sat at the bow and added up his worldly goods. It did not take long. The mud-caked and scarred boots on his feet and $11.50 in his pockets were the only items of value he owned. His immediate plan was to seek gold and then to enter steam shipping, running as a coal pusher or fireman between San Francisco and the San Juan and Panama ports or perhaps on one of the river steamers to Sacramento. Unfortunately, San Francisco Bay was jammed with an abandoned fleet of Gold Rush ships that clogged all shipping. In 1850 alone, thirty-six thousand people would arrive by sea. Those vessels that reached the bay were deserted at once by gold-crazed crews and left jammed with cargo and rotting in the harbor. Yerba Buena Cove was so shallow that bigger ships could not approach the shore to pick up passengers or tie up to unload. The loss of all the piers in the Christmas Eve fire had made unloading difficult. Things were no better along the San Juan route, where shipping was in disarray and rioting mobs at Panama City, the last stop before continuing on to San Francisco, were fighting for passage to the Golden Gate. Onboard these arriving ships cholera was rampant. Things were worse in the goldfields. An unabated violent rain, a very warm rain, had melted the snow so that the river overflowed the rich diggings, submerged the goldfields, and washed out the miners, thus mining and engineering were temporarily out of the question for Sawyer. He learned about the first city-destroying fire not long after he reached shore.
Tom Sawyer
An arsonist was at work in the City of Wood, an arid tinderbox of kindling and matchwood, of brittle buildings and a few juiceless trees. Fear was everywhere and no one knew what to do. Sawyer surveyed the devastation. San Franciscans were enthusiastically rebuilding the city on the exact site of the cataclysmic Christmas Eve fire and inadvertentlymaking it ready for the next burning. A valiant, experienced runner with long legs and a keen sense of direction, Sawyer decided to use his experience to help organize packs of boys, some as young as seven or eight, to run ahead of the engines to light the way. If there was a vacancy, Sawyer could work the pump with the new volunteers and occasionally be a fire engineer on the river traffic, which was composed of smaller and lighter boats able to escape the shallow cove.
“Right at the beginning,” Sawyer said, “I temporarily put aside my dreams of being an engineer and sought out San Francisco’s first fire chief, Broderick, whom I knew from our battles in New York. I would be a signal boy, as I had been in New York, running ahead of the engine to light the way with a signal light of polished metal so that the volunteers could find the fire in the confusing streets and avoid any obstacles in their path.” He quickly learned that in San Francisco they used flaming torches, not lamps. Signal boys were nicknamed torch boys or runners. Just as the volunteers bestowed pet names on their engines, San Franciscans dubbed the new fire-eaters Salamanders, implying they could survive a blaze and rise from the ashes like the fabled amphibian. They called a volunteer who tore shingles from a burning house with an ax to gain access a shingle eater.
On Sunday, Sawyer went to see Broderick at the new engine house on the south side of Kearny, between Sacramento and California streets. He found a fine brick building with the word One carved into its facade. How romantic it appeared in the dim light of February. The lamps had been lit. The smoky air quivered in anticipation. Evening was falling. A giddy, raucous laughter and whirl of discordant music spilled into the street. The powerful New York volunteers known as Broderick One were busy cleaning their huge engine. Old hose carts and used pumps cluttered the firehouse ground floor. Compared to the rest of rugged San Francisco, it was the most attractive, well-constructed, fireproof structure in town. Even more remarkable was how
Tom Sawyer
An arsonist was at work in the City of Wood, an arid tinderbox of kindling and matchwood, of brittle buildings and a few juiceless trees. Fear was everywhere and no one knew what to do. Sawyer surveyed the devastation. San Franciscans were enthusiastically rebuilding the city on the exact site of the cataclysmic Christmas Eve fire and inadvertentlymaking it ready for the next burning. A valiant, experienced runner with long legs and a keen sense of direction, Sawyer decided to use his experience to help organize packs of boys, some as young as seven or eight, to run ahead of the engines to light the way. If there was a vacancy, Sawyer could work the pump with the new volunteers and occasionally be a fire engineer on the river traffic, which was composed of smaller and lighter boats able to escape the shallow cove.
“Right at the beginning,” Sawyer said, “I temporarily put aside my dreams of being an engineer and sought out San Francisco’s first fire chief, Broderick, whom I knew from our battles in New York. I would be a signal boy, as I had been in New York, running ahead of the engine to light the way with a signal light of polished metal so that the volunteers could find the fire in the confusing streets and avoid any obstacles in their path.” He quickly learned that in San Francisco they used flaming torches, not lamps. Signal boys were nicknamed torch boys or runners. Just as the volunteers bestowed pet names on their engines, San Franciscans dubbed the new fire-eaters Salamanders, implying they could survive a blaze and rise from the ashes like the fabled amphibian. They called a volunteer who tore shingles from a burning house with an ax to gain access a shingle eater.
On Sunday, Sawyer went to see Broderick at the new engine house on the south side of Kearny, between Sacramento and California streets. He found a fine brick building with the word One carved into its facade. How romantic it appeared in the dim light of February. The lamps had been lit. The smoky air quivered in anticipation. Evening was falling. A giddy, raucous laughter and whirl of discordant music spilled into the street. The powerful New York volunteers known as Broderick One were busy cleaning their huge engine. Old hose carts and used pumps cluttered the firehouse ground floor. Compared to the rest of rugged San Francisco, it was the most attractive, well-constructed, fireproof structure in town. Even more remarkable was how
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