PAPA TAUGHT ME WHERE TO FIND THE PULSE on a man: the neck, the wrist, and the inside of an ankle. If I no longer hear the man breathing, I am to search for a pulse. If I cannot find that, I am to fetch Alonso.

Five blackened men lay on tarps and cots before me. They gulp for air like fish stranded on the beach, hungry to fill their scorched lungs. My task is to lift their heads and pour water between their blistered lips. “Try not to drown them,” Papa instructs. When I waver, he snaps: “What if you were he? Guine, you are nearly fifteen years old and, as a well-bred young lady and the daughter of a doctor, surely you know by now that certain duties are expected of you. Do try to be gracious and offer the minimum of defiance. For a change.”

As of late, our conversations often come to this. However, Papa has misinterpreted my hesitancy. Mine is not a reluctance to touch the charred bodies but a resistance to relinquishing hope that we can help them live, rather than watch them die.

I straighten my back and glance eastward, tensing at the sight. From here, in the northeast corner of Portsmouth Square, I can see the bay. Where once the vibrant city of San Francisco stood, now a cauterized field stretches to the churning waters of the harbor. Wooden structures are no more. Even some brick buildings like the Delmonico Restaurant have crumbled, hunched in on themselves and coughing mortar dust into the veil of smoke that hovers over the devastation. The Parker Hotel is gone and with it the Jenny Lind Theater. The brick façades of the El Dorado, the California Exchange, and the Verandah Resort are blackened, windows shattered. The adobe walls of the Customs House, on the opposite side of the square, are scorched like the rest of the city. How many times has San Francisco burned since Papa and I returned? Four? Five? Each time seems worse than the last.

Yet each time, she returns. The fires have not repressed this fledgling city or destroyed her spirit. As soon as the sea breezes dust the ashes from her undulating shoulders and the smoke from her shores, she will arise as she has before. Were I to lay my hand to the ground of Portsmouth Square, I would expect to find a stubborn pulse.

I suppose I must resign myself, however, that the firemen I comfort will not be like the city. Papa can do little except dispense laudanum for their pain. Along with water, I try to provide some kind words when they wake. They rarely wake. And if they do they seldom say much, although I suspect many thoughts wait on their tongues. I try to speak of things that will only require a nod, but sometimes I forget to be brief. Prattling keeps me from despairing.

In the fading light of our medical pavilion a sixth man, a dark-haired stranger, fervently whispers beside one of the dying, clutching his hand, crouching protectively over him. He speaks softly but freely of the plans he has for the future, plans that pretend to include the prone man. The stranger is prattling too.

“Would he care for some water?”

“He has no further need of such things, lass,” the man says, gesturing with the sign of the cross before rising to his feet. He too is blackened with soot, but is not injured. “Thank you all the same.”

“Guine.” I turn at the sound of my name. Uncle James approaches the medical tent from the road, his expression weary and worn, his clothes smudged. “Guine, have you seen Alonso? He’s needed down on Montgomery Street.”

“He should be returning from the Hebrew Cemetery soon,” I say, glad of the diversion from the dark mourner.

“You’ll not be taking Jimmy to the Hebrew Cemetery, will you?” the man asks. Above his grief I hear panic.

“No, no,” I respond, noting the crucifix resting on the blistered chest of his friend. The religious artifacts have helped us sort the dead so that Alonso can deliver them to their rightful burial places. “He will be taken to Mission Dolores.”

The man nods. “Thanks be to God for that. I’ll tell his kin.”

“S-Senator,” Uncle James says, stumbling over the title as he steps closer to the grieving man, reaching out his hand in greeting. “Was he one of your volunteers?”

The Senator nods.

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir. But I fear there may be others. I’ve just come from the Cove. A half dozen men were trapped inside one of the brick buildings. The metal doors and shutters had warped and melted – we had to pry them open. I suppose the men thought the brick wouldn’t burn, but…someone recognized one of the dead as a fireman.” The Senator’s face does not change. “I’m sorry,” Uncle James repeats. “Empire Company was among the many who kept this disaster from being worse.”

“Thank you,” the Senator whispers. He repeats the gratitude once more into space, glancing at the body of his friend before trudging toward the harbor.

“Who is that?”

“Senator Broderick,” Uncle James replies. “San Francisco’s representative to the State Legislature. And foreman of the Empire Engine Company.”

“He is a barbarian.” Papa emerges from his temporary operating room, pushing the canvas flap aside to reveal another man with a wrapped wrist and flame-red patches on his face and arms. Papa urges this patient on his way. “One who desires San Francisco for a fiefdom, just as he wanted of New York. The Tammany Society transplanted.” Papa thrusts slender fingers through blond hair darkened with sweat. Surgeon’s finger, Mama called them. He is pale and irritable, limping noticeably from his old wound – a dubious gift from our time in Sonora.

“We need politicians like Broderick, Harold, if California is to avoid being overwhelmed by Southern interests and customs – people who would have us re-declared as a slave state. Who knows how much damage would be done without Broderick and his ilk.”

“He is a brute. His idea of political persuasion is to pummel his opponents if words will not do. And do you not find it strange when the ballots in certain precincts not only weigh heavily in his favor, but represent voter numbers far in excess of census counts?” Papa does not wait for Uncle James’ response, gesturing instead to the Senator’s friend. “Is this one of Broderick’s men?” I nod. “He will be to Mission Dolores then with the rest of the Irish rabble.”

Uncle James sets his jaw and looks away. We have both heard words of this nature from my father before. It seems Harold was born hating the Irish, Uncle James is wont to say. He says it’s because he’s British, although I expect there is more to it than that. Although disagreement and disgust shadow Uncle James’ face, he refrains from reminding Papa that the firemen of San Francisco are predominantly Irish. Such facts are rarely persuasive with my father.

“Guine, have we more laudanum?” Papa asks in response to a low groan from the other side of the shelter.

“No, Papa.”

Papa glances at Uncle James.

“I don’t know, Harold,” Uncle James shakes his head in response to the question my father has not asked. “The Battery warehouse is gone and everything with it. Sansome was spared. I can take a look at the ledgers to see if I might have some medical supplies there. I know there were some at Battery, but I don’t remember any in Sansome. I’ll look.”

“I can’t wait for that.”

“Harold…”

Papa glances in the direction of Dupont Street. “I assume Little China is still there. Nothing west of the square seems to have been touched.”

“It’s standing. Singed but standing. Harold, let me see what I can find at Sansome before you go.”

“I have ventured there before.”

“I know, but…”

“I need the opium. These men need the opium.” Papa straightens his shoulders. Although accustomed to my uncle’s oft-expressed apprehension about the opium sellers in the Chinese district, he will brook no further argument. “James, please escort Guine home to fetch my satchel of money. I believe I have enough coin without having to wait for the bank to open tomorrow morning. I imagine the Chinese will take advantage of this disaster to raise the prices, but that cannot be helped.”

I turn my back as Papa and Uncle James argue about the dangers of a venture into Little China after dark, the question of who will help the wounded and dying while the deed is done. It is a conversation in which I have no part, although that may change soon enough. For now, I am tired and hungry and wish for the disagreement to end and the dying men cured and the city to miraculously recover. When I walk through San Francisco tomorrow, I want the familiar buildings to be in their proper places and the distant piers to stretch into the bay where now I see only blackened sticks pointing in accusation at the shore of Yerba Buena Cove.

The Cove. Where the Dunsfords live.

“You said you came from the Cove, did you not?” I interrupt, turning back to my uncle, away from the harbor where the shards of the wharves have thrust my thoughts toward my adoptive family. “The Dunsfords. Have you seen them? Are they safe?”

Uncle James shakes his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them. I didn’t think…”

I do not wait to hear more. I run toward the Cove, one thought dominating: Please let them be safe. A plea punctuates each footfall. Please. Please. Please.

The underground planks that supported Clay Street have burned away, and I navigate the smoldering ruts on my tiptoes, stepping in time with my mantra: please help them, please let them be alive, please do not let me fall. Please. Acrid smoke hovers over the embers, burning my nose and eyes as I sprint toward the bay. I pass Montgomery, then Sansome where the blackened hulk of the landlocked Niantic crouches amidst other wreckage. The Niantic was a real ship once, like the Pelican. Then it was a hotel, until last night’s blaze.

At Battery Street, I realize that another of the old converted ships, the General Harrison, has fared worse than Niantic. I am unable to distinguish the profile of the corner store from the rest of the ruins, guessing at its location only by the charred crossroads where it had stood. My hope had been that buildings furthest from Portsmouth Square, where the fire began, would fare better than those nearer the bay. But they have not.

From the intersection, I turn toward the spot where the Pelican should be, landlocked like her sister ships. My breath is ragged as I run, my corset pinching. My plea intensifies. Please. Please. Please.

I stop at the place where once the Washington Street wharf had stretched. The cinders of the pier crunch beneath my boots as ash puffs from the shards.

The Pelican is no more. I had walked her decks not two days ago in joyful celebration with the family that called her home. Now, the main cabin smolders somewhere in the depths of her hold, two levels below my feet.

I should have been dancing. A birthday gala for 17-year-old twins Matthew and Lizzie had brought me to the Pelican with the promise of food and music and laughter. Instead, however, I volunteered to relieve Mrs. Dunsford of her usual duties at the pie shop so that she could enjoy her children and the 2-year-old grandson she had never before met. Where I might otherwise have been laughing with my friends and enjoying tasty treats, instead I was cooking in the heat of the ship’s tiny galley along with dozens of pie wedges.

The Dunsfords and I had sailed to San Francisco from New York on the Pelican nearly three years ago in 1848, braving the treacherous route around Cape Horn to arrive just as news of California’s abundant gold was spreading across the globe, addling brains and turning the city into a madhouse. A few fellow sailing vessels had already been abandoned in the harbor, deserted in haste by crews in search of riches. The number of these forlorn ships grew into the hundreds before the year was out.

Originally bound for a missionary post in China, the Dunsfords had been stranded as a result of the desertions. With resourceful determination, Mrs. Dunsford had turned the old ship into a home for her family. Without hope of a pulpit for the Reverend, from the galley came their only income in the form of pies, both sweet and savory. The business soon thrived.

Volunteering to help with that business today, however, had been foolish. Juggling hot pans and hot pies and gold coins proved to be more than I expected.

Collecting money and making proper change should have been the easiest of my tasks. However it was not, for I was occasionally called upon to weigh gold dust and certain coins, per Mrs. Dunsford’s strict orders. Weighing of the dust was expected, but woe to the hapless buyer with a five or ten-dollar coin minted by the Pacific Company. Those coins did not contain the requisite amount of gold to correspond to their face value, and even the credentials of Senator David Broderick, original minter of the coins and part owner of the now-defunct Pacific Company, were not enough to convince Mrs. Dunsford to accept them without weighing. Not surprisingly, customers with Pacific Company coins were seldom happy when their money was found wanting.

I dropped a steaming pot of newly baked pies onto the stove top, stifling a squeal as it brushed my arm. Perspiration trickled down my back, soaking into my chemise, exacerbating the chafe of my corset. In silence I vowed that once my duties were complete, I would rip the annoying corset from my body and tear it apart, reveling in the sound of fabric screaming in protest. Setting it ablaze was tempting, but the thought of the heat that would be required to burn the dreadful thing extinguished that idea in short order. I was hot enough already. Both doors of the galley were open to let the breeze through, but that did little to stem my melting.

I glanced outside where customers hovered in a queue that stretched from the galley door, across the deck, and down the gangway into the street. Only a dozen or so pies were left, including the ones I had just pulled from the oven.

“You need help,” Matthew said as he slipped into the galley, his face flushed and his light hair tousled. This was the second time he had come to my aid today.

“What if we run out of pies?”

“Don’t fear. It happens all the time,” he said, then turned to the first customer. “What can I get for you, sir?”

Clearing the deck did not take long. There was grumbling from those who wanted rabbit pie but had to settle for pork, and from the final customer who wanted five when only three of the steaming wedges were left. The remaining stragglers stamped their feet in frustration as they retreated down the gangway empty handed. But Matthew remained pleasant, and I followed his example, recommending to any disappointed patron to return tomorrow, preferably at an earlier hour.

“We need a bigger shop,” Matthew said as the last customer departed. “And perhaps another oven, and more shelving. Mother should hire a cook, too. She’s had a few asking about a position, but she doesn’t know any of them and she’s certain they lie about their experience. Everybody in San Francisco lies about their experience.”

“How is she?” I asked, believing I knew the answer already.

“Mother hasn’t been this happy since we arrived in San Francisco. Seeing Lizzie again, and finally meeting little Michael were the answers to her prayers.”

“And Michael is the perfect grandchild, I suppose.”

“Of course,” Matthew beamed, pride in his nephew evident on his face. “Mother hasn’t put him down since he arrived. I doubt she’ll give him up at the end of today’s festivities. You know how she is about family.”

“Will the Reverend object to their presence?”

His smile faded as he glanced toward the gangway, as if expecting to see his father walking there. I already regretted the question. “He isn’t likely to know. Father’s helping with the construction of a new building on Kearny somewhere. Afterward, he’ll probably pause for a sermon in front of one of the brothels before he returns home. Just to stay in practice, you know, anticipating that day in the very near future when the Church offers him a pulpit of his own. Against all odds. I doubt he’ll be home before dark. Lizzie and her family will have returned to your aunt and uncle’s house by then.”

“Surely after all this time…”

“Even after all this time his heart has not yielded.” Matthew bowed his head. “He must be right, you know. At all times he must be right, even if the facts prove otherwise. I for one can’t understand the fuss. Lizzie seems quite happy being married to Robert – not at all tainted by his evil Papist ways. I saw no evidence of horns.”

“When does your ship sail?” I asked, intent upon steering the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

“Next month. She’s being fitted out now. I saw a poster advertising passage yesterday and it read June 15^th. Of course, that may change. It always does.”

“Harvard, Matthew. You must be very proud to have been accepted there.”

“Harvard wasn’t too keen on admitting me, given my dismal education the past three years. Had it not been for your uncle and his vast connections, I’m afraid I might’ve had to settle for being a pie baker the rest of my life.” He laughed. “Instead, thanks to Mr. James Somersworth, I shall be an engineer as I’ve always wanted. Harvard’s science school is still new, only four years old, but I’m sure its reputation will rise to the level of excellence enjoyed by the rest of the university in due time. I wasn’t accepted at any of the other engineering schools anyway.” His laughter was more subdued.

“I plan on returning once my schooling is complete. The East has much to offer an engineer, but the possibilities here are vast. San Francisco is like a blank canvas.” He squinted past the glare of the bay waters, a smile tickling the corners of his mouth as he surveyed the “canvas.”

“I know. You have great plans for this city.” He had described most of those dreams to me on our hike last Saturday to the crag called Goat Hill that stood sentry over Yerba Buena Cove.

That day I had wisely left the hated corset at home. The climb had been arduous and I was thankful not to have whale bones digging into my sides and constricting each breath. I would have been even happier had I also been wearing trousers, as I did in Sonora. However Papa insisted that I leave my “wild ways” in the Sierra when we moved again to the city, so I no longer owned trousers. Instead I had to ruck my skirts as I stumbled up the rocky slope.

Once at the peak I was winded, but thrilled that we had made that journey. Downtown San Francisco lay below, huddled against the shoreline, framed by her towering hills. The Presidio, with its wind-battered cypress trees, was to the north. The rocky pile that was Alcatraz Island jutted from the dark blue waters of the bay, and the oak-strewn contra costa was a blurred milieu to the east. I might have described the view as breathtaking, but the climb itself had already claimed that title.

Gazing toward the strait of the Golden Gate beyond the Presidio, Matthew had spoken of a bridge that would span the divide one day. “A bridge that remarkable hasn’t been built yet, but what’s to say it can’t be? And what’s to say that I won’t be the builder.” He imagined railroads that would scale the Sierra Nevada and streets fortified to make San Francisco a great city – wonders yet-to-be designed and crafted. The brisk wind blew ideas into his head faster than he could speak, and his eyes were riveted on the visions.

“Will you return to Boston?” he asked, dispelling my reverie of the Goat Hill hike. “Your father complains so much about San Francisco’s lack of culture, why don’t you both return to the East?”

“He will not venture aboard another ship for all of the gold in California. You know that. I am afraid that a journey to Boston must wait until those railroads you envision are open for business. The sea and Papa are well acquainted, but not good friends.”

A chorus of whoops and laughter from the main cabin danced across the Pelican’s deck. “You will make a fine engineer, Matthew,” I said.

“But that makes you sad?”

I was startled by his question. The conversation had left me with a sense of melancholy, but I did not expect my mood to be so obvious. “Sad? No, not at all. I am happy for you.”

Matthew looked doubtful. Then he crooked his arm and held it out to me. “Shall we join the party? Perhaps that will cheer you.”

Dozens of lamplights bob eerily in the dusk, as foragers poke through the ruins for surviving possessions or bounty. A rifle’s discharge punctuates the night. Looters and the militia are both afoot tonight.

By the time I return to the medical shelter, all save one of Papa’s burned charges have been removed to their respective churchyards. Politely refusing Papa’s offer of help, the cobbler Mr. Solomon lifts the body of his eldest child onto the canted slats of a handcart, hands shaking as he tucks and gentles a blanket around his son. He lifts the wagon’s handles, and I suspect the groan that escapes his lips is due more to grief than any strain on his back. His gloomy destination will be the Hebrew Cemetery at Franklin and Broadway.

Papa and Uncle James seem mindful of the Pelican’s hovering ghost as they offer words of comfort to stem my tears. Finally thwarted in his efforts to cheer me, Uncle James departs for home, and Papa and I begin the task of clearing the site, lapsing into a bruised silence.

This too will pass; they too have passed. Even this ridiculous chant cannot whirl away the images and smells and memories of the afternoon, nor dispel the specter of the black hole left by the Pelican’s demise. I fear the Dunsfords are gone, lost in the ashes of their ship, the thought tearing at my heart like some clawed beast. It is a familiar feeling. I felt much the same when Mama died, and again the day Papa left for California without me. I had come to think of the sensation as a forever wound: a hurt that never bleeds but refuses to heal. Loss of my friends and companions will be another forever wound for me.

My fingers move as if of their own volition, dutifully gathering the debris of Papa’s rescue efforts, cleaning his surgical tools, and wiping away the traces of carnage.

My thoughts stray once again to Friday’s festivities aboard the Pelican. Matthew had been right, of course. I had been sad when he spoke of the life that awaited him at Harvard, for I was jealous of his plans, the promise of new discoveries and freedom that awaited him in Massachusetts. And now I can add shame to my despair, for that jealousy feels so petty in light of today’s tragedy.

“I beg your pardon?” I ask, only now aware that Papa has said something.

“You have a visitor,” he repeats, tipping his head toward the darkness of the square.

I beg your pardon? I want to shout the question this time. What more inappropriate time could there be for a social visit? How can anyone be so insensitive as to think company would be welcomed at such a time and place as this?

Despite these irreverent thoughts, I dab my eyes and work to compose my features so that I can greet the newcomer in the manner instructed by Aunt Jessica. With grace, she always says. Your guest must feel he is the only person in the world who is of any consequence to you. The troubles of your day must never interfere with the comfort of your company. I suppose Mama would have said the same, were she here. Papa would add: You are a lady, after all, and must never forget to act like one.

My visitor is Uncle James. I pull my shoulders back as he approaches the hospital tent with his lantern high, a wide circle of light preceding him through the gloom. I smile, despite my irritation at this intrusion, for he reminds me of Mama. She was much like her older brother, with the same mischievous dark eyes and ready smile he wears now. What an exasperating countenance, given the circumstance. Why has he left the comfort of his home to return here, and why must I pose for him, of all people?

Not until he reaches the overhang of the tent do I see the reason for his cheer. Behind him walks Matthew Dunsford, smudged with soot, but whole and safe.

I can no longer hold the weight of whatever instrument is in my hand – it thuds in the plaza dirt. I surge across the short expanse of the hospital tent and fling myself at the boy, burying my face in his shirt, abandoning my reserve in defiance of my aunt’s teachings. Renewed tears sting my eyes and joyful sobs spasm from me. I cling to him without shame.

His chest rumbles as he speaks, but the words are barely audible over my snuffles: A glow like the sun…light sleeper…grabbed Anna, her strong box, and her largest cooking pot…marched us north…” I must pull away to hear the remarkable tale of how his family came to escape the deaths I was certain had taken them. I stand back, but do not turn Matthew loose from my embrace.

“We could still feel the heat from the flames on our backs as we approached Broadway. But it was clear ahead. Mother just kept walking, leading us and herding us in turn like sheep until late morning when we reached your uncle’s house. I thought the climb would kill us all.

“Your aunt and uncle have asked us to stay with them, Guine. All eleven of us, including Lizzie’s family. The house will be quite crowded with Cecchis and Dunsfords, I should think. Although perhaps it’ll make little difference, given the mansion’s size.

“One good thing, I suppose. Father must be on his best behavior for a change.”

I SAW MY FIRST DRAGON the very day I came to San Francisco. It had a big ugly head of painted wood and paper, with a body made from yards of yellow cloth. Chinamen carried it through the streets on long poles, the body twisting like a snake as the bearers jumped up and down to the rhythms of tinny drums and the snap of firecrackers. The streets of Little China had been lined with hundreds of Celestials waving yellow flags with even more dragons on them – blue dragons. I’d never seen so many Chinamen in one place. Somebody told me they were celebrating the New Year, but I didn’t believe that. It was February. Even Chinamen must know when the New Year begins.

The second dragon however – the fire dragon – was an altogether different creature. As it marched through the city last night, it was terrifying. It ate through San Francisco with a ferocious roar.

We never heard the fire alarm. It was Billy Mulligan who came running into the Golden Ribbon just after midnight to warn us of the flames. Every building on the square was on fire, he said, and the flames were coming our way.

There wasn’t much panic, really. Not what I expected. I suppose many people had been through the Great Fire last year, so they must’ve known what to do. Most of the ladies ran upstairs to put on some clothes and collect a few of their belongings, Mrs. Schwartzman yelling at them to hurry up, shouting that they should gather outside in the middle of the street so we could all be together. The men quickly tipped back their drinks and gathered up what winnings they had before rushing out the door. I doubt Mrs. Schwartzman cared much where they ran off to because they’d have already paid their debts to her. She didn’t believe in keeping a tabulation for anybody.

Once the Ribbon was emptied, she grabbed my arm. “John,” she whispered, “I need help with my trunk. Come with me.”

I wasn’t keen on having to go further into the building while there was a fire coming our way, but I didn’t want to refuse the request. I’d helped Mrs. Schwartzman cart that heavy old thing from Stockton, after all, and I knew what she kept there and how much it meant to her. She led me past the bar into her office.

“It won’t take a minute,” she said, grabbing the cash box as we passed through, unlocking the door to her bedroom before rushing inside. “I keep it mostly packed all the time, just in case. You never know in this town.”

The battered trunk was in one corner of the room, covered with a patterned shawl dripping with purple bangles and beads. Purple’s Mrs. Schwartzman’s favorite color, so the room looked like someone had thrown plums everywhere. It was the gaudiest place I’d ever seen, but Mrs. Schwartzman thought it was beautiful.

Flinging the shawl over her shoulders, she searched through her clutch of keys while I opened the window for a glance outside, hoping not to see the fire’s glare. I could smell smoke, but the flames themselves weren’t to be seen. I figured we had a bit of time left.

More than twenty keys of every size were on that ring of Mrs. Schwartzman’s: to the cash box, the cellar, the office, her bedroom, everything. The biggest was a master key that opened every door to each of the hotel rooms upstairs. Just in case there’s trouble, she always said.

“Aha,” she crowed, finding the key she wanted and slipping it into the trunk’s lock. She flipped the lid open and thrust the cash box inside. Then she dashed around the room, gathering up jewelry and framed photographs and other bits of her life. Well, “dashing” may be a generous word, since Mrs. Schwartzman is the size of a barn and just about as easy to move.

After one last look around, she dropped the chest lid, locked it up, and turned to me. “I’m ready, John. Let’s get the hell outta here.” We each grabbed a handle and wrestled the leaden box through the Ribbon.

The ladies had done as she asked and were waiting in the middle of Washington Street, clutching each other and pointing at the reddish glow in the distance over Portsmouth Square.

“This way, girls,” Mrs. Schwartzman shouted, pulling toward the Cove.

“Wait,” I said. “The wind’s behind the fire, blowing our way. It’ll overtake us before we get two blocks. This way.” I pointed up the hill. “We’ll be safer this way. We can gather at the Presbyterian Church on Dupont.”

“But we’ll pass right by the fire,” Mrs. Schwartzman protested, studying the smoky street ahead on the path I’d chosen.

“But it hasn’t reached the street yet. We can get past it and on the higher ground behind. Away from the wind. Trust me.”

With her nod, the ladies gathered their skirts and fled up the hill, Mrs. Schwartzman and me following slowly behind with the chest. We passed Sansome and had just reached Montgomery when she called for a stop to catch her breath, signaling to the ladies to keep moving.

That’s when I saw the fire dragon. All along Montgomery Street, flames from every building on both sides were rising into the night. I was certain I was looking down the creature’s throat. The flicker and heat from the blaze made the dark sky squirm and twitch like a reptile. A fiery tongue stretched down the middle of the street, torching the wooden supports that lay beneath the road itself. The glass of Montgomery’s new streetlamps popped like firecrackers and the metal poles buckled as the dragon roared past them, heading our way.

“We need to go,” I gasped, a gust of wind driving the heat into my face. I grabbed the weathered trunk handle once again and whispered prayers to Mother Mary as we fled from the beast. That chest seemed to get heavier under the dragon’s glare, but I left off cursing it aloud, for my words would do little to persuade Mrs. Schwartzman that it should be left behind.

Just shy of Dupont, Mrs. Schwartzman demanded another rest. There we were far enough from the blaze to be safe, so I didn’t mind having to stop this time. I found myself looking back at the fire and wondering how best to describe it for Quinn. Quinn would’ve liked a dragon story. She enjoyed that sort of thing. She knew lots of stories of her own and back in Sonora often told me and the boys about the great fire-breathing beasts that knights hunted as a test of courage or some such nonsense. She’d go on and on about how dangerous and scary dragons were and how brave you had to be to kill one. I really liked her tales, although I don’t think I ever told her so.

I stood there, fascinated by the distant flames, until Mrs. Schwartzman smacked me on the shoulder. “John,” she yelled, “I said I’m ready to move again. Shake the smoke from your brain and lift that trunk, you fool.”

I did as I was told, although some foolish part of me wanted to stay. I didn’t really know why I sought to remember the blaze for a story, of all things. I’m not much for telling stories myself, and I hadn’t seen Quinn in such a long time. My brain must have been clouded with the smoke, just like Mrs. Schwartzman suspected.

By the time Mrs. Schwartzman and I finally reached Dupont Street, the ladies of the Ribbon were already inside the Presbyterian Church, being greeted and settled by the preacher and his wife who were offering blankets and coffee and prayers. Half the town seemed to be there, glad to be out of harm, away from the smoke and the fog that had crept in during the night.

Mrs. Schwartzman and I set the trunk against the back wall. “I thank you, John, for not asking to leave this behind. You’d have had to leave me with it, you know, ’cause I’m too damned old to be poor again,” she whispered, still panting like a dog. I almost said that being too old had naught to do with it, since poverty doesn’t heed anybody’s age. But I kept my mouth shut. I understood what she meant. Some things are too dear to leave behind, unless you have no choice.

As soon as Mrs. Schwartzman and the ladies were settled, I ventured outside again. The thoughts of Quinn and Sonora had made me restless, and naught that I did kept them from my mind. I borrowed a blanket and, from a safe distance at the top of the square, watched the fire’s progress on its way to the Cove. I slept a bit.

At first light I went in search of Jack.

That’s his name, like mine: Jack. He’s a crazy old man I’d met on the streets, where he lives. We are almost friends, I suppose. I give him food and things he needs, and he tells me stories of his prospecting and his family in Chicago and his dead sons. The stories are mostly tall tales like those of all the other miners, except that Jack believes them. He talks about mining gold like he might return to that someday, but I think the goldfields are safe from ole Jack, even though I never tell him so. He’s still got the fever, like most of the miserable wretches on San Francisco’s streets, hoping for the day when they find that magical golden nugget in their pan.

I doubt Jack could find his way back into the hills even if he tried. He forgets where he leaves his coat and never remembers if he ate breakfast on any given morning. He’s truly daft, talking to people who aren’t there and forgetting the names of the people who are. He’s even forgotten my name a few times. I like his tales, though, for he describes the land so well. Makes me think of Sonora. I’d say there’s a bit of the poet in the madman.

When I awoke at dawn, the fire was still raging, although the smoke and fog were so thick the flames were just a reddish glow in the haze at the water’s edge.

Jack wasn’t anyplace I expected him to be, and I feared the worst. When a man has no sense, you never know what can happen. I searched his usual places, starting behind that bookshop that’s wedged between the Courthouse and the Monument Fire Engine’s building. I was glad not to find him under the steps of the El Dorado because that had been scorched all around. Had he hidden there, he’d have been blackened along with the bricks.

Then the blasting began. For much of the morning, the volunteer firemen used dynamite to clear a path and stop the fire’s progress, the sound echoing up the hills and causing us all to jump out of our skins at every explosion.

The injured were everywhere. As I made my way through the city, I was often recruited to carry fallen firemen to various safe spots where we’d leave them to await the city’s doctors and their fate. By ten o’clock, at least two dozen wounded lay groaning in pain on tarps at the northeast corner of Portsmouth Square, some screaming, all with raw oozing burns over most of their bodies.

“What’s to be done with them?”

“The doc’s been summoned. He’ll be here soon. Maybe soon enough.”

I checked the faces of the fallen, and every passerby. Ole Jack was not among them. I prayed he’d made it north to those ugly hills overlooking the square, safe from the fire because there were few houses up there to burn, and no trees to speak of.

By eleven or so, the fire was out and the blasting had stopped. I still had not seen Jack, although I hadn’t come across his body either. I began to believe he’d made it to a safe place. I couldn’t do much more than I had already, so that’s when I started looking for work.

Ever since I met Mrs. Schwartzman in Stockton, I’d done odd chores for her, like lugging trunks and beds, and tossing out the drunkards from her parlor at closing time. It’s easy work for the most part. I suppose the worst are the drunks, for they sometimes put up a fight. But I do fine, even with them. Beth’s husband was a drunk, so I have experience.

In exchange for helping, Mrs. Schwartzman gives me a cot to sleep on in the storeroom of her hotel and what meals I can nip from her kitchen. Most of the chores come late at night and in the early morning hours, so during the day I’m free to earn a real wage. I can usually find work at the wharves. It’s more lugging and hauling, just like for Mrs. Schwartzman, except that I get coin for the work I do at the docks.

Soon after the fire started last night, most of the ships moved into the deeper waters of the harbor to wait. By the time the flames were out, all but two or three of the wharves were destroyed, and those that were left were crowded again when the ships returned to unload cargo. Time waiting in a harbor is money wasted – which never brings out the best in the captains. So they were doing whatever proved most swift to discharge their goods, even ferrying product to shore in small boats loaded almost to sinking. I was hired along with three Mexicans to pilot a lighter. I work well with the estibadors, the Mexican workers, so I never have trouble getting work at the wharves.

Maybe an hour later, the estibadors and me had already made three trips from ship to shore. I was sorting through the goods on the beach, checking them against the manifests and making certain that the men who came to claim the loads were the same ones whose name were on the paperwork. That’s when a dark-haired man dressed in smart business clothes came up and slapped me on the back.

“Young man,” he said, “How would you like a job?”

“I have two more loads to haul for Captain Stewart, sir. But, after that I’m free to work for you,” I said, using my best manners because I’d recognized him as Mr. James Somersworth. I’d been angling to get a job at his company since I came to San Francisco, and I didn’t want to ruin my chances by not being polite. Mr. Somersworth sends supplies up the Sacramento River for the miners and ships to South America and the Eastern United States, and even to England and Ireland. A lot of the shipping companies do that, but rumor on the wharves was that Mr. Somersworth worked you hard but was always the most fair.

“Those last two loads for Captain Stewart are mine anyway. But I don’t mean for today. I’ve been watching how you handle the cargo and the Mexicans. I could use a smart boy like you, especially one who speaks Spanish. I’d like to hire you for full-time work.”

I believe my mouth dropped open, but naught came out.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked, chuckling at my dumbness.

“John Patrick, sir.”

“Patrick your last name?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, even though it wasn’t true. Then I worried that it wouldn’t matter about my real name because maybe he wouldn’t hire an Irish boy, and Patrick sounded just as Irish as my real name.

“How did a good Irish lad like you come to speak Spanish like a native?”

“My mother was Spanish, sir.”

“Where are you from?”

“Stockton, sir,” I lied. Nobody in San Francisco knew I really came from Sonora, not even Mrs. Schwartzman. She never asked me about my home when we met in Stockton, and now she just tells everybody that I came with her from there. So that’s the story I tell too. It’s true, and nobody needs to know the rest.

“Can you start tomorrow?”

I didn’t let two thoughts come between me and the word yes. He said he’d expect me at his warehouse on Sansome at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning, and I was to look sharp and be on time.

After three more hauling jobs and more than fifteen trips back and forward from the ships, I’m so tired I can hardly lift my arms. But my pockets are full and my spirits are high. Supper is a bowl of rice and some pork dumplings from my favorite restaurant in Little China. After that I head for the Presbyterian Church, keeping my eye open for Jack along the way.

The ladies are no longer at the church, for Mrs. Schwartzman has moved everyone to a vacant lot two doors away where she’s set up barrels and pine boards to make a bar and a couple of gaming tables. She also managed to find more than a dozen bottles of whiskey and a cask of beer. She plans on setting the ladies working again, and has strung blankets on poles around cots she’s bought from a Chinaman – all within spitting distance of the Presbyterian House of God.

Mrs. Schwartzman herself is perched on her trunk, barking orders to the girls and calling out to every passing man with soot on him, offering half price to bed with one of the ladies. She claims that way at least their cocks will be soot free after a night at the temporary Ribbon.

“A special reward for our big strapping volunteers,” she calls. “It’s the least the Ribbon can do for all our fire-fighting boys. Half price.”

Sitting there on that chest, I swear she looks like one of those fat brown toads I used to stalk in Sonora. Buaf, my Da called them because he thought the Gaelic sounded more like their croaking than the word toad. I’d find them plumped atop some rock, a big smile splitting their face in two, waiting for a meal to fly by. I mean no disrespect to Mrs. Schwartzman by the comparison, it’s just that…well, the resemblance is too strong to ignore.

So I spend the rest of the evening trying not to laugh at Mrs. Buaf, making sure the blankets don’t slip from their poles, and keeping the firefighters from making trouble as they relieve soot from their body parts. I watch for Jack, whispering an occasional prayer as I whistle away the dark, happy that at least some good has come of the fire dragon: I won’t have so much trouble gathering together money to send to Sonora anymore, as a real regular job has found me.

I AM AWED BY THE SPEED of San Francisco’s resilient rise from the ashes of May. Watching from the porch of our Green Street home, an anthill of activity in the Cove is framed against the indigo waters of the bay and the golden hills of the contra costa beyond. Dusting off the old, the city embraces her rebirth with haste.

In the first days following the fire, a steady stream of injured made their way to Papa’s surgery calling for ointments, the removal of stitches, and various cures for their coughs. With the injured came the gossip. On everyone’s lips was speculation of arson and well-planned looting. This is the fault of the Sydney Ducks, they agreed. We must rid this town of all Australian vermin, they said. The newspapers picked up the tales, which then spread faster than the flames. Accusations were thrown, blame was assigned.

Within a week of the fire, even the clamor of the injured calmed. Patients were fewer in number, and their wounds more often related to the new construction. Still, alongside encouraging reports of the city’s recovery, the newspapers were filled with unrelenting rancor against the assumed arsonists.

I cannot help but react to the tales. Because Papa’s assailant in Sonora was an Australian, the one who left him limping and in pain, I find the allegations of their complicity in the destruction of San Francisco easy to believe. Despite more recent encounters with Australian families in the neighborhood of Mrs. Wilkes, the Australian seamstress who is helping to improve my sewing skills, I still tense at the sound of their accents. Mine may be an irrational fear, but that does not lessen its presence.

Despite headlines and rumors, however, I am determined not to have my trepidation spoil a beautiful day.

“Would you care to join me, Papa?” I pour him some tea before refilling my own cup. “I wish to ride the new omnibus to Mission Dolores this afternoon.”

“Whatever for?”

I reach for the newspaper he has positioned on the corner of the kitchen table. The article I seek is on the front page, beneath a call for deportation of the Ducks. “The Alta California says, a wonderful addition to the city.”

“Guine, public transportation may be welcomed, but it is hardly something to celebrate.”

“Progress, Papa.”

“Progress for the plebian. I fail to understand why Americans wish to applaud the most common of denominators. Every major city has something very like an omnibus. And I assure you every rider is of the lowest class imaginable.”

“That is hardly the egalitarian response I expected from you. I thought class distinction had no place in your life. At least that is what you claim.”

“I have patients to visit today. Why not ask Matthew to accompany you?”

“I did. Yesterday.” I had been certain he would go, given how he devours every newspaper article about the project, hoarding details like a miser, ready to spout them to anyone who will listen. And I have listened: to an endless flow of information about the omnibus, and the work of Mr. Wilson’s Mission Dolores Plank Road Company, and the hardships suffered in building a bridge over the marshy muck at the Sixth Street crossing. Matthew Dunsford knew more than anyone cared to hear about the reconstruction of Mission Street and the omnibus project. “However, it appears that today is the day the oven will be pulled from the wreckage of the Pelican and deposited into the new pie shop. Matthew is in charge of the excavation and is quite excited about it. I doubt even the omnibus would distract him.

“Perhaps it is good that he cannot accompany me, as I am certain he would demand a stop at every opportunity along the route for a closer inspection.”

“And so your sojourn must wait for another day.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot go, Matthew cannot go, and I will not have you go alone.”

“Why not? I am certain that the journey to Mission Dolores is quite safe.”

“You cannot be certain, Guine. Not a day has gone by without headlines trumpeting the lawlessness of this city. Sydney Ducks Strike Terror in Hearts of San Francisco Citizens. Chief of Police Hires More Officers to Thwart Looting Following the Fires. U.S. Navy Recruited to Prevent Stolen Property from Sailing Away. You have merely to open that newspaper in your hand and you will find dozens of such stories, my sweet. Since the omnibus driver collects fares, that will most assuredly attract every robber and miscreant for miles. I will not have you traipsing the streets of San Francisco by yourself.

“Besides, have you not yet learned that it is not proper for a young lady to travel alone? Have you not been listening to your Aunt Jessica at all?”

These “have you not” conversations have escalated between us since our return from Sonora, for Papa is convinced that I am in mortal and moral danger every time I leave the house. In Sonora Papa may have had some trepidation about my proximity to lawless low-born miners and dangerous terrain; however, since our return to the city, his fears have trebled. Now, because San Francisco is populated at every strata of society with criminals (or so the newspapers would have one believe), not only does he worry for my safety, but he is equally concerned that my reputation will be sullied by mere association. Were Papa to have his way, I would be cloistered in my room for the next several years. Or packed off to Boston.

I know his fears to be exaggerated, and suspect he does as well. In the same breath as a rant about the subject of a headline, Papa rails against the journalism itself.