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t
rained on Saturday night, the twenty-first of April, and the next morning the
air was clear except for steam rising from the damp, hot ruins. Block
after block was empty except for charred, black ruins—a wall here,
a doorway there. Nothing was recognizable. There were no familiar landmarks
to navigate by. What buildings were still standing were burned-out stone
husks. San Francisco, as it had been, no longer existed. One traveler
wrote:
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of
a big city, intensified by traffic over the cobbles of Market
Street, the strident cries of newsboys, the clanging of car
bells. All of these are silent; the noises are those of a
village—the wagons, carts, and men on horseback, screened
against a ghastly background."
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Click
here
for a larger image of the ruins.
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