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.

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.

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.

“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: