The spirit of ’49 was vital in many of the refugees.
One man wanted to know whether the fire had reached
his home. He was informed that there was not
a house standing in that section of the city.
He shrugged his shoulders and whistled.
“There’s lots of others in the same boat,”
as he turned away.
“Going to build?” repeated one man, who
had lost family and home inside of two hours.
“Of course, I am. They tell me that the
money in the banks is still all right, and I have
some insurance. Fifteen years ago I began with
these,” showing his hands, “and I guess
I’m game to do it over again. Build again,
well I wonder.”
Among the many pathetic incidents of the disaster
was that of a woman who sat at the foot of Van Ness
Avenue on the hot sands on the hillside overlooking
the bay east of Fort Mason, with four little children,
the youngest a girl of three, the eldest a boy of ten
years. They were destitute of water, food and
money.
The woman had fled, with her children, from a home
in flames in the Mission Street district, and tramped
to the bay in the hope of sighting the ship which
she said was about due, of which her husband was the
captain.
“He would know me anywhere,” she said.
And she would not move, although a young fellow gallantly
offered his tent, back on a vacant lot, in which to
shelter her children.
In the Golden Gate Park there was the most woefully
grotesque camp of sufferers imaginable. There
was no caste, no distinction of rich and poor, social
lines had been obliterated by the common misfortune,
and the late owners of property and wealth were glad
to camp by the side of the day laborer. As for
shelter, there were a few army tents and some others
which afforded a fair degree of comfort, but nine out
of ten are the poorest suggestions of tents made out
of bedclothes, rugs, raincoats and in some cases of
lace curtains. None of the tents or huts has a
floor, and it is impossible to see how a large number
of women and children can escape the most disastrous
physical effects.
The unspeakable chaos that prevailed was apparent
in no way more than in the system, or lack of system,
of registration and location. At the entrance
to Golden Gate Park stands a billboard, twenty feet
high and a hundred feet long. Originally it bore
the praises of somebody’s beer. Covering
this billboard, to a height of ten or twelve feet,
were slips of paper, business cards, letter heads
and other notices, addressed to “Those interested,”
“Friends and relatives,” or to some individual,
telling of the whereabouts of refugees.
One notice read: “Mrs. Rogers will find
her husband in Isidora Park, Oakland. W. H. Rogers.”
Another style was this: “Sue, Harry and
Will Sollenberger all safe. Call at No. 250 Twenty-seventh
Avenue.”
There were thousands of these dramatic notices on
this billboard, and one larger than the others read:
“Death notices can be left here; get as many
as possible.”
