The little boy looked to be no more than five years old to Bell. As the boy cried for his mother and father, the men who had saved him looked at each other with great sorrow, knowing his parents, and possibly brothers and sisters, were lying crushed deep within the collapsed hotel. Without a word, they went their separate ways, saddened, but glad they were at least able to save him.

Two blocks farther on, Bell passed by a soldier supervising a group of men who were pressed into service removing bricks from the street and stacking them on the sidewalk. Bell thought one of the men with a handsome profile looked familiar.

Out of curiosity, he stopped and asked an older man, who was observing the operation, if he could identify this man who had “volunteered” to clean up the street.

“He’s my nephew,” the older man said, laughing. “His name is John Barrymore. He’s an actor, performing in a play called The Dictator.” He paused. “Or should I say was performing. The theater was destroyed.”

“I thought I recognized him,” said Bell. “I saw him play Macbeth in Chicago.”

The stranger shook his head and grinned. “It took an act of God to get Jack out of bed and the United States Army to get him to work.”

The soldier also tried to put Bell to work picking up bricks from the street, but again Bell showed his Van Dorn identification and moved on. By now, the crowds had scattered and the streets were nearly empty, except for soldiers on horseback, and a few sightseers, who lingered to watch the fires.

In the time it took Bell to walk another eight blocks to Cromwell’s bank, the heart of the city on both sides of Market Street was burning fiercely. The wall of fire was only half a dozen blocks away from the bank when he reached the steps leading up to the huge bronze doors. A young soldier, no more than eighteen years of age, stopped Bell and menaced him with the bayonet on the end of his rifle.

“If you were going to loot the bank, you’re a dead man,” he said in a voice that meant business.

Bell identified himself as a Van Dorn agent and lied, “I’m here to check on the bank, to see if there are any records or currency that can be saved.”

The soldier lowered his rifle. “All right, sir, you may pass.”

“Why don’t you accompany me? I might need some extra muscle to remove anything of value.”

“Sorry, sir,” said the soldier, “my orders are to patrol the street ahead of the flames to prevent looting. I don’t suggest you spend much time inside. It’s only a question of about an hour before the fire reaches this area.”