left a note tacked to Lotta’s Fountain,” she heard one fellow say who was pushing a pram with an ornate mantel clock where a baby normally reclined. “Maybe someone in the family’ll see it and know we’re alive.”
“If they’re alive, maybe they will,” his companion replied.
At the waterfront Amelia witnessed a sickening spectacle as anxious crowds pressed toward a lone approaching vessel. Then, without warning, the earth roiled beneath her feet once again and a wail rose in unison from the crowds waiting in long lines at the wharves, people and property pitched against each other.
“Aftershock!” someone cried, a word tragically familiar to San Franciscans after the recurrent temblors of 1898.
Amelia imitated seasoned veterans crouching and covering their heads. The jolt lasted only a second or two but seemed much longer. It felt to Amelia as if the Apocalypse was at hand.
The ferry hooted a warning to alert deckhands and stevedores to prepare for docking. The instant the Berkeley bumped against its mooring, the desperate throng surged forward as one body, ladies elbowing children out of their path, men casting women aside—all scrambling to be first when the gangplank was lowered.
Slowly, Amelia rose to her feet and joined the swelling tide of humanity.
“I hear Oakland’s not hit too bad,” a woman confided to her companion in a low voice. “Heard it from a deckhand on the first boat over this mornin’. Think that no good brother of yours’ll take us in?”
Just then, Amelia was shoved aside by a gentleman in black evening clothes sheeted with white dust. Amelia seized his filthy sleeve and angrily pushed back. “For heaven’s sake, sir! Could you please—?”
Their eyes locked in a startled look of recognition. “Mr. Kemp! Are you all right?” Amelia exclaimed, gazing at her father’s erstwhile poker partner.
Ezra Kemp’s barrel chest and broad shoulders loomed over Amelia as he regarded her shocking dishevelment. He noted the blood and bruises. “And you, Miss Bradshaw?”
“I’m alive,” she replied, taking in his tattered sleeves and dirty face. “Where were you when it hit? I was at the top of 456 Montgomery.”
“At five a.m.?”
“I work at night and had a deadline for a design project for Julia Morgan. Most of the building collapsed.”
Kemp gestured toward a scene reminiscent of a Matthew Brady Civil War daguerreotype. Rubble was scattered everywhere, and the acrid smell of smoke from Market Street intensified by the minute.
Kemp jabbed a stubby finger at the prevailing chaos. “All the water mains burst, so there’s no means to fight the fires. A member of the brigade told me that the fire chief fell two stories and is probably dead by now. The city’s doomed, Miss Bradshaw. Get yourself across the bay and stay there,” he ordered gruffly.
“That is exactly what I am attempting to do,” she retorted. “I’m terribly worried about my aunt in Oakland and—” She hesitated and then asked a hopeless question. “By chance, have you seen my father?”
Kemp didn’t answer as he forced his considerable bulk past anyone standing between him and the gangway.
“Mr. Kemp!” she cried, attempting to follow him. He turned at the sound of her voice. “This ferry is going to Oakland. Don’t you live in Mill Valley? Won’t you step aside and let me—”
Ezra Kemp ignored her desperate plea and turned toward the docks. Furious at his indifference, she shouted, “At least have the decency to tell me if you’ve see my father?”
To her surprise, Kemp looked back, calling out over his shoulder, “He’s probably still at the Bay View.”
“At the hotel? Have you actually seen him?”
“Yes,” Kemp yelled over the heads of the surging throng. “At about five a.m. this morning, wagering his very last penny.”
Without another word, he thrust aside a young boy clinging to his mother’s hand and climbed on board the Berkeley seconds before a harried
“If they’re alive, maybe they will,” his companion replied.
At the waterfront Amelia witnessed a sickening spectacle as anxious crowds pressed toward a lone approaching vessel. Then, without warning, the earth roiled beneath her feet once again and a wail rose in unison from the crowds waiting in long lines at the wharves, people and property pitched against each other.
“Aftershock!” someone cried, a word tragically familiar to San Franciscans after the recurrent temblors of 1898.
Amelia imitated seasoned veterans crouching and covering their heads. The jolt lasted only a second or two but seemed much longer. It felt to Amelia as if the Apocalypse was at hand.
The ferry hooted a warning to alert deckhands and stevedores to prepare for docking. The instant the Berkeley bumped against its mooring, the desperate throng surged forward as one body, ladies elbowing children out of their path, men casting women aside—all scrambling to be first when the gangplank was lowered.
Slowly, Amelia rose to her feet and joined the swelling tide of humanity.
“I hear Oakland’s not hit too bad,” a woman confided to her companion in a low voice. “Heard it from a deckhand on the first boat over this mornin’. Think that no good brother of yours’ll take us in?”
Just then, Amelia was shoved aside by a gentleman in black evening clothes sheeted with white dust. Amelia seized his filthy sleeve and angrily pushed back. “For heaven’s sake, sir! Could you please—?”
Their eyes locked in a startled look of recognition. “Mr. Kemp! Are you all right?” Amelia exclaimed, gazing at her father’s erstwhile poker partner.
Ezra Kemp’s barrel chest and broad shoulders loomed over Amelia as he regarded her shocking dishevelment. He noted the blood and bruises. “And you, Miss Bradshaw?”
“I’m alive,” she replied, taking in his tattered sleeves and dirty face. “Where were you when it hit? I was at the top of 456 Montgomery.”
“At five a.m.?”
“I work at night and had a deadline for a design project for Julia Morgan. Most of the building collapsed.”
Kemp gestured toward a scene reminiscent of a Matthew Brady Civil War daguerreotype. Rubble was scattered everywhere, and the acrid smell of smoke from Market Street intensified by the minute.
Kemp jabbed a stubby finger at the prevailing chaos. “All the water mains burst, so there’s no means to fight the fires. A member of the brigade told me that the fire chief fell two stories and is probably dead by now. The city’s doomed, Miss Bradshaw. Get yourself across the bay and stay there,” he ordered gruffly.
“That is exactly what I am attempting to do,” she retorted. “I’m terribly worried about my aunt in Oakland and—” She hesitated and then asked a hopeless question. “By chance, have you seen my father?”
Kemp didn’t answer as he forced his considerable bulk past anyone standing between him and the gangway.
“Mr. Kemp!” she cried, attempting to follow him. He turned at the sound of her voice. “This ferry is going to Oakland. Don’t you live in Mill Valley? Won’t you step aside and let me—”
Ezra Kemp ignored her desperate plea and turned toward the docks. Furious at his indifference, she shouted, “At least have the decency to tell me if you’ve see my father?”
To her surprise, Kemp looked back, calling out over his shoulder, “He’s probably still at the Bay View.”
“At the hotel? Have you actually seen him?”
“Yes,” Kemp yelled over the heads of the surging throng. “At about five a.m. this morning, wagering his very last penny.”
Without another word, he thrust aside a young boy clinging to his mother’s hand and climbed on board the Berkeley seconds before a harried
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