American History Tellers - Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1793 | Outbreak | 1

Episode Date: November 9, 2022

In the hot and humid summer of 1793, a deadly epidemic struck Philadelphia, then the capital of the United States. Thousands suffered high fevers, yellow skin, and bloody vomit. Many died within days.At first, the cause of the illnesses was a mystery. Then the city’s leading physician, Dr. Benjamin Rush, identified it as yellow fever, one of the era’s deadliest diseases. Panic soon spread through Philadelphia. Schools, stores, and churches shut their doors, as the epidemic began to threaten the stability of the young nation.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 August 6th, 1793 in Philadelphia. You're a doctor, fresh out of medical school. Today, you've come to a boarding house in a narrow alley near the wharf to treat a patient. As you sit beside the man's bed, you feel his forehead, and it's burning hot. He's a French sailor who's been fighting a high fever and chills for the past few days. You stand as the woman who manages the boarding house walks in.

It's sweltering in the cramped room, and her hair is sticking to her face. Well, how is he? He's getting worse. I'm sorry, Mrs. Denny. I'm not sure what more I can do for him. This fever just doesn't want to break. Mrs. Denny shakes her head, looks down at the sailor sadly. Oh, poor boy. Dying in a foreign place. No one but strangers by his side. It is horrible, but it's more than that that's troubling me. Something about this case seems strange.

Mrs. Denny shrugs. These sailors are always coming through with one illness or another. But this year, it's not your typical fever. This man's symptoms are unusual. He's been vomiting blood. I've never seen anything like it. And it's not your typical fever. This man's symptoms are unusual. He's been vomiting blood. I've never seen anything like it, and it's not just him. There are others in your house who have fallen ill. Mr. Moore, you know, and now Mrs. Parkinson, too.

They're both sick in their rooms. It is terrible luck. Well, it's not just luck, Mrs. Denny. I fear there may be something malignant in the air in your house. Mrs. Denny puts her hands on her hips, a stern glare on her face. Now, doctor, I won't have you fear-mongering. I have a business to run. You keep talking like that, and soon the whole town will think my boarding house is unclean.

Well, maybe it is. You don't know what you're talking about. And you're not the only doctor in Philadelphia. I'm sure I can find someone less green to come out. Someone who knows what they're talking about. And you're not the only doctor in Philadelphia. I'm sure I can find someone less green to come out. Someone who knows what they're talking about. Mrs. Denny stomps toward the door angrily. Then she stumbles. You reach out to catch her fall. Mrs. Denny, are you all right? I'm fine. I must have tripped. As you get a closer look at her face, you suddenly notice how pale she is. You place your hand on her forehead and frown. Oh, Mrs. Denny, you're burning up. Come on, ma'am. Let's take you to your room. You better lie down. You place your arms around Mrs. Denny and usher her out the door. As you escort her down the

hallway, you have a sinking feeling that you're in over your head. Whatever this illness is, it's spreading rapidly. You may be too late to stop it. Kill List is a true story of how I ended up in a race against time to warn those who lives were in danger. Follow Kill List wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Kill List and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. 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. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. On our show, we take you to the events, the times, and the people that shaped America and Americans, our values, our struggles, and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday people as history was being made, and we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now.

In the summer and fall of 1793, yellow fever ravaged Philadelphia, then the nation's largest city. The disease spread rapidly, sparking panic. One after another, residents were struck down with high fevers, yellowish skin, violent chills, and black vomit. By October, the illness was claiming 100 lives a day. Philadelphia was also the nation's capital at the time and home to the country's best doctors, but the city was completely overwhelmed. Doctors and politicians struggled to control a disease they knew little about, and fierce debate raged over what caused the fever and how best to treat it. Ultimately, the fledging federal government shut down as officials packed up and fled the city. The local economy collapsed. And by the time the epidemic

ended, 5,000 people were dead, roughly 10% of the city's population. The fever left few lives untouched, from founders George Washington and Alexander Hamilton to everyday Philadelphians, young and old, rich and poor, black and white. But it also revealed the extraordinary courage of ordinary people on the front lines who fought the worst epidemic to ever hit the young nation. This is Episode 1 in our three-part series on the Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1793, Outbreak. On August 3rd, 1793, a young French sailor rooming at a Philadelphia boarding house came down with a sudden fever. His condition worsened rapidly, and within just a few days, he was gone. Three more boarders soon died, as did the owner of

the boarding house, Richard Denny and his wife Mary. Then illness claimed two people in the house next door. In just one week, eight people had perished, but the news of the rapid and unusual deaths failed to spread. The Denny's boarding house was located on Water Street, a narrow alley near Balls Wharf on the Delaware River. One resident described Water Street as confined, ill-aired, and disagreeable. The neighborhood catered to foreign sailors and other recent arrivals, people too poor and anonymous to receive much attention. The doctors who treated them were either French-speaking immigrants or young physicians just starting out. None of them sounded any alarm that an invisible killer had arrived in Philadelphia.

At the time of the outbreak in 1793, Philadelphia was America's largest and most cosmopolitan city, home to some 50,000 residents. Every day, ships passed through the city's wharves, trading goods and information. Markets, taverns, and coffeehouses buzzed with the sounds of men and women speaking English, French, and German. Philadelphia was then the capital of Pennsylvania and also the temporary capital of the United States, as Washington, D.C., was still being built. Only a decade had passed since the U.S. won its independence from Great Britain,

and leaders and lawmakers had congregated in Philadelphia to build a new nation, including President George Washington, his cabinet, and the U.S. Congress. One of Philadelphia's best-known residents was its most respected physician, Dr. Benjamin Rush. He was someone other doctors turned to when they needed advice. At 47 years old, Rush was thin, with a pointed nose and chin and piercing blue eyes. He had begun his medical training as a teenager, then crossed the Atlantic to study under Europe's leading doctors and surgeons. Returning to colonial America, he started a medical practice in Philadelphia and became a professor at the University of Pennsylvania. Rush was a man of boundless energy.

Despite weak lungs and a chronic cough, he worked from early in the morning until late at night, seeing patients and writing papers. His dedication to medicine was rivaled only by his passion for politics. Rush was one of the 56 men to sign the Declaration of Independence. He was active in the Sons of Liberty and the Continental Congress. And then he served as Surgeon General in the Continental Army. After the Revolution, he was an outspoken critic of slavery and a strong ally for Philadelphia's free black community,

helping to found the city's first black church. Rush believed that a strong democracy was closely linked to the health and well-being of its people. And to that end, he campaigned against heavy drinking and supported universal public schooling. For Rush, sickness and poor health threatened the very survival of the republic he so loved. So it wasn't unusual that Rush spent the summer of 1793 concerned about Philadelphia's extreme heat and humidity. Philadelphia was a low-lying city, known for its high temperatures, and this particular summer, a severe drought had set in, leaving streams, swamps, and marshes dry. Garbage, fish entrails,

and animal carcasses piled up along the Delaware River and in the city streets. The stench was unbearable, and Rush thought unhealthy, writing there was something in the heat and drought of the summer months which was uncommon in their influence upon the human body. But it wasn't just the weather putting Philadelphians on edge that summer. In May, French Minister Edmond Charles Genet had arrived in Philadelphia seeking President Washington's help. Genet's country was in the midst of the French Revolution, a popular uprising against a centuries-old monarchy. Many Americans celebrated this revolution

because they saw the fight as similar to their own revolutionary beginnings. Genet hoped that Washington would lend America support to France's revolutionary government, especially in their war with the British monarchy. But Washington was wary of involving his young nation in an expanding conflict abroad. In Philadelphia, he gave Jeunet the cold shoulder and proclaimed America's neutrality. Washington's decision to turn his back on their former ally angered many Americans. Mobs of Philadelphians marched on the presidential mansion in protest.

And amid this political upheaval, in July, an influx of French refugees began arriving in Philadelphia from the Caribbean island of Saint-Domingue, known today as Haiti. These refugees were fleeing the Haitian Revolution, a violent rebellion of enslaved people against French colonial rule. So by the end of the summer, 2,000 mostly white, French-speaking refugees had arrived in Philadelphia. Pro-French sympathizers rallied around these new arrivals, giving them support as they settled into their new home. But Philadelphians didn't know that the ships from Saint-Domingue not only brought refugees, but also carried mosquitoes. Philadelphia's humid summer weather was ideal for the insects,

and soon they were swarming over filthy rain barrels, open sewers, and stagnant gutters. Dr. Benjamin Rush noticed the proliferation. Writing in his journal, the mosquitoes were uncommonly numerous, but he was blind to the threat they posed. In the late 18th century, physicians had identified yellow fever as a disease, but the biology of it was poorly understood. No one, not even Rush, knew that it was spread by infected mosquitoes, and they were slow to recognize its symptoms, including Rush, who on August 5th was called to the home of another doctor who lived near the wharf where the refugees from Saint-Domingue had arrived. Dr. Hugh Hodge lived on Water Street,

not far from the Denny's boarding house. His young daughter was suffering from a high fever. She was also jaundiced and vomiting blood. Just two days later, the girl died. Over the next two weeks, Dr. Rush visited more patients who shared common symptoms. But at first, he believed that they all had been struck by an ordinary seasonal fever, which could be common in Philadelphia. He did his best to help them,

not realizing that something far more dangerous was stalking the city. Imagine it's August 6, 1793. You're at home in Philadelphia, in the bedroom of your 15-year-old son, Michael. He's lying on his bed with his eyes closed, too weak to speak or sit up. You sit beside him, holding a wet cloth through his forehead. You didn't sleep all night with worry, and now Michael's fever has gotten worse. He's been throwing up black, grainy vomit, and he has a nosebleed that won't stop. Oh, you're going to be just fine, sweetheart. Dr. Rush will be here soon. He's the best doctor in the city.

And right on cue, Dr. Benjamin Rush walks into the room, the leather satchel in hand. My apologies, ma'am. I came here as soon as I could. Any signs of improvement? No, doctor. I've never seen him this ill. You shoot up out of your chair, offering your seat to Dr. Rush. He sits and presses two fingers to Michael's wrist.

Oh, his pulse is much too fast. I'm afraid this boy's in crisis. He must be bled. You want to bleed him? But look at his nose. The boy is losing enough blood as it is. Won't it just weaken him more? Rush shakes his head. That's a worthy price to pay to rid his body of this pestilence. I'll only take a little.

You see a glint of metal in the candlelight as Rush takes a lancet out of his bag. Oh, please, doctor, there must be another way. Can't you give him some medicine? No, not before he's bled. Bleeding is a proven practice. Your son's fever is severe, ma'am. We must restore balance to his body. If we don't, I'm afraid this boy is just hours from the grave. You look from Rush to your son, but he's too sick to protest.

The decision whether to bleed Michael is yours alone to make. The mere thought of it makes you queasy, but friends have assured you that Rush can be trusted. Fine. Do what you must. Rush pushes Michael's sleeve up and hands you a small metal basin. Here, hold the basin below his arm. The doctor makes a small incision in Michael's forearm. Your stomach turns at the sight as blood begins filling the basin. All right, just one more.

Rush takes the full basin from you and replaces it with a fresh one. He winks and focuses on your son's face. All done. All right, that's ten ounces of blood. I'll come back tomorrow to drain another ten. Rush ties a bandage around your son's arm. You reach out and push the hair out of the boy's eyes. Rush then hands you a small amber

bottle. And what's this? Calomel. It's a compound of chloride and mercury. Give him a tiny spoonful. He needs to purge the disease from his stomach and bowels. It won't be pretty, mind you, but it'll do the job. And I'll return tomorrow to check on him. As Rush walks out the door, you grimace, trembling with worry. Is what everyone says about Rush right? Can he save your son's life? During the first two weeks of August 1793, Rush treated a steady stream of patients with a mixture of therapies. Some were mild, such as sitting in cool air, taking cold baths, and eating light meals.

But he also treated patients with bloodletting, draining as much as 12 ounces of blood from their veins at a time. He also purged his patients, giving them doses of mercury and other toxic substances to induce vomiting and diarrhea. Bleeding and purging were known to be harsh on patients, but they were accepted practices in the 18th century, when medicine was often more an art of guessing than science. Americans didn't know that bacteria and viruses caused illnesses. Instead, doctors embraced ancient Greek medical thinking, believing in humoral theory, the idea that illness was caused by imbalances among the four main bodily fluids, blood, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile. Doctors believed that a variety of triggers could put these four humors out of whack,

including poor food, excess drinking, dog bites, and foul air. Rush was just one of many physicians who used purges and bleeding with the goal of restoring balance to the body. But despite Rush's best efforts, several of his patients died. It was a tragedy, but because deadly fevers were common in the summer, Rush did not suspect that anything more serious was afoot. Then, on August 19th, two doctors summoned Rush to their neighborhood near Balls Wharf. Dr. Hugh Hodge and Dr. John Folk were treating a 33-year-old French woman named Catherine LeMager. LeMager's eyes were bloodshot. She was spewing black vomit, and her skin was a sickly yellow

color. She was also clearly in agonizing pain. It was obvious that she was dying. Hodge and Folk were desperate for help from their esteemed colleague. After examining LeMager, the three doctors left her bedroom to discuss the case. Rush recognized her symptoms from other patients he recently treated, declaring, I have seen unusual number of bilious fevers, accompanied with symptoms of uncommon malignity. I suspect all is not right in our city. Dr. Hodge also noted that five of LeMager's neighbors had also recently died, including his own young daughter, whom Rush had treated two weeks earlier. Dr. Folk pointed out that Lemaigre lived just a block away from Ball's Wharf,

where a ship from Saint-Domingue had recently dumped a shipment of coffee. The coffee had been left to rot on the waterfront, sending a powerful odor more than a quarter of a mile into the city. Rush seized on this information. He realized that all his patients lived in the same neighborhood on or near Water Street. Now he was certain he knew the source of their illness, impurities in the air emanating from rotten coffee. Rush and the other doctors concluded the coffee had caused an outbreak of illness on Water Street.

But Rush suspected it was no ordinary fever. And as he thought about the symptoms more, he suddenly realized what the disease was. He had seen it before. When Rush was a 16-year-old apprentice, another epidemic had swept through Philadelphia. It was an illness that all doctors dreaded because it was deadly and unstoppable.

And now it seems it was back again. Philadelphia was in the grips of yellow fever. Dracula, the ancient vampire who terrorizes Victorian London. Blood and garlic, bats and crucifixes. Even if you haven't read the book you think you know the story one of the incredible things about dracula is that not only is it this wonderful snapshot of the 19th century but it also has so much resonance today the vampire doesn't cast a reflection in a mirror so when we look in the mirror the only thing we see is our own monstrous abilities from the host

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You're sitting in your office at your desk, going through the pages of a heavy medical textbook, searching for a possible course of treatment for a patient you saw this morning. You look up to see Dr. Benjamin Rush stride into the room, a harried expression on his face. Dr. Rush? Rather late for a visit, don't you think? Rush takes a seat in the chair across from you and rubs his temples. Apologies for the unannounced visit, but I'm afraid it could not wait. I have some terrible news. Yellow fever is spreading through the city. We must gather our colleagues together and make a plan of action. You lean back in your seat and fold your arms across your chest. Yellow fever? What are you talking about? No, I've seen it myself. It's been spreading near the riverfront these past two weeks. What makes you so sure? None of my patients have yellow fever. It could be all manner of things. It's a summer.

No, this is no ordinary illness. First, the patients have fever and muscle pain. Then they become jaundiced. And then comes the bloody vomit. And in their final stages, they become delirious, just before their bodies give out completely. I know, I've seen half a dozen deaths of this nature already. Still, there are all sorts of maladies that could cause those symptoms. What you're describing sounds like nothing more than a severe seasonal illness to me. Rush looks annoyed. No, no, you're not listening. The public must be warned.

We have an epidemic on our hands. Oh, now listen. If people start thinking there's an epidemic in our city, there could be panic. Businesses could be ruined. This is dangerous ground, and if you'll forgive me, I'm not sure I'm convinced. Young man, you weren't around to witness the epidemic back in 62, but I was. I'm telling you that all the signs of yellow fever are there, clear as day. Clear as day, huh? Well, I guess I just don't see it. And I don't want to cause chaos. Philadelphia has too much turmoil for one summer as it is. Look, everyone knows you're stubborn about your diagnoses, and that's understandable. You're a respected man and

often correct, but this, this is too much. Well, I'd rather be a stubborn man than an ignorant one. At this, you are affronted. You stand and point to the door. Now, doctor, that was too much. I'm going to ask you to get out of my office and leave me to my work. Shaking his head, Rush walks toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he stops and turns around. I hate that it's the case, but you'll soon see that I'm right. I just hope it won't be too late. As Rush leaves your office, you sit down and pour yourself a glass of wine to settle your nerves. You're certain there's nothing behind this talk of an epidemic. Still, Rush's visit has left you rattled. Because if it does turn out that he's right, well, that possibility is too terrifying to even consider.

As soon as Benjamin Rush made his diagnosis of Catherine LeMegre, he wasted no time going house to house warning his fellow doctors that yellow fever was spreading through Philadelphia. He urged his family and friends to leave the city at once. Rush recognized the symptoms from the last time he had seen a yellow fever epidemic in 1762 when he was a 16-year-old apprentice. Patients then suffered terrible symptoms, including the yellow-tinged skin and eyes that gave the disease its name. Bleeding in the digestive tract caused bloody vomit that appeared black and grainy, and roughly half of all cases were fatal. But despite Rush's

dire warnings, most of his fellow doctors brushed him off. They remained skeptical that it was, in fact, yellow fever spreading through Philadelphia, and refused to scare the public with news of an epidemic. Rush later wrote, Many of the citizens joined the physicians in endeavoring to discredit the account I had given of this fever, and for a while it was treated with ridicule or contempt. Rush was frustrated that the other doctors doubted his medical opinion, but he knew that very few of his colleagues had experienced the last yellow fever epidemic to strike the city 30 years earlier. But from his memory of the disease, he was certain that his diagnosis was correct,

and he knew that even if the city did sound the alarm, it would be difficult to stop another epidemic from spreading. On August 20th, Catherine Lemaigre died, just one day after Rush and two other doctors tried to save her. The next day, 12 more people perished. Despite the initial skepticism, evidence of an epidemic was becoming hard to ignore. Pastors found themselves visiting more and more members of their congregations, all suffering high fevers. Residents began to notice an uptick in funerals. On August 21, the day after Catherine LeMegger died, Rush went to City Hall to plead his case. He met there with Philadelphia's 60-year-old mayor, Matthew Clarkson.

Orphaned as a child, Clarkson started his career as a clerk, working his way up to become one of the richest and most respected men in the city. One man who knew him declared, there is something singularly good in him, a benignity that beamed in his countenance. But despite his title, Mayor Clarkson held little real power in Philadelphia. Actual authority to pass laws and raise money rested in various committees that ran the city. Still, Clarkson listened as Rush explained his theory that filth in the streets was causing yellow fever to spread. But even though his title was largely honorary, Clarkson was determined to use his office to do whatever he could to stop an epidemic. The next day, he placed a notice in the newspapers declaring,

A dangerous infectious disorder now prevails in this city. Clarkson ordered city workers to clean the streets and gutters of rotting garbage and dead animals. Suddenly, Philadelphians could talk of nothing but the deadly fever raging through their city. It was impossible to ignore the carts rumbling through the streets carrying dead bodies and the constant sound of church bells announcing each new victim. Officials with the city, state, and federal government stayed in town for the time being, but the wealthy and powerful scrambled to flee. Hundreds more shuttered their homes and shops and fled too.

A local printer described the site of the exodus, writing, almost every hour in the day, carts, wagons, coaches, and chairs were seen transporting families and furniture to the country in every direction, and no one in the city was safe. Rush wrote to his wife, Julia, who was visiting family in New Jersey with their youngest children, declaring, the fever has assumed a most alarming appearance. It not only mocks the power of medicine, but it has spread through several parts of the city far from the spot where it originated. In this worried rush, you can recollect how much the loss of a single patient in a month used to affect me. Judge then how I must feel, in hearing every morning of the death of three or four.

On Sunday, August 25th, a violent storm struck Philadelphia. Howling winds and driving rain pounded the city as Rush made his way to a small building near the State House. There, Mayor Clarkson had gathered Philadelphia's College of Physicians, hoping they could be able to provide advice for safeguarding the city. The College of Physicians was the most prestigious medical society in America. Rush and his colleagues had founded the group six years earlier to advance medical knowledge and improve the reputation of doctors. In the late 18th century, physicians were not thought of as professionals.

Many Americans saw little difference between trained doctors and the various others who treated the sick, including barbers, wandering healers, and soothsayers. But Philadelphia was home to 80 physicians. Twenty-six were members of the college, but only 16 gathered that stormy Sunday. Of the no-shows, some were busy treating sick patients, but others had already fled the city. When the 16 doctors began discussing the possible origin of the fever, they quickly formed two camps. One, led by Rush, argued that the fever had a local cause, the foul air that plagued Philadelphia all summer. Rush insisted that the best way forward was to clean the streets. The second camp was led

by Dr. William Curry. Curry was unconvinced that the illness was actually yellow fever, but whatever it was, he was certain it had a foreign origin. Curry believed that refugees from Saint-Domingue had brought the disease from the West Indies, and he was adamant that it was spread from person to person. He proposed that the city focus on quarantining the sick and infected. Rush was disappointed to see some of his colleagues agree with Curry, who had only studied yellow fever in books. Rush had treated it firsthand. In the end, the college decided to compromise, incorporating the beliefs of both doctors in their findings. And after the meeting, it was decided Rush and three others should write a report.

Rush stayed up all night working on it. The next day, the college met again and unanimously approved the report's recommendations for reducing the disease's spread. The report was then sent to Mayor Clarkson, who himself gave it to newspaper publishers and the Pennsylvania governor. In it, the College of Physicians urged the city to clean the streets and burn gunpowder to purify the air. They also recommended that residents change their sheets often, avoid alcohol, and hold vinegar-soaked handkerchiefs to their noses. But the report also incorporated Dr. Curry's opinion that yellow fever was contagious. It advised residents to avoid close contact with the infected. As a result, Philadelphians soon stopped shaking hands. They walked in the middle

of the streets to avoid each other. Desperate to stave off illness, residents tried a variety of preventative measures, some recommended by the college, others promoted by midwives, apothecaries, and quack doctors. Philadelphians scrubbed their homes, soaked their clothes in vinegar, and chewed garlic or placed it in their pockets or shoes. Many burned logs in their fireplaces day and night, believing that the smoke would help purify the air. Men, women, and even children smoked cigars,

thinking that tobacco would safeguard them. But despite these measures, people continued to get sick. Soon, two dozen people were dying every day. Stores, schools, and workplaces closed. The streets emptied as more and more people retreated into their homes or fled the city. Mayor Clarkson even ordered the church bells to stop tolling for the dead. There were simply too many deaths. Ringing was replaced with an eerie silence. as Philadelphia shut down and the fever continued to rage.

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has captivated listeners with masterful storytelling, creative excellence, and a unique creative voice and vision. To recognize Ghost Story being chosen as the first series essential, Wondery has made it ad-free for a limited time, only on Apple Podcasts. If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcasts to hear for yourself. Through the final days of a blistering hot August in 1793, yellow fever continued to claim more lives in Philadelphia. As residents panicked, Mayor Clarkson struggled to lead the city through the crisis. Every day, he was confronted with new challenges,

and the city government was breaking down. Judges, aldermen, and clerks stopped showing up for work. Some were sick themselves, but more often they had fled the city. Clarkson was left without anyone to carry out his orders or advise him. And it wasn't just City Hall facing a labor shortage. Constables, nurses, bankers, and drivers disappeared. There were few workers on hand to clean the streets or dig graves for the growing number of victims. As well-off residents closed their businesses and evacuated the city, thousands were left without any source of income or the means to pay for food, medicine, or doctors.

Many of the sick simply had nowhere to go. Philadelphia had just one public hospital, but it refused to admit fever victims in the hopes of protecting other patients. Private almshouses were filled to capacity, penniless victims of the fever were left wandering the streets, and making matters worse, food prices skyrocketed because many nearby farmers were frightened to travel to Philadelphia with their harvest. The official agency that dealt with the city's neediest residents was known as the Overseers and Guardians of the Poor. After Benjamin Rush

warned Clarkson about the epidemic, the mayor had asked this group to take charge of caring for the sick and needy. The Guardians' first task was to find a place to house and treat fever victims who were poor and homeless. On August 26, the Guardians seized the amphitheater for Ricketts Circus, the first circus in America. Earlier that spring, clowns, acrobats, and equestrian performers had dazzled large crowds there, including President Washington himself. But the show had moved to New York for the summer, leaving the building empty. The Guardians picked up seven sick people from the streets and deposited them all at Ricketts. But they were unable to find nurses or doctors to provide services.

The sick were left in the circus unattended, vomiting and crying out desperately for water. When two of the seven died, their bodies were removed from the building, but a third corpse was left there for more than 48 hours before the guardians finally found a carter to haul it away. But the fever didn't just attack the city's poor. It also entered Philadelphia's halls of power. On August 29th, members of Pennsylvania's state

legislature arrived at work to hear unsettling news about their young doorkeeper, a man named Joseph Fry. The previous night, Fry had died in his bed of yellow fever. The young man lived in the statehouse, in a room not far from the legislative chambers. The lawmakers were terrified that the fever was spreading through the building. Still, many of them filed into their seats to hear Pennsylvania Governor Thomas Mifflin read an address about the epidemic. But the chamber was half empty. Of the 18 senators and 72 representatives in the Pennsylvania state legislature, only 46 remained in the city. In his address, Mifflin refused to say the fever originated in Philadelphia.

To protect local commerce, he blamed French refugees for spreading the disease. Then Mifflin and the state legislature prepared a note urging Mayor Clarkson to have cannons discharge gunpowder throughout the city to clear the air. Though Clarkson believed the blasts would do little more than scare people, he did as he was told. The next day, a militia company hauled a small cannon through the streets, stopping every few yards to fire a blast. But for Clarkson, the more pressing problem was caring for Philadelphia's neediest residents. Anxious neighbors who lived near Ricketts Circus were threatening to burn down the amphitheater

unless the patients inside were moved elsewhere. So on August 31st, the Guardians found a new place to house the sick. They seized Bush Hill, a large mansion two and a half miles outside the city. The Guardians had no legal right to occupy Bush Hill, but the mansion's owner was living in England and its caretaker was unable to stop them. The four fever patients remaining at the circus were quickly moved into this stately home, and before long, all 11 rooms would be filled to capacity.

Shortly after they seized Bush Hill, all but three guardians fled the city. Mayor Clarkson was working tirelessly to battle the fever. But more and more, he seemed to be leading the fight alone. Imagine it's September 2nd, 1793. You're the mayor of Philadelphia, and you're just walking into City Hall. You've never seen the building so empty on a Monday afternoon. Clerks, carters, and chimney sweeps are refusing to come to work, and most of the judges and aldermen have left the city. There's hardly anyone left to run the government. As you walk toward your office,

you spot one of the guardians of the poor, a man named Thomas. He's coming down the stairs with a stack of papers in his arms. Ah, good afternoon, Thomas. Thomas stumbles on the last step and grips the stair rail. Oh, good, good, good afternoon, sir. I did not expect to see you here. Where else would I be? Tell me, any word on our staffing issues at Bush Hill? You know, I'm not quite sure.

One of the other guardians might be better equipped to update you. If you'll excuse me, I must be going. As Thomas tries to walk toward the front door, you take a step to block his way. Oh, so soon? I was hoping we could firm up plans for the new almshouse. Thomas scratches his head, his eyes flitting toward the door. It's clear he's trying to make an escape. Oh, and what are those papers?

These are accounting reports. Nothing important. You look down at the stack and back up at Thomas. Well, if I'm not mistaken, it almost looks like you're carrying the entire contents of your office. Are you trying to flee the city? Yes. My wife is packing up our things as we speak. You shake your head in frustration. I don't understand how you could even consider abandoning Philadelphia in the midst of this crisis. I'm sorry, sir. I've been working day and night just the same as you. But we're desperately understaffed, and the risks are simply too high.

I've got a family to think about. You're not the only one with a family. I have a wife and nine children who need me. Then for their sake, you should leave too. It's either get out now or wait for this fever to send me and my children to the grave. If it's a choice between my family and this city, well, I choose my family. The man is clearly desperate. And as much as you wish you could stop him from leaving, you know there's little you can do. You watch Thomas walk off. He's the second guardian to Flea Town in just as many days. You've never

felt so helpless. With so many officials abandoning the city, you're starting to wonder how you'll be able to save Philadelphia from total collapse. From the beginning, Mayor Clarkson was overwhelmed by the problems facing his city. The departure of most of the guardians made the challenges in front of him all the more daunting. Federal officials were also beginning to flee Philadelphia. President George Washington urged his wife Martha to travel to Mount Vernon, their plantation in Virginia, but she refused to leave her husband behind. But the epidemic would reach Washington when one of his cabinet members fell ill on September 5th. Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton was struck down with a fever,

and he and his wife left for their summer home a few miles outside the city to recuperate. Washington sent him well wishes and six bottles of vintage wine. Hamilton's chief rival, Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson, bitterly accused Hamilton of faking his illness. Meanwhile, state officials panicked over their safety, too. On September 5th, the state legislature granted special emergency powers to Governor Mifflin for the duration of the epidemic. Then, the members all hastily adjourned until December, preparing to head to their summer mansions. But that same night, Mifflin announced he wasn't feeling well. He, too, packed up his city residence to escape to his country home.

And with his departure, nearly the entire Pennsylvania state government had abandoned Philadelphia, leaving the crisis in Mayor Clarkson's hands. Clarkson was now on his own, and though he was willing to fight, the deadly epidemic had only just begun. From Wondery, this is Episode 1 of the Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1793 from American History Tellers. On the next episode, the rising death toll overwhelms doctors, Benjamin Rush tries an aggressive and controversial new treatment, and President Washington flees the city, sparking a constitutional crisis. music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash

survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Molly Bach. Sound design by Derek Behrens. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton. Edited by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rosansky. Our managing producers are Tanja Thigpen and Matt Gant. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman and Marsha Louis for Wondery. 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.