and cinders.

"I—I'm sorry," Melora said softly.

For a moment or two longer Mrs. Forrest stood on the wall watching the deceptively calm look of bay windows, as yet uncracked, unmelted by fire. Then she got stiffly down from the wall.

"Of course Howard is safe by now and has saved what he can. We'll get together later. For the time being I'd better stay with you, Melora."

Without further words they left the wall and started downhill.

"We'll go straight to your house now," Mrs. Forrest said. "I'll breathe easier once you're reunited with your family."

They walked quickly along, sometimes picking their way over the bricks from a fallen chimney, sometimes skirting a collapsed wall. For the most part the earthquake damage didn't seem too serious. The city would repair itself in no time, if only the fire could be stopped.

There were still moments when the earth jarred and trembled. Then Melora and Mrs. Forrest clung to each other, their hearts pounding. But these quakes were nothing and Mrs. Forrest said they were likely to continue for months until the earth settled into its new creases.

Now, as they neared Melora's neighborhood, it was plain that some of the houses along the way had already been deserted. Other families were standing their ground, unwilling to give up until the fire was upon them. Here and there soldiers stood guard against looting, but the actual fire lines were still close to Market Street.

By the time they reached the Cranbys' block, the air was hot with the smell of burning. Every breath of wind carried stinging cinders. Constantly Melora dusted her clothes free of white ash and fine black particles.

They hurried down the block, anxiety lending speed to their steps. There was no telling how long it would be before the fire leaped across the protection of Market Street and exploded in this direction, sweeping everything before it.

Melora could see her own house now, her own front door. The sense of relief made her feel almost limp for a moment. Until now there had been an unspoken dread at the back of her mind. But little outward damage was apparent. The windows were open and she took further heart from that. Surely it meant the family was still home.

"You go up to the front door and see what's what," Mrs. Forrest said. "One of us needs to stay outside to keep an eye on the fire. If your family's gone, Melora, come right out."

Melora nodded and hurried toward the steps. A soldier crossed the street and called to her.

"Where're you going. Miss?"

She turned, hoping he wasn't going to stop her.

This is where I live. The windows are open, so the family must still be inside."

"Doesn't mean a thing. Miss," the soldier said. "Windows are left open by orders because of the blasting. They'd all blow out otherwise and make that much more flying glass. Anyway I think everyone's out of that house."

"May I go in anyway?" Melora pleaded. "There's —there's something I want to save." If the family had left, she must make sure that the statue of Kwan Yin from her father's study had gone with them.

Evidently he'd decided that she wasn't a looter because he grinned and stepped out of her way. She waited for no more, but gathered up her heavy broadcloth skirt and ran up the steep flight of steps from the sidewalk. At the turn she looked back and saw that Mrs. Forrest was talking to the soldier and not even looking her way. She covered the remaining steps and, finding the door ajar, slipped through into the dim hall.

The house was utterly quiet. The quiet of desertion. Broken glass from a hall mirror crunched under her feet. The newel post was tilted at an odd angle. She held her breath, listening, but there were only the creaking sounds of emptiness.

She picked up her skirts and ran lightly up the long flight of narrow stairs to the second floor. Here chunks of plaster were strewn across the carpet and there were footprints and smudges in the white dust where others had crossed the hall.

When she reached the third floor she ran along the dim hallway toward the closed door of the study. Did her father know by now what was happening to San Francisco, she wondered.

She flung open the study door and ran toward the little alcove her father had built to do Kwan Yin special honor, show her off to best effect. The niche stood bare and empty and for an instant she thought the statue must have been jarred to the floor in the quake. But though she looked all about she found no trace of it. Even the carved stand of teakwood that had been made especially for the statue was gone. Someone else must have remembered too and rescued it.

She stepped to the front window and looked down into the street where Mrs. Forrest still talked to the soldier. Beyond the lower rooftop of the house across the way, Melora could see the ominous thickening of smoke. It billowed upwards, pulsing with a wickedly vivid light on its underside. So close it seemed—she must hurry, hurry.

Down the stairs she ran to the second floor hall. The strip of carpet softened her steps and above her own labored breathing she heard another sound—a stealthy, slipping sound from the first floor. Breathlessly she came to a halt with one hand on the bannister at the top of the stairs. There was someone else in the house. Not the soldier or Mrs. Forrest, who would move boldly and probably call to her. Someone who tiptoed furtively, cutting off her retreat to the front door. Looter? Thief?

She slid one foot toward the top step and the whole staircase seemed to shriek with the creaking of the board. In the hall below the tiptoeing ceased. There was complete silence all through the house. But it was a waiting silence in which Melora's heart thudded wildly. As she listened the intruder drew a gasping breath.

"Who—who's there?" she quavered faintly.

There was an exclamation from the floor below. "Missy M'lory! How you come this place?"

She laughed in relief and rushed down the stairs. She could have hugged the little man in blue linen with the pigtail coiled neatly at the back of his head. Except that he was always too dignified for hugging.

"Quong Sam! Why are you here alone? Where has the family gone?"

"I stay for take care house," he told her calmly.

"Famly go Lafayette Square. I tell 'um go Bonner house, but you Mama say no wantchee."

Melora well knew how her mother felt about the Bonner house, where she had lived after coming here from Virginia City. Mama had no head for finances and she had always resented the decision her mother and husband made to rent the house and move into smaller quarters. Since the move she had refused adamantly to set foot in the house, or have anything to do with the tenants. Until lately, Gran had taken care of all details concerning the house. Now that Gran no longer took an interest, Papa did what he could when he was home.

"But you can't stay here, Sam," Melora cried. "I'm with Mrs. Forrest now. Suppose you come along with us."

He closed his eyes—a familiar gesture signifying resistance—and then opened them and stared at her un-blinkingly.

"Fire come, I go," he said. "Fire no come, I no go."

She shook her head in despair, knowing she could never budge his determination, once he'd made up his mind. At least she knew where to find the family now and the major portion of her anxiety was slipping away.

"All right, Sam—if you must. But take care. We need you."

"I take plenty care," he promised. "This house no burn, you see."

She started toward the door and then turned back. "Sam, did somebody take Papa's Kwan Yin away?"

This time he nodded vigorously and waved toward the parlor. "Me catchee lady god. He takee care this house fine."

Melora gave him one look and then ran past him through the parlor door. The black teakwood table from China had been pulled before the front bay window, and right in the middle of it rested the statue of Kwan Yin on her carved stand. The lovely blue coils of her hair had been unruffled by earthquake shock, her long ear lobes, bespeaking great wisdom, were unchipped, and her golden face with its benevolent and compassionate smile was turned toward the south and the fire.

Quickly Melora reached for the statue, but Quong Sam was quicker still, gently patting down her hand as he had done sometimes when she was a child reaching toward danger.

"You no touch!" he cried. "Him velly good for keep away fire. Him watchee, house no burn."

A sudden vibration shook the floor beneath their feet. Kwan Yin tilted forward and then settled back as the shock passed.

"You go outside, Missy M'lory," Quong Sam said severely, and at the same time a loud halloo reached them from the street.

Melora glanced out the window and saw the young soldier coming up the steps.

"Hey there, Miss!" he called. "You all right? Come on out of there right away! The lady here wants you."

Quong Sam fled into the dimness of the rear hall. Quite evidently he was in hiding lest he be ordered out, and the soldier had no notion of his presence in the house. Melora snatched up the statue and its stand and ran to the door, carrying them tenderly. Behind her she heard muttered imprecations from Quong Sam, but there was no way he could stop her now without betraying himself.

The soldier waited for her at the turn of the steps. Melora smiled as she ran down toward the sidewalk.

"Look—I got what I went after." She held up the Kwan Yin to show him and hurried to join Mrs. Forrest. That lady stared at the statue in disapproval

"We can't eat that," she said. "If you were going to carry anything, why didn't you look for food?"

Food? The thought of it had never entered Melora's mind. She shifted the weight of the statue in her arms. It was fairly heavy and its shape was awkward, but she did not regret rescuing it. Her father would be pleased. There were some things more important than food.

She explained to Mrs. Forrest about Quong Sam as they went on and that the family had gone to Lafayette Square.

Mrs. Forrest nodded. "Good. We'll head toward Van Ness and then go north to California. I hope you feel like walking. Why hasn't Quong Sam skipped out to Chinatown?"

"Oh, he'd stand by us," Melora said with conviction. "We belong to him. Anyway, I don't think he has any relatives. Only a nephew he's sending to college over in Berkeley. At least that's the excuse he gives every time he wants to disappear for a few days—that he's going to see his nephew. Mama says the nephew is a myth Sam has been using for the last twenty years. So I don't really know if he has anyone."