kind of you, Donaldina, but you should hoard every bandage you have. You’re going to need them.” McClure introduced Amelia and identified her father as the most gravely injured. Then he asked, “What happened to the Mission Home?”
“The brigades started dynamiting firebreaks. The soldiers ordered us to leave so I thought it best if we moved the women in broad daylight. The highbinders are vigilant about their ‘property,’” she added, referring to Chinatown’s brothel owners and procurers. “They’d snatch their girls back in a heartbeat if they could—never mind the quake and fire. We’ll spend the night at the Presbyterian Church on Van Ness Street.”
Thayer shifted in his seat and dug in his pockets, gasping in pain in the process. He extended her a gold piece. “Please take this. To help the children—and little Wing Lee.”
Miss Cameron smiled faintly, nodded, and retrieved the coin. “Bless you, Mr. Thayer.” Her regal bearing softened and she regarded him kindly. “And Ling Lee?”
Amelia watched as J.D. Thayer bowed his head and did not reply.
Angus cast a concerned glance in Thayer’s direction. “She died in the quake,” he explained cryptically. “Killed instantly, she was, when a ceiling caved in on her.”
Miss Cameron put a sympathetic hand on Thayer’s sleeve. “I am truly sorry to hear that. It’s a tragic time for so many in our town.” To Angus she said, “God bless.”
And with that, she glided to the head of her “troops” and motioned for them to continue their march. By this time, Thayer had closed his eyes and appeared to lapse into semi-consciousness.
As for Henry Bradshaw, Amelia couldn’t tell if her father was dead or alive.
Chapter 8
It was late afternoon before the Winton reached the Presidio’s Lombard Gate, inching past a quake-torn crevice paralleling the crowded escape route. Once on the grounds of the army base, Amelia saw a wide field on her right already filled with rows of round, white army tents. The canvas structures were topped with conical roofs that made the encampment look like a scene out of the Arabian Nights . Sloping to the water’s edge, the area offered a spectacular view of the bay, even as smoke from the scores of fires downtown cast a pall over the local surroundings.
The doctor drove the group directly to a large tent off to one side that had a placard reading M ALE A MBULATORY . A group of uniformed orderlies greeted them as the car rolled to a stop in front of the open canvas flap.
“Easy, men… this fellow is definitely not ambulatory,” Angus said with a physician’s sense of black humor. “In fact, he’s unconscious and probably broke his back, and this one,” he added, referring to J.D., “is awake and nothing but trouble. He has a couple of broken ribs. Don’t make ’em any worse if you can help it.”
To Thayer he said, “Lie still on your cot in there, and don’t do anything but drink water till I come back to see you. I’ll look after your dog.” The second set of orderlies eased Henry Bradshaw out of the car and onto a stretcher. “Take him to Ward H and start giving him laudanum. A large dose.”
Before Amelia could protest, her father was swiftly borne away. J.D. lifted his head from his stretcher and rasped, “Don’t crash my car, damn you, McClure.”
“Aye, laddie,” the doctor replied. “And what can you do about it if I do?”
***
Henry Bradshaw had been assigned to a tent for those who survived the quake and fire, but for whom little could be done.
“Every ward in the hospital is already full, and we’re starting to put even critical cases in some of the tents,” announced Angus McClure to Amelia as they walked from sunlight into the dim interior. “Your father is housed here in Ward H on the far side of the parade ground.”
“Next to the military cemetery,” Amelia noted, squinting at the bright white tombstones visible through the open flaps of the tent.
“Aye,
“The brigades started dynamiting firebreaks. The soldiers ordered us to leave so I thought it best if we moved the women in broad daylight. The highbinders are vigilant about their ‘property,’” she added, referring to Chinatown’s brothel owners and procurers. “They’d snatch their girls back in a heartbeat if they could—never mind the quake and fire. We’ll spend the night at the Presbyterian Church on Van Ness Street.”
Thayer shifted in his seat and dug in his pockets, gasping in pain in the process. He extended her a gold piece. “Please take this. To help the children—and little Wing Lee.”
Miss Cameron smiled faintly, nodded, and retrieved the coin. “Bless you, Mr. Thayer.” Her regal bearing softened and she regarded him kindly. “And Ling Lee?”
Amelia watched as J.D. Thayer bowed his head and did not reply.
Angus cast a concerned glance in Thayer’s direction. “She died in the quake,” he explained cryptically. “Killed instantly, she was, when a ceiling caved in on her.”
Miss Cameron put a sympathetic hand on Thayer’s sleeve. “I am truly sorry to hear that. It’s a tragic time for so many in our town.” To Angus she said, “God bless.”
And with that, she glided to the head of her “troops” and motioned for them to continue their march. By this time, Thayer had closed his eyes and appeared to lapse into semi-consciousness.
As for Henry Bradshaw, Amelia couldn’t tell if her father was dead or alive.
Chapter 8
It was late afternoon before the Winton reached the Presidio’s Lombard Gate, inching past a quake-torn crevice paralleling the crowded escape route. Once on the grounds of the army base, Amelia saw a wide field on her right already filled with rows of round, white army tents. The canvas structures were topped with conical roofs that made the encampment look like a scene out of the Arabian Nights . Sloping to the water’s edge, the area offered a spectacular view of the bay, even as smoke from the scores of fires downtown cast a pall over the local surroundings.
The doctor drove the group directly to a large tent off to one side that had a placard reading M ALE A MBULATORY . A group of uniformed orderlies greeted them as the car rolled to a stop in front of the open canvas flap.
“Easy, men… this fellow is definitely not ambulatory,” Angus said with a physician’s sense of black humor. “In fact, he’s unconscious and probably broke his back, and this one,” he added, referring to J.D., “is awake and nothing but trouble. He has a couple of broken ribs. Don’t make ’em any worse if you can help it.”
To Thayer he said, “Lie still on your cot in there, and don’t do anything but drink water till I come back to see you. I’ll look after your dog.” The second set of orderlies eased Henry Bradshaw out of the car and onto a stretcher. “Take him to Ward H and start giving him laudanum. A large dose.”
Before Amelia could protest, her father was swiftly borne away. J.D. lifted his head from his stretcher and rasped, “Don’t crash my car, damn you, McClure.”
“Aye, laddie,” the doctor replied. “And what can you do about it if I do?”
***
Henry Bradshaw had been assigned to a tent for those who survived the quake and fire, but for whom little could be done.
“Every ward in the hospital is already full, and we’re starting to put even critical cases in some of the tents,” announced Angus McClure to Amelia as they walked from sunlight into the dim interior. “Your father is housed here in Ward H on the far side of the parade ground.”
“Next to the military cemetery,” Amelia noted, squinting at the bright white tombstones visible through the open flaps of the tent.
“Aye,
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