Upon receipt of the first news of the earthquake，Collier’s telegraphed to Mr. Jack London—who livesonly forty miles from San Francisco—requesting himto go to the scene of the disaster and write the story ofwhat he saw. Mr. London started at once， and he sentthe following dramatic description of the tragic events hewitnessed in the burning city.
The earthquake shook down in San Francisco hundredsof thousands of dollars worth of walls and chimneys.
But the conflagration that followed burned up hundredsof millions of dollars’ worth of property. There is noestimating within hundreds of millions the actual damagewrought. Not in history has a modern imperial city beenso completely destroyed. San Francisco is gone. Nothingremains of it but memories and a fringe of dwellinghouseson its outskirts. Its industrial section is wiped out.
Its business section is wiped out. Its social and residentialsection is wiped out. The factories and warehouses， thegreat stores and newspaper buildings， the hotels and thepalaces of the nabobs， are all gone. Remains only thefringe of dwelling houses on the outskirts of what wasonce San Francisco.
Within an hour after the earthquake shock the smoke ofSan Francisco’s burning was a lurid tower visible a hundredmiles away. And for three days and nights this lurid towerswayed in the sky， reddening the sun， darkening the day，and filling the land with smoke.
On Wednesday morning at a quarter past five camethe earthquake. A minute later the flames were leapingupward In a dozen different quarters south of MarketStreet， in the working-class ghetto， and in the factories，fires started. There was no opposing the flames. Therewas no organization， no communication. All the cunningadjustments of a twentieth century city had been smashedby the earthquake. The streets were humped into ridgesand depressions， and piled with the debris of fallen walls. Thesteel rails were twisted into perpendicular and horizontalangles. The telephone and telegraph systems were disrupted.
And the great water-mains had burst. All the shrewdcontrivances and safeguards of man had been thrown out ofgear by thirty seconds’ twitching of the earth-crust.
The Fire Made its Own Draft
By Wednesday afternoon， inside of twelve hours， halfthe heart of the city was gone. At that time I watched thevast conflagration from out on the bay. It was dead calm.
Not a flicker of wind stirred. Yet from every side windwas pouring in upon the city. East， west， north， and south，strong winds were blowing upon the doomed city. Theheated air rising made an enormous suck. Thus did thefire of itself build its own colossal chimney through theatmosphere. Day and night this dead calm continued， andyet， near to the flames， the wind was often half a gale， somighty was the suck.
Wednesday night saw the destruction of the very heartof the city. Dynamite was lavishly used， and many of SanFrancisco proudest structures were crumbled by manhimself into ruins， but there was no withstanding theonrush of the flames. Time and again successful standswere made by the fire-fighters， and every time the flamesflanked around on either side or came up from the rear，and turned to defeat the hard-won victory.
An enumeration of the buildings destroyed wouldbe a directory of San Francisco. An enumeration ofthe buildings undestroyed would be a line and severaladdresses. An enumeration of the deeds of heroism wouldstock a library and bankrupt the Carnegie medal fund. Anenumeration of the dead-will never be made. All vestigesof them were destroyed by the flames. The number of thevictims of the earthquake will never be known. South ofMarket Street， where the loss of life was particularly heavy，was the first to catch fire.
Remarkable as it may seem， Wednesday night while thewhole city crashed and roared into ruin， was a quiet night.
There were no crowds. There was no shouting and yelling.
There was no hysteria， no disorder. I passed Wednesdaynight in the path of the advancing flames， and in all thoseterrible hours I saw not one woman who wept， not oneman who was excited， not one person who was in theslightest degree panic stricken.
Before the flames， throughout the night， fled tensof thousands of homeless ones. Some were wrappedin blankets. Others carried bundles of bedding anddear household treasures. Sometimes a whole familywas harnessed to a carriage or delivery wagon that wasweighted down with their possessions. Baby buggies， toywagons， and go-carts were used as trucks， while everyother person was dragging a trunk. Yet everybody wasgracious. The most perfect courtesy obtained. Never inall San Francisco’s history， were her people so kind andcourteous as on this night of terror.
A Caravan of Trunks
All night these tens of thousands fled before the flames.
Many of them， the poor people from the labor ghetto， hadfled all day as well. They had left their homes burdenedwith possessions. Now and again they lightened up，flinging out upon the street clothing and treasures theyhad dragged for miles.
They held on longest to their trunks， and over thesetrunks many a strong man broke his heart that night. Thehills of San Francisco are steep， and up these hills， mileafter mile， were the trunks dragged. Everywhere weretrunks with across them lying their exhausted owners，men and women. Before the march of the flames wereflung picket lines of soldiers. And a block at a time， as theflames advanced， these pickets retreated. One of theirtasks was to keep the trunk-pullers moving. The exhaustedcreatures， stirred on by the menace of bayonets， wouldarise and struggle up the steep pavements， pausing fromweakness every five or ten feet.
