remains unchanged,” he wrote, not “in any degree modified by the fact that
recent events have happened.”
The following spring, storms in the upper Midwest sent a great surge of water down
the Mississippi toward the Gulf and New Orleans. The floodwater wiped out cities and
towns as it went. In advance of its arrival, authorities attempted to reassure New
Orleanians that the city’s defenses were strong enough to save them from a looming
catastrophe. Panic would be bad for business.
A storm hit on Easter weekend, days before the river’s predicted rise. In less than
twenty-four hours, 14.01 inches of rain fell. It was the greatest total twenty-four-hour
rainfall in more than half a century of record keeping—nearly a quarter of the rainfall
for a typical year.Only once in the eight decades that followed would daily rainfall surpass April 16,
1927, in New Orleans.
Streets again filled with water, and the city’s drainage pumping stations struggled
to keep pace. As the storm intensified around midnight, a lightning strike knocked
down a 13,000-volt high-tension power line belonging to NOPSI where it crossed the
main feeder wires for the Sewerage and Water Board’s system. The resulting spark caused
a short circuit that crippled the switching system of the drainage plant, damaged
a submarine cable distributing electricity, and burned out one of the two 6,000 kW
generators powering the city’s entire drainage and sewage systems as well as the high-lift
water pumps that provided reserves to the fire department. The wires were quickly
repaired, but the generator coils would take weeks to replace. That left a patched-up
power line and one-half of the normal power supply to dispatch the most intense rainfall
ever recorded in New Orleans.
The next morning, the mayor and city authorities set out for the site of the power-line
accident to demand that NOPSI supply additional power to the drainage system’s plant.
But the two power systems operated on different frequencies—one at 25 Hz and one at
60 Hz—and, dueto the lack of an appropriate transformer, no transfer was possible. The engine of
the mayor’s car failed in the rising water as he tried to leave. Marooned, he had
to await assistance.
Across the city, hundreds of cars were similarly trapped, and nearly all streetcar
lines had halted operations. While floodwaters gradually receded in some areas, in
others they rose again as Lake Pontchartrain overtopped levees and spilled out of
drainage canals that cut through the city.
Water flowed up to the stages of the city’s theaters, covered cemeteries, inundated
stores, and stalled fire engines racing to respond to emergencies. City dwellers called
police for help when water awakened them in their beds. Alarmed residents of one neighborhood
fired gunshots into the air to attract attention. An armed band of robbers hit a series
of abandoned homes by boat. Calls from “anxious mothers” poured into the
Times-Picayune
newspaper with “harrowing tales of suffering from lack of food and milk for children.”
The mayor sent police reserves to commandeer boats and deliver aid, but they were
overtaxed by the number of people in need of assistance. The newspaper declared “virtually
a complete failure of city authorities to provide relief,” a charge the new mayor
called “so manifestly untrue and unfair as to hardly need official notice.” He cast
the blame, as he had the previous year, on the Sewerage and Water Board, whose chief
engineer declared that the flooded streets were due “principally to an act of God.”
City leaders refused relief offered by the Red Cross and National Guard, arguing it
was unnecessary and that accepting it would give the city “a black eye before the
nation.” Impromptu ferry captains shuttled people around town in flat-bottomed pirogues.
Mothers pinned up their girls’ dresses and rolled their boys’