The woman had fled, with her children, from a home in flames in the Mission Street district, and tramped to the bay in the hope of sighting the ship which she said was about due, of which her husband was the captain.
“He would know me anywhere,” she said. And she would not move, although a young fellow gallantly offered his tent, back on a vacant lot, in which to shelter her children.
THE GOLDEN GATE CAMP.
In the Golden Gate Park there was the most woefully grotesque camp of sufferers imaginable. There was no caste, no distinction of rich and poor, social lines had been obliterated by the common misfortune, and the late owners of property and wealth were glad to camp by the side of the day laborer. As for shelter, there were a few army tents and some others which afforded a fair degree of comfort, but nine out of ten are the poorest suggestions of tents made out of bedclothes, rugs, raincoats and in some cases of lace curtains. None of the tents or huts has a floor, and it is impossible to see how a large number of women and children can escape the most disastrous physical effects.
The unspeakable chaos that prevailed was apparent in no way more than in the system, or lack of system, of registration and location. At the entrance to Golden Gate Park stands a billboard, twenty feet high and a hundred feet long. Originally it bore the praises of somebody’s beer. Covering this billboard, to a height of ten or twelve feet, were slips of paper, business cards, letter heads and other notices, addressed to “Those interested,” “Friends and relatives,” or to some individual, telling of the whereabouts of refugees.
One notice read: “Mrs. Rogers will find her husband in Isidora Park, Oakland. W. H. Rogers.” Another style was this: “Sue, Harry and Will Sollenberger all safe. Call at No. 250 Twenty-seventh Avenue.”
There were thousands of these dramatic notices on this billboard, and one larger than the others read: “Death notices can be left here; get as many as possible.”
Another method of finding friends and relatives was by printing notices on vehicles. On the side curtains of a buggy being driven to Golden Gate Park was the following sign: “I am looking for I. E. Hall.”
That searchers for lost ones might have the least trouble, all the tents, here known as camps, were tagged with the names or numbers. For instance, one tent of bed quilts carried this sign: “No. 40 Bush Street camp.”
Most of the tents were merely named for the family name of the occupants, the former streets number usually being given. But these tent tags told a wonderful story of human nature. A small army tent bore the name, “Camp Thankful,” the one next to it was placarded “Camp Glory” and a few feet farther on an Irishman had posted the sign “Camp Hell.”