“We’re on the job, and are going to try
and stick,” was the way the first message came
from him.
This was what came over the wire a little later:
“Terrific earthquake occurred here at 5.13 this
morning. A number of people were killed in the
city. None of the Postal people were killed.
They are now carting the dead from the fallen buildings.
There are many fires, with no one to fight them.
Postal building roof wrecked, but not entire building.”
The fire got nearer and nearer to the Postal building.
All of the water mains had been destroyed around the
building, the operators said, and there was no hope
if the fire came on. They also said that they
could hear the sound of dynamite blowing up buildings.
All this time the operators were sticking to their
posts and sending and receiving all the business the
wires could stand. At 12.45 the wire began to
click again with a message for the little group of
waiting officials.
This message came in jerks: “Fire still
coming up Market Street. It’s one block
from the Post Office now; back of the Palace Hotel
is a furnace. I am afraid that the Grand Hotel
and the Palace Hotel will get it soon. The Southern
Pacific offices on California Street are safe, so
far, but can’t tell what will happen. California
Street is on fire. Almost everything east of
Montgomery Street and north of Market Street is on
fire now.”
There was a pause, then: “We are beginning
to pack up our instruments.”
“Instruments are all packed up, and we are ready
to run,” was another message. It was evident
that just one instrument had been left connected with
the world outside. In about ten minutes it began
to click. Those who knew the telegraphers’
language caught the word “Good-bye,” and
then the ticks stopped.
At the end of an hour the instrument in the office
began to click again. It was from an electrician
by the name of Swain.
“I’m back in the building, but they are
dynamiting the building next door, and I’ve
got to get out,” was the way his message was
translated. Dynamite ended the story, and the
Postal’s domicile in San Francisco ceased to
exist.
Facing Famine and Praying for Relief.
Frightful was the emergency of the vast host of fugitives
who fled in terror from the blazing city of San Francisco
to the open gates of Golden Gate Park and the military
reservation of the Presidio. Food was wanting,
scarcely any water was to be had, death by hunger and
thirst threatened more than a quarter million of souls
thus driven without warning from their comfortable
and happy homes and left without food or shelter.
Provisions, shelter tents, means of relief of various
kinds were being hurried forward in all haste, but
for several days the host of fugitives had no beds
but the bare ground, no shelter but the open heavens,
scarcely a crumb of bread to eat, scarcely a gill of
water to drink. Those first days that followed
the disaster were days of horror and dread. Rich
and poor were mingled together, the delicately reared
with the rough sons of toil to whom privation was no
new experience.
