American History Tellers - 1906 San Francisco Earthquake | The Last Stand | 3

Episode Date: November 8, 2023

In the wake of a devastating earthquake that rocked the city of San Francisco, thousands of people were left homeless. The military set up temporary camps in western parts of the city to house the destitute, as far as possible from the fires continuing to rage downtown. But chaos continued to rule. Overzealous National Guard troops on the lookout for troublemakers shot innocent people attempting to scavenge much needed food and water. Army troops rousted people trying to save their homes from the fires, determined to dynamite any building they could to halt the blazes.By the time a soft rain extinguished the final flames, the devastation to San Francisco was immeasurable.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's just past midnight on April 22nd, 1906, more than three days after a devastating earthquake brought chaos to San Francisco's streets. You're a relief worker with the Red Cross, and since the quake, you and your friend have been using his automobile to transport injured victims to and from makeshift hospitals and shelters. Your friend, Heber Tilden, is a well-liked merchant who owns a produce market on Sacramento Street.

And tonight, you and Tilden are driving back into the city after a brief visit with his family. It's late, but you're heading to a field hospital anyway to help transport more wounded citizens. You're passing through the Mission District, a large red cross flag flying from a pole on Tilden's car. As you approach, three men standing at the intersection of 24th and Guerrero streets. They hold up their hands, ordering you to halt. Tilden slows down and points at the red cross flag. The men look at each other, then step out of the road and wave you through. You glance over at Tilden as he speeds on.

Who are those guys, you suppose? They didn't look like cops or soldiers. No, I didn't see any uniforms. Probably part of the so-called citizens' patrol. You know, the mayor's idea to turn regular Joes into police. At least they recognize the flag. A few intersections later, there's another roadblock. And again, three men in plain clothes stand in the street, waving their arms. Ah, another one. Looks like these guys are armed. Well, I'm not stopping. I've got to get to the field hospital. They've got patients who need transport, and I'm not letting a few strangers stop us. They'll see the flag and let us through.

I don't know, this group doesn't look like they're moving. How do we even know who these guys are? Maybe it's not the civilian patrol. Maybe they just want to steal my car. You've got your pistol on you, right? Yeah, but I'd hate to use it. Tilden slows down slightly, but you can tell he's not going to stop. He shouts out his open window at the men. Red Cross, step back! Let us through! You lean out of the window and gesture at the Red Cross flag, hoping these men will let you pass through. Red Cross! Red Cross! But as you pass through the checkpoint, you hear gunfire. They're shooting at us! We'll shoot back! I'll get us out of here.

You whip your pistol from your coat pocket and fire two shots out of the window. Then you feel a sharp burning pain in your arm. You've been hit! Then the car starts to swerve. You turn to see Tilden, slumped over the wheel. He's been hit too. You grab the wheel and bring the car to a stop on the curb. You hear the men running towards you. Ever since the fires began ravaging your city, you've been trying to help, to do your duty. But now, vigilantes are taking over the streets and making a bad situation worse. You wince in pain as you turn to Tilden. He's motionless, and you're afraid he's just been killed for trying to help. You may be next. Have you ever wondered who created that bottle of sriracha that's living in your fridge? Or why nearly every house in America has at least one game of Monopoly? Introducing The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast about the surprising origin stories of the products you're obsessed with.

Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From the team behind American History Tellers comes a new book, The Hidden History of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, intimate moments, and shocking scandals that shaped our nation. From the War of 1812 to Watergate. Available now wherever you get your books. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. In April 1906, after a massive earthquake leveled much of downtown San Francisco, chaos, desperation, and lawlessness gripped the city. Amid widespread reports of looting, citizens tried to protect their homes and salvage belongings. Police and National Guard troops, on orders from the mayor,

shot any suspected looters and other lawbreakers in an effort to maintain peace and order. Armed citizens formed vigilante groups called Citizens Police, but many who joined were undisciplined, trigger-happy, and often drunk. Some of these vigilantes looted homes themselves, and some mistakenly shot and killed innocent people, including those who were trying to help doctors and Red Cross relief workers. Meanwhile, fires continued to spread throughout the city, and firefighters and Army soldiers prepared to make a violent, last-ditch effort to stop the advancing flames. This is Episode 3, The Last Stand. In the days after the earthquake that hit San Francisco on April 18, 1906,

rampant looting remained a serious problem, and it was met with a deadly response, as law enforcement were authorized by Mayor Eugene Schmitz to shoot anyone suspected of breaking the law. U.S. Army soldiers, National Guard troops, police, and civilian vigilantes sometimes shot people trying to save belongings from their own homes, thinking they were stealing. And hungry refugees trying to salvage food or water from buildings they were about to burn also found themselves targeted by armed forces. By Friday, April 20th, it was getting harder to tell who was a looter and who was a good Samaritan. U.S. Army forces, led by General Frederick Funston, stepped in to help city police impose law and order amid the chaos. They were soon joined by Navy and Marine troops.

Governor George Pardee then sent in the California National Guard to help, too. But many of the National Guard troops who arrived were untrained and undisciplined. And as the days wore on, some became looters themselves, filling their pockets at jewelry stores or getting drunk on liquor they stole from shuttered saloons. Others fired indiscriminately at anyone they perceived to be a lawbreaker, often with deadly results. At one refugee camp, National Guardsmen responded to a fight between two men by shooting them. One of the men

turned out to be the superintendent of city playgrounds. Elsewhere, a Guardsman shot and killed a man who had merely taunted him, calling him a tin soldier. In an incident near the waterfront, two National Guardsmen saw a man carrying some chickens and assumed he was a thief. They confiscated the birds and then shot the man when he tried to fight back. Then they tied weights to the man's body and threw him in the bay. Later, it was determined that he had been the chicken's rightful owner. In another incident, a man was trying to rescue someone trapped in the rubble when a guardsman fired a warning shot over his head. Frightened, the man tried to run, and another guardsman shot and killed him. The man's body was thrown into a nearby fire.

One National Guardsman even fired a shot at Police Chief Jeremiah Dinan, thinking he was a looter. Fortunately, the Guardsman missed. But along with the National Guard troops, armed volunteers appointed by the mayor to a group called the Citizens Special Police Force could be just as unpredictable and dangerous. The Citizens Police were often indistinguishable from unauthorized vigilantes, and both groups took the law into their own hands, looting homes and sometimes executing innocent people.

Heber Tilden, a well-known and prosperous merchant, had volunteered to assist the Red Cross using his automobile to transport medical staff and injured survivors. Early on April 22nd, he was driving through the mission district, accompanied by a friend. Members of a citizen's police group, mistakenly believing Tilden had stolen the car he was driving, shot and killed him. The shooters were later charged with murder, but a jury acquitted them. Many others who shot and killed suspected looters were never charged at all. The National Guard was also blamed for an increase in so-called mercy killings.

Since the first day of the disaster, people trapped in the rubble of collapsed buildings were shot and killed to spare them the pain of death by fire. But National Guard troops even began taking shots at people trying to escape from the upper floors of burning buildings. Meanwhile, fires continued to devour large sections of the city's congested northeast districts. Chinatown had been leveled, as had the areas around Union Square, Knob Hill, Telegraph Hill, Rincon Hill, a two-mile stretch of Market Street, and a large swath of the waterfront. Amid the added risk and danger from armed soldiers and vigilantes, many survivors tried their best to help their neighbors and protect their property.

Firefighters, citizens, and some members of the military worked together to save historic buildings, homes, and businesses. But valuable buildings that had managed to survive the quake and fires soon faced destruction from another threat. Imagine it's Friday, April 20th, 1906. You've just arrived outside a 53-year-old building on Montgomery Street known to locals as the Monkey Block. Over the years, it's been a residence and workspace for painters, musicians, and writers, including Mark Twain and Robert Louis Stevenson. The building also holds your father's priceless collection of books, the Sutro Library, which you inherited when he died eight years ago. Yesterday, firefighters and Navy sailors helped protect the library from fires,

dousing the roof and exterior walls with water pumped up from the bay. But today, you've learned that U.S. Army soldiers are about to dynamite the place. In the lobby, you race up to a man in uniform who seems to be in charge. Sir, sir, excuse me. You cannot blow up this building. Please. My father, his life's work is in there. More than a hundred thousand rare books. You can't just destroy them. Ma'am, I am afraid I have to ask you to leave. It's too dangerous. My men are planting dynamite here. We need to bring this building down. No, no, you don't understand. It's a historic building, one of the oldest in the city. You just... Ma'am, I'm sorry. My orders are from General Funston. We need to create a firebreak. But wait, it's already a firebreak. This building has an iron

frame. The walls are all stone, brick, and cement. It was designed to be fireproof. If you leave it up, it can help save the whole block. Ma'am, like I said, I have orders, and I cannot help you. Now please leave before I have one of my men escort you out. You realize you can't appeal to his senses, so you decide to try a different approach. Wait, wait, wait. Just listen to me for one second. My father was Adolf Sutro. He was once mayor of this city. And I need you to tell the general or whoever is behind this reckless idea that Adolf Sutro's daughter is begging him, begging him to spare this building. Would you please tell the general that?

Adolf Sutro, you say. You can tell the officer recognizes your family name. All right, wait here. Let me check on something. You watch the officer walk away, then nervously wait for him to return. The stories you've heard growing up race through your mind. About all the artists and writers who once lived here. People like Mark Twain, who once met a fireman named Tom Sawyer in the building's sauna. Finally, the officer returns.

Okay, ma'am. you've made your case. We're pulling out and moving on. Oh, thank you, sir. My family is grateful. This will not be forgotten. You watch as soldiers remove their dynamite. The officer in charge even asks a few firemen from Engine 1 to stick around and protect the building, just in case.

You heave a sigh of relief. Now you just hope the monkey block really is as fireproof as it's supposed to be. As fires approached the historic monkey block building on Montgomery Street, soldiers prepared to use dynamite to implode the structure in yet another attempt to create a firebreak to slow the spread of advancing flames. The large downtown building was only spared after a last-minute and desperate appeal from Emma Sutro Merritt, daughter of former mayor Adolph Sutro. The monkey block would be one of the few large downtown buildings left standing, and Arthur Sutro's priceless books were saved.

It was the only large library collection to survive the disaster. Unfortunately, the bulk of the Sutro's books were being held at a different location, in a warehouse on Pine Street. It burned to the ground, and 200,000 rare books were destroyed. Luck and fate often determined which buildings were spared, which burned down, and which were chosen for destruction, despite their owners' desperate pleas. The U.S. Mint, U.S. Post Office, Ferry Building, and Custom House were all saved,

thanks to the heroic efforts of their occupants and firefighters. The Hoteling Whiskey Company warehouse survived when the manager convinced the captain who was preparing to dynamite the building that the whiskey barrels inside were like giant bombs and would take down the nearby appraiser' building and others in the immediate area. But many irreplaceable buildings were lost, including the Palace Hotel, City Hall, and the Mark Hopkins Institute of Art. The fires and Funston's dynamiting efforts leveled so many homes and businesses

that it was described at the time as the most concentrated loss of wealth in history. Half a billion dollars in real estate alone was destroyed, it was described at the time as the most concentrated loss of wealth in history. Half a billion dollars in real estate alone was destroyed, roughly $17 billion in today's dollars. Outside of San Francisco, along a 200-mile stretch of coastal California, numerous towns and communities also sustained horrific damage. The quake ruined wineries, military bases, lighthouses, railway stations, schools, churches, libraries, and farms. Downtown Santa Rosa burned to the ground as well, and the coastal town of Fort Bragg was wrecked. The extravagant new $3 million Stanford University campus quad was also turned to rubble. In San Francisco, by late Friday, April 20,

two days after the quake, Mayor Schmitz's committee of 50 and various subcommittees had finally begun to meet regularly. One subcommittee began drafting long-term plans for the surging homeless crisis. Tens of thousands of people were in need of a place to sleep, eat, and bathe with potable water and sanitary bathrooms. Other nearby California cities prepared for an onslaught of refugees fleeing San Francisco. Half of the city's population had lost their homes, and at least 200,000 people were left destitute. California Governor George Pardee telegrammed hundreds of West Coast towns, asking them to take in San Francisco's refugees. He wrote, The need is great. Take care of as many as you can. But some communities panicked,

fearing an influx of criminals from San Francisco, while others worried that evacuees would sap local resources and the injured would overwhelm their hospitals. Officials in San Mateo, just south of San Francisco, asked the governor to send guns and ammo. Further south in San Jose, a citizens' committee was formed to discuss how the city should respond, with food and open arms or with an armed militia to keep refugees out. One city official said, If they come here, they'll eat us out of house and home. We have to look out for ourselves. The nearby city of San Jose did eventually take in many thousands of refugees, as did Oakland, whose own small Chinatown district swelled beyond capacity with evacuees. But many communities tried to turn away refugees, especially those of Japanese or Chinese

descent. The Oakland Herald warned that Asian evacuees were bringing with them their vices and their filth. Another reporter described bands of Chinese, dazed and helpless. Some communities posted signs, no Chinese or Japanese wanted here. Discrimination against Asian refugees grew rampant enough that the White House intervened. President Theodore Roosevelt's office ordered General Funston and city and Red Cross officials to ensure that all refugees be cared for without regard to nationality. At the time, many Americans had already been collecting donations for victims of disasters in other parts of the world. The Mount Vesuvius

eruption in Italy and the earthquake that hit Chile earlier in the year. Now, these donations were redirected to San Francisco. Clothing, food, and other supplies arrived in Oakland, where Governor Pardee set up an emergency office at City Hall. Oakland became a hub for donations, communication, and transportation. But for San Francisco's tens of thousands of Chinese citizens, another threat was looming. Some businessmen and city officials had begun scheming to use the disaster as an excuse to relocate Chinatown away from downtown. As Chinese families fled to safety, reeling from the devastation of their community,

officials began drafting plans to uproot them and their famed neighborhood. And San Francisco's Chinese residents would soon learn that in their absence, looters were raiding what was left of their burned out homes and businesses. Chinatown was being ransacked. I'm Tristan Redman, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered that my wife's great-grandmother was murdered in the house next door to where I grew up, I started wondering about the inexplicable things that happened in my childhood bedroom. When I tried to find out more, I discovered that someone who slept in my room after me,

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Are we excited for this moment? Ah! I cannot believe it. Woo! Buy it now. Stream free on Freeview and Prime Video. When San Francisco Mayor Eugene Schmitz first began asking civic leaders to serve on his relief committees, one name was conspicuously missing, Abe Roof. Roof was a lawyer and corrupt political boss. Though never elected to public office, he wielded significant political influence behind the scenes.

In 1901, he handpicked Schmitz to run for mayor, as the new face of Roof's Union Labor Party. Roof became Schmitz's political mentor, and in many ways, his boss. But by 1906, Roof had also pulled Mayor Schmitz into his corrupt schemes, which were now starting to unravel. Both men had learned about pending investigations into allegations of bribery and graft, including claims that the two had schemed to extort money from restaurants in exchange for business licenses. So, in recent months, Schmitz's relationship with Roof had cooled. The earthquake had stalled the investigations, but they still hung over Schmitz's head as he tried to lead his city through this historic calamity. He initially tried to keep some distance from Roof, who was insulted that his protégé had not given him the

committee assignment. But Roof wouldn't be denied, and soon he insinuated himself into the Committee of 50's decision-making. He showed up at Schmitz's first meetings, uninvited, to volunteer his services. Schmitz agreed to name Roof to a subcommittee on the future of burned-out Chinatown. Roof then became its chairman. And at its first meeting on the night of Friday, April 20, Roof proposed relocating Chinatown and its former occupants to a new location south of the city. His real goal was one that many businesses and political leaders had long dreamed of, expelling Chinese people from downtown entirely. Chinese migrants had a long history in California,

arriving soon after the 1849 gold rush to work the mines and railroads. They soon established a vibrant community and a thriving business district of roughly a dozen square blocks in the heart of San Francisco. But from the start, they faced anti-Asian prejudice and acts of violence. And by 1858, California had outlawed immigration from China. While that law was found to be unconstitutional, in 1882 Congress passed a new law, the Chinese Exclusion Act, which banned Chinese laborers from immigrating to America. Still, residents of San Francisco's Chinatown remained, and it continued to be a vibrant part of the city. Roof was aware that developers had long coveted the valuable real estate occupied by Chinatown.

He knew he'd quickly find support for a plan to finally relocate its occupants, so his committee suggested Chinatown be moved to an area called Hunter's Point at the southern edge of the city. And while Roof schemed to displace them in the long term, many Chinatown residents struggled to find even temporary shelter in the immediate days following the earthquake. Those who hadn't fled east across the bay to Oakland headed west toward Golden Gate Park and the Presidio. Their city officials had created a separate camp on the Presidio's golf course for Chinatown's refugees. They also decided to have armed soldiers guard

that camp. But when white refugees and nearby homeowners complained about living beside Asian refugees, they were moved to an isolated and windswept parade ground at the Presidio. In the meantime, people were looting the ashes of Chinatown, looking for items like brass statues, plates, and teapots, which could later be resold on the streets and ferries. The Chinese Consul General of San Francisco, Zhang Paoshi, complained to Governor Pardee that instead of shooting looters, armed troops were encouraging them and even joining in. Xi told the governor, the National Guard was stripping everything of value. In time, the Chinese-American community caught wind of Roof's scheme and were determined not to give up without

a fight. Chinese business leaders and the Chinese Consul General would soon mount an aggressive protest against Roof's plans. A few blocks northwest of Chinatown, the neighborhood known as Russian Hill, sat on a knoll overlooking the city. It was difficult to reach with its steep, switchback streets, but on the afternoon of April 20th, it became the scene of a rare victory against the fires. Due to its steep inclines, the neighborhood wasn't being regularly patrolled by the military, so many residents were able to avoid forced evacuation.

That allowed some to band together to fight the fires threatening their homes. Imagine it's Friday, April 20th, two days after the earthquake struck and the fires began. You're an artist living on Russian Hill, and you've been watching the smoke and flames crawl slowly closer to your home. Many neighbors were chased away by police and soldiers, but some managed to stay. Others, like you, waited for the soldiers to leave

and returned to your beloved neighborhood of fellow artists. You intend to stay. Others, like you, waited for the soldiers to leave, then returned to your beloved neighborhood of fellow artists. You intend to defend your home, your studio, and your work. A few doors down you watch a group of men and women dragging blankets and rugs into the street. They're dousing them with buckets of water. And then you see your neighbor Sadie, an older Italian woman known for her homemade wine, rolling a barrel of it into the street. You walk down to find out what's happening. neighbor Sadie, an older Italian woman known for her homemade wine, rolling a barrel of it into the street. We walk down to find out what's happening.

Hey Sadie, what's going on here? Annie next door managed to save a few buckets of water from her sister. We're gonna soak these rugs and blankets to put out any hot spots. And I see Toby over there splashing water on his roof. Will that work? Let's hope so. We're all making a last stand. And what's with the wine?

Planning to get drunk while you're at it? No, no. We'll use that against the fires too. It's lower in alcohol so it won't ignite like liquor would. We'll use the wine when the water runs out. I've got barrels and barrels inside. Well, you know, I have plenty of blank canvas. I'm not painting anything right now, so what if we soak that in the wine? Would that work? It might. We're running short on blankets anyway. It's worth a try. You run back to your house and grab two of your largest rolls of canvas. I hear each of these are as big as a blanket and pretty thick, too. Well, you unroll them while I get this keggo. Sadie uses a small axe to chop open the barrel of her wine. She scoops a bit of it in her hand and then takes a sip. All this is a shame. My best Chianti. But

no use saving it if it all burns to the ground. Together you plunge one canvas into the wine barrel, then another. You rush to a fence that's caught fire and then use the wine-soaked canvas to extinguish the flames. You sprint back to the wine bar and soak the canvas again. It seems to be working. I just hope none of the soldiers or citizen patrols show up. Well, if they do, they'll have to shoot me to get me to leave. I'm not giving up. You and your neighbors race to beat back small fires and smother the large embers swirling through the streets. You're soon covered in soot and drenched in sweat, your arms stained purple from the red wine. You're just hoping this crazy plan works and you can get through the night without losing

your neighborhood or your life. Neighbors on Russian Hill fought desperately into the early morning hours of April 21st to stop the advancing fire. Although much of the Russian Hill neighborhood was destroyed, residents who evaded evacuation orders managed to save some of their homes. Similarly, some residents of nearby Telegraph Hill defied soldiers' orders to leave or returned after soldiers were gone and fought to save part of their neighborhood, too. As one writer later put it, Thank God there were no soldiers there to drive these humble people from their homes,

no soldiers with loot-stained fingers clutching gun butts. But residents along Van Ness Avenue were not so fortunate. The leader of the military, General Funston, and one of his officers, Captain Levert Coleman, had chosen Van Ness Avenue to make a last stand. Their goal was to turn the wide avenue into a large firebreak to prevent fires once and for all from spreading further west. Funston ordered cannons to be delivered to Van Ness, planning to destroy some of the buildings with artillery fire, while others would be packed with dynamite and imploded. For nearly three days, Funston had

encouraged his men and city firefighters to use dynamite to level homes and businesses to create firebreaks. So far, his attempts had mostly failed, instead igniting more fires and destroying precious real estate. So by Friday, Mayor Schmitz and others had begun to challenge Funston's tactics. When Funston's men blew up the Viavi Medical Building on the north end of Van Ness Avenue, the explosion ignited barrels of medicinal alcohol stored inside and created a massive new fire that spread into North Beach, cutting a path of destruction along the way. Schmitz ordered Funston to stop destroying buildings, and the two men argued. By Friday night, Funston continued to

insist that without water, the only way to stop the advancing fires was with explosives. Captain Coleman would later write that the fire department was utterly helpless and unable to meet the situation. So Funston decided to continue with his plan and blow up most of Van Ness Avenue. A line of soldiers stretched along the street to keep residents and evacuees back. Artillery fire continued into the night and scores of homes were dynamited and collapsed. That evening, Mayor Schmitz was meeting with his committee of 50,

just a few blocks west of Van Ness Avenue, when he heard the explosions resume. He was furious and sent a messenger to tell Funston to cease, but due to the chaos in the streets, the message never reached Funston, and by late Friday, the fire break created along Van Ness was beginning to work. Fires were being held back and starting to dwindle. Funston would later write an article for Cosmopolitan magazine, in which he sought to distance himself from the controversial use of dynamite, claiming to be unsure of the exact amount that was used.

He wrote, I doubt if anyone will ever know the amount of dynamite and gun cotton used in blowing up buildings, but it must have been tremendous, as there were times when the explosions were so continuous as to resemble a bombardment. Still, many doubted Funston's claims and lamented the widespread damage caused by the explosions. As the author and San Francisco native Jack London would write, dynamite was lavishly used, and many of San Francisco's proudest structures were crumbled by man himself into ruins. Meanwhile, firefighters were making another last stand further south in the Mission District,

where they discovered a fire hydrant that somehow still had pressurized water. When the earthquake struck, it had cracked water mains and other city pipes. As a result, most of the city's 4,000 hydrants had gone dry, hampering efforts to combat the blazes. But when firefighters tried the hydrant in the Mission District on the southwest corner of Dolores Park, water gushed from their hoses. They called it the Golden Hydrant. With this precious water, firefighters managed to prevent flames from spreading further west, which saved parts of the historic mission district from ruin. The Golden Hydrant would later be dedicated to Fire Chief Dennis Sullivan and painted gold every year. By late Friday night, most of the fires throughout the city were finally being brought under control.

On Saturday, April 21st, rain began to fall, dousing flames and extinguishing hotspots. But the rain also soaked the tens of thousands of refugees who were now forced to sleep outside. The U.S. Navy's Pacific Fleet had arrived Friday evening to help evacuate people, expand relief efforts, and supply more tents and food. The Red Cross had sent $10 million and members of the Committee of 50 were battling over how to disperse

those relief funds. Arguments were already brewing around how the city should rebuild. With the fires finally out, the real work of recovery was just beginning. William Morrow present the new book, The Hidden History of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, the world-altering decisions, and shocking scandals that have shaped our nation. You'll be there when the very foundations of the White House are laid in 1792, and you'll watch as the British burn it down in 1814. Then you'll hear the intimate

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All of the city's public libraries were destroyed, including decades of irreplaceable newspapers and magazines. The fires that swept through the Hall of Records took birth certificates, marriage licenses, and real estate records. Thirty-one schools were destroyed, scores of bank offices, twenty-seven firehouses, five police stations, and three hospitals. And as soon as the last of the fires were out, homeowners and business owners began the messy and contentious process of settling insurance claims. Many found themselves arguing with their insurance companies over whether their

property had been destroyed by earthquake, fire, or in many instances, dynamite. Most insurance companies simply refused to pay claims, often arguing that the losses were caused not by the fire, but by the earthquake, which was not covered by most policies. And other companies that did pay out were left owing more to policyholders than they had in cash. The result was that some firms offered only a percentage of what they owed, paying as little as 25 cents on the dollar. All told, the industry paid out close to $220 million in claims, but in the end, only four companies paid their policyholders in full, including the Fireman's Fund and Hartford Insurance Company. Twelve insurance companies went bankrupt and reneged on their debts, never paying a dime. The city initially estimated that

the value of property loss was $250 million, but a committee of insurance companies later placed the number at $1 billion, roughly $33 billion in today's dollars. The quake and fires destroyed 500 city blocks across nearly five square miles. More than 28,000 buildings were destroyed and a quarter of a million residents were left homeless. Although city officials initially claimed that only about 500 people died, many believe that number to be far too low. City leaders and civic boosters may have downplayed the number of deaths in order to protect San Francisco's wounded reputation.

It was later estimated that at least 3,000 people had died, perhaps twice as many. Among the dead was Fire Chief Dennis Sullivan, who had spent four days in a coma after he and his wife were crushed by debris from the quake. Sullivan had repeatedly warned city officials to fund improvements to the fire department and the city's water supply, and without his leadership, the fire department struggled to respond to the disaster. Sullivan died Sunday, April 22nd, at the Presidio Hospital, the 47th San Francisco firefighter to die in the line of duty. A funeral parade would be held a year later.

His wife eventually recovered from her injuries. And in time, the city would implement many of the improvements Sullivan had lobbied for. The fire department would get a fleet of fireboats and construct underground cisterns and reservoirs, as well as an elaborate emergency water system designed specifically for fighting fires. Within days of the quake, Governor George Pardee tapped Andrew Lawson, a geologist at the University of California, to lead an exhaustive earthquake investigation. Lawson was a brilliant and ambitious scientist.

In 1895, he had identified a portion of the San Andreas Fault, which he had named for the San Andreas Valley, south of San Francisco. In a preliminary draft of his report to the governor, published on May 31, 1906, Lawson stated that the fault was much longer and more dangerous than he'd initially imagined. Lawson's initial findings also focused on the dangers of the so-called made ground of San Francisco. Coastal wetlands and other muddy, low-lying areas had been filled with sand, rock, and debris, and topped with soil. Lawson said such man-made parcels of land resembled jelly in a bowl. He recommended that the city avoid building on such land in the future. But in the aftermath

of the disaster, Lawson's findings were overlooked by Californians eager to move on. Business leaders and politicians didn't want to see published reports warning the country that San Francisco sat atop an earthquake zone. They wanted to get their city up and running again at any cost. Imagine it's a warm summer afternoon in August of 1906. You're part of a work crew helping the city build wooden cottages for the homeless who've been living in crowded tent camps at the Presidio. People have begun calling these small new homes earthquake cottages,

and your crew has already built thousands of them, as well as outhouses, bathhouses, and medical facilities. But today is your last day. You've been offered a job on a fast-track project to build new apartments on a parcel of infilled land south of Market Street. You feel bad quitting, but your own house was damaged in the earthquake, and you have a wife and young daughter and need the money. The new job pays 50 cents more an hour. But your current boss thinks you're making a mistake. He hands you another two-by-four for the wall you're building.

Why do you want to work for those guys anyway? They're just trying to make a fast buck with all those cheap buildings they're throwing up. What's wrong with fast money? People are getting tired of living in tents and these little two-room cottages. Plus, you know I need the money. I know, and I'm sorry about your house. Still, if you go putting up new two-story, three-story apartments on that man-made alluvial soil down there. Alluvial? Yeah, that's what it's called. You know all the rubble from the

earthquake and fires? They just dumped it in the bay and pushed some dirt on top and called it land. That's not land. It's just loose debris that'll sink the next time the city shakes. Oh, I don't think so. That quake was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Nobody could have predicted that. You're saying we should just stop building houses now? You hammer the two-by-four into place and wait for him to hand you the next one. Boss just shakes his head. No, but we know better now. Haven't you been reading the papers? The city sits right on top of that fault line. We have a chance to do things right this time.

If they change the building codes, we could get a beautiful new city, one that's fireproof and earthquake-proof. Earthquake-proof? There's no such thing, boss. We all saw what happened. If another quake comes, there's not a whole lot we can do about it. So until then, people just want to get on with their lives. I think I can help them.

What, by building cheap apartments that'll sink into the bay? You'll be making the same mistakes that caused all these boarding houses and hotels to collapse. Like I said, that was a one-time thing. It's time to move on and move forward. Speed over safety, huh? Well, that should be this city's new motto. Your boss shakes his head again

as he hands you another two-by-four. But you don't care what he thinks. In a few hours, he won't be your boss anymore. He's been good to you, but you can't turn down what you'll be earning with his new crew. Union wages. It's not your problem if city officials want to rebuild as fast as possible, and you can't say you blame them. By the summer of 1906, three months after the earthquake and fires, some 50,000 people were still without permanent housing. About half lived in one of the two dozen military-style tent camps the army had

erected at Presidio, Fort Mason, and Golden Gate Park. The rest lived in makeshift camps scattered throughout San Francisco. So as the weather grew colder that fall, the city rushed to provide more housing, building 5,000 small wooden shacks dubbed earthquake cottages. But amidst the frantic rebuilding efforts, San Francisco failed to create a better vision of itself. Proponents of developing a more beautiful city, one that was also more resistant to earthquakes and fire, were outnumbered. Officials and developers argued that onerous new building codes would only stall the city's resurrection. As an editorial in the San Francisco Bulletin put it,

it is desirable to have a beautiful city, but it is urgently necessary to have a city of some sort instead of a heap of ruins. But the city did recover quickly. Within a few months, San Francisco's famed cable cars were carrying passengers up and down the city streets again, and by late 1906, shoddily built neighborhoods rose atop rubble and soil dumped into the bay. Meanwhile, the Chinese-American community fought back against the city's scheme to relocate Chinatown. Chinese business leaders and diplomats, including Consul General Zhang Paoshi, mounted an aggressive protest. Abe Roof's committee eventually backed down, and the displaced residents of Chinatown gained permission to rebuild and resettle back in their

old neighborhood. Civic leaders also launched a quiet but concerted PR effort to show prospective businesses, investors, and residents that San Francisco was safe, claiming that the fire was mostly to blame for the destruction while deliberately downplaying the danger of earthquakes and living atop the San Andreas Fault. In fact, geologic maps of California omitted showing the San Andreas Fault for decades. But in the aftermath of the earthquake and fires, Mayor Eugene Schmitz's political career was not resurrected. Stemming from corruption charges that predated the quake, Schmitz was indicted for extortion and bribery, along with his mentor, Abe Roof.

Both men would end up spending time behind bars. General Frederick Funston was praised by many for his response to the earthquake, and history would largely overlook his role in imploding more buildings than necessary. Also overlooked were the deaths caused by men under his command. Funston downplayed the shooting of innocent people by Army soldiers and instead blamed the National Guard. He continued to serve with the Army and was considered a frontrunner to lead the U.S. forces into World War I, but suffered a fatal heart attack in January of 1917 at just 51 years old.

Never had an American city been so completely ruined and never had images of such a dystopian wasteland traveled so quickly, but the city took great pride in its spirit of renewal. Less than a decade after the earthquake, San Francisco celebrated its rise from the ashes by welcoming visitors to the Pan-Pacific International Exposition. The 1915 World's Fair symbolized San Francisco's recovery, and some of the fair's buildings still stand today. But in many ways, the city was never the same after the disaster. Some residents fled for good, and its population shrank, dropping San Francisco from the ranks of America's ten largest cities.

Beloved neighborhoods, buildings, and vital records were lost forever. Entire blocks have been razed to the ground. Despite shining examples of bravery and heroism, the disaster also exposed the city's faults, including corruption, violent crime, and racism. A century later, San Francisco has become a vibrant, wealthy city, a tech hub, and tourist destination. But despite improved building codes, beneath the streets still lurked the same threats as in 1906. In 1989, the Loma Prieta earthquake struck 50 miles south of San Francisco, damaging buildings and highways and killing more than 60 people. That quake was proof that the San Andreas Fault remains capable of widespread damage on a

peninsula still vulnerable to the tremors of a ruthless and unpredictable planet. From Wondery, this is Episode 3 of the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake from American History Tellers. In our next episode, I speak with San Francisco Chronicle journalist Peter Hartlaub, who has used the newspaper's archives to uncover unusual stories about the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and its aftermath. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. If you'd like to learn more about the San

Francisco earthquake, we recommend San Francisco is Burning by Dennis Smith and The Great Earthquake and Firestorms of 1906 by Philip L. Fradkin. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design Thank you. producer Matt Gant, senior managing producer Ryan Moore, and senior producer Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis for Wondery. This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store, or maybe you're with your secret lover, or maybe you're robbing a

bank. Based on the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, Incoming, a brand new fiction podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus, follows the journey of a variety of characters as they confront the unimaginable. The missiles are coming. What am I supposed to do? Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Henner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Edelstein, and many, many more, Incoming is a hilariously thrilling podcast that will leave you wondering, how would you spend your last few minutes on Earth? You can binge Incoming exclusively and ad-free on Wondery+. Join Wondery in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.