Marion’s spirit and fortitude rose within her to a level she had not known existed before. She carried or dragged her suitcase as if she was lost in a stupor. She toiled hour after hour alone, no man offering his assistance. Men, and their families, were all occupied in the heroic attempt to save their own belongings.

Finally, when Marion could carry her suitcase no farther, a teenage boy asked if he could help her. Marion cried as she thanked him for coming to her aid.

It was not until five o’clock in the morning that she and the boy reached Golden Gate Park and met a soldier, who directed them to tents that were being set up for the refugees. She entered one, thanking the boy, who refused her offer of money, and sagged onto a cot and fell deeply asleep in less than ten seconds.

WHEN BELL reached the Customs House, it was like walking through a wall of fire.

Though late at night, the city was lit by an eerie, oscillating orange light. Crowds were fleeing the flames, but not before hurriedly loading goods from houses and stores onto wagons and rushing to safety at the last minute. The fire was approaching the Customs House on three sides and threatening the entire block.

Soldiers on the roofs of neighboring buildings fought a nonstop battle to extinguish the flames and save the Customs House, whose upper level had been badly damaged in the earthquake. The lower floors, however, were undamaged and being used as an operations center by the army and by a detachment of marines and navy personnel who’d been given the job of providing and maintaining fire hoses.

Bell passed through the army guards posted around the building and stepped inside.

In a room off the main lobby, he found Bronson consulting with two policemen and an army officer over a large-scale map laid out on a conference table.

Bronson saw an ash-covered man, his face blackened by soot, standing in the door and did not recognize him for a few seconds. Then a smile spread across his face and he came over and embraced Bell.

“Isaac, am I ever glad to see you.”

“Do you mind if I sit down, Horace?” said an exhausted Bell. “I’ve walked a very long way.”

“Of course.” Bronson led him to a chair in front of a rolltop desk. “Let me get you a cup of coffee. Despite the inferno around us, we have no way of heating it—but nobody cares.”

“I’d love some, thank you.”

Bronson poured a cup from an enamel pot and set it on the desk in front of Bell. A tall man with topaz brown eyes, shaggy dark brown hair, and wearing an unblemished white shirt with tie, came over and stood beside Bronson.

“Looks like you’ve seen better days,” he said.

“Many of them,” replied Bell.

Bronson turned to the stranger. “Isaac, this is the writer Jack London. He’s writing an essay on the earthquake.”