Read Black Fire for Free Online Page A

Virtually no wind stirred, which in itself was unusual and fortuitous because the greatest threat to the city would have been an aggressive wind off the sea fanning the flames. At first the fire crawled as the halfhearted alarm ambled lazily along the Square. The news was met by silence at the City Hotel on the southwest corner of Clay and Kearny streets, the large adobe general merchandise store on the southeast corner, and the Crockett Building on the northeast corner. By day these were busy hubs. Crockett’s gambling rooms and saloon had closed at near dawn and its brocaded gamblers had staggered home. It was silent, too, at the St. Francis Hotel on the southwest corner of Clay and Dupont. All the guests were asleep. The only sign of activity was between Clay and Sacramento streets. A handful of early-rising vegetable merchants and wine sellers setting up their stalls heard the whispered alarm and, yawning, absently took up the cry and passed it on as if in conversation. “Notice how prettily the fire curls along the beams,” one remarked lazily as he put his crate down in the mud. “The Haley House and Bella Union are on fire, too,” another added matter-of-factly.
    Dogs began to yelp and the tiny fire bell finally rang out. At his window Broderick started at its first tinkle and observed ropy black smoke curling upward. This indicated a fresh fire. From its color he could estimate its temperature, and from experience knew what such a hot fire could do. Breathlessly he dragged on his trousers, pulled on his high boots, clapped his hat on his head, and rushed out in his shirtsleeves. The instant Broderick reached the Square, he began shouting, “Form a bucket brigade!” Fortunately, in those days everything to the east of Montgomery Street was underwater. Cove waters lapped between Washington and Clay streets, which ran from the northwest and southeast sides of the Square and rose halfway to Kearny on Jackson. So few buckets were available that the brigade had to use canvas sacks, boxes, and any container that held water. Broderick used his hat.
    By 6:30 A.M. the blaze had changed its hue from yellow to blue as it fed upon casks of grog, rum, brandy, and Monongahela whiskey. The colorful blaze hypnotized onlookers who had so little to amuse them in the drudgery of their daily lives. “Well, I’ll be damned,” said one. “If that ain’t pretty—Bengal lights [the San Francisco name for fireworks].” Charmed by the turquoise-green colors of now-blazing pharmacies, theyinhaled chemical smoke as if enjoying a good cigar. By now the crowd had grown to a dispassionate audience of five thousand. Pleased at a little entertainment, they idly observed the betting halls being consumed: “Serves them right … lost a poke there … O.K. with me if Dennison’s burns.” The mob had a disquieting tendency to be cruel when it did not concern them and to find amusement in the misfortune of others.
    In contrast to the detached spectators, the owner of an imperiled property dropped to his knees. “Help me!” he said, clasping his hands together and rocking backward and forward in the mire. “Have some mercy.” After a hasty conference the spectators said, “We’ll want wages.” “I’ll pay fifty cents a bucket to every man who fetches water to save my building,” the owner implored. Just as flames began licking at the rear of his building, bidding between bystanders and proprietor reached an agreed-upon wage of a dollar per bucket. He saved his property, but it cost him several thousand dollars.
    “Ooh!” said the crowd, still unconcerned. Smiles flashed in the eerie morning light. The unpaid audience continued to take a sabbatical from reason. There was not a breath of wind, so why worry? Wind was not necessary. Cotton-papered houses across the street in proximity to the scorching heat flared up spontaneously. The El Dorado, a huge canvas tent that rented for $40,000 a year, burst into flames. Burning beams