NORTH BEACH
APRIL 18, 1906. 9:20 A.M.
In the basement of the Hall of Justice, Eugene Schmitz struggled to comprehend the escalating stream of reports and rumors. A written plea for help had just arrived from the Mayor of Santa Rosa, fifty miles north. The entire town now lay in rubble and the ruins were engulfed in flames. Stanford University reported that a majority of campus buildings had been leveled, and the famed botanical gardens destroyed.
San Jose reported scores dead and hundreds injured. Nearby Agnews Asylum had split in two, killing patients and staff. The Sheriff reported surviving mental patients were running about naked, attacking anyone they encountered. Deputies had captured several and were forced to tie them to trees, where they lay shrieking in the Santa Clara Valley sun.
Schmitz looked over at Donen, who was at a chalkboard recording rumors of unfathomable calamities. Chicago and New York had been leveled. A chasm drained the Great Lakes into the Mississippi River, now flooding the Midwestern Plains. Denver had been reduced to flat land. Los Angeles had been swallowed whole and San Bernardino was a waterfront.
"Mr. Mayor!" a messenger shouted, thrusting a paper into Schmitz' hand.
Donen watched as Schmitz studied the most recent missive. For a man whose most difficult decision until that day had been what to wear to the opera, the Mayor seemed remarkably forceful.
Schmitz beckoned to Donen. "I have a report here that says a number of General Funston's troops are engaged in looting. Mostly liquor stores. You know anything about this?"
Before the Police Chief could reply, another messenger burst into the room. "I just came from the British Consul's Office," he exclaimed. "He saw soldiers take six men into an alley behind his office and execute them."
Schmitz looked calmly at the messenger. "The Army has orders to shoot looters on sight."
"Yes, sir," the messenger replied, "but he says the men they shot took axes and blankets from a store to help with the rescue effort."
Schmitz turned back to Donen. "Find General Funston! Get him in here as fast as you can. I don't care where he is. Find him! And I want any soldier involved in looting disarmed and arrested."
"You want me to arrest soldiers?"
"I don't care who it is. Go find General Funston."
Schmitz spotted his secretary, Bertrand, who sported unmatched shoes and a case of apoplexy greater than his norm. "We sent a message to the Navy at Mare Island two hours ago requesting drinking water. Where the hell is it? And send a telegram to the Governor. I want every man who wears a uniform in the State of California as fast as they can get here. National Guardsmen, cadets from the military academies, every one of them."
"Sir," Bertrand offered. "Perhaps we should post warnings about looting. Maybe give people a warning before we gun them down."