UNION FERRY BUILDING
APRIL 18, 1906. 11:30 A.M.
Frank Leach stepped off the Oakland ferry with the enthusiasm of a man who had taken a wrong turn into Hell. A crush of frightened humanity surged onto the ferry, almost knocking him backward.
He made his way across the Ferry Plaza, fighting the human tide. On Market Street, he dodged the abandoned remnants of their hasty exodus, temporarily heartened that the city's main thoroughfare had not yet been touched by the flames.
He turned south at Fifth Street, picking up his pace until he reached the U.S. Mint. The iron shutters, imposing columns, and granite façade showed barely a crack, while across the street, Lincoln School had fallen halfway across Fifth Street.
A Sergeant appeared from behind a column at the Mint and pointed a rifle at him. On the rooftop, a dozen more soldiers hoisted their rifles to ready arms.
Leach raised his hands slowly. "I'm the Superintendent," he sputtered, the fire's clamor nearly drowning out his words.
The Sergeant stepped from behind the column and approached.
"I'm Frank Leach, Superintendent of the Mint. I must get inside!"
"I got orders not to let anyone past the front door."
"Sergeant, listen to me, please. If the place catches fire and you shoot the one man who can save it, how's that going to look?"
"You got proof?"
Leach reached carefully into his pocket, producing a letter from the previous mayor, James Phelan, that appointed him Director of the Mint.
Before the Sergeant could peruse the paper, another soldier approached.
"I'm Lieutenant Armstrong, the officer in charge of this detachment."
The calm, handsome young officer was a welcome sight. The Sergeant handed him Leach's paper.
"Mr. Leach," Armstrong said. "My job is to protect this Mint at all costs."
"Then you better come with me, Lieutenant. And Sergeant, if any of my employees show, I would appreciate if you would let them in to assist us.”
Leach sprinted up the granite steps of the Mint with Armstrong next to him.
Once inside, the two men pushed themselves up four flights to the roof, where a half dozen soldiers loitered, watching the flames.
"Gentlemen," Leach called, "unless you're willing to burn up with us, I suggest you rejoin your fellow soldiers down below."
A corporal saluted and led the other men from the roof.
Leach and Armstrong hurried to the southwest corner and stared out over the burning warehouses and tenements as the pace of explosions quickened. The wind swirled and the temperature soared as heat and smoke from the inferno raging between Harrison and Folsom three blocks away began drifting in their direction.
"This roof is tar," Armstrong said, "it will burn like hell if sparks hit it. We better strip it down and start soaking it best we can."
"There's a pump and artesian well below," Leach replied.
He ran to the front of the roof and looked below, where soldiers argued with a handful of his employees. From Mission Street, a fire captain in uniform ran to the group, pointing at the chest of the Sergeant, then at the building. The Sergeant stepped aside and the men charged up the steps.
Leach rushed down to meet them, noticing for the first time the mass of debris that filled every office in the building.
"I'm Captain Jack Brady," the new arrival announced anxiously. "The wind is shifting on us. I know there's a pump in the courtyard, how much hose do you have?"
"About three hundred feet."
"That's all the hose you have? For a building this size?"
"Thank Schmitz and his cronies. They'd rather risk the whole damn Mint than spend a hundred dollars for a second hose."