AN INNOCENT VICTIM.

S. SEYMOUR THOMAS’ MASTERPIECE.

Second Edition—Revised and Enlarged.
ANGELS
OF THE
BATTLEFIELD.
A History of the Labors of the Catholic Sisterhoods in
the Late Civil War.
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BY GEORGE BARTON.
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... 1898 ...
THE CATHOLIC ART PUBLISHING COMPANY.
PHILADELPHIA, PA.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the
year 1897
By George Barton, Philadelphia, Pa.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington, D. C.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE.
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The object of this volume is to present in as consecutive and comprehensive form as possible the history of the Catholic Sisterhoods in the late Civil War. Many books have been written on the work of other women in this war, but, aside from fugitive newspaper paragraphs, nothing has ever been published concerning the self-sacrificing labors of these Sisterhoods. Whatever may have been the cause of this neglect or indifference, it is evident that the time has arrived to fill this important gap in the literature of the war.

“The Sisters,” to quote an army chaplain, “do not have reunions or camp-fires to keep alive the memories of the most bloody lustrum in our history, but their war stories are as heroic, and far more edifying, than many the veterans tell.”

That genuine humility so characteristic of the Sisters has made the collection of the necessary data for this work very difficult. Most of the stories embodied in the pages that follow have been gathered by personal interviews, through examinations of various archives and records, and by an extensive correspondence with Government officials, veterans of the war and the superiors of convents and communities. It is impossible to enumerate all those who have aided in the work, but the writer desires to thank especially the Sisters to whom he is indebted for the chapters relating to the Sisters of Mercy who were with the Irish Brigade in the West, and to the Sisters of St. Joseph who were at Camp Curtin, in Harrisburg, Pa.

While the author has not hesitated to avail himself of every possible source of information, it is only fair to say that the great bulk of the material that goes to make up the volume has been drawn from entirely original sources, and is presented in printed form for the first time. In order to form a basis for the work all of the obtainable literature bearing upon the civil conflict was examined in a thorough and exhaustive manner. It is no exaggeration to say that nearly one thousand volumes bearing upon the “late unpleasantness” were searched with the hope of finding some data bearing upon the saintly work of the Sisterhoods. The books of reference included the more important histories of the war; the memoirs and recollections of the leading generals of both the Union and Confederate armies; the debates in Congress, the lives of the founders of the several religious orders; the histories of the Church and of the Sisterhoods, and a score of miscellaneous works too numerous to name in a preface. The official records and correspondence of the war, issued by authority of Congress, under the supervision and at the expense of the government, consists, in itself, of more than one hundred bulky volumes.

The return from this immense crop of literature, so far as the Sisters were concerned, was ridiculously small. It did not begin to be commensurate with the amount of time, labor and patience involved in the research. A rare letter or document, and the occasional mention of a Sister in the reports to the War Department constituted the sum total. The oft-quoted hunt for the needle in the haystack furnishes the only adequate comparison of the work in this instance. The Generals and the officials who had the direction of the awful struggle were, in the main, too busily engaged in making history to pause long enough to mention the modest hands that bound up their wounds, soothed their fevered brows and performed those other acts of faith and charity that seem to belong essentially, not to the weaker but to the gentler sex.

In addition to this, the files of the secular and religious newspapers, from 1860 to 1865, were minutely examined and the results carefully collated. Magazines and other periodicals, including the illustrated weeklies of the time, were also searched. The material thus evolved while more promising than in the case of the histories and books of the war was not entirely satisfactory. The paragraphs were not only meagre and disconnected, but the dates and places were uncertain and at times unreliable. But where these newspaper stories could not be utilized, they were useful in furnishing clues upon which complete stories were afterwards built.

The general reader may not be deeply interested in these details concerning the making of the book, but they are given for the purpose of emphasizing the care and industry involved in the compilation and production of the work. Through it all there has been a conscientious effort to avoid political, sectional or religious controversy. In short, the desire has been to present a modest picture of the grand work done by the Sisters for Humanity.

Of course, there has been no intention of presenting a history, or even a sketch, of the war itself and the merest thread of its events has been introduced solely for the purpose of making the narrative of the Sisters as connected as the scattered data permitted. The aim has been constantly to present facts in an impartial manner. How far the writer has succeeded remains for the reader to judge.

The chivalrous men wearing both the Blue and the Gray, who caused American manhood and valor to be known and respected the world over, have on many occasions, and in various ways, given expression to the esteem and affection in which they hold the women who devoted their lives to the care of the sick and wounded. The ranks of the war Sisters have been gradually thinned out by death until but a handful of them remain. These survivors rest in their convent homes, tranquilly awaiting the final summons to a land where conflict is unknown. They may die, but the story of their patriotic and humane work will live as long as love for loyalty, regard for duty and admiration for self-sacrifice exist in the hearts of the American people.

G. B.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER I.
THE ORDERS THAT PARTICIPATED.

One of the effects of the war. The productive force of the nation deprived by death, disease and disability of one million men. The task of caring for the sick and wounded. Four notable orders—The Sisters of Charity, Sisters of Mercy, Sisters of St. Joseph and Sisters of the Holy Cross. Their history and the discipline, experience and self-sacrifice brought to bear upon their work during the war.

On the twelfth day of April, 1861, the first shot fired upon Fort Sumter, formally inaugurated the civil war in the United States. On the ninth of April, 1865, Grant and Lee were the principals in the historic meeting at Appomattox Court House, by which hostilities were virtually terminated. The interval between those two memorable dates presents the greatest ordeal in the history of the Republic.

As a result of these four momentous years of conflict the nation was deprived by death and disease of one million men. The total number of enlisted soldiers in the Union Army during the whole of the war amounted to 2,688,523. As many of these men were mustered in twice, and as a certain percentage deserted, it is reasonable to estimate that 1,500,000 men were actively engaged in the Northern armies.

Of this number 56,000 died on the field of battle, 35,000 expired in the hospitals from the effects of wounds received in action, and 184,000 perished by disease. It is probable that those who died of disease after their discharge from the army would swell the total to 300,000. If the effects of inferior hospital service and poor sanitary arrangements are added to the other results of war, it is safe to assume that the loss of the South was greater than that of the North. But, considering the Southern loss equal to that of the North, the aggregate is 600,000. Add to this 400,000 men crippled or permanently disabled by disease, and the total subtraction from the productive force of the nation reaches the stupendous total of 1,000,000 men. These figures seem almost incredible, but they come from what, in this particular at least, must be regarded as a trustworthy source[1].

The task of caring for such an army of dead and wounded was no light one. In the beginning of the war this feature of military life was conducted in an uncertain and spasmodic manner. As time wore on, it became evident that the war was not to consist of a few skirmishes, but was likely to be a protracted struggle between two bodies of determined men[2]. Then the necessity of a systematic sanitary and hospital service made itself apparent. As a result of the pressing needs of the hour the Sanitary Commission and the Christian Commission were organized. The meritorious nature of the work of these great charities has been made known by reports and books published since the war. The details of the good deeds of both organizations in supplying nurses and in caring for invalids generally are too well known to need repetition.

But the story of the labors of the Catholic Sisters is not so well known. To begin with, the Sisters brought to their aid in caring for the sick and wounded soldiers the experience, training and discipline of the religious bodies with which they were identified. Self-denial was a feature of their daily life, and the fact that they had taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience peculiarly fitted them for a duty that demanded personal sacrifices almost every hour of the day and night.

From the data obtainable it appears that the members of four Catholic Sisterhoods participated in the merciful work incident to the war. These included the Sisters of Charity, the Sisters of Mercy, the Sisters of St. Joseph and the Sisters of the Holy Cross[3]. The soldiers, like many people in civil life, made no distinction between the orders, and to them the dark-robed angels of the battlefields were all “Sisters of Charity.”

There are now three orders of the Sisters of Charity in the United States. The “black caps,” or Mother Seton Sisters, who have establishments in New York, Cincinnati and other places; the “white caps,” or Cornette Sisters, of Emmittsburg, Md., and the Sisters of Charity, of Nazareth, Ky. There are probably 5000 members of these three orders of Sisters of Charity in this country to-day. The Nazareth community was founded in 1812 by a few pious American ladies near Nazareth, Ky., under the good Bishop David. Mother Catherine Spalding, a relative of the late Archbishop of Baltimore, and of the present Bishop of Peoria, Ill., was the first Superioress. The members of all these three branches of the Sisters of Charity did good work during the war.

The Congregation of the Sisters of Mercy was founded by Miss Catherine McAuley, in Dublin, Ireland, September 24, 1827. Seven Sisters, who came from Carlow, Ireland, established the order in the United States, locating in Pittsburg, Pa. The Sisters of the Holy Cross have a Mother House at Notre Dame, Ind., and conduct establishments in a large number of dioceses.

The Congregation of the Sisters of St. Joseph was founded in France, in 1650. In the general ruin incident to the French Revolution, near the close of the last century, the convents of the order were destroyed. The body was subsequently reorganized, and six Sisters from the Mother House at Lyon came to St. Louis in 1836, at the request of Bishop Rosati, and founded a house at Carondelet, Mo. This became the Mother House in this country. A number of independent houses of the order have since been established, notably the one at Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

CHAPTER II.
ARCHBISHOP HUGHES AND THE SISTERS.

The problem of how to provide the necessary nurses for both the Union and Confederate Armies. Sisters not able to volunteer without the approval of their superiors. An interesting epistle from Archbishop Hughes to Archbishop Kenrick. The New York prelate appointed by President Lincoln as a peace commissioner to France. A characteristic letter from the martyred President to the great Archbishop. Quelling the draft riots in New York city.

LINCOLN.

Very early in the war the question of providing nurses for the sick and wounded soldiers of both armies became a serious problem, not only to the civil authorities, but also to the Church officials. In every great emergency questions of this kind generally solve themselves. It proved so in this instance. The first shot had hardly been fired, the first battle fought and the first improvised hospital put into service, before volunteers from all sections of the country had placed themselves at the disposal of generals of the contending armies. These offers came both from lay women and from members of the various Sisterhoods connected with the Catholic Church in the United States. The Sisters, of course, being under certain rules and discipline, were not able to volunteer until they had obtained the consent and approval of their Superiors.

In the beginning the nurses for the armies were taken from all walks of life. While they were zealous and entered upon their work with the desire of alleviating suffering, they did not have the disposition or training necessary to carry on the work with the ease and thoroughness essential to complete success. As the war progressed and battles occurred more frequently, and the number of sick and wounded became alarmingly large, the medical directors in both the Union and Confederate armies began to recognize and appreciate the real value of the Sisters.

The following letter[4], written by Archbishop Hughes, of New York, to Most Rev. Francis Patrick Kenrick, D. D., Archbishop of the See of Baltimore, shows that the subject was a live one in Church circles at that time:

To the Archbishop of Baltimore. May 9, 1861.

Most Reverend and Dear Sir:—

The Superior of the Jesuits here called upon me more than a week ago to state that their society would be prepared to furnish for spiritual necessities of the army, North and South, as many as ten chaplains, speaking all the civilized languages of Europe or America. I heard him, but did not make any reply. For myself I have sent but one chaplain with the Sixty-ninth Regiment, and to him I have already given the faculties which you had the kindness to confer upon me for such an occasion.

There is also another question growing up, and it is about nurses for the sick and wounded. Our Sisters of Mercy have volunteered after the example of their Sisters toiling in the Crimean war. I have signified to them, not harshly, that they had better mind their own affairs until their services are needed. I am now informed indirectly that the Sisters of Charity in the diocese would be willing to volunteer a force of from fifty to one hundred nurses. To this last proposition I have very strong objections. Besides, it would seem to me natural and proper that the Sisters of Charity in Emmittsburg should occupy the very honorable post of nursing the sick and wounded. But, on the other hand, Maryland is a divided community at this moment, whereas New York is understood to be all on one side. In fact, as the question now stands, Maryland is in America, for the moment, as Belgium has been the battlefield of Europe. As I mentioned several days ago, Baltimore must be destroyed or it must succumb to Northern determination.

On these several points I would like much to know what your Grace thinks and would advise.

Sincerely your devoted brother and servant in Christ.

JOHN, Archbishop of New York.

While, as the Archbishop stated in his letter, Maryland might have been a divided community, the same could not be said of the Sisters of Charity of Emmittsburg. They were united in occupying “the very honorable post of nursing the sick and wounded” on both sides of the great conflict. Soon after this the Archbishop changed some of his views regarding the Sisters, as expressed in the above letter. Both the Sisters of Charity and the Sisters of Mercy in the Diocese of New York served in the camps and the hospitals. To begin with, the Archbishop withdrew his “strong objection” to the one hundred Sisters of Charity who desired to volunteer in the early stages of the war. After that all those who were willing to undertake the humane work went into it with his blessing and best wishes.

The following letter from President Lincoln to Archbishop Hughes is of interest. It was the beginning of a warm personal friendship between two strong men—a friendship ended only by death.

Washington, D. C., October 21, 1861.

Archbishop Hughes.

Rt. Rev. Sir:—I am sure you will pardon me if, in my ignorance, I do not address you with technical correctness.

I find no law authorizing the appointment of chaplains for our hospitals, and yet the services of chaplains are more needed, perhaps, in hospitals than with the healthy soldiers in the field. With this view I have given a sort of quasi appointment (a copy of which I enclose) to each of three Protestant ministers, who have accepted and entered upon the duties.

If you perceive no objection I will thank you to give me the name or names of one or more suitable persons of the Catholic Church to whom I may with propriety tender the same service.

Many thanks for your kind and judicious letters to Governor Seward, and which he regularly allows me the pleasure and profit of perusing.

With the highest respect. Your obedient servant,

A. LINCOLN.

There are conflicting opinions regarding the propriety of the “war stand” taken by the Archbishop, but it is generally agreed that he was one of the heroic figures of war times. He had the absolute confidence of President Lincoln, and on the 21st of October, 1861, was sent abroad with Thurlow Weed on a “peace commission.” The Archbishop went to France, while Mr. Weed confined his work to England. At the same time Messrs. Mason and Slidell were in Europe on a mission in the interests of the Confederacy. The late Bishop McNierny, of Albany, then a young priest in New York City, accompanied the Archbishop to France, acting in the capacity of private secretary.

These two rival “missions” to Europe were covered with all sorts of honeyed diplomatic terms, but their real purpose was well known. Messrs. Mason and Slidell went to induce one or more of the powerful nations of the old world to throw the weight of their influence with the Southern Confederacy. The mission of the Archbishop and Mr. Weed was to prevent that result.

A letter written by Archbishop Hughes to Cardinal Barnabo, at the time of his appointment by President Lincoln, goes to show that the Archbishop accepted the mission with the very highest motives. After explaining that he had refused it once and only reconsidered his refusal at the earnest request of the President, he adds: “My mission was and is a mission of peace between France and England on the one side, and the United States on the other. The time was so brief between my visit to Washington and my departure from New York that I had no opportunity of writing to your Eminence upon the subject, or of consulting any of the other Bishops in regard to it. I made it known to the President that if I should come to Europe it would not be as a partisan of the North more than of the South; that I should represent the interests of the South as well as of the North; in short, the interests of all the United States just the same as if they had not been distracted by the present civil war. The people of the South know that I am not opposed to their interests. They have even published that in their papers, and some say that my coming to Europe is with a view to bringing about a reconciliation between the two sections of the country. But in fact no one but myself, either North or South, knows the entire object of my visit to Europe.”

Archbishop Hughes was one of the great men of his day. He was on terms of friendship with several of the Presidents who preceded Mr. Lincoln, and also enjoyed the confidence and respect of the leading statesmen of the nation. As early as 1847 he preached before Congress upon the invitation of such men as John Quincy Adams, John C. Calhoun and Thomas H. Benton. His subject was: “Christianity, the Only Source of Moral, Social and Political Regeneration.”

In July, 1863, Archbishop Hughes was instrumental in quelling the draft riots in New York City. The mob was beyond the control of the local authorities, and the Archbishop finally consented to say a few words in the interest of law and order. The venerable prelate was fast approaching his end. He was so weak at this time that he had to be conveyed to the balcony of his residence in an arm chair. He spoke briefly, and succeeded in inducing the rioters to return to their homes for the time being. It was his last public appearance, and soon after this he peacefully passed away, surrounded by friends and relatives and the ever faithful Sisters of Charity.

In the chapters that follow it is proposed to deal with the labors of the Sisters of Charity, taking up first the Cornette or Emmittsburg Sisters, then the “Sisters of Charity of Nazareth,” and finally the “black caps” or Mother Seton Sisters. The concluding chapters deal with the Sisters of Mercy, the Sisters of St. Joseph and the Sisters of the Holy Cross in the order named.

CHAPTER III.
IN AND AROUND RICHMOND.

Sisters of Charity inaugurate their labors in the Confederate Capital. St. Anne’s Military Hospital begins with three hundred patients. A zealous Sister makes her colleague prisoner in the pantry. An odor of death, and how it was caused. The Union soldier who was “shot at Manassas.” Nurses who first got “a puff and then a buff.”

LEE.

In the early part of June, 1861, Dr. Gibson, who was in charge of the Military Hospital at the Confederate capital, Richmond, Va., called upon the Sisters of Charity of Emmittsburg to come to the relief of the sick and wounded soldiers in that neighborhood. The late Rt. Rev. John McGill, the Bishop of the Diocese of Richmond, did not object to having the Sisters engage in a work of mercy, but he was opposed to any hospital or infirmary which might prove to be an obstacle to or impair the prosperity of the church hospital of St. Francis de Sales. The civil authorities did not make any impression upon the prelate, but when the Sisters themselves called at the episcopal palace and begged to be assigned to the work, the Bishop could not resist, and the coveted consent was obtained.

It was announced that the Sisters would begin their work on the following Saturday. Two physicians called at the convent, and conducted them to the institution, which afterwards became known as St. Anne’s Military Hospital. The structure was in an unfinished state, and the walls were not plastered. But it was thoroughly ventilated and free from dampness, and that meant much in a building designed for the care of the sick.

The house contained altogether about three hundred patients. Each ward held from twelve to fourteen men, and the rooms opened into one another. It was noon when the Sisters arrived, and they were shocked to find that many of the wounded men had not yet broken their fast. The first care of the newcomers was to relieve the hunger of the patients. To effect this they went to the kitchen, making the acquaintance of “Nicholas,” the cook; “Black George,” his assistant, and other occupants of this section of the house. While these employes were good men and were doing their very best, they succeeded but poorly in having an orderly kitchen, or in providing the soldiers with the sort of food adapted to their weakened condition.

One Sister among those who had volunteered to work in the hospital was detained a little later than the others. She felt remorseful at the unavoidable delay, but determined to compensate for it by unusual activity. The first thing that caught her alert eye on her arrival was a pantry with the door wide open. Burning with zeal to be useful she closed and locked the door. Suddenly there was a rapping from the inside. The zealous Sister was not superstitious, nor could she be called nervous, but these strong noises frightened her, and she became pale as the rappings continued to grow in volume and number.

“Open the door and let me out,” came in sepulchral tones from the pantry.

The key was applied and the door hastily opened, and out walked another frightened Sister, who had been imprisoned while searching for supplies.

After many little incidents of a trivial character order was restored from chaos. Some of the soldiers declared that the first meal they received from the Sisters was better than anything they had eaten since entering the army. The Sisters, that first night, got no sleep, for the wants of the sufferers were pressing.

One of the patients called a Sister to his bedside and in a low voice said: “You know the doctors think I may not live over night, therefore I have a great favor to ask that I hope you will not refuse. I have a mother.” Here tears checked his utterance. The Sister said: “I understand; you want me to write to her.” “Yes,” he said; “say that her child is dead, but do not tell her how I have suffered; that would break her heart.”

This delicate mission, like many similar ones entrusted to the Sisters, was faithfully fulfilled.

The wounded men came from the battles and skirmishes that had taken place in the vicinity of Richmond, notably Phillippi, Big Bethel, Romney, Rich Mountain, Carrick’s Ford and Manassas, Va. The last engagement, which is also known as the first battle of Bull Run, ended disastrously for the Union forces. It occurred on the 21st of July, 1861, and the Sisters silently going the rounds in their infirmary could almost hear the reverberating sound of the shot and shell.

Toward night about fifty wounded soldiers, prisoners from Manassas, were brought into the hospital, some dying and others wounded, and until better accommodations could be provided they had to be laid on the floor.

One of the Sisters was called by the doctor, who said: “Sister, get something for this poor man’s head; he has just asked for a log of wood.”

The Sister went out, but where to get a pillow was a mystery; everyone was engaged. At last a pillow case was found, and the bright idea came to the Sister: “I will stuff it with paper.” She brought it to the man, who was a down-East Yankee, thinking the invention suited the individual for whom it was destined. The poor fellow, despite his suffering, smiled as it was given him.

It was very late when the Sisters finally prepared to retire after a hard day’s work. They were not settled in their room before Sister Blanche remarked:

“I cannot sleep; there is such an odor of death about this apartment.”

Nevertheless they composed themselves as best as they could. In the morning the secret of the strong odor was revealed. A pair of human limbs amputated the week before had been carelessly thrown in the adjoining room. It was a great trial for the Sister to visit that room. She covered her nose and mouth with her handkerchief and threw open the windows. Under her directions the limbs were at once interred. One of the Sisters writing in her diary at his time says: “Yesterday a man was buried with three legs.”

On Sunday morning an addition of eleven Union officers was received to the number of wounded. They were given accommodations in the garret. In the officers’ quarters were found captains, majors, lieutenants and sergeants, all wounded. One fellow blessed with a fine voice had a guitar loaned him, and he could always be seen in a corner whiling away the dull hours. Sometimes these invalid officers were annoyed by visitors who were untiring in their questions.

“Where were you shot at?” asked one inquisitive individual, meaning in what part of the body.

“Shot at Manassas,” was the laconic reply.

As one of the Sisters was crossing the porch a tall, brawny soldier cried out: “You ladies have a sight of work to do, but I tell you what, you get high pay.”

“None at all,” was the quiet answer.

“What!” said he, starting back with surprise; “you don’t tell me you do all this work for nothing?”

“Precisely,” was the quiet response.

One of the nurses or hands about the place being sadly put out about something that went wrong exclaimed that he was “neither an angel nor a Sister of Charity,” and that he would not put up with it at all. Sister Mary Ann, in speaking of the varied dispositions of the men, said that the Sisters “first got a puff and then a buff.”

Five of the Union officers who were in the garret clubbed together after their departure and sent the Sisters a check for fifty dollars for the benefit of the orphanage in Richmond.

The Infirmary of St. Francis de Sales had been in operation by the Sisters for the sick in general when the war commenced, but after that it was utilized for the wounded soldiers. On May 16, 1861, the Sisters in this institution were appealed to by the medical authorities. Very soon the building was too much crowded for the patients. The Government then took a large house, which was transformed into a hospital. It was thought that male nurses would answer the purpose. In a few days, however, the surgeon and officers in charge went to the Sisters at the Infirmary, begging them to come to their assistance at the new hospital, as the sick were very much in need of their services. The Sisters went to this hospital on June 26, 1861.

Other hospitals in and around Richmond were built, and as rapidly as they were made ready for use the surgeons applied for Sisters to take charge of them. All of the Sisters outside of the blockade which existed at that time were at military posts, except those engaged in caring for the orphans. The schools and academies controlled by the Sisters had been closed for some time. As the Sisters were sent to many different hospitals the number that could be assigned for each one was small. The hospitals were often without the necessaries of life. For the Sisters’ table rough corn bread and strong fat bacon were luxuries; as for beverages, they could rarely tell what was given to them for tea or coffee, for at one time it was sage and at another herbs.

Soon after going to one of the new hospitals in Richmond the surgeon in charge said to one of the Sisters: “I am obliged to make known our difficulties to you that you may enable me to surmount them, for you ladies accomplish all you undertake. Until now we have been supplied with the delicacies necessary for our patients from Louisiana, but the blockade prevents this at present and I fear to enter the wards, as the poor men are still asking for former refreshments, and they cannot be quieted. We dislike to inform them of the strait we are in, though this state of affairs may be of short duration.”

The Sister hardly knew what to do, but proposed that wagons be sent among the farmhouses for the purpose of gathering in fowl, milk, butter and fruit. This was done, but in the meantime complaints had been made to headquarters that since the Sisters had come to the hospital all delicacies had been withheld from the poor sick. The surgeon and Sisters knew nothing of this complaint until a deputy Government official arrived to learn the truth of the charges. He visited the wards during meal time, after which he entered the room where the Sisters dined. Then he told the surgeon the motive of his visit. The surgeon was glad to explain to the deputy the cause of the complaints. The deputy informed the soldiers that the nurses were not in any way responsible for their sufferings, and that the fare of the Sisters was always worse than that furnished to the soldiers.

The men soon became convinced that they had been too hasty in their judgment of the Sisters, and that the stoppage of the delicacies was for unavoidable causes. They found before long that the “Angels of the Battlefield,” as they came to call the Sisters, had but one desire, and that was to add to their comfort, as much as the limited supplies would permit.

CHAPTER IV.
HARPER’S FERRY.

The adventures of three Sisters who were detailed from the mother house at Emmitsburg. Their offer to retire in the interest of the ladies of Winchester. A night’s “repose” with foreheads resting upon umbrella handles. A journey homeward by car and stage, and then across the Potomac River in a flat canoe. A Sister received at the convent as one from the grave.

GRANT.

Nearly all the Sisters that could be spared had been sent from the mother house at Emmittsburg, and were engaged in performing works of charity on the battlefields and in the various camps and hospitals. On June 7, 1861, a telegram was received from the authorities asking that a number of Sisters be detailed to serve the sick and wounded soldiers at Harper’s Ferry.

In spite of the severe strain that it entailed upon their available assignments, the Superiors made the sacrifice of sending three Sisters. These brave women left Emmittsburg on June 9 for Frederick City. Mother Ann Simeon cautioned them to act with prudence, lest they meet with trouble, as they had the Northern Army and its sentinels to pass in order to reach their destination. An orderly had been sent to escort them, but the Sisters passed their intended guide without knowing it, he going by them on the road to Emmittsburg.

An expected engagement kept villagers and farmers quietly at home. Men cautiously whispered their fears or opinions, and the sight of people bold enough to travel just then was a matter that occasioned mild surprise. For this reason the Sisters tried to huddle in the rear of the stage coach, hoping to pass unobserved. During a brief halt for the mail in one little town the driver opened the stage door and handing in a letter said in a loud voice:

“Sisters, a gentleman in Emmittsburg desires you to put this letter in a Southern post office after you have crossed the line.”

The eyes of the curious and astonished people were on them in a moment. The Sisters were not aware that the driver knew of their destination, but they remained quiet and made the best of the incident. The heat was excessive. One of the horses gave out on the way, and another had to be hastily substituted. After some delay the party arrived in Frederick City. A few sentinels stood here and there, but no one paid much attention to the new arrivals. Before they started again, however, a number of men gathered around their carriages, saying: “Why, ladies, where are you going?” Several of the men asked questions at the same time, but the Sisters stared at them blankly, and civilly answered anything except what the gossips most desired to know.

As hostilities had stopped the railway cars the pilgrims had to continue their journey in the stage-coach. Almost sick with heat they journeyed on until another horse succumbed. This meant more trouble and suspense, but it was borne with heroic patience.

The most exciting adventure was yet to come. The rocks of the Maryland Heights on one side, and the Potomac River on the left, came in view. Just as the carriage was, seemingly, proceeding smoothly on its way there came a sudden grating sound and then an abrupt stop. “We’re stuck!” ejaculated the driver, with more force than elegance. The carriage was so tightly fastened that it was feared the vehicle would have to be abandoned and the remainder of the journey made upon foot. The driver swore and stormed about, while the Sisters meekly looked on in silence, fearing to further irritate him with suggestions. Finally the carriage was extricated and the pilgrims proceeded upon their way.

About twilight the Southern pickets were seen, for the South still held a portion of Maryland. The first soldier inquired where the Sisters were going, and with what intent. He then passed them on to the next guard, and so on until they came to the last, who said: “We have just received such strict orders regarding persons crossing in or out that it is not in my power to pass you on.” The captain of the guards was sent for, however, and the Sisters were transferred over the Potomac Bridge. Great cargoes of powder had already been placed on this bridge, so that, in the event of the enemy’s approach it might be destroyed.

Harper’s Ferry is at the junction of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers, the Potomac separating Maryland and Virginia. A summit above the town, standing between the two rivers, is called Bolivar Heights. On this elevation was located the military hospital where the Sisters were to labor. A neat little Catholic church was located about midway between the valley and the town.

BOMBARDMENT OF FORT SUMTER.

The hospital was filled with the sick, and around the town lay thousands of men just arrived from the most remote Southern States. A cold wet spell had preceded the present heat, and many of the men were ill and lay in their tents until vacancies opened for them in the badly sheltered houses in the town. The men in one regiment had contracted measles on their march; this spreading among others with the exposure incidental to army life thinned their numbers before the ball and the sword had begun their quicker work.

On reaching their lodgings the Sisters found supper prepared, and after disposing of this they soon retired to rest. The stillness and darkness of the town was frightful. No sound but the Sisters’ voices or footsteps was to be heard. Not a light gleamed from the fastened windows for fear of discovery by the hidden enemy. The whole army had been sleeping or resting on their arms since their arrival, expecting an early attack.

The medical director, who had sent for the Sisters, came early in the morning and took them to the hospital. With his assistant he escorted them from room to room, introducing them and saying to the patients: “Now you will have no cause to complain of not getting nourishment, medicine and attention at the right time, for the Sisters of Charity will see to all these things.”

The town had been by turns in the possession of the North and South, and was therefore completely drained of provisions and necessary conveniences for the sick. Notwithstanding these difficulties things were beginning to look more comfortable, when a telegram was received from Winchester ordering the whole Confederate Army to repair to that town immediately. The Northern Army, it was announced, would attempt to cross the Potomac above and below Harper’s Ferry, thus surrounding the Southern Army and cutting off all supplies.

The soldiers moved at once, with the exception of those who served the sick, and those who were to collect the tents and finally destroy bridges and tracks. Provisions were cast into the river by the wholesale, in order to deprive the enemy of benefit. Then came new orders to wait a while, but the invalids had already been removed to the depot, to await the return of the cars from Winchester. Arrangements were now being made for the destruction of the bridges and tracks, and the Sisters were sent to remain with a worthy Catholic family far away from these structures. During the night one explosion after another shook the grand bridge and seemed to shake the mountains. The little Catholic church, the only one that had not been applied to military purposes, was filled and surrounded by the frightened people. The worn-out pastor was their only consoler.

The Sisters looked at the awful destruction around them, and felt encompassed with desolation. All the next day they hourly expected to be called to the cars, but no word came. They now learned that the ladies of Winchester had written to the medical director requesting him not to let the Sisters of Charity serve the sick, as they themselves would wait on them. The Sisters knew that the ladies had been enthusiastic in caring for the Confederate sick and, thinking the delay was owing to the embarrassment the doctors might experience in regard to this, one Sister, acting as spokeswoman, said to them:

“Gentlemen, we are aware of the ardor with which the Winchester ladies have labored for your poor men, and also know of their desire to serve the men alone—that is, without any aid of ours; therefore be candid enough to allow us to return to our home. If you feel any difficulty respecting the ladies of Winchester tell us. The Sisters consider it reasonable that they should wish to serve their own people, and will not be offended, but rather feel grateful for your friendly candor.”

The physicians replied that they did not care for the objections that had been made to the Sisters; that the ladies of Winchester could never do for the sick what the Sisters of Charity would do, and therefore unless the Sisters insisted on returning home the doctors would hold them to their undertaking.

The physicians begged the Sisters not to leave the town, but to await the signal for departure. Expecting all day and even until 11 P. M. to be sent for, and feeling that rest was absolutely necessary, the Sisters were preparing for bed when the kind lady of the house came into their room, saying: “My dear, poor Sisters, a wagon and your baggage are at the door for you.” They soon left their benevolent hostess, who wept to see them pursuing such hardships. It was a genuine farm wagon, with two negroes as drivers. The worthy pastor of Harper’s Ferry, who was determined not to leave the Sisters entirely to strangers, attended to their trunks and found seats for them. The heavy spray from both rivers was thick in the air. Here and there a star appeared between broken clouds, giving barely light enough to see the sentinels at their posts. One of these, advancing, asked the countersign, which the pastor gave him. The wagon, running on the high terrace edge of the Potomac River, made, with the darkness, a gloomy prospect for the Sisters.

On reaching the depot an officer met them and offered to find them a shelter until the cars would arrive. He took them across two boards that formed a temporary bridge. By the aid of his lantern they could see water on either side of them, so that they had to watch carefully and pick their steps lest they slip off the boards. At last he opened the door of a little hut, which was almost washed by the river. Here they entered and sat down, resting their foreheads on their umbrellas until between 3 and 4 o’clock, when a rumbling outside announced the arrival of the cars. The train reached Winchester five hours later. Almost the entire town was occupied by soldiers, so that accommodations at hotels were not to be had for any consideration. The zealous priest, who was still with the Sisters, took them to the church, and afterwards went in search of lodgings for them.

The church, which was of stone, and was one of the poorest old buildings in the place, was located in the suburbs. A crowd of ignorant and curious men and children followed the Sisters as they walked to the edifice. As they entered the church the bystanders crowded in and about the door. When the Sisters went by turns to the confessional the village men and boys hurried outside and peeped through the cracks at the penitents, peering into their very faces. Soon the priest went out and as he did so he shut and locked the door after him. After some time he returned, although the Sisters feared that it was just possible he had lost his mind and would not come back. They knew his hardships had been excessive, because, besides being sick and without food or sleep, he had many other inconveniences to contend with. But he returned and took them to a plain, worthy Catholic family.

The following morning being Sunday they walked to the church, and just at the gate had to halt to let a company of soldiers, on their way to Mass, enter the church. About twenty or thirty Catholics constituted the congregation usually, but on this day the soldiers and Sisters made quite a crowded assembly. After that the Sisters waited patiently for the doctors to take them to the scene of their labors. The Reverend Dr. Costello had called on them from time to time, informing the authorities that the Sisters were ready to go to work among the sick. The medical director finally asked them if they must remain in one hospital, or whether each Sister could take charge of a separate one. He was informed that their number was too small to divide and they would remain at one of the hospitals.

The heads of families in the city of Winchester remained in town, while grown-up daughters and children were sent to country seats, the mothers of these staying at their houses, receiving and serving as many sick soldiers as they could. The Sisters received much kindness from these ladies, for they knew that the common rations of the soldiers were very rough. Indeed, one of the greatest distresses of the Sisters at this time was that they had not more for the poor sick.

The Sisters began their labors in one of the largest hospitals in Winchester. They worked incessantly day and night, frequently not pausing long enough to take necessary food and nourishment for themselves. Such labor began to show on them, especially as they were only three in number. The doctors said that while more nurses were needed there would be no way of sending for more Sisters except by one of them going home and returning with the others. Affairs had reached such a crisis that only the Sisters of Charity could travel now. One of them finally started off for the mother house, going by car, then by stage, and then crossing the Potomac in a flat canoe. Then she traveled by foot as fast as possible, and after running for a mile reached the railroad car before it left the station.

The evening of next day she reached St. Joseph’s, at Emmitsburg, where she was received as if from the grave. The anxious Superiors had heard nothing from or of the Sisters except what meagre news was published of the movements of the two armies. Sister Euphemia, afterwards Mother Superior, left St. Joseph’s at once with three companions for Winchester, to relieve the Sisters there. At the same time a telegram was sent to Sister Valentine at St. Louis instructing her to go immediately and replace Sister Euphemia in Winchester, who was to proceed farther southward, for in Richmond, Va., the Sisters were almost overcome with continuous duty. The Sisters, now six in number, continued their labors in Winchester until very few remained in the hospitals. The convalescent members of the army had been leaving Winchester for some days, going towards Richmond. The Sisters themselves finally proceeded towards Richmond.

CHAPTER V.
ST. LOUIS MILITARY HOSPITAL.

The border State of Missouri the scene of some of the most dramatic events of the war. Soldiers ask the nurses if they are Free Masons. The Chaplain obtains a pardon for a prisoner of war. Archbishop Ryan and his work among the sick and wounded. The young Confederate who declined to express sorrow for his course in the war. Amusing and pathetic incidents.

In the meantime operations in the great civil conflict were beginning in the Southwest. The fact that Missouri was a border State made it the scene of some of the most dramatic events of the war. Thousands of the sick and wounded of both armies were cared for in St. Louis. It was on the 12th of August, 1861, that Major-General Fremont, commanding the Department of the West, established a military hospital in the suburbs of St. Louis.

General Fremont desired that every attention should be paid to the wounded soldiers. He visited them frequently, and perceiving that there was much neglect on the part of the attendants, applied to the Sisters of St. Philomena’s School for a sufficient number of them to take charge of the hospital. He promised the Sisters, if they would accept, to leave everything to their management. There was no delay in acceding to this request. Rev. James Francis Burlando, the Superior of the Sisters of Charity, during a visit made to St. Philomena’s School a few months previous had forseen the probability of such an occurrence and given the Sisters directions to guide them in such a case.

The Sisters had the superintendence of everything relating to the sick in the hospital. Some of the soldier attendants at first looked with wonder on the strange dress and appearance of the new nurses, asking them if they were Free Masons. The Sisters were, however, treated with the greatest respect, so much so that not an oath or disrespectful word was heard in the hospital during the three years that they were there.

The hospital was visited every other day by the ladies of the Union Aid Society, who could not help admiring the almost profound silence observed in the wards. They could not understand the influence the Sisters exercised over the patients, both sick and convalescent, who were as submissive as children. The Archbishop of St. Louis, the late Most Rev. P. R. Kenrick, D. D., was pleased when he learned that the Sisters had been asked for at the hospital. The prelate provided a chaplain, who said Mass every morning in the oratory arranged in their apartment. After the Mass the chaplain visited every ward instructing, baptizing and reconciling sinners to God. There were hundreds of baptisms during the time the Sisters were in the hospital, the greatest number of the persons thus baptized dying in the hospital. The institution was closed at the end of the war, and the Sisters returned to their former homes.

Father Burke was one of the priests who did a great deal of work in the hospital, and he bears testimony to the fact that the patients thought there were no persons like the Sisters. They would often say: “Indeed, it was not the doctor that cured us; it was the Sisters.” When returning to their regiment they would say: “Sisters, we may never see you again, but be assured you will be very gratefully remembered.” Others would say: “Sisters, I wish we could do something for you, but you do not seem to want anything; besides, it is not in the power of any poor soldier to make you anything like recompense. All that we can do for you is to fight for you, and that we will do until our last breath.”

They preferred applying to the Sisters in cases where they could do so than to the doctors, and as a result the Sisters had a difficult task in encouraging them to have confidence in the doctors. Every evening the Sisters were accustomed to visit a tent a few yards distant from the hospital, where the badly wounded cases were detained. One night a Sister found a poor man whose hand had been amputated from the wrist, suffering very much, the arm being terribly inflamed. He complained that the doctor had that morning ordered a hot poultice and that he had not received it. The Sister called the nurse and wound-dresser and inquired why the doctor’s orders had not been attended to. They told her that there were no hops in the hospital; that the steward had gone to town that morning before they knew it, and they had no other opportunity of sending to obtain any that day. The Sisters immediately sent across the yard to a bakery and got some hops and had the poultice put on. The poor man was gratified and surprised. “The Sisters,” he said, “find ways and means to relieve everyone, but others who make a profession of the work do not even know how to begin it.”

When a new doctor came to the hospital it was from the patients that he would learn to appreciate the value of the Sisters. When the patients returned to their regiments they would say to their sick companions: “If you go to St. Louis try to get to the House of Refuge Hospital; the Sisters are there and they will soon make you well.” Late one evening a Sister went to see that nothing was wanting for the sick. She found a man suffering from intense pain in his forehead and temples. He had taken cold in camp and the inflammation went to his eyes, so that he became entirely blind. The pain in his forehead was so intense that he thought he could not live until morning. The Sister asked him to let her bind up his forehead with a wide bandage.

“Oh, Sister,” he said, “it is no use. The doctor has been bathing my forehead with spirits of ether and other liquids, and nothing will do me any good. I cannot live until morning; my head is splitting open. But you may do what you like.”

She took a wide bandage which, unknown to him, was saturated in chloroform, bound up his head and left him. Early in the morning she went to ask him how he spent the night. He said: “Oh, Sister, I have rested well; from the moment you put your hands on my forehead I experienced no pain.” He never thought of attributing the relief to the chloroform, because he did not know of it, and the Sister, feeling that in this case ignorance was bliss, did not enlighten him.

The patients had the best of feeling toward the Sisters, and when the medical doctor visited the hospital he would stand in the middle of the ward and tell the patients to whom they owed their comfort, the good order, cleanliness and regularity that reigned there. He told them that all these things came through the Sisters. It is a notable fact that the respect with which they were treated in the beginning never diminished, but went on increasing while the hospital lasted.

Two of the prisoners of war, as the result of a court-martial, were to be executed, but the worthy chaplain who daily attended the prison obtained the pardon of one, while the Sisters obtained that of the other. On one occasion a soldier who was accused of desertion was sentenced to be hanged, and the Sisters attended him until all was over.

There was an elderly man confined in the prison hospital who always found great pleasure in seeing to the wants of his companions. He told the Sisters it made him happy to see them get what they most desired. Toward the close of the war he obtained his release, and afterwards sent fifty dollars to the Sisters to supply the wants of the suffering sick. His son soon after this was charged with some military offense, tried by court-martial sentenced and executed. The young man became a Catholic, and in his last moments received the consolations of the Church. His remains were given up to his family, and his father requested the clergyman who attended him before his execution to preach the funeral sermon, which the priest did in a Baptist church, where his hearers were all Baptists.

One of the priests who was untiring in his work among the soldiers in St. Louis during those heart-breaking days was Father Patrick John Ryan, now the Archbishop of the great Archdiocese of Philadelphia. Early in the war he was appointed a chaplain by the Government, but resigned his position, feeling that he could do better work among the Southern prisoners of war if he appeared among them simply as a priest. The rector of one of the Protestant Episcopal churches in St. Louis succeeded him as chaplain. Father Ryan is authority for the statement that there were probably more baptisms in this military hospital than on any of the battlefields or in any other hospital of the Civil War.

He was a witness to many pathetic and humorous incidents in the daily routine of hospital service. On one occasion he was attending a poor drummer boy who was only too surely approaching the end of his life of warfare. He spoke to him gently of the things necessary to do under such circumstances, instructed him to glance over his past life and try and feel a genuine sorrow for all of his sins and for anything he had done against his fellow-man.

The boy listened meekly for a while, but when he was told to be sorry for all his wrong-doing a new light flashed upon him. He half rose in bed and defiantly declared that if this contemplated the severing of his allegiance to the Southern Confederacy and an admission that the “Yankees” were right he would have none of it. Half-amused at the outburst, and not entirely unmoved at this flash of spirit in what the lad no doubt deemed a righteous cause, the good priest soon assured him that his mission was not of the North or the South, but of God. The young sufferer died soon after this with most edifying sentiments upon his lips.

Sister Juliana, a sister of Bishop Chatard, of Vincennes, who did good service in this and other hospitals, was the witness of many affecting death-bed scenes and many wonderful death-bed conversions. Fervent aspirations to heaven went up from the lips of men who had never prayed before. Soldiers from the backwoods who had known no religion and no God were in a few hours almost transformed. It is estimated that priests and Sisters baptized between five and six hundred persons at this one hospital.

Archbishop Ryan tells the following incident that came under his personal observation, and which John Francis Maguire, Member of Parliament from Cork, has incorporated in one of his works:[5]

“A Sister was passing through the streets of Boston with downcast eyes and noiseless steps when she was suddenly addressed in a language that made her pale cheeks flush. The insult came from a young man standing on a street corner. The Sister uttered no word of protest, but raising her eyes gave one swift, penetrating look at the brutal offender.”

Time passed on; the war intervened. The scene changed to a ward in a military hospital in Missouri. A wounded soldier, once powerful but now as helpless as an infant, was brought in and placed under the care of the Sisters of Charity. It was soon evident that the man’s hour had arrived; that he was not long for this world. The Sister urged the man to die in the friendship of God, to ask pardon for his sins, and to be sorry for whatever evil he might have done.

“I have committed many sins in my life,” he said to the Sister, “and I am sorry for them all and hope to be forgiven; but there is one thing that weighs heavy on my mind at this moment. I once insulted a Sister of Charity in the streets of Boston. Her glance of reproach has haunted me ever since. I knew nothing of the Sisters then. But now I know how good and disinterested you are and how mean I was. Oh! if that Sister were only here, weak and dying as I am, I would go down upon my knees and ask her pardon.”

The Sister turned to him with a look of tenderness and compassion, saying: “If that is all you desire to set your mind at ease, you can have it. I am the Sister you insulted and I grant you pardon freely and from my heart.”

“What! Are you the Sister I met in Boston? Oh, yes! you are—I know you now. And how could you have attended on me with greater care than on any of the other patients?—me who insulted you so.”

“It is our Lord’s way,” replied the Sister gently. “I did it for His sake, because He loved His enemies and blessed those who persecuted Him. I knew you from the moment you entered the hospital. I recognized you from the scar over your forehead, and I have prayed for you unceasingly.”

“Send for the priest!” exclaimed the dying soldier, “the religion that teaches such charity must be from God.”

And he died in the Sister’s faith, holding in his failing grasp the emblem of man’s redemption, and murmuring prayers taught him by her whose glance of mild rebuke had long filled him with remorse through every scene of revelry or of peril.

Rev. John Bannon, S. J., was one of the priests who performed efficient service as a chaplain during the war. Father Bannon is now spending the autumn of his life in performing the works of mercy and charity which go to make up the life of a good priest, at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, Ireland.

Writing of his wartime experience in a letter dated December 10, 1897, he says:

“Twice only did I come into relations with the Sisters’ hospitals. The first time was at Corinth, Miss., after my arrival with the Missouri troops from Arkansas. There I found the Sisters of Charity (bonnet blanc), from Mobile, Ala., in possession of an hospital, located in a large brick building situated on a hill overlooking a railroad crossing—for the town of Corinth was little more at that time. During the temporary illness of Father Coyle, who was chaplain of the nuns, I visited the hospital for him a few times. On one occasion a Sister indicated to me a cot in a distant corner of the ward, whereon lay a large, burly man, heavily bearded and of uncompromising aspect. He had been questioning the Sister about her religion and desired further explanations; so I was asked to go see him and give him satisfaction.

“After a few questions about his home and family, and wounds and personal comfort, I asked him about the nursing and treatment of the hospital, a question which brought him to ‘attention,’ for he sat upright in bed, looking at me sternly, and almost fiercely said:

“‘See, now Mister, if you come here to spy after the Sisters you’re in the wrong shop. There’s not a man wouldn’t rise agin ye if you said a word agin them. Don’t do it. Don’t do it, or I’ll—’ and he fell back exhausted.

“‘But, my friend,’ I said, ‘I’m a friend of theirs; I’m a priest.’

“‘A priest,’ he repeated, and then, sitting up again, he called out: ‘Sister, Sister, this man says he’s a priest; is he?’

“To which the Sister answered, ‘Yes,’ and he fell back saying, ‘All right, Mister, now I want to know if any man ever believed such things as the Sister told me.’

“I assured him that I believed them all and had come at the Sister’s request to explain them to him.

“‘All right, Mister, go ahead now.’

“So I proceeded to speak of God and the Trinity and principal mysteries. He demurred to every word I said, especially to the mystery of the Blessed Trinity, and to each new installment of doctrine would sit up in bed and call to the Sister (at the other end of the Ward), repeat to her my statement, and ask her was that true, to which when she answered ‘yes’ he would fall back on his pillow and with a sigh of resignation say: ‘All right, Mister, go ahead now, I believe it,’ and so on. He accepted my teaching only on the word of the Sister, and on his faith in the Sister I baptized him and left him happy. I had not reached the door of the ward when he called me back. ‘Say, Mister, do ye reckon I’ll git better?’

“‘Yes, I think so; at least I hope so.’

“His countenance fell visibly. But after a few seconds he looked up and said:

“‘Whisper down nearer to me,’ and so pulling my head quite close to his mouth, he whispered: ‘If I get well I’ll have to leave the Sisters. I’d rather stay and die than leave them. Good-bye. God bless ye. Pray for me,’ and so we parted.

“PEACE FOR HER.”

“Subsequently I heard Dr. Lynch, late Bishop of Charleston, narrate a very like experience.

“The only other occasion that I remember visiting a Sisters’ hospital was before the siege of Vicksburg, at Jacksonville, Miss. The hospital was located in a large hotel, downtown. As I entered the door I found the hallway occupied for its length by two rows of sick soldiers stretched on the floor, each wrapped in his old worn blanket with his small bundle for a pillow. A tall, gaunt, poor fellow had just come in and was spreading his blanket, preparing to lie down. A Sister approached and asked him for his ticket. He made no answer, but having finished his preparations lay down and then proceeded to search for the paper. When found, after a long search, he handed it to the Sister, who, glancing at it, said:

“‘My good man, this is not for us. It is for the hospital in the Capital.’

“‘That mought be,’ he answered, ‘and I reckon it is. But that don’t matter anyhow. This is my hospital, and I’ll stay here, wherever the ticket’s for. Think I’m gwine t’anywhar but the Sisters’?’

“And so he was tolerated and adopted by the Sisters, for though inconvenient to the nuns it was consoling and encouraging to them when they found their services so appreciated by their patients.

From Jacksonville I went to Port Gibson, and then to Vicksburg. There were not any Sisters at either place. After the fall of Vicksburg I went to Mobile, where I visited the Sisters’ hospital, but was not on duty there or elsewhere up to my departure for Europe by the Steamer R. E. Lee, via Wilmington, N. C., and Halifax.”

Many of the episodes of the war with which the Sisters were associated would in their intensity and uniqueness furnish the basis for stories and dramas more wonderful than anything yet written by the novelists or constructed by the playwrights. Here was frequently illustrated the poet’s contention that truth is stranger than fiction. One instance containing all of the elements that go to make up a romance comes to mind. The two principal figures in it were a sweet Sister of Charity, burning with love for her fellow creatures, and willing to lay down life itself in the cause of suffering humanity, and a brave soldier, filled with patriotism for his country, brought to the point of death by a malignant fever; nursed back to life and finally, twenty-five years after the war, giving an exhibition of gratitude as rare as it is beautiful.

Thomas Trahey was born in Detroit, Mich., in 1844, and was the only son of devoted parents. When the war began he was about 17 years of age. Flushed with the vigor and energy of youth he desired to enlist at once. He did not succeed in carrying out his wish, however, until August, 1862, when he enlisted in Company H, Sixteenth Michigan Volunteer Infantry. When he was mustered out at the close of the war it was as sergeant of his command. He was commended many times by his superiors for gallantry in action. In the battle of Fredericksburg, December 13, 1862, he was struck by the fragment of a shell and severely wounded in the left breast. He was left on the battlefield all night, but finally received attention at the hands of Dr. R. F. Weir, who was in charge of the hospital at Frederick City.

Trahey recovered from this and went to the front again with his regiment. After the battle of Gettysburg he was taken with typhoid fever, which soon assumed a malignant form. Dr. Gray, of Philadelphia, who was in charge of Barracks H, in the United States General Hospital, at Frederick City, made a careful diagnosis of the case and said that Trahey, who was weakened from the effects of his previous wounds and suffering, could not possibly recover.

It was at this juncture that Sister Louise appeared upon the scene. She inquired if careful nursing would not save the man’s life. The physician said that it was one chance in a thousand, but that if anything could prolong the soldier’s existence it was the patient and persistent care and watchfulness of a Sister of Charity.

“Then,” she exclaimed, “I will undertake the case.”

Sister Louise had been detailed from the Mother House at Emmitsburg, and, though young in years, had acquired considerable experience, which added to her marvelous devotedness to duty and self-forgetfulness had made her phenomenally successful in the hospitals and camps. She was born of French-Canadian parents in Toronto. She was a devout child, and early gave evidence of a desire to embrace the religious state. Consequently the whole of her early childhood was a preparation for the life she was to enter. At an early age she came to the United States and took the vows of Chastity, Poverty and Obedience, and became a daughter of St. Vincent.

At the time she was performing her labors at Frederick City she was only 19 years of age, and was, moreover, possessed of unusual beauty. Day and night she remained at the bedside of her patient, frequently depriving herself of food and rest in order to minister to his slightest wish. Finally he recovered, only to have a relapse, which resulted in a severe case of smallpox. This did not dismay the devoted nurse. She renewed her energies. For three weeks after he became convalescent the Sister fed him with a spoon.

Just as the patient was pronounced out of danger the Sister was ordered away to another station, where her pious attentions were given to other cases as serious and as dangerous as the ordeal she had just gone through. Sergeant Trahey returned to the front from his hospital cot, and was wounded once again at White Oak Road, Va., on March 29, 1865. He recovered and soon after, at the termination of the war, returned to his home. For several years he was unable by reason of his weakened physical condition to perform any of the ordinary duties of life.

After he had recovered he determined to seek the whereabouts of the Sister in order to thank her for the self-sacrificing care she had taken of him during the most critical period of his life. As he expressed it at the time, he was “willing to travel from Maine to California merely to get a glimpse of her holy face.”

Sergeant Trahey first wrote to the Mother House of the order, at Emmitsburg, Md., and received a reply that Sister Louise had been ordered to St. Louis soon after the war and had died there in 1867 of malignant typhoid fever, the same disease that had so nearly ended the life of the soldier. She expired at the Ninth and Madison Streets Hospital, St. Louis, and was buried in Calvary Cemetery, in that city. The grateful soldier had the grave cared for, and decorated it with religious regularity on each recurring Memorial Day. Frequently he would visit the grave in company with his wife and family, performing a pious pilgrimage at once picturesque and edifying. The desire to render the memory of Sister Louise some service took a strong hold on him at this time. He determined that the good Sister should have a better tombstone than the modest little headpiece that occupied a place over her grave. That there could possibly be any objection to such an act of devotion and gratitude never once occurred to the old soldier. He had the stone cut at a nearby marble yard, but when the matter was brought to the attention of the superintendent of the cemetery the latter sent a communication to the church authorities recommending that the request be refused, as the grave was already provided with such a headstone as marked the resting places of other members of the order. At last the veteran called on Sister Magdalena, the local Superior, and gave her a full account of the case. He recited in detail the unusual service that had been rendered him by the deceased Sister. The Superior questioned him very closely regarding the character of the stone that he desired to erect, and was particularly anxious to know its exact dimensions. She was very much impressed with his story, and expressed a desire to accede to his wishes if it could be done without ostentation or the appearance of any unnecessary show in the Sisters’ section of the cemetery. She took his request under advisement, and early in 1895 he was given permission to erect the stone.

The simple monument of a Sister’s devotion to duty and an old soldier’s gratitude is in the shape of a rustic cross beautifully engraved. On it is inscribed the following:

To Sister Regenia La Croix,
Died March, 1867, in this city.
Erected as a Tribute of Gratitude
From an Old Soldier.

T. T.

The grave is regularly decorated with choice plants and flowers, and on Memorial Day especially it attracts hundreds of visitors. The old soldier, with a show of pardonable pride, says there is nothing like it that has been erected over the grave of a Sister of Charity by any old soldier during or since the war in this country.

The name upon the cross over the grave was the name of the Sister in the world. She was known in religion by the title of Sister Louise.

Speaking of the services rendered him by Sister Louise Sergeant Trahey says:

“She was my only attendant, and no mother could have been more tender or faithful. She brought me dainties which I knew were almost priceless at the time, and books that were as rare as gold, and in a thousand ways did she add to my obligations. Naturally I became greatly attached to her, and there is nothing in reason that I could do to perpetuate her memory that I would not do. Her beautiful face and kind attentions have ever remained to me as one of the most precious memories of my existence. I have not the slightest doubt but that she saved my life. A glass of water given me from her hand seemed to infuse new life and strength into me. Whenever she approached my humble cot she brought sunshine and holiness with her. Every time I meet a Sister of Charity upon the street I am reminded of my ever-faithful nurse. I say, and I repeat with all reverence and fervency, God bless her. I believe she is now praying for me in heaven.”

This is one of the romances of the war, illustrating in a high degree the heroism of self-sacrifice and the beauty of gratitude. There are no doubt many other similar incidents on record, differing somewhat in detail, but all tending to show the love and reverence that invariably followed the noble self-sacrifices of the Sisters.

CHAPTER VI.
IN AND AROUND WASHINGTON.

Dilapidated frame buildings serve as hospitals at the National Capital. A convalescent patient who was “tired and vexed.” A whole day spent in going from store to store in a vain attempt to purchase “one of those white bonnets” for a Sister. The soldier whose life was saved by being “shot in the U. S. A.”

When the fratricidal conflict between the sections began very few persons paused to consider its extent and consequence. But as each week passed it grew in intensity and volume. In the beginning of the year 1862 at least 450,000 Union troops were in the field, and half of that number were under the command of General McClellan in and around Washington. Upon the breaking out of hostilities old Virginia had at once become the principal arena of the contending armies of the East. The Confederate capital being at Richmond and the Union seat of Government at Washington, D. C., only a short stretch of country south of the Potomac River separated the armies.

A disastrous defeat at Bull Run on the 21st of July, 1861, caused the Union Army to retreat to Washington. There were various minor engagements both before and after this date, but nothing of unusual consequence occurred until February, 1862, when General U. S. Grant, commanding the land forces, and Commodore Foote the gunboats, captured Fort Henry on the Tennessee, and Fort Donelson on the Cumberland River in Kentucky. It was on this occasion, when the commander of Fort Donelson asked for terms, that Grant gave the now historic reply: “No terms except immediate and unconditional surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works.”

Some time before this the Confederate and Union forces realized that they were insufficiently provided with trained nurses. In the early part of 1862 the Government made a formal request upon the Sisterhoods for nurses. The Sisters of Charity were requested to send a deputation to attend the sick and wounded in the temporary hospitals at Washington. These hospitals consisted of a number of rather dilapidated frame buildings and various tents which had been improvised into structures for hospital purposes.

The Sisters were promptly assigned from the mother house at Emmittsburg, Md. When they arrived at the National Capital they found the buildings and tents crowded with patients. The majority of these had been brought in from battlefields in the vicinity of Washington. The Sisters endeavored to look after the temporal needs of the men, in many instances acting in the dual capacity of doctor and nurse. There were many incidents, some of them of a humorous, most of them of a decidedly serious character.

While the nurses were rushing from one cot to another a poor man who was in a dying state cried out at the top of his voice, “I want a clergyman.”

One of the Sisters hastened to him and asked: “What clergyman do you want?”

He replied: “A white bonnet clergyman; the one you ladies have.”

“But you are not a Catholic?” said the Sister.

“I know that, but I want to see a Catholic priest.”

After a slight delay a clergyman reached his bedside. The poor patient reached his skeleton-like hand to the priest and began as follows: “In the Bible we read ‘as the Father hath sent Me, I also send you, and whose sins you shall forgive are forgiven.’ Now tell me has that order ever been countermanded in any part of the Bible?”

The priest replied with a smile: “No, my son; it is the same now as it ever was and ever shall be.”

“Well,” said the sick man, “I have never disobeyed an order when one who gave that order had authority to command. Therefore being a good soldier I wish to fulfill that order in every respect.”

As he was not in immediate danger and a man of considerable intelligence the priest told him he would come and see him again. The soldier asked for a catechism or any book that would instruct him in the white bonnet religion. Later he made a confession of his whole life and was baptized on the following Sunday morning in the chapel in the presence of the entire congregation. He said he did not wish to be baptized behind closed doors, but wished all to know that he was a Catholic. While he remained in the hospital he would go from one patient to another reading and explaining what had been explained to him. Several of the soldiers argued with him upon the subject of religion, but with the Bible in one hand and the little catechism in the other he would put them all to silence.

One dreary night a score of ambulances drove up to the hospital grounds with sixty-four wounded men. Of this number fifty-six had been shot in such a manner as to necessitate amputation of either a leg or an arm. Indeed, a few of the unfortunates were deprived of both legs.

Some died in the short while it took to remove them from the ambulance to the ward. The Sisters went from bed to bed doing all they could to minimize the sufferings of the soldiers. Two of the patients were very disrespectful to one of the Sisters, showing anger and telling them to begone. The nurse in charge quietly walked away. After a little while another Sister went to them and asked if they wished her to write to anyone for them. They did, and she wrote as they dictated, then read it to them and left. By this time they began to reflect on the kindness that had been shown them and soon appreciated the fact that the Sisters were indeed their friends.

Of the sixty-four wounded men eight died the next day. There were thirty bodies in the dead house, although it was the custom to bury two a day. For a while the patients suffered from smallpox, which added very much to the labors of the Sisters, since such patients had to be separated and quarantined from the others. Several died from the disease. One of the Sisters who waited upon them took it, but recovered. Many of the patients who seemed to dislike and fear the Sisters found they had been mistaken in the opinions they had formed of them. They often showed their confidence by wanting to place their money in the custody of the Sisters.

One day a poor fellow obtained a pass and spent the entire day in the city and returned at twilight looking sad and fatigued. A Sister of his ward asked him if he was suffering, and he replied: “No, Sister; but I am tired and vexed. I received my pass early to-day and walked through every street in Washington trying to buy one of those white bonnets for you and did not find a single one for sale.”

There are amusing stories of life in the hospitals, and on the field, and the following one is vouched for by Mather M. Alphonse Butler:

“Every Union soldier wore a belt with the initials ‘U. S. A.’—United States Army. When a wounded man was brought to the hospital notice was given to the Sister and she would at once prepare to dress the wound. One day a man was brought in on a litter, pale and unconscious, and the Sister rushed to give him attention. By degrees he became conscious, and the Sister asked him where he was wounded. He seemed bewildered at first, but gradually his mind returned. Again the Sister asked him where he was wounded. A smile spread over his face.

“It is all right, Sister,” he said; “don’t disturb yourself.”

“Oh, no,” she said, “they tell me you were shot.”

“Yes,” he answered, “I was shot, but shot in the U. S. A.”

The Sister understood at once the bullet had struck the initials on his belt, and they had saved his life.

The Sisters were the witnesses of some very pathetic incidents. The battlefield of Bull Run supplied its full share of these. One of the brave Union men who was killed in that disastrous engagement was Lieutenant Colonel Haggerty, of the Sixty-ninth New York Regiment. It appears that Haggerty had interred the remains of a child on the field and had enclosed it with an improvised railing. At the head of the little mound was a narrow bit of board, upon which was inscribed with small capitals in ink the following:

Strangers
please do not
injure this
inclosure. Here lies the remains of
Harriet Osborn,
aged 8 years.

Beneath this is written in pencil the following lines:

When the storm clouds around us gather,
And this world seems dark and drear,
Let us look beyond the darkness
Which hovers o’er our pathway here;
Look beyond this world of sorrow
To the regions of the blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling
And the weary are at rest.
—Haggerty, Co. B, 69th Reg’t.

Haggerty must have been killed soon after performing this touching act, for beneath the inscription is appended this brief mortuary record:

Haggerty was killed at Bull Run
July 21, 1861.

A correspondent of one of the Northern newspapers, writing to his journal at the time said:

“This little memorial of one of the most conspicuous men of the Union cause among the New York troops—over whose fall one of his brother officers, Thomas Francis Meagher, delivered at Jones’ Wood so heart-rending a eulogy—will be read with interest by hundreds of those who remember him, proving, as it does, that the stern, fierce, devoted soldier found time in the very moment of danger to consider the fate of others.”

At a meeting of the Board of Officers of the Sixty-ninth Regiment, held at their armory on April 3, 1862, Captain Theodore Kelly, Lieutenant T. M. Canton and Lieutenant Fahy were appointed a committee to proceed to the battlefield of Bull Run and bring back to New York the remains of their lamented brother officer, who had fallen while gallantly leading a charge of the regiment in the memorable conflict of July 21. The officers indicated performed their mission and the body was re-interred near the brave Haggerty’s home, in New York City.

A letter received by the Sisters from Huntsville, Ala., dated May 26, 1862, contains the following touching passage:

“A few days ago a prisoner in the hands of General Mitchell, named Cobb, a relative of Howell Cobb, died in the hospital at this place. A Federal officer visited the prison, as was his daily wont, and, learning the facts, asked the other prisoners if they would not like to attend the funeral. The reply was yes, but they could not hope to have such a boon accorded to them in view of their peculiar situation. The officer at once repaired to the quarters of General Mitchell, stated the case and received an order for their permission to accompany the remains of their comrade to their last resting place. He returned to the prison with the order, exacted a promise that they should not seek to escape, and put the party in charge of Father Tracey, the resident Catholic pastor at Huntsville.

“The procession wended its way to the cemetery, when the young ladies of the town strewed the coffin and the grave of the young soldier with the rarest flowers of the garden, and evinced in the most unmistakable manner their sympathy and their ardent love for the cause of the South. The scene was at once solemn, grand and affecting. There lay the earthly remains of the devoted soldier in the narrow house of clay, and there assembled hundreds of the fairest daughters of Huntsville to shed the parting tear over the corpse of the hero of their cause and garland the grave of the young rebel with the choicest products of their sunny bowers. There stood the minister of religion, chanting the office of his church for the repose of the soul of the departed, surrounded by the witching forms of angelic traitors who made the air fragrant with the odor of their treason, and comingling their anathemas of the Union with the prayers of the priest. The sermon over, the prisoners returned to their gloomy quarters, where they passed a series of resolutions thanking the officer for his kindness and General Mitchell for the courtesy he extended, and closing with the hope that the day might not be far distant when the defenders of the South and the defenders of the Union could shake hands and fight by each other’s side for a common cause.

“To-day the men and officers of the Fifteenth Kentucky followed to the same spot the remains of Bernard McGinnis, who died from a wound received at Winchester, and over whose grave the same Father Tracey performed similar services to those which he had done before for young Cobb. How beautiful it seemed to the beholder to look upon the same minister amid the tumult of war, contending passions and the fearful excerbations of the public mind, lift up his voice to the throne of the Most High and solicit the pledges of faith for the soul of the young Georgian, and the faithful Irishman, without a prejudice for one or a partiality for the other.”

CHAPTER VII.
SISTER ANTHONY AT SHILOH.

Terrible loss of life at the battle of Pittsburg Landing or Shiloh. Sister Anthony wins enduring laurels. Seven hundred wounded soldiers crowded on one boat. The deck of the vessel resembles a slaughter house. A Sister of Charity acts as assistant surgeon. Sisters refuse to abandon their patients. Sketch of the life of Sister Anthony.

SISTER ANTHONY.

The battle of Shiloh, Tenn, sometimes known as the battle of Pittsburg Landing, was one of the great combats of the war. Shiloh cost the Union army in killed, wounded and prisoners 14,000 men, while the Confederates lost 10,700 men, including General Albert Sidney Johnston, who fell in the first day’s fight. The battles were fought on the 6th and 7th of April, 1862. The morning of the 6th was clear and beautiful, with no indications of a storm; but the day’s terrific battle was followed by a night of drenching rain. The battle of the next day was also succeeded by a fearful storm, which in this case consisted of rain, hail and sleet. An eye-witness writing of this says: “And to add to the horrors of the scene, the elements of Heaven marshaled their forces—a fitting accompaniment to the tempest of human devastation and passion that was raging. A cold, drizzling rain commenced about nightfall and soon came harder and faster, then turned to pitiless, blinding hail. This storm raged with unrelenting violence for three hours. I passed long wagon trains filled with wounded and dying soldiers without even a blanket to shield them from the driving sleet and hail which fell in stones as large as partridge eggs until it lay on the ground two inches deep.”[6]

It was by the work that she did at and after this battle that Sister Anthony, a notable member of the Sisters of Charity, won enduring laurels. She left Cincinnati for Shiloh, accompanied by two other Sisters of Charity, Dr. Blackman, of Cincinnati; Mrs. Hatch and daughter, Miss McHugh, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and some charitable ladies of the Queen City. This trip was made on Captain Ross’ boat, under the care of Dr. Blackman. Sister Anthony, whose mind is unimpaired and whose memory is excellent, thus tells of her experience at Shiloh:

“At Shiloh we ministered to the men on board what were popularly known as the floating hospitals. We were often obliged to move farther up the river, being unable to bear the terrific stench from the bodies of the dead on the battlefield. This was bad enough, but what we endured on the field of battle while gathering up the wounded is simply beyond description. At one time there were 700 of the poor soldiers crowded in one boat. Many were sent to our hospital in Cincinnati. Others were so far restored to health as to return to the scene of war. Many died good, holy deaths. Although everything seemed dark and gloomy, some amusing incidents occurred. Some days after the battle of Shiloh the young surgeons went off on a kind of lark, and Dr. Blackman took me as assistant in surgical operations, and I must acknowledge I was much pleased to be able to assist in alleviating the sufferings of these noble men.

“The soldiers were remarkably kind to one another. They went around the battlefield giving what assistance they could, placing the wounded in comfortable places, administering cordials, etc., until such time as the nurses could attend to the wounded and sick. I remember one poor soldier whose nose had been shot off, who had almost bled to death and would have been missed had we not discovered him in a pen, where some kind comrade had placed him before he left the field, every other place of refuge being occupied. His removal from the pen caused great pain, loss of blood, etc. The blood ran down his shirt and coat sleeves, down his pantaloons and into his very boots. He was very patient in the boat up the river. On arriving in Cincinnati he was placed in a ward in our hospital. Shortly after his arrival in the city a gentleman came to Cincinnati and called at the Burnett House, which was then used as a military hospital, inquiring for his son. After searching everywhere else he called at St. John’s Hospital. I met this sorrowing father just as I was leaving the hospital to attend to some business. From the description he gave I concluded that the boy without the nose must be his son. I took him to the ward. When we reached the bed where the man lay the father did not know him.

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘if he is my child I shall know him by his head.’ Running his fingers through the boy’s hair he exclaimed: ‘My son! my dear boy!’

“There was one young man under the care of Sister De Sales. This Sister spoke to him of heaven, of God and of his soul. Of God he knew nothing, of heaven he never heard, and he was absolutely ignorant of a Supreme Being. He became much interested in what the Sister said and was anxious to know something more of this good God of whom the Sister spoke. This good Sister of Charity instructed him, and, no priest being near, she baptized him and soon his soul took its flight to that God whom he so late learned to know and love.

“Were I to enumerate all the good done, conversions made, souls saved, columns would not suffice. Often have I gazed at Sister De Sales, as she bent over the cots of those poor boys, ministering to their every want, in the stillness of the night. Ah! here is one to whom she gives a cool drink, here another whose amputated and aching limbs need attention, there an old man dying, into whose ears she whispers the request to repeat those beautiful words: ‘Lord, have mercy on my soul!’ I asked myself: ‘Do angels marvel at this work?’

“Day often dawned on us only to renew the work of the preceding day, without a moment’s rest. Often the decks of the vessels resembled a slaughter house, filled as they were with the dead and dying.”

The following is what an eye-witness says of Sister Anthony: “Amid this sea of blood she performed the most revolting duties for those poor soldiers. Let us follow her as she gropes her way among the wounded, dead and dying. She seemed to me like a ministering angel, and many a young soldier owes his life to her care and charity. Let us gaze at her again as she stands attentive kindness and assists Dr. Blackman while the surgeon is amputating limbs and consigning them to a watery grave, or as she picks her steps in the blood of these brave boys, administering cordial or dressing wounds.”

A Sister relates a sad story of a young man who was shot in the neck. The wound was very deep. From the effect of this and the scorching rays of the sun he suffered a burning thirst. He was too weak to move, when suddenly the rain fell down in torrents. Holding out his weak hands, he caught a few drops, which sustained life until he was found among the dead and dying on the battlefield. Cordials were given which relieved him. His looks of gratitude were reward enough. Many other soldiers who were thought to be dying eventually recovered.

After the Sisters had finished their work at Shiloh they followed the army to Corinth, where the Confederates had retreated. The river was blocked by obstacles in the stream and progress by boat was necessarily slow. Finally the impediments became so thick that the boat was stopped altogether. The vessel was crowded and the situation was a critical one. The captain finally said that it was a matter of life and death and that the Sisters would have to flee for their lives. To do this it would have been necessary to abandon their patients, who were enduring the greatest misery on the boat. This the Sisters heroically refused to do. All expressed their willingness to remain with the “wounded boys” until the end and to share their fate, whatever it might be. Such heroism melted the hearts of hardened men. The Sisters fell on their knees and called on the “Star of the Sea” to intercede for them, that the bark might be guarded from all harm. And their prayer was answered. Two brave pilots came, who steered the boat to their destination and to a place of safety.

After the war Dr. Blackman became an active member of the medical staff of the Good Samaritan Hospital in Cincinnati and ever proved a sincere friend of Sister Anthony. The Sisters unite in praising the services of Mrs. Hatch and her daughter. Miss Hatch was a most estimable lady, who bestowed upon the soldiers the greatest of charity and kindness. Many of them called her “Sister Jennie,” a rare compliment for one who was not a religious.

The groans of the soldiers on the battlefield of Shiloh still linger in the memories of many of the Sisters. Sister Anthony and her colleagues frequently picked their way through the files of the dead and wounded, and on many occasions assisted in carrying the sufferers to the boats. These floating hospitals were unique in many ways, but they will ever remain memorable as the scenes of the Sisters’ greatest triumphs, where they did so much for the cause of humanity and where so many unwarranted prejudices were removed from the minds of brave men.

Among the war Sisters none was regarded with more affection and reverence than this same Sister Anthony, who spent her last years near Cincinnati, surrounded with all the loving attentions and comforts that should go with honorable old age. Her work for humanity was spread over a long series of years, and the heroic labors she performed during the war form but an episode in a busy and useful career. But it was a brilliant episode, one that deserves to be handed down to history and that brought fadeless laurels to a modest and unpretending woman.

SISTER ANTHONY.

Sister Anthony O’Connell was born in Limerick, Ireland, of pious Catholic parents. She came with them to this country at an early age, and, in pursuance of a long-cherished idea, renounced the world and was vested with the familiar habit of the Sisters of Charity. Her novitiate and earlier years in the order were spent at Emmittsburg, Md. Finally she was placed in charge of a community at Cincinnati. According to good people in that city who carefully watched her career, she displayed unusual devotion, business talent and self-sacrifice. Through her exertions an orphan asylum was founded at Cumminsville, where large numbers of friendless and homeless children were cared for and reared to a sense of their responsibility to God and man.

When the Civil war broke out Governor David Tod issued a call for volunteer nurses. Alive to the necessities of the occasion, Sister Anthony relinquished the care of her asylum to other hands and, taking a band of Sisters with her, offered their services. Their work was in the South, most of it being in and around Nashville, Shiloh, Richmond, Ky.; New Creek and Cumberland. Colonel John S. Billings, M. D., now of the Surgeon General’s office at Washington, is one of the physicians having personal knowledge of Sister Anthony, and he speaks of her in the very highest terms. “I first knew Sister Anthony,” he said to the writer, “in 1859, when she was in charge of the old St. John’s Hospital, on Fourth street, Cincinnati, in which I was resident physician, and I have known her ever since. I can say very cordially that she was a competent hospital manager and that I have always had the greatest respect and affection for her.”[7].

Sister Anthony and her brave assistants spent many months in Nashville. The care and attention that was bestowed upon the sick and wounded soldiers of both the Union and Confederate armies did much to dispel the thoughtless prejudices that had previously existed against the Sisters. They went about like good angels, easing many a troubled spirit and showering love upon all with whom they came in contact. Sister Anthony stood out in bold relief from all the others, and one who has knowledge of those times says: “Happy was the soldier who, wounded and bleeding, had her near him to whisper words of consolation and courage. Her person was reverenced by Blue and Gray, Protestant and Catholic alike, and the love for her became so strong that the title of the ‘Florence Nightingale’ of America was conferred upon her, and soon her name became a household word in every section of the North and South.” Many of the Sisters with whom she worked fell upon the field of honor, but Sister Anthony lived and survived to enjoy a peaceful old age and the sweet thought and consolation of work well done.

The ending of the war, however, did not end her work. After the white wings of peace had been spread over the battlefields she returned to Cincinnati and made an effort to found an asylum that should be larger and greater than old St. John’s, where she had labored before the war. For a time it looked as if this noble intention was to be frustrated. Funds were not available and the usually charitable people of the city seemed to be indifferent. They only seemed, however, for just when the effort was about to be given up in despair, John C. Butler and Lewis Worthington, two of the wealthy men of the city, came forward with sufficient money to build and equip a magnificent institution. The result of this was the establishment of the Good Samaritan Hospital. Sister Anthony was placed in charge and the work she did there equaled, if it did not exceed, her war experiences. Already a model nurse, she became a model hospital manager. In the hospital she increased her great knowledge and made a science of nursing the sick. She remained in executive control of the institution until 1882, when devoted friends finally prevailed upon her to relinquish her task and live in peace and quiet the remainder of her life. She has had several successors, the one now in charge being Sister Sebastian.

Sister Anthony departed this life at 6 P. M. on Wednesday, December 8, 1897, in her room, in St. Joseph’s Maternity Hospital and Infant Asylum, conducted by the Sisters of Charity at Norwood, O. Her last days were as tranquil and peaceful as the most devoted friend could desire. The fortnight before her death was spent chiefly in prayer. On the Saturday prior to her demise she received Holy Communion in the chapel attached to the hospital. It was destined to be her last visit to the holy table she loved so much. That same day she was prostrated and compelled to take her bed. Here she remained until she calmly expired on the following Wednesday.

Sister Anthony made her home with the Sisters at Norwood during the last few years of her life. Her love for the poor unfortunates of the hospital and the helpless little foundlings in the asylum was boundless. Notwithstanding her extreme age she was very active and delighted to mingle with the inmates every morning, giving them words of comfort and consolation and in a hundred and one little ways trying to lighten their burdens. She was ever cheerful and kind, and those who knew her best cannot recall an instance where a word of impatience or complaint ever escaped her lips.

The news of her death created great sorrow among the old soldiers, with whom she was a great favorite. Many military organizations took formal action as an evidence of their regard and esteem. For instance, William H. Lytle Post, Grand Army of the Republic, passed the following resolutions of respect:

“Whereas, The venerable Sister Anthony departed this life on Wednesday afternoon, after a life of usefulness in taking care of the sick and doing boundless charity, and

“Whereas, She was one of the most active nurses during the war, doing many kind, silent acts, and

“Whereas, She will be buried from St. Peter’s Cathedral, Saturday, at 9 o’clock, be it

“Resolved, That, in order to show our gratitude and affection for her and appreciation of her services as an army nurse, we attend her funeral and invite all other posts to participate with us.”

It is the usual custom for the Sisters of Charity to be buried from the mother house, but in recognition of the great services of Sister Anthony the Archbishop ordered that the funeral be from the Cathedral. The body remained at the Foundling Asylum, where she died, until Friday, when the remains were brought to Cincinnati and laid in state at the Good Samaritan Hospital. The following morning the last services were held in the Cathedral. The scene was a memorable one. A vast multitude gathered near the church; only a very small proportion was able to gain admittance to the sacred edifice. As the cortege approached heads were bowed in grief and silent reverence. Not a wreath or flower relieved the simple severity of the pall, but a dozen men stood about the casket, its guard of honor. These were the men who on the field of battle, in the rain of bullet and shell, had watched the coming of that form, that now lay cold within the narrow house, with anxiety born of despair. The battle flags now furled and draped in their hands had been the beacon that had led her where pain and fever raged, and it was meet that the Stars and Stripes should follow to her tomb.

In the casket’s wake came the guard of honor and one hundred Sisters of Charity in their sombre habits. The forward pews had been reserved for the Sisters and orphans of the asylum, which the dead Sister had founded. The white head-dresses of the little girls and white collars of the boys were in marked contrast to the black garb of the Sisters, silhouetted against the brilliant background. Archbishop Elder, Bishop Byrne, of Nashville, a large number of priests and fifty seminarians were present.

Archbishop Elder celebrated the mass, assisted by the Rev. J. C. Albrinck. Rev. John H. Schoenelt was the deacon of the mass, and Rev. Father Van Briss sub-deacon. The deacons of honor were the Very Rev. John Murray and the Very Rev. John M. Mackay. Rev. Henry Moeller was master of ceremonies.

Bishop Byrne, of Nashville, who preached the sermon, said among other things: “We are come together to pay the last tribute to one who is worthy of such a tribute—to one whose figure was a familiar one on the streets of Cincinnati, and whom you all knew and loved. Her fame extended beyond the limits of the State and was not circumscribed by the limits of a continent, and the Church, always in sympathy with such nobility of character, has draped her altars in black. Though she is dead she lives. Every prophecy of the word conspires to express this, that she has gone to live forever. That prophecy bids us to exult for a soul gone to Christ. These are the words of the epistles, these are the sentiments expressed by the Church. * * * Christ was her inspiration, and for this reason she trod the battlefield and entered hospitals pregnant with pestilence. Her presence was more to those brave sons of America than that of an angel. Yet she was only a type of many. For the same reason she loved the waifs and castaways, the destitute, afflicted and lowly. I repeat that she was but the type of many, and every Sister of Charity does these acts. One thing more precious than all she has left us and that is her glorious example. To her own Sisters, to her own community, not to Catholics alone, her example is precious. Her fidelity and devotion should be an inspiration.”

The words of the prelate impressed his listeners, as was evidenced by their tears, and when his Grace, the Archbishop, arose there was emotion in his voice as he said:

“You have heard it said what lessons may be drawn from this sad occasion. The pleasures and pains of this world pass away, and only the things done for God last always. Only what is done for the world to come lays by as an eternal treasure. We owe a debt of gratitude to her whose life was so quiet and yet so glorious. We owe her a debt of gratitude for the example she has set us for our encouragement.”

Thereupon the blessing followed, and the mourners filed from the church, preceded by the casket, which after being placed in the hearse, began its last journey to the mother house at Delhi, followed by eight carriages containing the Sisters and the clergy. Arrived there the soulless tenement was placed in the vault of the cemetery, to find private burial without further ceremony at the hands of the good Sisters, her friends and companions.

The following beautiful description of the funeral and interment of Sister Anthony is from the Cincinnati Tribune of December 12, 1897:

“Friday afternoon the remains of Sister Anthony were brought to the Good Samaritan Hospital, where they lay in state in the chapel, visited by hundreds of sorrowing friends. A great number of girls employed in factories near the hospital visited the chapel after working hours to pay a last tribute of respect to her who was at all times their friend and confidant in times of trouble.

It was at the earnest request of the Sisters at the hospital that the remains of Sister Anthony were brought in. They wanted to have her with them once more for the last time, amid the scenes of her noblest work, to pray beside her bier and bid a last farewell to the spirit which they all emulate.

Visitors thronged the chapel far into the night and there was little rest for the Sisters, who were up at dawn and in the chapel again, where the Rev. Father Finn, of the Society of Jesus, sang requiem mass, assisted by the St. Xavier’s choir, under the direction of Mr. Boex.

When the time came for the departure to the Cathedral a number of the friends joined in singing “Lead, Kindly Light” and “Sweet Spirit Hear My Prayer” while the body was borne from the chapel.

These two beautiful hymns were the favorites of Sister Anthony, and she would have wished that they be sung at her funeral.

In the Cathedral, the temple of the religion she loved and worked and prayed for, two veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic, bearing aloft the flags of their country draped in sombre black, stood sentinel at her bier.

There was the procession of priests and companies of Sisters of Charity instead of the rank and file of soldiery; there were embroidered robes and black habits in place of the blue and gray; there were candles instead of camp fires; there was the chime of bells and the chanting of the choir instead of the call of trumpets and beat of drums; there was the organ pealing instead of the musketry roll; there was the fragrance of incense instead of the smoke of the battlefield; there was the counting of beads instead of the binding of wounds; there was the bier and the sable pall instead of the hospital stretcher; there were the whispered prayers of 2000 people on bended knees for the repose of the soul of Sister Anthony.

The morning light streamed dimly and softly through the stained glass windows, and electric lights took the place of the stars in heaven’s blue canopy, but it was the bivouac of the dead.

The ministering angel to soldiers, the comfort of widows and orphans, the friend of the poor, the sick and the unfortunate was dead, and about her, come to do her honor, were soldiers, orphans and widows; those who had been poor and sick and unfortunate, her greatest care in life.

The altars of the church were draped in black, and with high requiem mass and eulogies the priests of the church paid tribute to a noble member of their sisterhood.

Far up above the Ohio, on a beautiful plateau, with a view for miles in every direction, is the mother house of the Sisters of Charity, founded away back in the thirties by pioneers of the order from Emmittsburg, Md.

Here is the grave of Sister Anthony. She lies beside Mother Regina Mattingly and Mother Josephine Harvey, who were with her when she first came West, and with her helped to found the mother house. To-day they sleep together in the little graveyard and near the home they made for their sisterhood.

Their graves are in a little grove of birches and ever-greens and surrounded by the graves of their Sisters who have gone before.

Their graves are marked by simple stone crosses, bearing their names in the world and in religion.

When the funeral train reached the house the Sisters, headed by their chaplain, received the body and bore it to the chapel, where it lay in state for two hours. The Sisters wanted their dear friend for that long at least, for the mother house she always considered her home, and they regarded her as a mother and loved her as such, for to all she was ever the same sweet, lovely and loving friend.

The services for the dead were read by the Rt. Rev. Bishop Byrne, after which the body was borne to the grave.

With slow and solemn tread the long file of black-robed Sisters marched before. A drizzling rain had begun to fall, and in the murky atmosphere the scene took on a solemnity and grandeur impossible to picture. The Sisters chanting prayers and the priests following in their purple robes, and their heavy bass voices joining in had a beautiful effect.

As the procession neared the burying ground the ‘Miserere’ was chanted by all.

There were very few at the graveside besides those connected with the church. Thus ended the earthly career of this “Angel of the Battlefield.”

CHAPTER VIII.
PORTSMOUTH AND NORFOLK.

The contest between the Monitor and the Merrimac, and general operations of the war during the seven days’ battle near Richmond. The taking of the cities of Norfolk and Portsmouth by the Union forces. Sisters narrowly escape drowning while crossing the river in a row boat. One instance where hatred was turned to love.

In the East the Union cause had not been so successful. When the Union forces at the beginning of the war abandoned Norfolk, with its navy yard, they blew up all the Government vessels to prevent them from falling into the hands of the Confederates. One frigate, which had been sunk, was raised by the Confederates and transformed into an ironclad ram, making her one of the most formidable vessels then afloat, though now she would be considered ridiculous. This vessel, rechristened the Merrimac, aided by three gun boats, destroyed the United States frigate Cumberland, forced the surrender of the Congress and scattered the remainder of the Union fleet in Hampton Roads. That night, amid the consternation which prevailed, the new Union gun boat, called the Monitor, designed by John Ericsson, arrived in Hampton Roads and prepared to resist the Merrimac the next day. The Monitor was a turreted ironclad. The following morning, after a severe battle, the Monitor drove the Merrimac back to Gosport Navy Yard, where she was later blown up. This was one of the turning points of the war.

In the meantime General McClellan made his advance on Richmond, going by sea to Yorktown and advancing thence on Richmond. For seven days there was tremendous fighting near Richmond, the Confederates usually getting the best of it. Finally McClellan retreated to Harrison’s Landing to make a new effort. He was greatly disappointed in not getting reinforcements, and finally was ordered back with his army to Washington.

During the contest known as the “seven days’ battles” the fighting commenced about 2 o’clock A. M., and continued until 10 P. M. each day. The bombs were bursting and reddening the heavens, while General McClellan’s Reserve Corps ranged about three hundred yards from the door of the Sisters’ house. While the battle lasted the Sisters in the city hospitals were shaken by the cannonading and the heavy rolling of the ambulances in the streets as they brought in the wounded and dying men. The soldiers informed the Sisters that they had received orders from their general “to capture Sisters of Charity, if they could,” as the hospitals were in great need of them.

One night the doctors called on the Sisters to see a man whose limb must be amputated, but who would not consent to take the lulling dose without having the Sisters of Charity say he could do so. The Sisters said it was dark and the crowd was too great to think of going. The doctors left, but soon returned, declaring that the man’s life depended on their coming. Two Sisters then, escorted by the doctors, went to see the patient, who said to them: “Sisters, they wish me to take a dose that will deprive me of my senses, and I wish to make my confession first, and a priest is not here.” They put his fears at rest, and he went through the operation successfully. Sometimes the poor men were brought to them from encampments where rations were very scarce or from hospitals from which the able-bodied men had retreated and left perhaps thousands of wounded prisoners of war, who, in their distress, had fed on mule flesh and rats. These poor men, on arriving at the hospitals, looked more dead than alive.

Norfolk, being left undefended about this time, was soon occupied by General Wool, who swooped down upon it with a force from Fortress Monroe. The bombardment of the cities of Portsmouth and Norfolk gave notice to the Sisters of Charity that their services would soon be needed in that locality. They had a hospital, an asylum and a day school in Norfolk. The tolling of the bells on that May morning first announced the destruction of the city. Soon Portsmouth was in flames. Large magazines and powder exploding shook the two cities in a terrible manner. The hospital where the Sisters were in charge was crowded with the sick and wounded. They were cared for as well as possible with the limited means at hand. In a short time, however, Norfolk was evacuated, and both that city and Portsmouth taken by the Union troops. All of the Southern soldiers that could leave before the coming of the Northerners left, and the hospital was comparatively empty. The Union soldiers crowded into the city and great confusion ensued. The Marine Hospital in Portsmouth was prepared for the sick and wounded, and the Union authorities asked the Sisters to wait upon their men. These troops were in a deplorable condition. There was no time to be lost and the Sisters lost none. They were constantly administering by turns to soul and body. Indeed, as far as possible, the self-sacrificing Sisters subtracted from their own food and rest in order that the suffering men might have more of both.

In a few days several more Sisters came to aid those who were in charge. The newcomers met with many vexatious trials on the way. First they were denied transportation, and next barely escaped being lost in crossing a river in a small rowboat, the frail craft, through the carelessness of some one in charge, being heavily overloaded. They eventually reached their destination, however, and were enabled to effect much good among the men. Many affecting scenes took place in the wards. The Sisters were applying cold applications to the fevered men. One soldier, bursting out in tears, exclaimed:

“Oh, if my poor mother could only see you taking care of me she would take you to her heart.”

A man of about 23 years saw a Sister in the distance and raised his voice and cried:

“Sister, come over to my bed for awhile.”

He was in a dying state, and the Sister knelt by his bedside making suitable preparations for him in a low voice. He repeated the prayers she recited in a very loud tone. The Sister said:

“I will go away if you pray so loud.”

“Ah, Sister,” he said, “I want God to know that I am in earnest.”

The Sister showed him her crucifix, saying: “Do you know what this means?”

He took it and kissed it, reverently bowing his head. While another man was receiving instructions he suddenly cried out at the top of his voice: “Come over and hear what Sister is telling me.” She looked up and saw a wall of human beings surrounding her, attracted by the loud prayers of the poor man. In this crowd and on his knees was one of the doctors, who, being on his rounds among the patients and seeing the Sister on her knees, involuntarily knelt, and remained so until the Sister arose. The patient soon after died a most edifying death, receiving the last rites of the Church.

Another poor fellow seemed to have a deep-seated prejudice against the Sisters. He constantly refused to take his medicine, and would even go so far as to strike at the Sisters when they offered it to him. After keeping this up for some time and finding the Sisters undisturbed and gentle as ever, he said, “What are you?”

The Sister replied: “I am a Sister of Charity.”