Confederate Army of Tennessee, and he wore the terror of that war in lines that feathered from his eyes and brow. Mitchell was described as “marvelously tender and sympathetic,” as well as “born to command . . . so great is his power and influence over men.” But it was an unassuming influence. If men followed him, it was because of his unclouded allegiance to serving—whether in battle, medicine or tragedy—rather than a charismatic personality. After the war, Mitchell returned to Memphis where he married an Irish woman and set up his practice Mitchell and Maury. He earned a reputation for excellence in his field, and in March of 1878, one week after the Mardi Gras festivities came to a close, Mitchell was appointed president of the Memphis Board of Health.
The board consisted of three doctors, the chief of police and Mayor John R. Flippin. In early July, the five men met to discuss how to deal with the 1878 epidemic season. As they opened windows to give way to the breeze and paced on plank-board floors, the hot season was upon them: Heat lightning cracked the nighttime sky, sermons were shorter on Sundays, and the picnic season had been declared officially over. Ice-cold buttermilk had become the fashionable drink. Watermelon, cantaloupe and peaches softened and seeped from crates at the fruit stands. Corn was on the silk, and advertisements for refrigerators, ice chests and coffins filled the pages of the newspapers. It was also noted in the paper that “Mosquitoes are increasing in numbers, and are becoming more vindictive and ferocious, if it were possible to do so.”
Mitchell called his meeting to order. He was a quiet man, a listener who rarely spoke unless he had something important to add to the argument. He had already appeared before the local council in June to formally request additional money for sanitation and quarantine as the epidemic season approached. His request was denied. A staunch believer in annual quarantine during the summer months, Mitchell then appealed to his own board for quarantine. The majority voted yes; but the two other physicians on the board voted no.
Dr. John H. Erskine listened to Mitchell’s pleas. Erskine was a commanding presence, standing at an unusual six feet tall. His close-set, pale eyes and fair skin glowed against black-blue waves of hair and a long, dark goatee. Erskine’s height coupled with his striking appearance gave him an air of leadership; he was used to people not only taking notice of him but listening to him. A highly educated and ambitious surgeon, he excelled during the war and later as the health officer of the Memphis Board of Health during the 1873 yellow fever epidemic. During that epidemic, Erskine had even noticed an unusual occurrence: The prison where he often worked reported only two cases of the fever. The fifteen-foot-high prison wall, Erskine noticed, had somehow barred the fever from entering.
Still, as Erskine listened to Mitchell’s pertinacious pleas, he did not believe the rumors from New Orleans warranted such drastic measures. Quarantine, after all, would create panic, stifling river traffic and delaying cotton shipments. It was not even a proven method of protection against the scourge. Erskine spear-headed a petition, signed by several prominent physicians and published in the newspaper, overturning the vote for quarantine.
It brought the battle to the public. Angry letters to the Memphis Appeal asked, “Is it not better to expend a few thousand as a safeguard than to lose millions by the disastrous effects of yellow fever, besides the thousands of valued lives that will have passed away?” The paper followed with an editorial: “Should an epidemic reach Memphis this year those who opposed the establishment of a quarantine will be held responsible.”
It is impossible to know what went through Mitchell’s mind at that moment, frustrated by his own board and fed up with city officials. On July 11, Mitchell resigned from
Jennifer McCartney, Lisa Maggiore