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another epidemic in 1867 and a terrible one in 1873. At first, Memphians denied that the dreaded fever could have made its way into their promising city; the city was considered too high above sea level and too far inland for this plague of the port towns. To an extent, they were right. But once the railroads and steamships connected Memphis to the Gulf, the Aedes aegypti mosquito found its opportunity to move north. The insects settled near the river, finding refuge in the stagnant pools of water, private cisterns and the waxing and waning of the Mississippi riverbeds. The area at the mouth of the Wolf River was so hospitable to mosquitoes, one Memphian recalled, that a man could thrust his arm into the swarms of mosquitoes and leave a momentary vacuum when he withdrew it. Within ten years, there were enough striped mosquitoes in place to infect thousands of people in Memphis.

On the very day the Souder passed quarantine, a member of the Tennessee Board of Health wrote to the Louisiana health board in New Orleans asking for news of any yellow fever cases. Dr. Samuel Choppin, the doctor who examined the Souder’s dead crewmembers, assured the Memphians that they would receive regular reports and that nothing would be concealed from them. They did receive the reports; no mention of yellow fever cases ever appeared. Not until two months later, July 26, would Memphians read about an epidemic in New Orleans in the national papers. By then, it was too late. For all of June and July, New Orleans would routinely pass ships, including eighteen from Havana and fifteen from South American ports. In that time, the Emily B. Souder would make three more trips delivering sugar to New Orleans, escaping authorities and landing feverish crewmembers again in early July, sparking another wave of yellow fever cases. As the Souder unloaded cargo, other boats waited in nearby berths to sail north. One such towboat, the John D. Porter, left New Orleans on July 18 and entered the massive transportation waterway of the Mississippi River, where it would make its way north toward Memphis.

In the summer of 1878, the Mississippi River, the great artery of North America, would carry death in its bloodstream, spreading the worst yellow fever epidemic in American history.

CHAPTER 3

The Doctors

The sweet scents of honeysuckle, overripened fruit, and fresh-cut hay distracted from the fecund smell of the living body of water coursing beneath the bluffs of Memphis. Crape myrtle bloomed around the marble fountain in Court Square. Geraniums, roses and lilies bejeweled the park, and magnolia limbs bowed under the weight of the dark, glossy leaves. Throughout the park, the calls of the bootblacks offering shoeshines could be heard, and cicadas hummed from the treetops.

Early in the morning, before the haze of summer humidity settled over the town, the voice of the milkman resounded: “Wide awake,” “All alive, now!” The ice wagon rattled up Second Street, while the produce stands opened in front of the public offices and dry-goods stores on Main. Dust, mud and manure along the bustling thoroughfares necessitated that even the most well-bred lady wear rubber Wellingtons downtown. Nicholson wood-plank sidewalks, which had been rotting for ten years, were piled high with crates where newsboys sat shouting headlines.

When the summer heat arrived early, as it did in 1878, it was known as yellow fever weather. Memphians passed one another downtown with nervous glances, their eyes averted beneath cotton bonnets and straw hats. Few uttered the words “yellow fever,” but the fear of it suffused the still air nonetheless. In addition to the early arrival of summer, the high temperatures and little rainfall had produced a drought, draining the Mississippi River down to the hardpan. Green lawns lush from the surplus rain in months past turned as brown as prairie grass, and water wells dried up. The scant rain had left no natural way to wash sewage from the dusty Memphis streets, and bloated, dead animals rotted in the shallow pools of refuse; the city had no money