American History Tellers - Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1793 | Friends We Have Lost | 3

Episode Date: November 23, 2022

In 1793, Philadelphia served as the nation’s temporary capital, and the yellow fever epidemic crippled the federal government. After fleeing the capital, President George Washington struggled to make decisions and govern the young nation. Meanwhile, Philadelphia was running out of space to bury the dead. With the epidemic growing in strength, crime soared and jobless tenants were evicted from their homes. But soon, relief would come from an unexpected source.Listen ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App. https://wondery.app.link/historytellersSupport us by supporting our sponsors!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 a sweltering morning in September 1793 in Philadelphia, the nation's capital. You're in your study at home, reviewing some accounting from last month. For the past two years, you've worked as a clerk in the U.S. Treasury Department, collecting the customs and taxes on imported goods that fund the federal government. But recently, your colleagues have all fled the city to escape the yellow fever epidemic. Now you're the only one left, making sure that the treasury keeps running.

You open a drawer to pull out a fresh sheet of paper, but a yellow ribbon catches your eye. You pick it up and run it through your fingers as a fresh wave of grief washes over you. You bought it for your daughter and meant to give it to her for her fifth birthday. A courier enters, pulling you back into the present. Good morning. Your wife let me in. I've come with another delivery for Mr. Wolcott. You wince at the strong smell of vinegar on the courier's clothes. Good morning. Yes, set it down there, please. The courier places a small envelope on your desk and sweeps his gaze over the mass of papers in front of you.

I must say I'm surprised to see you still in town. I'm just as surprised as you are. My youngest died the night before last. She wasn't even five. The courier shakes his head. Oh, I'm so sorry. Was it the fever? We're not certain.

It happened fast. Well, maybe it's time you got out of the city. You're not certain. It happened fast. Well, maybe it's time you got out of the city. You're the only clerk left in the whole department. You ignore the courier's words and carefully open the letter from your boss, Controller Oliver Wolcott. Oh, no. Apparently there are reports of sailors

taking advantage of the absence of custom officers, smuggling in goods and extorting people on the waterfront. So, no. I have to remain here to investigate. Alone? You should do like the others. Leave now, before things get worse. You've suffered enough. Well, there you're probably right. But if I leave, no one would be left to keep the treasury running. This ship is not going down on my watch. You look down at the yellow ribbon on your desk. Part of you is longing to grab your wife and son and run. But you know this government is hanging on by a mere thread. Your country needs you, and you won't abandon it now.

Hey, this is Nick. And this is Jack. And we just launched a brand new podcast called The Best Idea Yet. You may have heard of it. It's all about the untold 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. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now, where aspiring entrepreneurs get 90 seconds to pitch to an audience of potential customers. If the audience liked the product,

it gets them in front of our panel of experts. Gwyneth Paltrow. Anthony Anderson. Tabitha Brown. Tony Hawk. Oh, my God. Buy it now. Stream free on Freeview and Prime Video.

From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. In September 1793, one lone clerk was keeping the U.S. Treasury Department afloat. Most federal officials had fled Philadelphia as yellow fever spread, leaving the government on the brink of collapse. Even President George Washington, the young nation's popular leader, had left Philadelphia, taking his family to his Mount Vernon estate in Virginia. With Washington and most of America's top leaders scattered, the government was crippled in the midst of a devastating crisis. Those who did remain, including a handful of doctors and

nurses, did their best to battle the disease. But the debate over treatment grew more divisive. The city's leading physician, Dr. Benjamin Rush, was in the middle of it. As he raced to treat the sick, he also faced bitter critics and controversy, and soon he would suffer another brush with death himself. With government virtually non-existent, Philadelphia relied on a small group of volunteers who had stepped up to run the city and care for its neediest residents. But nothing could prepare them for the magnitude of the crisis. As the fever grew worse, Philadelphians also confronted crime, evictions, and widespread unemployment. But Autumn's arrival brought a glimmer of hope that the long, deadly nightmare was at last nearing its end. This is Episode 3, Friends We Have Lost.

By mid-September 1793, the United States government had ceased to function. President George Washington, Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton, and Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson had all fled to their country homes. The Attorney General and the Postmaster General were away negotiating an Indian Treaty on the Ohio frontier. Meanwhile, in the city, government clerks came down with yellow fever, bringing operations at the post office and custom service to a standstill and threatening the nation's commerce. Hamilton's second-in-command, Comptroller Oliver Wolcott, was determined to keep the Treasury running in spite of his boss's absence. He moved his family to a large home a few miles north of Philadelphia and tried to assemble his staff there. He wrote to five clerks who had fled to New York, imploring them to return to work, but they all made excuses and refused to come anywhere near the disease-ridden capital.

Only one treasury clerk labored on in Philadelphia, a man named Joshua Dawson. Even while grieving the death of his young daughter, Dawson managed Treasury work alone. Every day, a courier carried letters between him and Wolcott. As the two men struggled to keep the Treasury Department functioning, President Washington remained at Mount Vernon, 150 miles away. When he left the Capitol, he took no official papers with him, believing he would only be gone for two weeks. But with every new report of the worsening crisis in the Capitol, he postponed his return and became more and more isolated from government.

Washington wasn't the only leader without the documents he needed to do his job. When clerics rushed out of the city in a panic, they too left government papers behind. Files were abandoned and boarded up houses, and many important records were misplaced in the confusion. Making matters worse, mail service in and out of Philadelphia was severely delayed. All letters were dipped in vinegar and then dried in an effort to sanitize them. Mail normally traveled in just a few days, but with all this extra processing, letters took up to two weeks to reach their destination. Given the delays in postal service and miscommunication in general, President Washington was frustrated with the lack

of accurate information about the epidemic. He complained to the Postmaster General, writing, The accounts we receive here are so opposite and unsatisfactory that we know not on which to rely. Uninformed, alone, and away from his cabinet, Washington struggled to make decisions on international diplomacy and other problems the young nation faced. He complained to Hamilton, declaring, It is a delicate situation for the president to be placed in. Then, in early October, Maryland Governor Thomas Lee wrote to Washington, informing him that French privateers had seized a British ship and brought it into Baltimore Harbor. The British demanded the ship be returned. Governor Lee asked the president what he should do.

Washington was embarrassed to admit that he was unable to make a decision because he had no relevant legal papers with him. And as summer turned to fall, Washington needed to call Congress into session to deal with pressing matters, including the question of whether to support revolutionary France in its war against Great Britain. But the Constitution did not specify whether the president could legally convene Congress outside the Capitol. Washington wrote his cabinet secretaries for advice. Hamilton insisted the president could move Congress wherever he wished, but Jefferson and Madison disagreed. They argued that only Congress could relocate itself, and to do so, its members must first convene in Philadelphia.

Washington knew that moving Congress was a delicate issue. British monarchs had a history of suddenly convening Parliament in a remote part of the country, and with only a fraction of the legislators on site, the king could then decide laws as he wished. America's founders were careful to prevent a similar move when they drafted the Constitution. For a final say in the matter, Washington turned to Attorney General Edmund Randolph, who served as the president's main legal advisor. Randolph decided that Washington had no power to move Congress, even during an emergency, declaring it unconstitutional. With Washington unable to make decisions and Congress out of session, the federal government's paralysis dragged on.

Back in Philadelphia, Dr. Benjamin Rush was slowly recovering with a bout of yellow fever himself, but he was growing more tormented every day. Rush remained adamant that aggressive bleeding and purging was the only way to treat the disease, but many doctors had opted for a gentler French cure, including Dr. Jean Devez, a recent French arrival who had taken over the city's makeshift hospital at Bush Hill. Devese believed in letting the body heal itself and criticized doctors who tried to force nature to bend to their rules, branding them a scourge more fatal to humankind than the plague itself. Dr. William Curry, Rush's old colleague in the College of Physicians, called for milder treatments as well.

He insisted that Rush's methods could only bring certain death. Rush was hurt to see friends and former colleagues reject his methods. He complained about a wicked confederacy of doctors conspiring against him. He insisted that only the doctors who used bleeding and purging were real doctors, and that the rest were actively doing harm. Rush even began to suspect that some doctors were intentionally killing their patients with gentler treatments just to spite him. In late September, he wrote to his wife Julia, never before did I witness such a mass of ignorance and wickedness as our profession has exhibited in the course of the present calamity. I almost wish to

renounce the name of physician. Indeed, the principal mortality of the disease now is from the doctors. But it wasn't just scientific disagreement. Partisan conflict heightened Rush's bitterness, too. The doctor was a staunch advocate of Jefferson's Republican Party, and as such he blamed Alexander Hamilton, one of the leaders of the opposing Federalist Party, for inciting opposition to his cure. He wrote, I think it probable that if the new remedies had been introduced by any other person than a friend of Madison and Jefferson, they would have met with less opposition from Colonel Hamilton. But the lack of support within the medical community and the pressure from his political

adversaries wasn't all that was weighing on Dr. Benjamin Rush. On October 1st, Rush's own sister died of yellow fever. He wrote, My heart has flown into the coffin with her. While he grieved her death, he began to feel weak and feverish. He lost his appetite, and his night sweats returned. Three days later, he fainted in the home of one of his patients. He was carried to his carriage and went home to rest, and for the second time in a month,

Rush had fallen sick with yellow fever. Over the next few days, he made as many house calls as he could, but late at night on October 9th, he collapsed. He instructed his students to bleed and purge him, and for the next six days, Rush was bedridden, unable to sit up. Still, surrounded by students who never

questioned him, Rush became even more confident in his methods and more resentful of his critics. He declared the Bush Hill Hospital a failure and branded the committee that ran it a forlorn hope. But for ordinary Philadelphians battling the disease, the disagreements among local physicians was frustrating. Many were watching their loved ones die around them while they desperately sought help. Several residents wrote into the sole functioning daily newspaper, urging doctors to put aside their differences for the good of the city, because the death toll was still climbing. All across Philadelphia, the fever continued to cause misery and grief. Imagine it's early October 1793 in Philadelphia. You've been volunteering with the Free African Society ever since your employer fled the city a month ago.

You and many of your fellow Black residents have rushed in to care for the sick and keep the city running, but it still feels like you're waging an impossible battle. You've just come from the hospital at Bush Hill, carting the dead body of an elderly man down the street toward the cemetery. But first, you have to deliver the sad news of his death to his next of kin. You walk up to a modest brick cottage and knock on the door. A woman wearing a stained apron opens it. She must be in her 30s, but her slumped shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes make her look much older. Excuse me, miss, are you Abigail Taylor, daughter of Mr. Nathaniel Taylor? She frowns and fidgets with her apron ties. Yes, what is it? Well, Miss Taylor, I am sorry to tell you that your father has died.

His fever was a bad case. The woman nods sadly, but she doesn't look surprised. You point to the cart on the street holding her father's coffin. Would you like to accompany me to the cemetery? Pay your respects? The cemetery? No, thank you. Just go on ahead and take him.

She moves to close the door, but you take a step forward and interject. Excuse me. I'm sorry, does he have any other family, perhaps? Someone who might want to attend the funeral? Not here in Philadelphia. Now, please, be on your way. Well, miss, I've buried too many people alone. No family here to mourn them.

I don't want to bury your father that way, too. The nurse told me he asked for you by name. "'He wanted you to be with him.' "'You take another step toward her, "'and she takes a step back, throwing up her hands. "'I said get out. "'I don't want you or my father's diseased body anywhere near me. "'Well, someone should say a few words.

"'I didn't know the man. "'You should be there. "'I can't. "'Look, I appreciate you're trying to help, but I got work to do. Rent's not going to pay itself. The woman slams the door in your face. You turn around and walk back to your cart, shaking your head in disbelief. You're exhausted from the endless shifts carting corpses to the cemetery. More than anything, you're disturbed by how the sick and dead have been shunned by their own families.

In October 1793, the epidemic grew more devastating by the day. Signs of sickness and death were everywhere. Houses displayed small red flags to indicate that someone inside was ill. Funerals were short, solitary affairs. The mistaken belief that yellow fever was contagious person to person caused widespread panic and fear. Philadelphians shunned nurses, carters, gravediggers, and doctors, as well as anyone who stepped foot inside Bush Hill. When coffins were carted down the streets,

residents slammed their doors and shut their windows. Nights were especially dismal, with no workers on hand to light the city's whale-oil street lamps. The streets were dark and silent, save the occasional shrieks and moans of men and women on the verge of death. Thousands of Philadelphians were sick. In total, roughly one-third of the residents who remained in the city contracted yellow fever that fall. And in October, the fever peaked, carrying more people to the grave than ever. Over the course of just six days, one reverend watched helplessly as 130 members of his congregation perished. On October 7th,

82 people across the city were carted away to their graves. And the death toll kept climbing. Gravediggers erected tents at cemeteries so they could take their rest nearer to their graves. And the death toll kept climbing. Gravediggers erected tents at cemeteries so they could take their rest nearer to their work. Volunteers had stepped up to care for the sick, but the fever was relentless. Dr. Rush declared, not a ray of alleviation of the present calamity breaks in our city from any quarter. All was a thick and melancholy gloom. Death had become an inescapable daily reality in Philadelphia, and the toll was continuing to climb. In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand,

lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reach the age of 10 that would still have heard it. It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones and for almost two years I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls from Pitcairn. When there's nobody watching, nobody going to report it, people will get away with what they can get away with. In the Pitcairn Trials, I'll be uncovering a story of abuse

and the fight for justice that has brought a unique, lonely Pacific island to the brink of extinction. Listen to the Pitcairn Trials exclusively on Wondery+. Join Wondery in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. How did Birkenstocks go from a German cobbler's passion project 250 years ago to the Barbie movie today? Who created that bottle of red sriracha with a green top that's permanently living in your fridge? Did you know that the Air Jordans were initially banned by the NBA?

We'll explore all that and more in The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast from Wondery and T-Boy. This is Nick. This is Jack. And we've covered over a thousand episodes of pop business news stories on our daily podcast. We've identified the most viral products of all time. And they're wild origin stories that you had no idea about.

From the Levi's 501 jeans to Legos. Come for the products you're obsessed with. Stay for the business insights that are going to blow up your group chat. Jack, Nintendo, Super Mario Brothers, best-selling video game of all time. How'd they do it? Nintendo never fires anyone. Ever. Follow The Best Idea Yet on

the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to The Best Idea Yet early and ad free right now by joining Wondery Plus. On October 11th, 1793, 119 Philadelphians perished from yellow fever. It was the deadliest day of the epidemic. But the next day, the city got a long-awaited reprieve. For the first time in weeks, it rained. Residents had long prayed for a break in the punishing drought, which they blamed for spreading the illness with hot and polluted air. They believed the fresh rain would clear the city of yellow fever. And three days later, it rained again, a steady pour that lasted for hours.

Benjamin Rush was thrilled. He wrote, The appearance of this rain was like a dove with an olive branch in its mouth. In the cooler days that followed, deaths dropped from more than 100 a day to an average of 80. But the epidemic was far from over. And for some impoverished Philadelphians, it was only getting worse. The city's low-income fever victims depended heavily on just three members of an organization called the Guardians of the Poor, who courageously stayed in Philadelphia while their colleagues left.

But all three became sick themselves in mid-October, and two died. Without their efforts, many of the sick and dying in the city were left on their own, and at times, Philadelphians found out that their neighbors had perished only from the smell of their decaying bodies. Morale sank as people realized that vinegar, garlic, and camphor failed to prevent illness. A growing number of doctors were getting sick as well. Many Philadelphians became convinced death was inevitable. Some residents arranged their burials in advance and even had themselves measured for coffins. But it wasn't just the sickness and death causing despair. The rain came too late to help local farmers, whose crops failed in the long drought. In the ensuing food

shortage, Philadelphians looted the handful of farmers' wagons that rolled into the city. Others broke into apothecaries to steal medicine. By mid-October, it had been one month since Mayor Matthew Clarkson assembled volunteers in a committee to take care of the city and its poor. Since then, the committee had taken charge of the Bush Hill Hospital, housed nearly 200 orphans, and distributed money to poverty-stricken families. But Clarkson's committee lacked the resources to prevent crime and another growing crisis, evictions. Thousands had lost their jobs due to the epidemic, and as tenants ran out of money to pay their rent, many were thrown out of their homes by unsympathetic landlords. But as fall

arrived, there was hope on the horizon. Doctors believed that epidemics struck in warm weather and would disappear as temperatures dropped. And at long last, the final week of October brought cooler weather to Philadelphia. The death rate began to taper off even further. On October 26th, fewer than 30 people died. Clarkson's committee passed a resolution declaring, we feel the highest pleasure in announcing to our fellow citizens throughout the United States that the abatement of the disorder is beyond all expectation. Because the fever had not entirely disappeared, though, the committee urged residents who had fled the epidemic to wait another 10 days before returning. Benjamin Rush was still weak after his second bout of yellow fever,

but his spirits lifted when he realized that there was no longer a single sick person on his block. He wrote, the disease visibly and universally declines. Fewer patients were arriving at the Bush Hill Hospital, and residents who had shut themselves inside began to leave their homes. Stores reopened. Ships once again arrived on the wharf, and stagecoach lines announced they would soon resume service. People who had fled Philadelphia trickled back in. But they returned to a city they barely recognized. The streets were unusually clean. The piles of garbage and animal carcasses had disappeared. Because of the work of the committee, orphaned children no longer wandered

the streets. And those returning looked nothing like the neighbors they left behind. Men and women who had recovered from the fever were haggard and gaunt. Their clothes smelled of vinegar and camphor. Many still had a yellow tinge to their skin. And those who took the mercury purge had teeth stained black. But for those returning, there was something else waiting for them. Though the death rate had gone down in mid-October, it soon climbed back up again. There was no sudden or clear end to the epidemic. Still, residents celebrated the drop in the average number of daily deaths from 100 to only two dozen. The terror and misery that had gripped the city for so long

had begun to wane. By the end of October, President Washington had been in Mount Vernon for six weeks, far removed from the work of running the nation. He was anxious to return to the capital. The postmaster general wrote to him with the news that the fever seemed to be subsiding. So on October 28th, Washington boarded a coach alongside his secretary in valet The Postmaster General wrote to him with the news that the fever seemed to be subsiding.

So on October 28, Washington boarded a coach alongside his secretary in valet and headed back north. Washington reunited with Jefferson in Baltimore. The president and the secretary of state shared a carriage to Germantown, a few miles outside of Philadelphia, where other government officials were gathering. Washington had made arrangements to stay in a private house, but with so many Philadelphians staying outside the city, Jefferson was forced to travel from inn to inn searching for lodgings. In the end, he slept in a bed in the corner of a tavern dining room. Meanwhile, the death rate continued to decline in Philadelphia.

On October 31st, the managers of Bush Hill hoisted a large white flag above the hospital, reading, No More Sick Persons Here. But it was premature to declare victory. Imagine it's November 3rd, 1793, at Bush Hill Hospital in Philadelphia. You're the chief physician, and for the past six weeks, you've seen the yellow fever carry far too many men, women, and children to the grave. At last, the epidemic seems to be on the wane. You feel a little lighter in your step as you walk through the corridors. As you pass near the front door, you jump back as it swings open, and a carter carries an older man inside. One of the nurses, a young woman named Sally, rushes to direct the carter into a room at the end of the corridor. You shake your

head as you follow them. Sally strips back a blanket, and the carter deposits the man in bed. He nods at you and exits the room. Oh, I don't like seeing this, Sally. I was feeling good about the course of the plague, but this is the fifth new patient in three days. Well, it's only been a few. I'm sure he's the last of them. Sally smiles as she pours some water, but you can see the glimmer of doubt in her eyes. You walk to the patient for a closer look,

holding a hand to his forehead. And how are you feeling, sir? The man squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces. You take Sally by the arm and walk a few steps away. He's burning up. Do you recognize him? It's Mr. Davidson. He's a cashier at a store on Fifth. You know, when I was little, he used to pass me a piece of candy when my mother wasn't looking. He only reopened his shop a few days ago. Oh, that is a shame. He must be hurting for income. Yeah, I heard he lost his wife back in September. Well, maybe he doesn't have the fever. Maybe something else. Sally gives you a hopeful glance, but you

shake your head. No, I don't think so. Look at his face. I know yellow fever when I see it. So let's prepare a cold bath and I'll check on him again in a couple of hours. In the meantime, I'm going to ask Mr. Helm to have that flag pulled down. This epidemic isn't over. Oh, Doctor, let's not do that. That flag, it gives people hope. And that's been in short supply lately. Well, you know, we never should have put it up in the first place.

No more sick persons here. You know, pride goeth before a fall. You walk out the door and take a few steps down the corridor before dropping down into a nearby wooden chair, cradling your head in your hands. You know it is only a few cases, but you're frustrated to see the fever lingering on. People are so tired and they're grieving. You don't know how much more of see the fever lingering on. People are so tired, and they're grieving. You don't know how much more of this the city can take. On November 3rd, hospital staff at Bush Hill pulled down their victory flag. The epidemic was not yet over. Several residents who had recently returned to the city came down with the fever.

One silversmith reopened his shop on October 1st, only to die of yellow fever three days later. Taking note of the uptick in deaths, the committee published a warning urging Philadelphians to stay vigilant. They declared, Although we can with confidence assert that the disorder has abated, we cannot say it is totally eradicated. It may still lurk in different parts of the city. The committee advised locals to continue taking precautions. They recommended that new arrivals whitewash their rooms and burn gunpowder to purify the air. But Philadelphians were tired of being cautious, and they were ready to let go of their fears and return to normal life.

And that included the city's most esteemed resident. So on the morning of November 10th, George Washington mounted his horse and rode out of Germantown. He left without waking his aides, determined to see the state of the capital for himself as soon as possible. Washington arrived in the city two months after he had left it. As he rode up and down the streets, he was impressed by what he found. The streets were clean and the people were going about their business.

He saw no obvious signs of the fever, and he decided the Capitol was healthy enough for Congress to meet at the end of the year. So in November, federal, state, and local officials went back to work. Markets, taverns, theaters, and churches reopened. The streets filled with people, and the city sprang back to life. But for many, there would be no return to normalcy. In just three months, as many as 5,000 men, women, and children died from yellow fever, roughly 10% of the greater Philadelphia population. Among the dead were some of the brightest minds of the young nation, doctors, lawyers, and ministers. But Philadelphians also lost their mothers and fathers, their children and neighbors.

As Dr. Benjamin Rush's caseload declined, he had more time to reflect about the scale of the tragedy. He confessed to his wife, Julia, Sometimes I lose myself in looking back upon the ocean which I have passed, and now and then I find myself surprised by a tear in reflecting upon the friends I have lost, the scenes of distress that I have witnessed. Rush had fought the fever with boundless energy and enthusiasm. He had fallen sick twice and narrowly escaped death.

Throughout it all, he never renounced his sense of duty to his patients. But as Philadelphia recovered, Rush was exhausted and weak. And he would soon discover that even as the epidemic wound down, he had more battles to fight. Are you in trouble with the law? Need a lawyer who will fight like hell to keep you out of jail? We defend and we fight just like you'd want your own children defended. Whether you're

facing a drug charge, caught up on a murder rap, accused of committing war crimes, look no further than Paul Bergrin. All the big guys go to Bergrin because he gets everybody off. You name it, Paul can do it. Need to launder some money? Broker a deal with a drug cartel? Take out a

witness? From Wondering, the makers of Dr. Death and Over My Dead Body, comes a new series about a lawyer who broke all the rules. Isn't it funny how witnesses disappear or how evidence doesn't show up or somebody doesn't testify correctly? In order to win at all costs. If Paul asked you to do something, it wasn't a request. It was an order. I'm your host, Brandon James Jenkins. Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Criminal Attorney early and ad-free right now

by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. 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. Even as the epidemic came to an end, Philadelphia's doctors continued to argue about the fever.

And nowhere was the conflict stronger than in the debate over its cause. When the governor of Pennsylvania returned to Philadelphia, he asked the College of Physicians to write a report detailing how the fever started. Rush and his colleagues assembled as asked, but their discussion quickly devolved into heated disagreements. Rush refused to waver from his belief that the fever originated locally, blaming the city's foul summer air. But he was outnumbered. The majority of doctors in the college insisted the fever was imported. In their report, they wrote,

No instance has ever occurred of yellow fever having originated in this city or in any other parts of the United States. It was the conclusion that the governor and the local business community had hoped for, but Rush deemed his colleagues' science flawed. He charged them with being blinded by their personal animosity toward him. Rush was so furious that he resigned from the organization he helped found. In mid-November, printer Matthew Carey published a book about the epidemic that sold out within days. Carey lavished praise on white residents, hailing the heroism and sacrifice of clergymen, doctors, and the members of Mayor Clarkson's volunteer committee.

But Carey vilified the black volunteers who had stepped up and served as nurses, carters, and gravediggers. He portrayed them as greedy opportunists, reviving old rumors that black people had taken advantage of the fever by charging extortionate rates for vital services. He even accused black volunteers of stealing from the homes of their patients. This was in contrast to the praise Carey gave Richard Allen and Absalom Jones, the leaders of the Free African Society. But Allen and Jones were infuriated by Kerry's inaccurate account of the actions of the wider

black community. In January 1794, they sought to set the record straight with their own pamphlet. Allen and Jones knew that the reputation of black Philadelphians was on the line. They refuted Kerry's accusations in blistering, methodical detail. They described how two-thirds of the people who performed essential services were Black, noting that the vast majority worked with no expectation of ever being paid. They condemned white people like Carey, who fled the city during the crisis, but nevertheless criticized those who stayed and cared for the sick. They detailed how they used their own money to take care of their white neighbors, while Carey had profited off the epidemic with the sale of his slanderous writings. They declared, we believe he has made more money by the sale of his scraps

than a dozen of the greatest extortioners among the black nurses. And finally, Allens and Jones rejected the theory that black people were immune to yellow fever, affirming, We have suffered equally with the whites. Our distress has been very great, but much unknown. Their defense of the black community's actions was one of the first of its kind in American history. And their pamphlet ended with a note from Mayor Clarkson, who also commended the hard work of the black community.

Clarkson had stayed and led Philadelphia through the epidemic when other elected officials fled, but once the disaster was over, he relinquished power, returning to his largely symbolic position as mayor. To fight the epidemic, Clarkson and other members of the committee had accumulated more than $3,000 in debt, or nearly $100,000 in today's money. The wealthier members likely paid off most of the debt out of their own pockets, another sacrifice made for the general good after so much had already been lost. Though the yellow fever epidemic of 1793 was over, the disease returned to Philadelphia in 1794, 96, and 97, though none of those outbreaks were as deadly as the 93 epidemic. Throughout them all, Dr. Benjamin Rush clung to his aggressive treatments,

bleeding and purging his patients. But then, in 1797, a new voice entered the chorus of criticism against him. English journalist William Cobbett had recently moved to Philadelphia and founded a Federalist, pro-British newspaper called Porcupine's Gazette. It became popular for its entertaining essays, skewering people in power. As an Englishman, Cobbett hated many Americans who had fought for independence and heaped scorn on prominent revolutionaries like Jefferson, John Adams, and Rush himself. He also ruthlessly attacked Rush for his methods of treating yellow fever, branding him a quack and a murderer. He even questioned his mental state. Though Rush had other critics, Cobbett's attacks were especially personal. He once wrote,

If Rush is useful to society, then so is a mosquito, a horse leech, a ferret, a polecat, a weasel, for all these are bleeders and understand their business as well as Dr. Rush does his. As these attacks continued, Rush told a friend that he felt like he was living in a foreign country. He was desperate to leave Philadelphia and Comet's merciless criticism. So in October 1797, he applied for a position as the chair of the medical faculty of Columbia University, hoping to relocate to New York. But he would soon find out that he could not escape his enemies.

Imagine it's October 1797 in New York City. You are a member of the medical school faculty at Columbia. And standing at the head of a classroom, you're going over notes and diagrams. Your students are set to arrive for your lecture at any minute. You look up and smile, expecting to see one of your students arriving early. But to your surprise, it's your friend and former teacher, Benjamin Rush. Dr. Rush, what are you doing here? Well, I thought I'd come into the city,

see how things are progressing with my appointment as chair. Have you had a chance to meet with the rest of the faculty? Rush looks at you expectantly. You feel like you're back in his classroom, being asked to answer a question you weren't prepared for. Yes, we have met, and your appointment was approved unanimously. Rush beams and his shoulders relax. He reaches out and shakes your hand. Oh, that is wonderful news. I knew I was right to ask you to put in

the good word. Now I can finally leave all that mess with Cobbett behind. When will I start? You shuffle some papers nervously, staring down at your notes as you brace yourself to deliver bad news well uh after the faculty vote the board of trustees met yesterday to consider the appointment and as you know hamilton is a very influential member at the sound of hamilton's name russia's smile fades and what did he have to say well i'm sorry to report that he insisted the matter be postponed. Uh, what does that even mean, postponed? Sounds to me like he's blocking my appointment. That was my impression as well.

Rush crosses his arms, a pinched expression on his face. Did he give a reason why? No, doctor, that's all the information I have. He may not have wanted you to bring your controversies to the college, or perhaps he just wanted to spite me. Well, that could be true. Let's investigate the matter. We can take Hamilton on together. I don't believe it's fair to you that political differences should get in the way of your career. You could do great things here, Doctor. Rush gives you a sad smile. Oh, I appreciate your loyalty, but it's no small thing, especially when so many have forsaken me. But I can tell when I'm not wanted. Students begin to file into your classroom.

Rush gives you a curt nod and then turns to leave. You're sad to see your friend's name sullied after all his work and sacrifice. Seems like wherever he goes now, he's followed by controversy. After his appointment to Columbia's faculty was blocked, Rush's friend President John Adams took pity on the beleaguered doctor. He appointed him treasurer of the U.S. Mint, a largely ceremonial job, but with a good salary. Still, Rush remained determined to clear his name. He sued Cobbett for libel, and after a long and highly publicized trial in 1800, a jury awarded Rush $5,000. But Cobbett fled the country before paying up,

and the trial did not help Rush's reputation recover. The epidemic of 1793 was a turning point for the young republic in its most important city. The fever had arrived at a moment of political crisis. When the first cases began to spread, Philadelphians were protesting outside Washington's home over his decision to remain neutral in the conflict between France and Britain. But the fever forced these residents to focus on their own survival, and tempers cooled. In 1813, John Adams reflected, nothing but the yellow fever could have saved the United States from a total revolution of government. After the epidemic, federal and state officials took steps to avoid paralysis during future crises. Congress passed a law

empowering the president to call it into session outside the Capitol in times of great danger. The Pennsylvania state legislature gave the governor authority to pass laws and spend money in the event of an emergency. Philadelphia continued to clean up its streets and strengthened its public health codes. In 1800, the city built the nation's first major public water system. No longer was rainwater stored in barrels, which meant there were far fewer breeding grounds for mosquitoes. In many parts of the U.S., especially in the South, yellow fever remained a recurring problem until the turn of the 20th century. Then, in 1900, Army Dr. Walter Reed proved that mosquitoes transmitted

the disease. Mosquito control emerged as a major public health measure, and scientists developed a vaccine in the 1930s. But even today, there is still no cure. Yellow fever kills roughly 30,000 people globally every year. The 1793 yellow fever epidemic brought out the best and worst of Philadelphia. It exposed the cowardice of officials and doctors who abandoned their duties, and the courage of ordinary citizens who stepped in to fill the void. But in the years that followed, its most important lessons were too often forgotten, as time and again disease bred not only sickness and death, but chaos, division, and conflict. On the next episode of American History Tellers, I speak with Dr. Thomas Appel,

historian and author of Feverish Bodies, Enlightened Minds, Science, and the Yellow Fever Controversy in the Early American Republic. We'll be talking about the impact the epidemic had on politics, society, and the growing field of medicine in a young United States. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself edited by Dorian Marina, produced by Alita Rosansky. Our managing producers are Tanja Thigpen and Matt Gant. Our senior producer

is Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman and Marsha Louis for Wondery. Richard Bandler revolutionized the world of self-help

all thanks to an approach he developed called neuro-linguistic programming. Even though NLP worked for some, its methods have been criticized for being dangerous in the wrong hands. Throw in Richard's dark past as a cocaine addict and murder suspect, and you can't help but wonder what his true intentions were. I'm Saatchi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the hosts of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the most infamous scams of all time, the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away. We recently dove into the story of the godfather of modern mental manipulation, Richard Bandler, whose methods inspired some of the most toxic and criminal self-help movements of the last two decades. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.

You can listen to Scamfluencers and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid and Kill List early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery+. Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening.