The American Plague: The Untold Story of Yellow Fever, The Epidemic That Shaped Our Nation by Molly Caldwell Crosby Page A
Authors: Molly Caldwell Crosby
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arrangements of azaleas, ferns, begonias, palms and other exotics. The platform of the Greenlaw was grandly outfitted. Colton Greene, the leader of Memphis Carnival who had such hope for the city, was asked to organize the stage decorations. He used that year’s Mardi Gras props from the Mystic Memphi.
As the meeting opened at noon, a commemorative statement was made: “To the martyred dead, we feel but cannot express our gratitude; yet, in all days to come shall their memories be kept green, and their names go down in the annals of our city honored, revered and blessed.”
Mayor John Flippin, now fully recovered from the fever, had less humble things to say. First he made a statement meant to quiet any gossip and make the record clear for history: At the beginning of the scourge, the press, the city officials and the Board of Health had been true to their promise to proclaim at once the appearance of the fever. He followed it with a reprimand for the many who had refused to leave Memphis either from poverty or belief they were immune. “The worthy,” he proclaimed, “often perished for the unworthy.”
Most important of all, the meeting announced that Memphis, its citizens, representatives in Congress and the Senate would earnestly do all they could to secure passage of a law mandating early quarantine.
In spite of the citizen’s meeting and the celebration of Thanksgiving, there remained lasting signs of the plague that November. Schools stayed closed until well into December, and St. Mary’s would not open its doors until January. The Greenlaw Opera House, which had once held such promises of sophistication and elegance for Memphis, would be sold as a storehouse by the following spring. Hotels, filled to capacity, promised returning Memphians that their rooms had been thoroughly fumigated and properly ventilated. And Elmwood Cemetery made an announcement that it would allow disinterment and relocation of bodies for the next two months only. The Memphis Avalanche reported, “Like the Memphis on the Nile, the town was fated to become a ghost city.”
December arrived in Memphis, and the worst yellow fever epidemic in United States history ended. That same month, Emily B. Souder, the ship held responsible for bringing yellow fever to North America in the spring of 1878, the one that denied fever and instead landed it on the banks of New Orleans, set sail once again for the Caribbean. Somewhere off the coast of New York, on December 10, she sank to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, ending her fourteen-year service. The captain and all on board were killed except two castaways.
CHAPTER 6
Greatly Exaggerated
President Rutherford B. Hayes continued to receive word of death and loss at the White House. The 1878 epidemic had stretched from Brazil to Ohio. In the following months, the final death toll in the Mississippi Valley would prove to be 20,000 lives and the financial loss close to $200 million. Two hundred communities in eleven states had been hit by the fever. It was a bitter piece of news. Not only was the 1878 yellow fever epidemic one of the worst disasters to befall the country, but it happened under Hayes’s shaky command. “It is impossible to estimate with any approach to accuracy,” announced Hayes, “the loss to the country occasioned by this epidemic.”
Surely Hayes was also stirred by an unspoken sense of guilt when he thought of his dismissive letter in August; he had called the Memphis pleas for help “greatly exaggerated.” The toll on human life in Memphis alone surpassed the Chicago fire, San Franciscoearthquake and Johnstown flood combined. It was being called by some the worst urban disaster in American history. Over 5,000 lives were lost in Memphis, nearly a third of the population that remained in August of that year.
President Hayes contemplated his next course of action. Politically speaking, he knew he needed to act authoritatively and quickly. His recent election had
As the meeting opened at noon, a commemorative statement was made: “To the martyred dead, we feel but cannot express our gratitude; yet, in all days to come shall their memories be kept green, and their names go down in the annals of our city honored, revered and blessed.”
Mayor John Flippin, now fully recovered from the fever, had less humble things to say. First he made a statement meant to quiet any gossip and make the record clear for history: At the beginning of the scourge, the press, the city officials and the Board of Health had been true to their promise to proclaim at once the appearance of the fever. He followed it with a reprimand for the many who had refused to leave Memphis either from poverty or belief they were immune. “The worthy,” he proclaimed, “often perished for the unworthy.”
Most important of all, the meeting announced that Memphis, its citizens, representatives in Congress and the Senate would earnestly do all they could to secure passage of a law mandating early quarantine.
In spite of the citizen’s meeting and the celebration of Thanksgiving, there remained lasting signs of the plague that November. Schools stayed closed until well into December, and St. Mary’s would not open its doors until January. The Greenlaw Opera House, which had once held such promises of sophistication and elegance for Memphis, would be sold as a storehouse by the following spring. Hotels, filled to capacity, promised returning Memphians that their rooms had been thoroughly fumigated and properly ventilated. And Elmwood Cemetery made an announcement that it would allow disinterment and relocation of bodies for the next two months only. The Memphis Avalanche reported, “Like the Memphis on the Nile, the town was fated to become a ghost city.”
December arrived in Memphis, and the worst yellow fever epidemic in United States history ended. That same month, Emily B. Souder, the ship held responsible for bringing yellow fever to North America in the spring of 1878, the one that denied fever and instead landed it on the banks of New Orleans, set sail once again for the Caribbean. Somewhere off the coast of New York, on December 10, she sank to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, ending her fourteen-year service. The captain and all on board were killed except two castaways.
CHAPTER 6
Greatly Exaggerated
President Rutherford B. Hayes continued to receive word of death and loss at the White House. The 1878 epidemic had stretched from Brazil to Ohio. In the following months, the final death toll in the Mississippi Valley would prove to be 20,000 lives and the financial loss close to $200 million. Two hundred communities in eleven states had been hit by the fever. It was a bitter piece of news. Not only was the 1878 yellow fever epidemic one of the worst disasters to befall the country, but it happened under Hayes’s shaky command. “It is impossible to estimate with any approach to accuracy,” announced Hayes, “the loss to the country occasioned by this epidemic.”
Surely Hayes was also stirred by an unspoken sense of guilt when he thought of his dismissive letter in August; he had called the Memphis pleas for help “greatly exaggerated.” The toll on human life in Memphis alone surpassed the Chicago fire, San Franciscoearthquake and Johnstown flood combined. It was being called by some the worst urban disaster in American history. Over 5,000 lives were lost in Memphis, nearly a third of the population that remained in August of that year.
President Hayes contemplated his next course of action. Politically speaking, he knew he needed to act authoritatively and quickly. His recent election had
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