Overturned stoves in a thousand houses throughout the residential districts had early started a multitude of fires and split the fire-fighters into many divisions, and therefore into less effective units in their futile efforts even partially to check the mighty master—the devouring tempest of fire that crackled and sported in its insatiable greed.
There was still to follow yet another misfortune, an execrable crime—that of wicked inhuman incendiarism. At places flames burst forth kindled by the hands of a coterie of merciless ghouls. These inhuman devils added to the calamities heaped upon their fellows by setting fire to unburned dwellings whose owners had fled. There was neither necessity nor reason for their dastardly acts. With sponges soaked in kerosene, they did this damnable work—indulging dreams perhaps of greater loot, greed and avarice in their cruel eyes, blackest hell in their debauched hearts.
In the beginning of this losing fight with terrors of the fire king, seemingly unconquerable, only one ray of hope was discernible—there was no wind from ocean or bay in San Francisco that April morning. The clouds that filled the heavens with ominous blackness were only stifling smoke from the burning buildings below.
High above the crimson snake-tongued flames the black smoke hung like a pall, silent and motionless, while fringing it around far away in every direction was the clear blue sky, serene, unfathomable.
As the heroic work of fighting the fire demon progressed, it was soon discovered that the police were insufficient. Crowds of ghouls were pressing the firemen, while robbery, rapine and murder ran riot. Human blood that day was easily spilled. For the sake of pelf and plunder, life was cheap.
The boldness of this lawless condition brought about its own remedy. Strong men arose in their might. Under able leadership they quickly formed a committee of safety. The National Guard was sent to help them.
General Fred Funston of the U. S. Army telegraphed to the Secretary of War for authority, and within three hours was hurrying United States troops into the burning city, and immediately placed it under martial law. The crowds were quickly driven back by the soldiers, fire lines were established, government troops, guards and police all bent nobly to the task of endeavoring to subdue the flames. Buildings were dynamited to shut off the fire’s progress, insubordinate as well as predatory ruffians were shot down without mercy, and thus was order brought out of chaos. But as the hours went by, despite all efforts, the gormandizing flames consumed acres and acres of buildings.
Every wandering automobile was pressed into service and loaded with dynamite. Thus for hour after hour the losing fight with the merciless flames went on.
As the fire burnt its way south on Market Street, the isolated centers crept toward each other with ever widening circles of flame. While there was no breeze to fan them on, yet the flames seemed possessed of some invisible means of progression—an unseen spirit of continued expansion lurked within. The buildings were like so much dry timber, igniting without direct contact of spark or flame, only from the tremendous heat that was generated. Sweeping on and on the different conflagrations at last came together—joined in greater strength, flared up hundreds of feet high, until it looked as if the entire city was one vast molten lake of undulating waves of fire.
The roar of the flames could be heard far beyond the confines of the city—the immense columns and clouds of black smoke continued to sweep upward, until high aloft they spread out into the great canopy as if in shame they fain would hide from angels above the terrible destruction being wrought in this fiery pit below.