Earthquake in the Early Morning Page 2
Annie coughed, too.
“What’s the book say?” she said.
Jack pulled his research book out of his leather bag. His hands were trembling. He could hardly turn the pages.
“I’ll find it,” said Annie. She took the book from him and found a picture of a torn-up street.
She read aloud:
At 5:13 A.M. on April 18, 1906, the people of San Francisco were shaken awake by one of the biggest earthquakes the United States has ever known. Some called it “the Great Shake.”
“No wonder we feel shaky,” said Jack.
“I wonder if a lot of people got hurt,” said Annie.
They looked around. Through the dust-filled air, families were stumbling out of their crumbling houses. They all were barefoot and still wore their nightclothes.
Some babies and small children were crying. But strangely, the grown-ups were all silent. They just stared at the torn-up street and crumbling houses.
“Everyone must be in shock,” said Annie.
“I know how they feel,” said Jack. He gazed at the rubble all around them. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think clearly.
Annie looked at the book again. She read aloud:
Just after the earthquake, broken chimneys, stoves, and lamps caused terrible fires. The fires raged for three days, nearly destroying all of San Francisco. Over 28,000 buildings burned down.
“That’s terrible,” breathed Jack.
In the distance, a cloud of black smoke was rolling through the sky.
“The fires are starting!” said Annie.
“Maybe we should leave,” Jack said in a panic. He wanted to get out of San Francisco before the fires spread.
“We can’t,” said Annie. “We have to find our special writing for Morgan’s library, something to lend.”
“Let’s find it fast,” said Jack.
He and Annie started walking through the rubble. They stepped over piles of bricks, chunks of concrete, and broken glass.
They passed fallen lamps and twisted trolley-car tracks.
They saw houses leaning to one side and people hauling their things out to the street.
“We can’t worry about our mission now,” Annie said. “We have to help.”
“Help? How?” said Jack. He was so shaky, he didn’t think he could be much help to anyone.
“What about them?” said Annie.
She pointed to some men frantically dragging bags out of a building and piling them into a horse-drawn wagon.
Annie ran over to the wagon.
“What are you doing?” she asked the men.
“We’re trying to get these bank bags down to the harbor,” said the wagon driver. “So a boat can take them out into the bay.”
“Why?” asked Jack.
“So we can save everyone’s money from the fires!” the man said.
He pointed at the sky. The cloud of smoke was growing bigger and blacker.
“Can we help?” asked Annie.
“We’re done,” said the driver. “You kids run home to your parents. Then get out of the city.”
Jack wished he and Annie could ride with the driver down to the bay and be safe from the fires, too. But he could see the wagon didn’t have room for them.
“Good luck!” said Annie.
“Don’t forget what I told you!” the driver said. Then he and his horses took off. The wagon turned onto the main street and disappeared over the hill.
“I wonder who we can help?” said Annie.
Jack took a deep breath.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I’ll take some notes.”
Jack pulled out his notebook. In wobbly handwriting, he wrote:
“Hey, what’s the story?” a woman asked. Her voice sounded urgent.
Jack looked up.
A man and woman stood in front of them. The woman wore a long dress and carried a notebook. The man wore a suit. He carried a big camera and a three-legged stand.
“What story?” said Annie.
“The story with the bank. My name’s Betty. I’m a reporter,” said the woman.
“For television?” asked Annie.
“What’s that?” said Betty.
“Never mind,” said Jack. He whispered quickly to Annie, “She’s a newspaper reporter. TV hasn’t been invented yet.”
“Oops,” said Annie.
“So what’s the story with the wagon that just left the bank?” Betty asked Jack and Annie.
Jack looked down at his notebook.
“They’re going to save the money by taking it to the bay and putting it on a boat,” he said.
“Good reporting work, sonny!” she said. “Get a picture of the bank, Fred.”
The photographer set his camera on the stand. He put his head under a black curtain and took a picture.
“Got it,” said Fred.
As the photographer packed up his equipment, Betty turned to Jack and Annie.
“Go home and get your parents, kids,” she said. “Fires are burning out of control.”
“We know,” said Annie. “By the end of three days, the fires will burn down nearly all of San Francisco.”
Betty looked curious. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“She’s just guessing,” Jack said quickly.
“Pretty gloomy guess,” said Betty. “Tell your folks not to catch the ferry. Thousands are crowding into the ferry building. Go to Golden Gate Park.”
“Thanks for the tip,” said Annie.
“Thanks for the story,” said Betty. Then she and Fred hurried away.
Jack and Annie looked around.
Now many people seemed to be fleeing their homes. Some were going up the hill. Some were going down.
An old woman was pushing a wheelbarrow filled with pots and pans. A girl was carrying a suitcase and a cat. A boy was carrying a birdcage and a fishbowl.
“They’re all going in different directions,” said Annie.
“I wonder where Golden Gate Park is,” said Jack. “Maybe we should go there. Let’s see if there’s a map in our book.”
Jack looked in their research book. He found a map of San Francisco.
“Where are we now?” he said.
As he looked for a street sign, he saw a man carrying an armload of books out of a beautiful building. The man put the books into the back of a horse-drawn wagon.
“What’s he doing?” asked Jack.
“I bet he’s saving those books,” said Annie.
“Saving books?” said Jack. He loved books. For a moment, Jack forgot his fears. He forgot about trying to save himself.
“We’d better help,” he said. “Come on!”
Jack and Annie ran up the street to the book wagon. The man was carefully stacking the books in the back of the wagon. He was covered with dust and his glasses were cracked.
“Hey, what’s the story?” Annie asked the man.
Jack couldn’t help smiling. Annie sounded just like the newspaper reporter.
“I’m moving all the rare books to the Pavilion,” the man said.
“Can we help?” asked Jack.
“Sure, there are only a few left by the door,” said the man. “Grab ’em! Hurry! The fires on Market Street will soon be blowing this way.”
Jack and Annie ran into the building. Near the door were two small stacks of books.
Jack and Annie each gathered up a stack. The books looked very old and fancy. Some even had sparkling gold on their covers.
“Wow,” whispered Jack.
He and Annie carried the books outside.
“Careful, please!” said the man. “All these books are treasures—ancient Bibles and hand-painted books.”
The man carefully took the books from Jack’s and Annie’s arms and put them in the back of the wagon.
“Thanks,” he said, pushing his hat back. “Run home now! The fires will be here soon!”
As the horses started up the hill, Annie waved and shouted, “Good luck!”
“I bet he was the librarian,” said Jack.
He opened his research book. He looked for a photograph of the building that had the books.
“Here it is,” he said. He read aloud:
People tried to save special things. But they did not always succeed. Rare books from a library were moved to the Pavilion building. When the Pavilion building caught fire, all the books burned. The building that originally held them did not burn at all.
“Oh no!” cried Jack. “Stop! Stop!”
Clutching the research book, he ran after the wagon. Annie ran with him.
“Stop! Stop!” they both yelled. They ran as fast as they could over the broken cobblestones and up the steep hill.
Near the top, the driver finally heard them. He brought his wagon to a halt.
“You can’t go to the Pavilion!” Jack cried.
“You have to take them back to the building where they were!” said Annie.
“They won’t burn there!” said Jack, trying to catch his breath. “The building you’re taking them to is going to burn instead!”
The driver looked at Jack and Annie as if they were crazy.
“You kids need to worry about yourselves, not these books,” he said. “Go home to your parents. I’ll take care of the library.”
Then the man snapped his reins and went on over the hilltop.
“Come back!” Jack cried.
They watched helplessly as the wagon bumped down the street, over the rubble. Smoke billowed up from the bottom of the hill.
“I can’t believe it,” Jack said. He was close to tears.
“We tried, but we couldn’t save them,” said Annie. She touched Jack’s shoulder gently.
“All those books … ” His voice trailed off.
“Hey,” said Annie. “Someone’s crying over there—someone with two kids. Maybe we can help them.”
A woman in a blue bathrobe was sitting on a crumbling stone wall. She was sobbing into her handkerchief.
Two boys with dark hair sat next to the woman. The boys wore dusty, torn pajamas. They were both barefoot. The younger one was watching the older boy write on a rectangular piece of wood with a chunk of coal.
Annie pulled Jack over to the family.
“Hi, I’m Annie,” she said.
The two boys looked up.
“I’m Peter,” said the youngest. “He’s my brother, Andrew. And she’s our aunt Mary.” He pointed to his brother, then to the woman, as he spoke.
Aunt Mary tried to smile through her tears.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I’m a bit shaken up.”
“We are, too,” said Annie sympathetically.
“The house caught fire,” Peter said.
“We escaped,” said Andrew. “But we lost most of our things.”
“We’ve lost our shoes,” said Peter.
Jack and Annie looked at the boys’ bare feet. They were cut and bleeding.
“Hey, my boots are just like boys’ boots,” Annie said. “One of you can wear them.”
“Take mine, too,” said Jack. He and Annie started unlacing their boots.
“We can’t just take your boots,” said Andrew.
“Then we’ll lend them to you,” said Jack.
He and Annie handed their boots to the two boys.
“Thank you, thank you,” said Aunt Mary. She started crying again.
The two boys put their new boots on. Then Peter whispered something to Andrew.
Andrew held out the piece of wood to Jack and Annie.
“Here’s something we can lend you,” he said.
Jack and Annie read a poem the brothers had written on the piece of wood:
“Thanks,” said Annie.
“It’s a great gift,” said Jack. “We needed some hope.”
“It’s the only thing we can lend you,” said Andrew.
“Lend?” said Annie. She looked at Jack. “Oh, wow. They just gave us the special writing—something to lend!”
Jack smiled. They could go home now.
“You should go to Golden Gate Park—that’s what a reporter told us,” he said to the boys and their aunt.
“Is that where you’re going?” asked Aunt Mary. She had stopped crying at last and looked stronger.
“We have to go home to our parents,” said Annie.
“Will you be safe?” asked the aunt.
“Yes. Once we’re home, we’ll be safe,” said Jack.
“Thanks for lending us your boots!” said Peter. “You’re good friends!”
“You’re good friends!” said Annie.
“You’ve helped us more than you know,” said Jack.
“Be careful,” said Aunt Mary.
“We will!” said Jack and Annie.
They waved as their new friends headed off to the park.
Jack sighed.
“Ready?” he said.
“Yeah,” said Annie. “I guess we just go back the way we came.”
Jack looked down the street. Smoke billowed up from the bottom of the hill.
“That might not be as easy as it sounds,” he said.
“We’d better be careful,” said Annie.
They stepped in their sock feet over the broken cobblestones, trying not to cut themselves.
They headed down the hillside. On their way, they passed policemen carrying stretchers with injured people on them.
They passed soldiers directing all those trying to escape the fires.
One man was trying to push a piano down the street. Another man was wearing a bunch of hats, all piled on top of one another. A woman carried her three little dogs in a bag.
“Everyone’s trying to save what’s important to them,” said Annie.
“Like the librarian,” said Jack. “And us—we’re trying to save this sign.” He clutched the piece of wood.
When they were halfway down the hill, a soldier on a horse galloped in front of them.
“Get off the street! We’re setting off dynamite!” he shouted.
“Dynamite?” said Jack.
“Yikes,” said Annie.
People started running in all directions. Jack and Annie looked around wildly for a safe place to go. Jack saw an alley.
“There!” he said.
They ran into the alley and crouched on the ground.
Jack reached into his bag for their research book. He looked in the index for the word “dynamite.” He found it. Then he turned to the right page number and read:
After the fires started, the mayor had an idea. He thought that if some buildings were destroyed, the sparks would not fly from one wooden roof to the next. He ordered some buildings to be blown up by dynamite. His plan did not work. The firestorm raged from building to building, from street to street.
Firestorm, Jack thought. The word sounded terrible.
Just as he put the book away, a huge blast of dynamite shook the ground.
Dust and dirt flew everywhere, even down the alley.
Jack clutched their sign with one hand. He covered his eyes with the other. Annie did the same.
Another huge blast rocked the ground.
Jack tasted grit in his mouth. He looked at Annie. She was caked with dust from head to toe. He looked down at himself. He was just as dirty as she was.
“Hey, would you look at those two!” someone said. “Now, that’s a story!”
Jack looked up. Betty, the newspaper reporter, and Fred, the photographer, were standing in front of them.
Even though they were also covered with dirt, Fred was setting up his camera. And Betty was taking notes in her notebook.
“Hold up your sign, sonny,” said Betty.
Too stunned to say anything, Jack held up the sign with the poem about hope.
Fred took a picture.
Another dynamite blast shook the ground.
“Come with us! We’re headed for the park!” said Betty.
“We can’t. We’re on our way home, to our parents,” said Annie.
The photographer grabbed his camera equipment, and the two of them rushed off.
“I don’t think Betty and Fred recognized us,” said Annie.
“I don’t recognize us,” said Jack.
Another blast shook the ground.
“Come on,” said Annie. “Let’s beat it!”
Jack and Annie jumped up. Jack put their sign in his bag. Then they started back down the hill.
Jack and Annie ran over the cobblestones. Dynamite blasts echoed behind them.
They headed back down the hill. Flames shot across the roofs, traveling from one house to another.
“We’re heading right into the firestorm!” Jack shouted over the noise.
“We have to keep going,” Annie shouted back, “before the tree house catches fire!”
At the bottom of the hill, thick smoke was rolling through the street. It made Jack’s eyes burn.
“Where’s the tree house?” he shouted.
“Here!” said Annie.
Jack followed her voice.
She was holding on to the rope ladder.
“It’s still here!” Jack said with relief.
“Of course. The tree house wouldn’t leave without us,” said Annie. “Don’t you—”
“Go! Go!” said Jack.
Annie started up the rope ladder. Jack followed. They climbed into the tree house and looked out the window.
All around, buildings were going up in flames. Black smoke seemed to be smothering the city.
Jack could scarcely breathe. His throat burned. His eyes were stinging.
Annie grabbed their Pennsylvania book. She opened it to the picture of Frog Creek and pointed.
“I wish we could go there,” she said. “Good luck, San Francisco!”
“Good-bye, San Francisco!” said Jack.
The wind started to blow.
The tree house started to spin.
It spun faster and faster.
Then everything was still.
Absolutely still.
The songs of early-morning birds filled the woods.