Into the Firestorm (13 page)

W
HAT
M
ATTERS

Nick, Ed, Mr. Pat, and Shakespeare spent the night in the whiskey warehouse.

At first Nick was anxious. “How do we know for sure the fire won’t come back?”

“Don’t worry,” said Ed, handing out rags for them to wipe their arms and faces with. “I’ve got guards posted over the whiskey barrels and the street. If there’s any danger, and I don’t think there will be, they’ll wake us up.”

Mr. Pat shook his head. “You’re a genius, Ed. Do you know this is one of the few unburnt blocks in the city?”

“No thanks to you, Pat. Where were you all this time, anyway?” his friend asked.

“I came as quickly as I could, but I had a hard time getting back to the city. And an even harder time getting a pass,” Mr. Pat explained. “What an unbelievable sight it was from across the bay. You couldn’t find the words to describe it.”

He was lying with his head against Shakespeare’s warm side. The dog nuzzled his neck as if to apologize for being so much trouble.

Nick didn’t notice. He had fallen asleep at last.

Nick awoke Saturday morning to good news. All across the city, the fires were out. The great clouds of smoke had disappeared.

Later he and Mr. Pat picked their way through the store. “Some fire damage, some earthquake damage. But the building itself survived,” said Mr. Pat. “We are luckier than most. Why, almost all the downtown is gone. Hundreds of blocks destroyed.”

Nick followed Mr. Pat around silently. He had to tell him. But it was hard. It wasn’t until they were in the small room in the basement that Nick finally got the courage to speak.

“Mr. Pat, I…I collected the best inkwells and pens I could find on the first day, right after the earthquake.” Nick swallowed hard. “But then, well, I…I lost them. I’m sorry. I didn’t do a very good job.”

Mr. Pat waved his hand. “You saved my favorite treasure, isn’t that right, faithful canine companion?”

Shakespeare sat back on his haunches, a giant smile lighting up his chocolate brown eyes. He was back to his old spunky self.

“But something else is lost I wish I could find,” murmured Mr. Pat. He had dropped to his hands and knees and was searching the floor. “I can’t seem to find that old family photograph.”

“It’s not here?”

Mr. Pat shook his head. “It’s funny what you care about in the end, what matters most. That picture, Shake here, and…well, I admit I was worried sick about you.”

Mr. Pat cleared his throat. “Anyway, you’ll be glad to know I haven’t totally forgotten the business. I brought back paper, some postcards, pencils, and pens.”

Nick frowned. “Will people want paper and pens now?”

“Ah, my boy, you have a lot to learn yet. Folks will want to write letters and postcards to let their kin know they’ve survived the great tragedy,” Mr. Pat said, waving his arms. “And that reminds me, didn’t you say your penmanship was excellent?”

“Well, I can make letters. But I’m not so good at spelling.”

“Few people are,” Mr. Pat observed. “At any rate, I’m going to send you over to the post office with a crate to write on. For a few pennies, you can write letters for folks who can’t do it themselves. I hear the post office will accept anything and isn’t charging for stamps until the crisis is over. How does that sound?”

Nick hesitated. There was something he wanted to ask. He bit his lip.

“What, you don’t want to work for me after all?” asked Mr. Pat, looking closely at Nick. “Well, this is temporary, let me assure you. Once the schools open up again, you’re going, young man. Work will be after school and Saturdays only. We’ll make a good speller out of you.”

“So…so you want me to stay?”

“After what you did for Shakespeare and me, you can stay here as long as you want, Nicholas Dray. And that’s what I told my friend, the reporter from the
Call,
too,” Mr. Pat went on. “I expect we’ll see that story about you any day now.”

Mr. Pat tapped his nose. “My motives were not entirely pure, I admit. While I certainly hope your story inspires our fellow citizens, I also made sure he included where you work and that we’ll be open for business. So let’s get busy, shall we?”

“I…I do want to work, and go to school, and stay here,” said Nick, the words tumbling out in a rush. “But…but I can’t start today. At least right now.”

Mr. Pat raised his eyebrows. “Ah, for a minute you had me worried. A prior engagement, perhaps?”

“It’s just that I want to check on my friends.”

“Friends? You have friends?” Mr. Pat looked amused. “Why, I thought Shakespeare and I were your only friends in the world, at least as of the beginning of this eventful and unforgettable week.”

Nick relaxed and grinned. He’d forgotten how much fun it was just to listen to Mr. Pat. “Well, yes and no. I met a boy named Tommy in Chinatown, but the last time I saw him, he was trying to escape the flames. He might be at the Presidio, or maybe he found a way out of the city already.

“And then there’s Annie Sheridan and her mother, who lived in the rooming house on the corner. I left them in Golden Gate Park. I don’t know if I can find them again, but I’d like to be sure they’re safe.”

“Ah, I remember, the voluble Annie.” Mr. Pat nodded. He thought a moment, then reached into his pocket and handed Nick a small money purse. “There’s not much in here, but please give this to Annie’s mother for me. Tell her we’ll do all we can to bring them back as our neighbors on Jackson Street.”

“Gee, Mr. Pat, thanks.” Nick started to go. After a few steps, he looked back. Shakespeare sat close to Mr. Pat, looking up at his master, wagging his tail.

Mr. Pat saw his glance. “Shakespeare, your young master has a mission, and I believe he’d like some company. You’d better go with him.”

“Can I really take him?” Nick asked. “Come on, Shake.”

“Go with him, Shakespeare. Nick’s part of the establishment now.” Mr. Pat tapped Shake on his shoulder and the dog sprang across to Nick in a graceful bound. “Be careful. I’ll see what I can do to round up something edible and commence the sad task of assessing the true damage to our business. And when you come back, let’s see if we can find some water for baths—for all of us!”

Nick paused on the steps. “Mr. Pat, I just want to—”

Pat Patterson pointed a finger into the air. “Nick, if we are to be a team…well, one might even go so far as to say a family…just plain Pat will do.”

Nick grinned. “Thanks, Pat. My grandmother—”

Nick stopped. He took his hat off and twisted it in his hands. It was black with soot and threadbare in some places. He thought of Gran pulling out her glove, putting by some money to buy him a new cap.

“My grandmother liked to laugh. She loved beautiful things, like flowers. I don’t think she got much beauty in her life. But she’d be happy to know…to know I’m here,” Nick said slowly. He struggled to find the right words. “Gran wanted…well, she wanted me to have the world.”

Then Nick whistled. “Come on, Shake, let’s go.”

S
HAKESPEARE’S
N
AMESAKES

The swirling winds and the smoke of the firestorms were gone. An eerie quiet lay over the city streets, or what was left of them. It was daylight now, not night. And as Nick picked his way carefully around bricks, beams, abandoned trunks, and smoking buildings, he felt he was seeing for the first time the true horror of all that had happened.

Somehow, maybe because Jackson Street had been saved, Nick had halfway expected to find other pockets of buildings that still stood or could be repaired. But block after block, all he saw was desolation—a flattened, blackened plain where a vibrant, noisy city had stood just days before.

Here and there, the ruins of a few brick walls still stood upright. Once Nick saw the remains of a steel-framed building, where the flames must have burned like a furnace, bending and melting the metal into curved, limp pieces.

Shake pattered at Nick’s heels, head down. He didn’t stop to sniff like he’d normally do. All the live, earthy smells dogs usually love were gone.

“We’re going to Golden Gate Park now, Shake,” Nick told him as they skirted a pile of broken bricks. “Tomorrow maybe we’ll search the relief camp at the Presidio for Tommy. I don’t think we’ll find him, though. But I’m sure Annie will be real glad to see you again.”

On Market Street, Nick caught sight of a small brown cap peeking out from the ashes. It looked a lot like his own. He couldn’t help but think of the boy who must have worn it. Nick wondered how many people had died these last three days and if their names would ever be known.

He kicked at a patch of ashes with the toe of his shoe.

“If I hadn’t met Pat, I might have been sleeping in an alley Wednesday morning. I might have been crushed by a falling wall or trapped in rubble until the fire got me,” he said softly to Shakespeare. “No one would have reported me gone. No one would have missed me or even known my name.”

Shake barked once and wagged his tail. He graced Nick with a wide smile. “Yes, thanks, boy,” said Nick, scratching the big dog’s head. “I know you’d miss me. Even if you did run away and cause so much trouble.”

Nick reached over and pulled the brown hat from under the cinders. He dug a hole with a stick and buried it carefully under the ashes and dirt. As he did, Nick made himself a promise. He would do something in his life; he wasn’t sure what. Some small thing would do, just something so his name wouldn’t be totally forgotten.

Golden Gate Park was a sea of white tents, stretched as far as Nick could see. There were makeshift shelters, too, constructed out of blankets, sheets, and odd bits of furniture. People cooked on small stoves or waited in line to get handouts.

Nick hoped he could find the tent where he’d left Annie and her mother. But he didn’t need to worry. Annie must have been keeping watch. She saw him first. Or rather, she spotted Shake.

“Shakespeare!” she screamed, and charged at them, braids flying. “Nick, you saved Shakespeare!”

Shake got hugged first. But Annie gave Nick a big hug, too. She hopped up and down, chortling with joy.

“So, Nick, you’ve come for your quarter at last. What took you so long? Why didn’t you come yesterday?”

“Yesterday? Well, yesterday I was still fighting the fire,” Nick told her, grinning. “Most of Jackson Street was saved. Mr. Pat came back. He has a lot of work to do on his store, but he should be able to open again soon. But, Annie, the rooming house burned down. I’m sorry.”

He paused. “How’s your mother?”

“Mama is much better, although her side still hurts a lot. But of course she can’t be moved.” Annie leaned her head in close to Nick’s. “Don’t you want to know why?”

Without waiting for his answer, she blurted, “Because she and Will are being taken care of in the tent hospital here.”

Nick frowned. “Will?”

“My new baby brother!” Annie clapped and bounced from one foot to the other, braids flying. “He was born last night at midnight. And he’s perfectly perfect.”

“Wow. So you’re a big sister at last.” Nick almost felt like jumping up and down himself. A baby! Safe, after that long, terrible journey.

“Mama and I decided to name him after you or Shakespeare,” Annie told him. “I wanted to call him Nick, but Mama thought that might be confusing. Nick and Nick.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Nick grinned. “But why Will?”

“William Shakespeare, silly.” Annie reached into a pocket of her dress. “Now stick out your hand, Nick. Here’s your two bits. It’s the very same coin.”

“Thanks, Annie,” Nick said softly. He held it in his hand and closed his fist over it. “Monday is my birthday, you know. I’ll be twelve. That’s the best birthday present I could have. Besides knowing you’re all safe.”

When Nick visited Mrs. Sheridan, she surprised him by reaching out to give him a hug. “Thank you, dear boy. You’ll always have a place in my heart for what you did for us.”

Nick felt his face get hot. He peered into a nest of blankets at the baby’s small face. “He’s sure little,” he said, which made Annie and her mother laugh.

Nick brought out the small purse Pat had given him. “Your rooming house is ruined, ma’am. Mr. Pat…Pat says to please accept this gift and we’ll do what we can to help you come back to our neighborhood once things are rebuilt.”

“And you’re staying on with him, aren’t you? Well, I think you two will make a good team,” Mrs. Sheridan said, tears shining in her eyes.

“Three,” corrected Annie. “Don’t forget Shakespeare.”

When it was time for Mrs. Sheridan and the baby to rest, Annie walked with Nick and Shake to the edge of the park.

“I’ll come back and visit in a few days,” Nick promised. “And it looks like you were right. We’ll be neighbors after all.”

Annie nodded, but she seemed anxious. Suddenly she grabbed his arm. “Before you go, Nick, I…I have something else for you.”

“What else?” Nick was curious. “You already gave back the coin.”

“Don’t be mad.” Annie’s astonishing bright eyes filled with tears. She reached into her pocket and then thrust something into his hand. “I found it on the floor. It just looked like such a nice family. I was so glad you went back for my picture. And so I decided to take this one with me, too.”

Nick looked at what he held. It was the old photograph of Pat’s family. Nick stared. “Annie, do you know what you’ve done?”

Annie shook her head until her braids bounced.

“You’ve saved one of Mr. Pat’s most valued treasures.”

That afternoon, as Nick turned the corner onto Jackson Street, he spotted Ed Lind standing in front of Pat’s store. Ed was watching Pat put the finishing touches on a sign. It was really just a board nailed over the empty space where the window had been.

“Hullo there, Nick,” called Ed. “I was just reading a newspaper article about you in the
Call.
”

“About me?”

“Here, let me, Ed.” Pat cleared his throat. “I’ve been onstage, after all.”

San Francisco, April 21, 1906

BOY HERO RISKS ALL & SAVES DOG

Nicholas Dray, of Jackson Street in San Francisco, became a hero on Friday when he entered a smoking building to rescue his dog, Shakespeare. The boy’s courage was even more remarkable because he defied a soldier who mistook him for one of the looters who have taken advantage of our city’s misfortune.

When asked why he would risk death for a mere canine, Nick declared, “He is a good dog. A very good dog.”

Nicholas Dray is the ward of Mr. Pat Patterson, one of the city’s most distinguished literary figures and owner of the stationery store Shakespeare’s Scribes, now open for business on Jackson Street. Says Mr. Patterson, “All charred items, many of them still in working order, will be on sale, and new stock is expected momentarily.”

Nick listened, and couldn’t keep from smiling. He was certainly not invisible any longer. Written up in the newspaper, before he was twelve!

When Pat finished, he and Ed burst into laughter.

But Nick was confused about one thing. “I don’t understand—what is Shakespeare’s Scribes?”

Ed Lind pointed. “Look there. It’s Pat’s new sign.”