The Greatest Benefit to Mankind: A Medical History of Humanity

Wherever it struck a virgin population, measles too proved lethal. There are some recent and well-documented instances of such strikes. In his Observations Made During the Epidemic of Measles on the Faroe Islands in the Year 1846, Peter Panum (1820–85) reported how measles had attacked about 6,100 out of 7,864 inhabitants on a remote island which had been completely free of the disease for sixty-five years. In the nineteenth century, high mortality was also reported in measles epidemics occurring in virgin soil populations (‘island laboratories’) in the Pacific Ocean: 40,000 deaths in a population of 150,000 in Hawaii in 1848, 20,000 (perhaps a quarter of the population) on Fiji in 1874.

Improving communications also widened disease basins in the Middle East, the Indian subcontinent, South Asia and the Far East. Take Japan: before AD 552, the archipelago had apparently escaped the epidemics blighting the Chinese mainland. In that year, Buddhist missionaries visited the Japanese court, and shortly afterwards smallpox broke out. In 585 there was a further eruption of either smallpox or measles. Following centuries brought waves of epidemics every three or four years, the most significant being smallpox, measles, influenza, mumps and dysentery.

This alteration of occasional epidemic diseases into endemic ones typical of childhood – it mirrors the domestication of animals – represents a crucial stage in disease ecology. Cities buffeted by lethal epidemics which killed or immunized so many that the pathogens themselves disappeared for lack of hosts, eventually became big enough to house sufficient non-immune individuals to retain the diseases permanently; for this an annual case total of something in the region of 5,000–40,000 may be necessary. Measles, smallpox and chickenpox turned into childhood ailments which affected the young less severely and conferred immunity to future attacks.

The process marks an epidemiological watershed. Through such evolutionary adaptations – epidemic diseases turning endemic – expanding populations accommodated and surmounted certain once-lethal pestilences. Yet they remained exposed to other dire infections, against which humans were to continue immunologically defenceless, because they were essentially diseases not of humans but of animals. One such is bubonic plague, which has struck humans with appalling ferocity whenever populations have been caught up in a disease net involving rats, fleas and the plague bacillus (Yersinia pestis). Diseases like plague, malaria, yellow fever, and others with animal reservoirs are uniquely difficult to control.

PLAGUE

Bubonic plague is basically a rodent problem. It strikes humans when infected fleas, failing to find a living rat once a rat host has been killed, pick a human instead. When the flea bites its new host, the bacillus enters the bloodstream. Filtered through the nearest lymph node, it leads to the characteristic swelling (bubo) in the neck, groin or armpit. Bubonic plague rapidly kills up to two-thirds of those infected. There are two other even more fatal forms: septicaemic and, deadliest of all, pneumonic plague, which doesn’t even need an insect vector, spreading from person to person directly via the breath.

The first documented bubonic plague outbreak occurred, predictably enough, in the Roman empire. The plague of Justinian originated in Egypt in AD 540; two years later it devastated Constantinople, going on to massacre up to a quarter of the eastern Mediterranean population, before spreading to western Europe and ricocheting around the Mediterranean for the next two centuries. Panic, disorder and murder reigned in the streets of Constantinople, wrote the historian Procopius: up to 10,000 people died each day, until there was no place to put the corpses. When this bout of plague ended, 40 per cent of the city’s population was dead.

It was the subsequent plague cycle, however, which made the greatest impact. Towards 1300 the Black Death began to rampage through Asia before sweeping westwards through the Middle East to North Africa and Europe. Between 1346 and 1350 Europe alone lost perhaps twenty million to the disease. And this pandemic was just the first wave of a bubonic pestilence that raged until about 1800 (see Chapter 5 (#ulink_8dc1f652-d30b-511b-a533-c140fc389852)).

Trade, war and empire have always sped disease transmission between populations, a dramatic instance being offered by early modern Spain. The cosmopolitan Iberians became subjects of a natural Darwinian experiment, for their Atlantic and Mediterranean seaports served as clearing-houses for swarms of diseases converging from Africa, Asia and the Americas. Survival in this hazardous environment necessitated becoming hyper-immune, weathering a hail of childhood diseases – smallpox, measles, diphtheria, gastrointestinal infections and other afflictions rare today in the West. The Spanish conquistadores who invaded the Americas were, by consequence, immunological supermen, infinitely more deadly than ‘typhoid Mary’; disease gave them a fatal superiority over the defenceless native populations they invaded.

TYPHUS

Though the Black Death ebbed away from Europe, war and the movements of migrants ensured that epidemic disease did not go away, and Spain, as one of the great crossroads, formed a flashpoint of disease. Late in 1489, in its assault on Granada, Islam’s last Iberian stronghold, Spain hired some mercenaries who had lately been in Cyprus fighting the Ottomans. Soon after their arrival, Spanish troops began to go down with a disease never before encountered and possessing the brute virulence typical of new infections: typhus. It had probably emerged in the Near East during the Crusades before entering Europe where Christian and Muslim armies clashed.

It began with headache, rash and high fever, swelling and darkening of the face; next came delirium and the stupor giving the disease its name – typhos is Greek for ‘smoke’. Inflammation led to gangrene that rotted fingers and toes, causing a hideous stench. Spain lost 3,000 soldiers in the siege but six times as many to typhus.

Having smuggled itself into Spain, typhus filtered into France and beyond. In 1528, with the Valois (French) and Habsburg (Spanish) dynasties vying for European mastery, it struck the French army encircling Naples; half the 28,000 troops died within a month, and the siege collapsed. As a result, Emperor Charles V of Spain was left master of Italy, controlling Pope Clement VII – with important implications for Henry VIII’s marital troubles and the Reformation in England.

With the Holy Roman Empire fighting the Turks in the Balkans, typhus gained a second bridgehead into Europe. In 1542, the disease killed 30,000 Christian soldiers on the eastern front; four years later, it struck the Ottomans, terminating their siege of Belgrade; while by 1566 the Emperor Maximilian II had so many typhus victims that he was driven to an armistice. His disbanded troops relayed the disease back to western Europe, and so to the New World, where it joined measles and smallpox in ravaging Mexico and Peru. Typhus subsequently smote Europe during the Thirty Years War (1618–48), and remained widespread, devastating armies as ‘camp fever’, dogging beggars (road fever), depleting jails (jail fever) and ships (ship fever).

It was typhus which joined General Winter to turn Napoleon’s Russian invasion into a rout. The French crossed into Russia in June 1812. Sickness set in after the fall of Smolensk. Napoleon reached Moscow in September to find the city abandoned. During the next five weeks, the grande armée suffered a major typhus epidemic. By the time Moscow was evacuated, tens of thousands had fallen sick, and those unfit to travel were abandoned. Thirty thousand cases were left to die in Vilna alone, and only a trickle finally reached Warsaw. Of the 600,000 men in Napoleon’s army, few returned, and typhus was a major reason.

Smallpox, plague and typhus indicate, how war and conquest paved the way for the progress of pathogens. A later addition, at least as far as the West was concerned, was cholera, the most spectacular ‘new’ disease of the nineteenth century.

COLONIZATION AND INDUSTRIALIZATION

Together with civilization and commerce, colonization has contributed to the dissemination of infections. The Spanish conquest of America has already been mentioned; the nineteenth-century scramble for Africa also caused massive disturbance of indigenous populations and environmental disruption, unleashing terrible epidemics of sleeping sickness and other maladies. Europeans exported tuberculosis to the ‘Dark Continent’, especially once native labourers were jammed into mining compounds and the slums of Johannesburg. In the gold, diamond and copper producing regions of Africa, the operations of mining companies like De Beers and Union Minière de Haute Katanga brought family disruption and prostitution. Capitalism worsened the incidence of infectious and deficiency diseases for those induced or forced to abandon tribal ways and traditional economies – something which medical missionaries were pointing out from early in the twentieth century.

While in the period after Columbus’s voyage, advances in agriculture, plant-breeding and crop exchange between the New and Old Worlds in some ways improved food supply, for those newly dependent upon a single staple crop the consequence could be one of the classic deficiency diseases: scurvy, beriberi or kwashiorkor (from a Ghanaian word meaning a disease suffered by a child displaced from the breast). Those heavily reliant on maize in Mesoamerica and later, after it was brought back by the conquistadores, in the Mediterranean, frequently fell victim to pellagra, caused by niacin deficiency and characterized by diarrhoea, dermatitis, dementia and death. Another product of vitamin B

(thiamine) deficiency is beriberi, associated with Asian rice cultures.

The Third World, however, has had no monopoly on dearth and deficiency diseases. The subjugation of Ireland by the English, complete around 1700, left an impoverished native peasantry ‘living in Filth and Nastiness upon Butter-milk and Potatoes, without a Shoe or stocking to their Feet’, as Jonathan Swift observed. Peasants survived through cultivating the potato, a New World import and another instance of how the Old World banked upon gains from the New. A wonderful source of nutrition, rich in vitamins B

B

and C as well as a host of essential minerals, potatoes kept the poor alive and well-nourished, but when in 1727 the oat crop failed, the poor ate their winter potatoes early and then starved. The subsequent famine led Swift to make his ironic ‘modest proposal’ as to how to handle the island’s surplus population better in future:

a young healthy Child, well nursed is, at a Year old, a most delicious, nourishing and wholesome Food; whether Stewed, Roasted, Baked, or Boiled; and, I make no doubt, that it will equally serve in a Fricassee, or Ragout … I grant this Food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for Landlords.

With Ireland’s population zooming, disaster was always a risk. From a base of two million potato-eating peasants in 1700, the nation multiplied to five million by 1800 and to close on nine million by 1845. The potato island had become one of the world’s most densely populated places. When the oat and potato crops failed, starving peasants became prey to various disorders, notably typhus, predictably called ‘Irish fever’ by the landlords. During the Great Famine of 1845–7, typhus worked its way through the island; scurvy and dysentery also returned. Starving children aged so that they looked like old men. Around a million people may have died in the famine and in the next decades millions more emigrated. Only a small percentage of deaths were due directly to starvation; the overwhelming majority occurred from hunger-related disease: typhus, relapsing fevers and dysentery.

The staple crops introduced by peasant agriculture and commercial farming thus proved mixed blessings, enabling larger numbers to survive but often with their immunological stamina compromised. There may have been a similar trade-off respecting the impact of the industrial Revolution, first in Europe, then globally. While facilitating population growth and greater (if unequally distributed) prosperity, industrialization spread insanitary living conditions, workplace illnesses and ‘new diseases’ like rickets. And even prosperity has had its price, as Cheyne suggested. Cancer, obesity, gallstones, coronary heart disease, hypertension, diabetes, emphysema, Alzheimer’s disease and many other chronic and degenerative conditions have grown rapidly among today’s wealthy nations. More are of course now living long enough to develop these conditions, but new lifestyles also play their part, with cigarettes, alcohol, fatty diets and narcotics, those hallmarks of life in the West, taking their toll. Up to one third of all premature deaths in the West are said to be tobacco-related; in this, as in so many other matters, parts of the Third World are catching up fast.

And all the time ‘new’ diseases still make their appearance, either as evolutionary mutations or as ‘old’ diseases flushed out of their local environments (their very own Pandora’s box) and loosed upon the wider world as a result of environmental disturbance and economic change. The spread of AIDS, Ebola, Lassa and Marburg fevers may all be the result of the impact of the West on the ‘developing’ world – legacies of colonialism.

Not long ago medicine’s triumph over disease was taken for granted. At the close of the Second World War a sequence of books appeared in Britain under the masthead of The Conquest Series’. These included The Conquest of Disease, The Conquest of Pain, The Conquest of Tuberculosis, The Conquest of Cancer, The Conquest of the Unknown and The Conquest of Brain Mysteries, and they celebrated ‘the many wonders of contemporary medical science today’. And this was before the further ‘wonder’ advances introduced after 1950, from tranquillizers to transplant surgery. A signal event was the world-wide eradication of smallpox in 1977.

In spite of such advances, expectations of a conclusive victory over disease should always have seemed naive since that would fly in the face of a key axiom of Darwinian biology: ceaseless evolutionary adaptation. And that is something infectious disease accomplishes far better than humans, since it possesses the initiative. In such circumstances it is hardly surprising that medicine has proved feeble against AIDS, because the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) mutates rapidly, frustrating the development of vaccines and antiviral drugs.

The systematic impoverishment of much of the Third World, the disruption following the collapse of communism, and the rebirth of an underclass in the First World resulting from the free-market economic policies dominant since the 1980s, have all assisted the resurgence of disease. In March 1997 the chairman of the British Medical Association warned that Britain was slipping back into the nineteenth century in terms of public health. Despite dazzling medical advances, world health prospects at the close of the twentieth century seem much gloomier than half a century ago.

The symbiosis of disease with society, the dialectic of challenge and adaptation, success and failure, sets the scene for the following discussion of medicine. From around 2000 BC, medical ideas and remedies were written down. That act of recording did not merely make early healing accessible to us; it transformed medicine itself. But there is more to medicine than the written record, and the remainder of this chapter addresses wider aspects of healing – customary beliefs about illness and the body, the self and society – and glances at medical beliefs and practices before and beyond the literate tradition.

MAKING SENSE OF SICKNESS

Though prehistoric hunting and gathering groups largely escaped epidemics, individuals got sick. Comparison with similar groups today, for instance the Kalahari bush people, suggests they would have managed their health collectively, without experts. A case of illness or debility directly affected the well-being of the band: a sick or lame person is a serious handicap to a group on the move; hence healing rituals or treatment would be a public matter rather than (as Western medicine has come to see them) private.

Anthropologists sometimes posit two contrasting ‘sick roles’: one in which the sick person is treated as a child, fed and protected during illness or incapacity; the other in which the sufferer either leaves the group or is abandoned or, as with lepers in medieval Europe, ritually expelled, becoming culturally ‘dead’ before they are biologically dead. Hunter-gatherer bands were more likely to abandon their sick than to succour them.

With population rise, agriculture, and the emergence of epidemics, new medical beliefs and practices arose, reflecting growing economic, political and social complexities. Communities developed hierarchical systems, identified by wealth, power and prestige. With an emergent division of labour, medical expertise became the métier of particular individuals. Although the family remained the first line of defence against illness, it was bolstered by medicine men, diviners, witch-smellers and shamans, and in due course by herbalists, birth-attendants, bone-setters, barber-surgeons and healer-priests. When that first happened we cannot be sure. Cave paintings found in France, some 17,000 years old, contain images of men masked in animal heads, performing ritual dances; these may be the oldest surviving images of medicine-men.

Highly distinctive was the shaman. On first encountering such folk healers, westerners denounced them as impostors. In 1763 the Scottish surgeon John Bell (1691–1780) described the ‘charming sessions’ he witnessed in southern Siberia:

[the shaman] turned and distorted his body into many different postures, till, at last, he wrought himself up to such a degree of fury that he foamed at the mouth, and his eyes looked red and staring. He now started up on his legs, and fell a dancing, like one distracted, till he trod out the fire with his bare feet.

These unnatural motions were, by the vulgar, attributed to the operations of a divinity … He now performed several legerdemain tricks; such as stabbing himself with a knife, and bringing it up at his mouth, running himself through with a sword and many others too trifling to mention.

This Calvinist Scot was not going to be taken in by Asiatic savages: ‘nothing is more evident than that these shamans are a parcel of jugglers, who impose on the ignorant and credulous vulgar.’ Such a reaction is arrogantly ethnocentric: although shamans perform magical acts, including deliberate deceptions, they are neither fakes nor mad. Common in native American culture as well as Asia, the shaman combined the roles of healer, sorcerer, seer, educator and priest, and was believed to possess god-given powers to heal the sick and to ensure fertility, a good harvest or a successful hunt. His main healing techniques have been categorized as contagious magic (destruction of enemies, through such means as the use of effigies) and direct magic, involving rituals to prevent disease, fetishes, amulets (to protect against black magic), and talismans (for good luck).

In 1912 Sir Baldwin Spencer (1860–1929) and F.J. Gillen (1856–1912) described the practices of the aborigine medicine-man in Central Australia:

In ordinary cases the patient lies down, while the medicine man bends over him and sucks vigorously at the part of the body affected, spitting out every now and then pieces of wood, bone or stone, the presence of which is believed to be causing the injury and pain. This suction is one of the most characteristic features of native medical treatment, as pain in any part of the body is always attributed to the presence of some foreign body that must be removed.

Stone-sucking is a symbolic act. As the foreign body had been introduced into the body of the sick man by a magical route, it had to be removed in like manner. For the medicine-man, the foreign body in his mouth attracts the foreign body in the patient.

As such specialist healers emerged, and as labour power grew more valuable in structured agricultural and commercial societies, the appropriate ‘sick role’ shifted from abandonment to one modelled on child care. The exhausting physical labour required of farm workers encouraged medicines that would give strength; hence, together with drugs to relieve fevers, dysentery and pain, demand grew for stimulants and tonics such as tobacco, coca, opium and alcohol.

In hierarchical societies like Assyria or the Egypt of the pharaohs, with their military – political elites, illness became unequally distributed and thus the subject of moral, religious and political teachings and judgments. Its meanings needed to be explained. Social stratification meanwhile offered fresh scope for enterprising healers; demand for medicines grew; social development created new forms of healing as well as of faith, ritual and worship; sickness needed to be rationalized and theorized. In short, with settlement and literacy, conditions were ripe for the development of medicine as a belief-system and an occupation.

APPROACHES TO HEALING

Like earthquakes, floods, droughts and other natural disasters, illness colours experiences, outlooks and feelings. It produces pain, suffering and fear, threatens the individual and the community, and raises the spectre of that mystery of mysteries – death. Small wonder impassioned and contested responses to sickness have emerged: notions of blame and shame, appeasement and propitiation, and teachings about care and therapeutics. Since sickness raises profound anxieties, medicine develops alongside religion, magic and social ritual. Nor is this true only of ‘primitive’ societies; from Job to the novels of Thomas Mann, the experience of sickness, ageing and death shapes the sense of the self and the human condition at large. AIDS has reminded us (were we in danger of forgetting) of the poignancy of sickness in the heyday of life.

Different sorts of sickness beliefs took shape. Medical ethnologists commonly suggest a basic divide: natural causation theories, which view illness as a result of ordinary activities that have gone wrong – for example, the effects of climate, hunger, fatigue, accidents, wounds or parasites; and personal or supernatural causation beliefs, which regard illness as harm wreaked by a human or superhuman agency. Typically, the latter is deliberately inflicted (as by a sorcerer) through magical devices, words or rituals; but it may be unintentional, arising out of an innate capacity for evil, such as that possessed by witches. Pollution from an ‘unclean’ person – commonly a corpse or a menstruating woman – may thus produce illness. Early beliefs ascribed special prominence to social or supernatural causes; illness was thus injury, and was linked with aggression.

This book focuses mostly upon the naturalistic notions of disease developed by and since the Greeks, but mention should be made of the supernatural ideas prominent in non-literate societies and present elsewhere. Such ideas are often subdivided by scholars into three categories: mystical, in which illness is the automatic consequence of an act or experience; animistic, in which the illness-causing agent is a personal supernatural being; and magical, where a malicious human being uses secret means to make someone sick. The distribution of these beliefs varies. Africa abounds in theories of mystical retribution, in which broken taboos are to blame; ancestors are commonly blamed for sickness. Witchcraft, the evil eye and divine retribution are frequently used to explain illness in India, as they were in educated Europe up to the seventeenth century, and in peasant parts beyond that time.

Animistic or volitional illness theories take various forms. Some blame objects for illness – articles which are taboo, polluting or dangerous, like the planets within astrology. Other beliefs blame people – sorcerers or witches. Sorcerers are commonly thought to have shot some illness-causing object into the victim, thus enabling healers to ‘extract’ it via spectacular rituals. The search for a witch may involve divination or public witch-hunts, with cathartic consequences for the community and calamity for the scapegoat, who may be punished or killed. Under such conditions, illness plays a key part in a community’s collective life, liable to disrupt it and lead to persecutions, in which witchfinders and medicine men assume a key role.

There are also systems that hinge on spirits – and the recovery of lost souls. The spirits of the dead, or nature spirits like wood demons, are believed to attack the sick; or the patient’s own soul may go missing. By contrast to witchcraft, these notions of indirect causation allow for more nuanced explanations of the social troubles believed to cause illness; there need be no single scapegoat, and purification may be more general. Shamanistic healers will use their familiarity with worlds beyond to grasp through divination the invisible causes behind illness. Some groups use divining apparatus – shells, bones or entrails; a question will be put to an oracle and its answer interpreted. Other techniques draw on possession or trance to fathom the cause of sickness.