NOB HILL
APRIL 19, 1906. 9:33 A.M.
In the ballroom of the Fairmont, a bone-weary Eugene Schmitz dozed in a silk upholstered chair, the first rest he had gotten in more than twenty-four hours.
Bertrand grabbed his shoulder and shook until the Mayor jerked awake. "Mayor Schmitz, sir. You better come up to the roof. Now, sir." Schmitz forced his eyes open, struggled to clear his head, and wobbled toward the stairwell with Bertrand, Donen, and a wheezing Dougherty trailing close behind.
On the roof, Schmitz stared at the fire eating its way toward them, up the eastern slope of Nob Hill.
"That pocket around Union Square was safe," Dougherty raged, "the fire went right around it!"
"A police officer saw some soldiers break into Delmonico's," Bertrand answered sheepishly. "They lit a fire in the kitchen stove to make coffee. They caught the place on fire."
Schmitz stared, disbelieving, as the fire moved up toward the most expensive real estate in the West. "Remind me to have Funston court-martialed and shot," he said to Donen.
Schmitz marched to the other side of the roof and looked above Rolf's mansion. His heart sank at the sight of a long, thin tail of smoke trickling skyward from Van Ness. Seconds later came the sound of three explosions.
"What the hell is that?" Schmitz asked.
"Looks like smoke," Bertrand answered.
"I can see the smoke, Bertrand. I want to know what those noises are! I thought Funston was going to stop the dynamiting!"
"That's not dynamite," Donen responded. "It sounds like cannon fire." A second plume of smoke began wafting skyward along Van Ness. "It's flaring up again, dammit," Dougherty said. "Maybe telegraphin' Washington how great things were was a bit premature after all."
"Bertrand, send a messenger to the firefighters we pulled off Van Ness. Have them return to their former positions."
Dougherty fumed. "After they lugged all that heavy equipment down to the Ferry Building, you want them to haul it back up Van Ness?"
"That's what I said," Schmitz answered, his patience at breaking point.
"Get the car, Bertrand. We're going to pay General Funston a visit."
"Sir, I can't do ten things at once," Bertrand pleaded.
"Then get nine people to help you! Grab all the maps and situation reports and evacuate the hotel! After I deal with the General, meet me at the Fort Mason Officers' Club. If the fire makes it that far, we can strip to our drawers and swim to Sausalito from there."
"Strip to our drawers and swim from there, yes, sir."
Schmitz charged outside and climbed into the passenger's side of the Ford. He looked anxiously over his shoulder at the flames advancing up Nob Hill toward the Stanford mansion.
Donen cranked the Ford and jumped behind the wheel as Dougherty settled into the back seat behind Schmitz.
They approached Van Ness as the explosions grew louder and more frequent. "Funston won't need a court martial when I'm through," Schmitz stated angrily. "I'll just have him hung and call it civil defense."
Donen stopped the car at Van Ness near Clay as soldiers fired a cannon at an apartment building on the east side of the street. The iron ball ripped through a fourth-floor window and tore off half the roof. The shot from a second cannon shattered the wall and sent the building crashing into the street.
While the men reloaded, Donen slipped the Ford into gear and roared up next to them.
"General Funston?" Schmitz screamed. The soldiers pointed to their ears and shook their heads in bewilderment.
"Funston!" Donen screamed, running three fingers across his shoulder to indicate stripes. The soldiers gestured toward the bay.
Funston was reading a map atop a caisson full of dynamite when they arrived. He set the map aside and sauntered toward them as slowly as he could, his bloodshot eyes bulging from his grimy face. "What the hell is it this time?"
Schmitz was distracted, staring toward the bay. Through the Golden Gate streamed a small flotilla led by the flagship of Admiral Goodrich.
"What the hell do you want?" the General demanded. "I've got work to do."
Schmitz leaned his face closer to Funston's. "Yes, you do, General. Your first job is to stop. I told you hours ago to stop the dynamiting. I did not tell you to replace the dynamite with artillery fire! I want you to send runners to every dynamite team and artillery position and order them to stop at once. The Navy's here. I want you and your men to assist them and the fire department in any way they require, understood?"
"You forgot who is giving the orders here, Mayor Schmitz."
"That's right, General, I did. But it all came back to me. You have no authority in civilian affairs unless granted by President Roosevelt. If you disobey my orders, I will have Chief Donen haul you off to jail in Oakland where you can stay until your court martial. Now, stop blowing us all to hell, and help us put this damn fire out while there's still something left! Is that clear, General?"
Funston wheeled about and started toward a nearby artillery team. He held his hand up just as they were about to fire.
On Nob Hill, from behind the wall of the Crocker estate, Hunter and Francis studied the Rolf mansion. They were convinced that only Rolf, Tommy, and Scarface were inside.
In his ruined office, Rolf pulled a folder full of papers from his safe and gave them to Scarface, then handed a box to Tommy. Rolf closed the heavy door and turned the dial.
"You two go ahead," Rolf said. He reached into his desk drawer, withdrew a revolver and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat.
He was halfway to the door—Tommy and Scarface already in the front hallway, near the front entrance—when the door exploded inward.
Tommy and Scarface dug for their guns as Francis burst in with a smoking shotgun, Hunter right behind him.
Tommy fired, the bullet whizzing inches from Hunter's neck.
Scarface fired wildly, missing Francis, and bolted toward the library.
Francis' next blast caught Tommy flush in the chest, ripping him open like a ripe melon. He was dead when his hulking form hit the oak floor.
Scarface ran into the library across from Rolf’s office, where he leapt over mounds of fallen books. He banged through the swinging door at the rear and entered the main dining room, his boot heels crunching through piles of broken crystal and shattered china.
Hunter made the dining room as the door to the kitchen was swinging back. He took several steps and launched himself a few inches above the ground, crashing headfirst through the door.
Scarface was waiting on the other side. When the door burst inward, he fired at where he thought Hunter would be, splintering the door chest high.
Hunter slid across the floor, firing wildly. One of the shots tore through his opponent's calf.
Scarface stumbled backward through the kitchen's rear door and into the hallway. He dragged himself down the hall, toward the servant's entrance in the rear, leaving behind a bloody trail.
Hunter sprang to his feet and followed cautiously. Peering into the hallway, he spotted the rear entrance ajar and Scarface limping down the steps. Hunter approached the rear porch. "Drop your weapon!" he screamed.
Scarface wheeled, raising his revolver.
Hunter squeezed his trigger: the cylinder would not move. He squeezed again, still the gun would not fire. He spotted a fragment of metal shell casing wedged in the cylinder. He dropped to a knee, popped open the cylinder and dug at the hot sliver.
Scarface aimed, snarling, "Nice work, cop!"
Francis ran toward the rear entrance, saw Hunter crouching, Scarface towering just ahead of him, his gun pointed.
A shot rang out. Then another.
Scarface toppled over.
Hunter cleared his revolver and pointed his gun at Scarface just as the big man crashed to the ground.
A filthy man in a filthy duster stood in the circular driveway, his smoking derringer pointed at Scarface, who convulsed on the ground, blood foaming in his mouth. The man in the duster walked over and took Scarface's gun. He kept his gun trained on the prostrate man until the shaking stopped and a final breath escaped Scarface's lungs.
"You a cop?" he asked Hunter.
"We're both cops," Francis said as he emerged, his gun pointed at Scarface's body.
"I'm Sheriff Lincoln Staley. I'm looking for my daughter, Kaitlin."
"She's with Enrico Caruso," Hunter said. "We sent them to Golden Gate Park. She was fine last I saw her."
"Much obliged. You should always carry a backup weapon, young man. These little derringers come in real handy."
"We better move," Francis said to Hunter.
They heard footsteps behind them.
I had my hands up before they could raise their weapons. I breathed an enormous sigh when I saw that Hunter and Francis were unharmed. "Rolf, is he dead?" I asked
"Not unless he died of fright," Francis said. "I got him manacled in the other room. Let's grab him and get the hell out of here."
After refusing our pleas to accompany us, Lincoln left for Golden Gate Park to look for Kaitlin.
Hunter, Francis, and I guided a scowling Adam Rolf up California Street, toward the waterfront. On Van Ness, we passed rows of weary soldiers as yet another fire sprang to life along the east side of the boulevard. A groan traveled up and down the ranks.
We arrived at the wharf to Hunter's Whitehall boat. Francis loaded Rolf aboard and climbed in next to him.
The dozens of fires had merged into three major infernos. The only areas untouched by the conflagration were North Beach and Telegraph Hill.
I climbed aboard the boat and reached out for Hunter's hand. He hesitated and looked at me.
"You're a good sailor, Annalisa, you and Francis can handle the boat."
"This is getting to be a very old story, Hunter. Where are you going this time?"
"After the documents Christian hid at the house. Without them, my father might have died for nothing."
"You can't go back there, Hunter. It's crazy."
"The fire's not there yet and we need those papers."
It took all my strength to mount even the feeblest debate. "Don't do this, please. I'm begging you. The wind can change again, the fire can move."
Hunter stared at Telegraph Hill, silhouetted by the flames eating through the Barbary Coast behind it. I realized it was not the papers drawing him back.
"Hunter, it's a house, not a life," I pleaded, tottering from fatigue. "We can rebuild it, you and I. Please, Hunter."
He gently pressed my arms against my sides. "That house is all that's left of my family, Annalisa. It's safe now but if things change, I won't give up without a fight."
Hunter kissed me, an act that set my head spinning further. He dropped me into Francis' arms and shoved the boat clear of the wharf.
Before I could scream, we were twenty feet from shore and Hunter was running down the pier.
I sat down hard in the boat and looked toward the Ferry Building, to a sight that might have rallied my heart had it not been leaden with fatigue.
Preparing to dock were five ships of the Navy's Pacific Fleet, their decks crammed with young sailors and Marines, many of them with fire hoses coiled around their shoulders.