The American Plague - Molly Caldwell Crosby [65]
Finally, Reed asked Sternberg to appoint Dr. Jesse Lazear to the board. He seemed like a fine doctor and a likable person. His work with malaria and yellow fever had impressed Reed. He also came highly recommended by Welch and William Osler, and there could hardly be any higher endorsement. William Welch, Lazear’s mentor at Johns Hopkins, had written a glowing review of Lazear, describing him as “a good clinical man, a bacteriologist and withal a gentleman of enclivation and agreeable personality . . . and I am convinced that he would prove a very valuable addition to your corps of army surgeons.”
Each of the four men could appreciate the skills of the other and respected one another. As individuals, they probably could not have achieved anything so great. Even Reed, the team’s leader, had lacked the foresight to see a connection between mosquitoes and malaria early on. At a medical conference—on April Fool’s Day—Reed refuted the idea that an insect could transmit disease. But what Reed lacked in vision, he made up for in an earnest devotion to knowledge and the scientific process. If there was a visionary in the group, it was certainly Jesse Lazear. With their talents pooled together, they knew there was a good chance of conquering this disease.
Michael Oldstone, in his book Viruses, Plagues, and History, wrote: “The obliteration of diseases that impinge on our health is a regal yardstick of civilization’s success, and those (scientists) who accomplish that task will be among the true navigators of a brave new world.”
With his team assembled, Reed was ready to begin work at Camp Columbia. He and Carroll left New York on the Sedgwick bound for Havana harbor on June 21, 1900, the same day Kean was stricken with the fever. His would be Reed’s very first case of yellow fever. Walter Reed, head of the Yellow Fever Board, had never before seen a case of yellow jack.
Reed and Carroll landed on the busy Havana wharf where women carried metal pots of coffee and soldiers hauled supplies onto the shore, loading mule-drawn wagons. American voices mingled with foreign accents. There were shouted orders and laughter, neighing horses and barking dogs. Gulls called overhead, and buzzards flew high over the dirt roads leading out of the town, their black wingspans like line engravings in the blue sky.
Reed and Carroll rode by carriage into Havana, through Plaza de Armas where soldier tents surrounded the fountain and an American flag flew from the top of the Governor’s Palace, General Wood’s new headquarters. The carriage bounced along cobblestones, spraying dust as they passed Spanish churches and colorful, narrow town houses. Reed was excited to be returning to Cuba. Havana was unlike any place he’d seen before—the bones of the buildings unmistakably grand and European, while the fleshy surroundings were tropical and Caribbean. It was at one time elegant, and at another, raw. They passed palm trees, almond trees and gnarled jaguey. Plumes of red sprouted on poinciana. Hibiscus blooms erupted.
The road rose before them as they approached the elevated outskirts of Havana and rode into Quemados, Marianao. The air seemed to thin as they moved farther away from the harbor’s output of humidity, steam and smoke into lush jungle, and finally, the windswept farmland where Camp Columbia stood.
Reed went immediately to the hospital tents to see Kean. Kean’s temperature was high, and his gums bleeding, but it would prove to be a moderate case, and when he was well enough, Jefferson Kean was shipped to family in New Jersey to recuperate.
On the evening of Reed’s arrival, the Yellow Fever Board met on the veranda of the officer’s quarters at Camp Columbia for the first time. It was a familiar scene for Reed, Lazear and Agramonte, who had stood there just three months before,