1850: The U.S. president ate a snack—and died five days later

The President's Final Fourth of July

Zachary Taylor spent July 4, 1850, at the groundbreaking ceremony for the Washington Monument, enduring a five-hour outdoor event in brutal heat. Accounts from attendees describe Taylor consuming bowl after bowl of fresh cherries—some reports say he ate an entire basket—washed down with copious amounts of iced milk, a fashionable refreshment in pre-refrigeration America when ice was a luxury. He also nibbled raw vegetables and drank ice water throughout the afternoon. By evening, Taylor complained of severe stomach cramps. Within hours, he was bedridden with violent diarrhea, vomiting, and fever. His personal physician, Dr. Alexander Witherspoon, diagnosed cholera morbus, a catch-all 19th-century term for acute gastroenteritis, and began aggressive treatment with calomel, opium, and quinine. Taylor's condition deteriorated rapidly. On July 9th, five days after the monument ceremony, the 12th President of the United States died in the White House at age 65, having served just 16 months in office.

The Medical Mystery and Exhumation

For 140 years, historians debated whether Taylor was poisoned. His sudden death came amid fierce congressional debates over slavery's expansion into new territories—Taylor, a slaveholder himself, opposed extending the institution westward, enraging Southern extremists. Arsenic poisoning became the leading conspiracy theory, especially after author Clara Rising spent years petitioning for an exhumation. In 1991, Kentucky officials granted permission to open Taylor's tomb in Louisville. Forensic pathologist Dr. George Nichols supervised the removal of hair, fingernail, and tissue samples, which were analyzed by Oak Ridge National Laboratory using neutron activation analysis, the most sensitive method available. The results were definitive: Taylor's arsenic levels were normal for the era, well below toxic thresholds. Neutron activation could detect arsenic at parts per billion; if Taylor had been poisoned, the isotopic signature would have been unmistakable. The exhumation vindicated the original diagnosis of acute gastroenteritis, though it couldn't identify the exact pathogen responsible.

The Cherries, the Milk, and the Science

Modern gastroenterologists point to the specific combination Taylor consumed as the likely culprit. Cherries are highly acidic and contain sorbitol, a sugar alcohol that acts as a laxative in large quantities. Iced milk, especially in 1850 before pasteurization, was a bacterial minefield—raw dairy spoiled rapidly in summer heat, and the White House had no refrigeration beyond an icehouse. The temperature shock of consuming ice-cold liquid after hours in 90-degree heat would have slowed gastric motility, leaving the cherries and milk sitting in Taylor's stomach, fermenting. Add raw vegetables—likely harboring Salmonella or Shigella from manure-fertilized soil—and you have a perfect recipe for bacterial gastroenteritis. Taylor's age compounded the risk; his immune system and digestive resilience were diminished. The aggressive medical treatment he received—calomel contained mercury, opium suppressed bowel function, and quinine had no therapeutic value for gastroenteritis—likely accelerated his decline rather than curing him. Some historians now argue the treatment, not the food, dealt the fatal blow.

The Ripple Effect on American History

Taylor's death elevated Vice President Millard Fillmore to the presidency, a shift that altered the nation's course. Taylor had opposed the Compromise of 1850, a legislative package designed to ease sectional tensions over slavery by admitting California as a free state while strengthening the Fugitive Slave Act. Fillmore, by contrast, supported the compromise and signed it into law within months, delaying—but not preventing—the Civil War. Historians debate whether Taylor, a military hero with personal authority and a willingness to confront Southern secessionists, might have handled the slavery crisis differently. His death also highlighted the era's medical ignorance: cholera morbus was a diagnosis of convenience, applied to any acute intestinal distress, and treatments ranged from useless to lethal. Taylor's case became a cautionary tale in medical schools, illustrating how overtreatment could kill faster than the disease. Today, his death is studied in forensic pathology courses as a textbook example of how celebrity autopsies can resolve historical mysteries—and how something as mundane as cherries and milk can change the trajectory of a nation.