Chapter 7, Part 2, of Angels of the Battlefield. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Angels of the Battlefield by George Barton. Chapter 7, Sister Anthony at Shiloh, Part 2. 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. 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. The 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, unfortunate 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 on esteem. For instance, William H. Littlepost, Grand Army of the Republic, passed the following resolutions of respect. Quote, 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 nine 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 mornings 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 courtage approached, heads were bowed in grief and silent reverence. Not a breath of thawor relieved the simple severity of the pole, 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 furrowed 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 somber habits. The forward pews had been reserved for the sisters and orphans of the asylum, which the dead sister had founded. The white headdresses of the little girls and white colors 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 Reverend J. C. Albrink, Reverend John H. Schoeneld, was the deacon of the mass, and Reverend Father van Bruis sub-deacon. The deacons of honor were the very Reverend John Neri, and the very Reverend John M. McKay, Reverend Henry Miller, was master of ceremonies. Bishop Byrne, of Nashville, who preached the sermon, said among other things, quote, 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. The prophecy bids us to exalt for a soul gone to Christ. These are the words of the epistels. 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 waves 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. End quote. The words of the perlet impressed his listeners, as was evidenced by their tears, and when his grace, the archbishop, arose, there was an emotion in his voice as he said, quote. 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 adaptive gratitude to her, whose life was so quiet and yet so glorious. We owe her adaptive gratitude for the example she has set us for our encouragement, end quote. Thereupon the blessing followed, and the mourners filed from the church, preceded by the casket, which after being placed in the hearse began its lost journey to the mother house a daily, 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. Quote. 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 serving friends. A great number of girls employed in factories near the hospital visited the chapel after working hours to pay a lost tribute of respect to her, who was at all times their friend and confident 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 beer and bid a last farewell to the spirit which they all emulate. Visitors thrown the chapel far into the night and there was little rest for the sisters, who were up at dawn and into chapel again, where the Reverend Father Finn of the Society of Jesus sang Requiem Mass assisted by the St. Xavier's Choir under the direction of Mr. Borgs. When the time came for the departure to the cathedral, a number of friends joined in singing Lead Kindly Light and Sweet Spirit Hear My Prayer, while the body was born 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 somber black stood sentinel at her beer. There was the procession of priests and companies of sister 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 campfires. 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 peeling 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 beer and the sable pole instead of the hospital stretcher. There were the whispered prayers of two thousand 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 bewill of the dead.  The altars of the church were draped in black and with high requiem mass and oilogies, 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 Emmitsburg. Here is the grave of Sister Anthony.  Today they sleep together in the little graveyard and near the home they made for their sisterhood.  Their graves are marked by simple stone crosses, bearing their names in the world and in religion. When the funeral praying 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 royal-treverant Bishop Byrne, after which the body was borne to the grave. With slow and solemn tread, then long life 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 boss-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 battlefield. End of Chapter 7 Part 2 Chapter 8 of Angels of the Battlefield This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Indu Nair Angels of the Battlefield by George Barton Portsmouth and Norfolk 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 iron-clad ram, making her one of the most formidable vessels then afloat, though now she would be considered ridiculous. This vessel recristened the Merrimack, aided by three gunboats, 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 gunboat, called the Monitor, designed by John Erickson, arrived in Hampton Roads and prepared to resist the Merrimack the next day. The Monitor was a turreted iron-clad. The following morning, after a severe battle, the Monitor drove the Merrimack back to Gospelt 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 seat 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 corpse ranged about 300 yards from the door of the sister's 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 Fort Trisman Row. 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 main 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 someone in charge, being heavily overloaded. They eventually reached their destination, however, and were unable 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 twenty-three years saw a sister in the distance and raised his voice and cried. Sister, come over to my bed for a while. 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. Our sister, he said, I want God to know that I am an 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. Where is your husband? I have none, replied the sister, and I am glad I have not. Why are you glad? he asked, getting very angry. Because, she replied, If I had, I would have been employed in his affairs, consequently could not be here waiting on you. As if by magic he said in a subdued tone, that will do, and turned his face from her. The sister left him, but presently returned and offered him his medicine, which he took without a murmur. When he recovered from his long illness, he became one of the warmest friends of the sisters. As the war continued, the government also made use of the sister's hospital of St. Francis the Sales. Here, all things were under the direct charge of the sisters. The government, in this particular instance, paying them a stated sum for their services. During the time, their house was thus occupied, about 2,500 wounded soldiers were admitted, of whom but 100 died. The sisters had been at Portsmouth about six months when the hospital was closed. Several of the sisters were sent to other points, while the remainder started for Emmitsburg. The cause took them to Manassas, in the midst of an extensive encampment, where they were told they could not pass the Potomac as the enemy was firing on all who appeared. The army chaplain celebrated Mass at this point, an old trunk in a little hut serving as an altar. The sisters were obliged to go to Richmond, and it was two weeks before a flag of truth could take them into Maryland. They met the judge's advocate of the army on the boat, and he showed them every attention, saying, Your society has done the country great service, and the authorities in Washington hold your community in great esteem. Chapter 9 of Angels of the Battlefield This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Indunair. Angels of the Battlefield by George Barton. Labors in Frederick City On the 4th of June 1862, a telegram was received at the central house in Emmitsburg, asking that ten sisters be detailed for hospital service in Frederick City, Maryland. The request came from the medical authorities in charge of the hospital, and it explained the immediate and imperative need of the sisters. There were only three sisters at Liberty in the main house at the time, but the zeal of the superiors managed to secure seven others from the various Catholic schools and academies in the city of Baltimore. The ten nurses started upon their journey without any unnecessary delay, and soon reached Frederick City. When they arrived at the hospital, they were received by an orderly who showed them into their room. It was in an old stone barracks that had been occupied by General George Washington during the Revolutionary War. The room contained ten beds so closely jammed together that there was scarcely space to walk about them. An old rickety table and two or three dilipidated chairs comprised the only furniture of the room. The chief surgeon called to welcome the sisters, and expressed the hope that they would be comfortable in their military quarters. He informed them that they were to call upon the steward for whatever they needed. The medicine was plentiful, but badly administered by the nurses, who did not attach much importance to the time or manner of giving it. The sisters' food consisted of the soldier's ration. It was served to them on broken dishes with old knives and forks, red with rust. The patients often amused their nurses by saying, There is no necessity for the doctors to order us the tincture of iron three times a day.  On the 4th of July, an addition to the sick from the field of battle arrived at the hospital. The newcomers numbered about 400, and the majority were suffering from typhoid fever and dysentery. They came unexpectedly, and no preparations had been made to receive them, so that many of the men had to lie in the open yard of the hospital for nearly a whole day exposed to the scorching heat of the sun. The sisters were thus doomed to witness a most distressing scene without having it in their power to alleviate the suffering. Finally, the sister servant, who could no longer behold such a spectacle, managed to procure some wine, which, with the aid of water, she multiplied prodigiously, thereby giving all a refreshing drink. This drew from the lips of the poor sufferers many a blessing and prayer for the sisters of charity. There were continuous skirmishes in the Shenandoah Valley. From whence large numbers of wounded were frequently brought to the hospital, so that in a short time it was overcrowded, and the chief surgeon was obliged to occupy two or three public buildings in the city as hospitals. At the request of the doctors, eight additional sisters were sent from the mother house at Emmitsburg, and they were divided among the various hospitals that were occupied as temporary wards, until accommodations could be made at the general hospital to receive the worst cases. The sick and slightly wounded men were transferred to Baltimore. A young man, a Philadelphian, was brought in one day fearfully crushed, one hand and arm mangled to a jelly. Opening his eyes, he beheld a sister of charity standing near him. A look of light succeeded the heavy expression of very pain, and he exclaimed, Oh, I wish I were as good as the sisters of charity, then I would be ready to die. He begged for baptism. There was no time to lose. The sisters hastened to instruct him in what was necessary for him to believe, and then baptized him, after which he calmly expired. One of the difficulties with which the sisters had to contend was the improper manner in which the food was prepared. One day the chief surgeon asked for a sister to superintendent the kitchen, and one who was qualified for the charge was sent for that purpose. Her silence and gentleness soon quelled the turbulent spirits of the soldiers employed in her office, so that, in a short time, they became as docile as children. On the first day an improvement was noticed in the hospital. The stewards said that for the short time the sisters had been there, their presence in the barracks had made a wonderful change. He said that the men were more respectful, and were seldom heard to swear or use profane language. A sister was unexpectedly accosted one day by a convalescent patient, whom she often noticed, viewed her with a surly countenance, and would reluctantly take from her whatever she offered him. He said, Sister, you must have noticed how ugly I have acted towards you, and how unwillingly I have taken anything from you. But I could not help it, as my feelings were so embittered against you that your presence always made me worse. I have watched you closely at all times since you came to the barracks, but when you came in at midnight last night to see the patient who laid dangerously ill, I could not but notice your self-sacrificing devotion. It was then that my feelings became changed towards you. I reflected upon the motives which seemed to actuate the sisters of charity, and I could not help admiring them. I thank you, sister, for all the kindness you have shown me. I am happy to say that the sisters of charity have left impressions on my mind that will not be easily effaced. On the 19th of July, 1862, the Feast of St. Vincent de Paul, the sisters received quite a treat in the shape of an excellent dinner, sent by the director of the Jesuit novitiate and the superioress of the visitation convent in Washington. Several ladies also visited them and sent refreshments for the day. There were many Germans in the barracks, and the band of sisters who were there only spoke the English language. The superior, however, sent a German sister who could speak to these men and interpret for the other sisters. At their request, one of the clergymen from the novitiate, who spoke the German language, heard the confessions of the German Catholics. On the evening of September 5th, 1862, the sisters were suddenly alarmed by an unusual beating of the drums. They had all retired to bed except the sister's servant, who called to them to rise quickly and go to the barracks. That the Confederate army was in Maryland and would reach the camp in the morning. They were informed that all the patients who were able to walk, including the male attendants and men employed about the hospital, would have to leave the place in about an hour, and that all the United States army stores in the city must be consigned to the flames. Imagine their feelings at such news. The hour passed like a flash. The soldiers all disappeared except a few of the badly wounded, who could not be removed. The signal was given, and in a few moments the entire city was enveloped in smoke and flames. The conflagration was so great that it illuminated all the surrounding towns. The sisters spent the remaining part of the night with the sick, who were left alone in the wards. The doctors who remained at their posts carried their instruments and other articles to the sister's servant for safekeeping, knowing that whatever the sisters had in their possession was secure. The next day dawned bright and beautiful, but what a scene of desolation and ruin was presented to the view. There was no one on the hospital grounds but the steward and doctors, about four in number, and the sisters, who were going to and from the barracks, attending the helpless soldiers. It was then that these poor, helpless men exclaimed in astonishment and gratitude. Oh, sisters, did you stay to care of us? We thought you also would have gone. And then what would have become of us? About nine o'clock in the morning the confederates were discovered on the top of a hill, advancing rapidly towards the hospital. Suddenly the advanced guards appeared in front of the sisters' windows, which were under the doctor's office. One of the confederates demanded without delay the surrender of the place to the confederate army, in command of generals Jackson and Lee. The officer of the day replied, I surrender. The guards rode off, and in about fifteen minutes afterwards the whole confederate army entered the hospital grounds. It was then that the sisters witnessed a mass of human misery. Young and old men, with boys who seemed like mere children, emaciated with hunger and covered with tattered rags that gave them more the appearance of dead men than of living ones. After these skeleton-like forms had been placed in their respective barracks and tents, the sick were brought in, numbering over four hundred. The majority of these were, however, half dead from want of food and drink. They informed the sisters that they had been without anything to eat for thirteen days, with the exception of some green corn, which they were allowed to pluck on their march into Maryland. The sisters were delighted to find a field in which to exercise their charity and zeal on behalf of the suffering men, but alas a new trial awaited them. The United States surgeon called upon the sister servant and told her that the sisters could not at that time give any assistance to the confederates, as they, the sisters, were employed by the Union government to take care of their sick and wounded. But he added that the Union army was daily expected, and as soon as it would reach the city, the confederate sick would receive the same care and attention as the Union soldiers. The citizens were now at liberty to do as they pleased. They flocked in crowds to the hospital, distributing food and clothing at their own discretion. This proved fatal in many cases, as the diet furnished the sick men was contrary to what their condition required. The young scholastics of the Jesuit novitiate nearby volunteered to nurse the six soldiers, and their services were accepted by the United States surgeon who arranged accommodations for them at the barracks. The sisters were also allowed to give the scholastics meals in their factory. It was truly edifying to see the zeal of those schoolboys. Father Soorin, the confessor of the sisters, was likewise indefectible in his labors. He deeply regretted the restrictions the sisters were under, at the same time admiring the wonderful ways of God in permitting the young scholastics to gain admittance into the hospital, to fill the mission of charity of which the sisters were so unexpectedly deprived. On the fifth day of the invasion, the sister's servant obtained a passport from General Lee for two sisters to Emmitsburg. They were thus unable to apprise the superiors of their situation. These same sisters returned to Frederick on September 12th, accompanied by the sister assistant from Emmitsburg. On re-entering the city, their astonishment was great when they found that the whole southern army had disappeared. When they reached the barracks, the other sisters informed them that the Confederates had left the city the previous night, leaving only their sick who were unable to be removed. Frederick's city was again in possession of the Union forces, and the good nurses were now at liberty to exercise their duties on behalf of the sick Confederates who were prisoners at the hospital. The doctors made no distinction between them and the Union soldiers. They lay side by side so that the sisters had it in their power to give them equal attention. It was truly edifying to see the patience and harmony that prevailed among them. They would say, sisters, we are not enemies except on the battlefield. General McClellan was at this time in command of the Union army. On one occasion, he visited the barracks and was delighted with the order that reigned throughout. Before leaving, he expressed a desire to have 50 additional sisters sent to nurse the sick and wounded, but the scarcity of sisters made it impossible to comply with his request. A reinforcement of sisters was now required to go to the various places occupied by the wounded. The superiors could only send a few on account of the great demand for them throughout the different parts of the state. In Frederick City, the sisters had to divide their services between the barracks and the tents, and even then it was impossible to do justice to all. They were thus occupied for nearly six weeks without intermission except a few hours, which they would occasionally take for repose, and even that was frequently interrupted. They thought little of fatigue or bodily privation, being happy in the belief that they were not better served than the sick and wounded. During the month of September, the sisters were recalled by the superiors to the central house at Emmitsburg, and this for the time being ended their labours at Frederick City. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of Angels of the Battlefield This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Indu Nair Angels of the Battlefield by George Barton White House The many appeals for sisters to repair to the war-stricken sections of the country, both north and south, had widely separated the members of the Emmitsburg community. The venerable Mother Anne Simeon remained in executive charge at home. Father Barlando visited as well as he could the various military hospitals where the sisters were stationed. His care would not extend beyond the line of hostilities, but fortunately the sister assistant had been sent to superintend the missions in the south before the blockade. On July 14, 1862, the Surgeon General at Washington wrote for 100 sisters to be sent to a station called White House in Virginia, then in possession of the northern forces. So many were already in service that it was impossible to comply fully with this request. 60 sisters, however, started from Baltimore for that place. As all traveling was attended with much difficulty, the sisters experienced many hardships. The authorities intended to make a hospital encampment in the vicinity of White House, as many thousands of wounded had been brought there from the recent battles. No preparations had been made for accommodating the sisters, although the officers and doctors were rejoiced at their coming. General George B. McClellan, then chief in command, was some miles distant at the time, but sent orders that every possible care and attention should be offered to the sisters. Father Barlando accompanied the sisters to this place, and after receiving assurances that proper arrangements had been made for them, returned home. They had only passed a few days here, when suddenly all hands were ordered to leave with the greatest haste. The enemy was only two miles distant. Then began confusion and additional suffering. The wounded and dying men were hurriedly placed upon transport boats. These vessels were so overcrowded that they seemed more like sinking than sailing. The sisters were detailed to accompany the wounded to the several cities where they were destined, the work of transportation continuing for several weeks. The sisters shared with their patients every horror but their bodily pains. They were in the under cabin, the ceiling of which was low, and the apartment lighted by hanging lamps and candles. The men lay on beds on the floor with scarcely enough space to walk between them. The sister in charge of this lower ward was so persevering in her zealous attention that even the doctor declared he did not know how human nature could endure such duties. A few months later, this sister died from the effects of overwork, a martyr to duty. The remaining sisters not engaged with the sick returned to Baltimore, but in a few days received a summons to go to Point Lookout, situated at the southern extremity of Maryland, bounded on one side by the Chesapeake Bay and on the other by the Potomac River. On the 14th of July 1862, Father Orlando with 25 sisters left Baltimore and in 24 hours reached the hospital encampment of Point Lookout. The sisters were soon destined to have another martyr in their band. They were only at Point Lookout two weeks when one of the zealous band, who had contracted typhoid fever on the transport boat, died from that disease. She gave up her whole being as generously as she had offered her zealous labours. Father Orlando had returned to Baltimore, but a good priest who came occasionally to the encampment heard her confession and she received communion a day or two previous to her death. The priest being stationed 12 miles distant could not reach the encampment in time to administer the last sacraments, but arrived in time to perform the burial service. The kind doctors and officers made every effort to suitably honour the departed sister. The men said they deemed it a great privilege to act as the pallbearers. All of the soldiers who had died had been buried with only a sheet wrapped around them, but for the sister a white pine coffin was procured. The authorities walked in procession. The drum-copes played a dead march. There on the banks of the Potomac rested the worn-out sister of Charity. What a subject for the pen of the poet or the brush of the painter. Several cottages and tents, as well as wooden wards for the accommodation of thousands of sick and wounded, made this narrow strait a thickly inhaled place. Many of the men were in a deplorable state from the effects of their wounds and painful removals from distant battlegrounds. The priest often came on Friday and remained until Monday, constantly engaged among the soldiers, instructing, baptising, and hearing confessions. On Sunday mornings he said the first mass at the encampment and the second in the little chapeau. The first mass was set in a tent surrounded by soldiers. The captain of the guards marched his company to mass that day and at the elevation a drum was sounded and all adored profoundly. Later on the officers gave the sisters more cottages and by removing the patience they had a good-sized chapeau. With but few exceptions the doctors and officers were very kind to the sisters. Removals by death and the arrival of more wounded men sometimes caused the wards to be emptied and refilled again the same day. As soon as a boat would land a horn was blown to let the sisters know that they must go to their wards. Then they would appoint a place for each sufferer giving the best accommodations to those who were enduring the greatest anguish. Many among the new arrivals were confederate prisoners. About this time orders came from Washington that no women nurses were to remain at the point. After the sisters had begun their work a band of young ladies arrived for the purpose of nursing the sick and they were surprised to find the sisters there before them. When the sisters heard the order from Washington concerning women nurses they made preparations for leaving but the chief physician said to them remain here sisters until I hear from Washington for we cannot dispense with your services at this time. The physician telegraphed to the national capitol and received this reply. The sisters of charity are not included in our orders. They may serve all alike at the point prisoners and others but all other ladies are to leave the place. About five o'clock on the morning of the 6th of August 1864 the sisters were at meditation in their chapeau when they were startled by a noise like thunder and looking out saw the air darkened with whirling sand, lumber, bedsteads, stovepipes and even the roofs of houses. A raging tornado and watersprout, were tearing and destroying all in their way, taking in everything from the river to the bay. The little chapeau shook from roof to foundation, doors and windows were blown down, sick and wounded men were blown out on the ground, wards and cottages were carried several feet from their base. Two sisters who had not yet arisen turned to the ground. Two sisters who had not yet arisen, terrified at finding their lodgings falling to pieces, ran out and in their efforts to reach the chapeau were struck down by the flying doors and as often raised from the earth by the violent wind. The sisters were too stunned with surprise to know what to do, though truly nothing could be done, for they would only have left one part of the chapeau for another when the last part would be blown away. In one of these intermissions a sister seized hold of the tabernacle, fearing that its next place would be in the bay, but the altar was the only spot in the chapeau that the angry elements seemed to respect. Lumber and iron bedsteads were carried over the tops of the cottages. The walls were nearly all filled with patience and several of these buildings were levelled to the ground. The men who were able to move about were running in all directions for safety, many of them only half dressed. One house was seen sailing through the air and the bodies in it at the time of the storm were not discovered until some days afterward. The storm lasted about 10 or 15 minutes, but in this time heavy mattresses were carried through the air like so many feathers. It was some time before all could be repaired. The poor patients had to be cared for in some way or other, and it was not an unusual sight to see the sisters standing by the stove with their saucepans of broth in one hand and umbrellas in the other, only too happy thus to relieve the poor sufferers. The sisters going to the provost one day were informed that a deserter was to be shot the next morning and they were requested to see him. They visited the prison for the purpose of consoling the condemned, but the man showed no desire to see them and they sorrowfully returned home. Later the prisoner regretted not having seen the sisters and asked to have them sent for. The kind provost sent an orderly telling the sisters of the poor man's desire. It was now very dark and some of the authorities advised the sisters not to go until the next morning. The orderly carried this message to his superior, but was sent back again with a note from the provost saying, I will call for you on horseback and will be your pilot with the ambulance. I will guide the driver safely through the woods and will also conduct you home safely. I think circumstances require your attendance on the prisoner. This was enough for the sisters and they were soon at the prison, but found a minister of the prisoner's persuasion with him. After he had finished his interview the sisters were taken to the man who apologized for not seeing them sooner. One of the sisters asked him if he had been baptized. He said, No, never. Then she informed him of its necessity and he regretted with much further that he had not known the sooner. The sisters remained with him some hours giving him such instructions as his condition required. After baptizing him he expressed his desire to see a priest. The provost, looking at his watch, replied that he could not be there in time. It was now late and the execution must take place early in the morning. The young man resigned himself fully to his fate saying, I deserve death and freely pardon anyone who will take part in it. I know I must die by the hand of one of my company, but whoever it may be I forgive him. Then he returned to his devotions with such a lively faith that the sisters had no fear for his salvation. They bade him adieu and promised to assemble before the altar in his behalf when the hour of his trial drew near and to remain in prayer until all would be over with him. The kind provost made all arrangements for the sisters return home and said when leaving the prison, may I have such help at my death and die with such a good disposition. At the dreaded hour in the morning the sisters knelt before their humble altar, most fervently imploring the redeemer to receive the soul of the poor deserter. They continued very long after the sound of the fatal fire had told them that his destiny had been decided. The soldiers remarked afterwards that everyone on the point was present at the execution with the exception of the sisters who had retired to pray for the doomed man. Peace being declared, preparations were made for a general removal. The doctors desired the sisters to remain until all the sick and wounded had gone. After this they too left the point on the 1st of August 1865 going to their home at Emmitsburg. The sisters carried away with them a sense of duty well done. The sacrifices they made while at point lookout were never fully made known, not even to their superiors. Several sisters fell victims to death and disease.  CHAPTER X The military hospitals at Gordonsville and Lynchburg. Boonsboro and Sharpsburg selected for hospital purposes for the man wounded at Antietam, General McClellan's kindness to the sisters, a man who had met sisters during the Crimean War, the brave flag bearer. There was scarcely a time from the opening of the war until its close that some of the sisters of charity were not located at Richmond. This was a sort of unofficial southern headquarters for them, whence they were sent for duty on the various southern battlefields. The section of country in which the mother house was located was in possession of the Union Army most of the time. But the house was looked upon as sacred property by the generals of both armies and was never molested by the soldiers. Late in August 1862 Dr. Williams, the medical director of the Army of the Potomac, made a hasty summons for a detachment of sisters to wait upon the sick and wounded at Manassas, where a severe battle had just taken place. Five of the sisters immediately left Richmond for the scene of the conflict. When they arrived at Manassas they found 500 patients, including the men of both armies, awaiting them. The mortality was very great, as the wounded men had been very much neglected. The wards of the temporary hospital were in a most deplorable condition and strongly resisted all efforts of the broom to which they had long been strangers. It was finally discovered that the aid of a shovel was necessary. One small room was set aside as a dormitory for the sisters. They were also provided with a chaplain, and mass was set every day in one corner of the little room. Fresh difficulties and annoyances presented themselves later in the season. The kitchen, to which what was called the refectory was attached, was a quarter of a mile from the sisters room, and often it was found more prudent to be satisfied with two meals than to trudge through the snow and sleep for the third. These meals at the best were not very inviting, for the culinary department was under the care of Negroes who had decided aversion to cleanliness. On an average ten of the patients died every day. Most of these poor unfortunates were attended by either Father Smolders, Father Tooling, or the sisters. After spending a long while at Manassas, the sisters received orders from General Johnston to pack up quietly and prepare to leave on six hours notice, as it had been found necessary to retreat from that quarter. They had scarcely left their posts when the whole camp was one mass of flames, and the bodies of those who died that day were consumed. The next field of labor for the sisters was the military hospital at Gordonsville. There were but three sisters, and they had two hundred patients under their charge. The sick were very poorly provided for, although the mortality was not as great as at Manassas. The sisters had a small room which served for all purposes. One week they lay on the floor without beds, their habits in a shawl loaned by the doctor serving for covering. The trunk of a tree was their table, and the rusty tin cups and plates, which were used in turn by doctors, sisters, and negroes, were very far from exciting a relish for what they contained. The approach to the federal troops compelled the sisters to leave Gordonsville on Easter Sunday. They retreated in good order toward Danville. Having been obliged to stop at Richmond to some time, they did not enter on this new field of labor until much later in the year. At Danville they found four hundred sick, all of whom were much better provided for than at Manassas or Gordonsville. The sisters had a nice little house which would have been kind of a luxury had it not been the abode of enumerable rats of which they stood in no little dread. During the night the sisters' stockings were carried off, and on awakening in the morning the meek religious frequently found their fingers and toes locked in the teeth of the bold visitors. In November the medical director removed the hospital to Lynchburg, as there was no means of heating the one in Danville. The number of the sisters had increased to five, as the hospital was large and contained one thousand patients, most of whom were in a pitiable condition. When the sisters arrived they found that most of the unfortunate patients were half-starved owing to the mismanagement of the institution. As the sister passed through the wards for the first time, accompanied by the doctor, a man from the lower end cried out, Lady, Lady, for God's sake, give me a piece of bread. The doctors soon placed everyone under the control of the sisters, and with a little economy the patients were provided for, and order began to prevail. Father L. H. Gauch, S. J., as S. Ellis and Brave Priest, affected much good among the patients. During the three years that the sisters remained in Lynchburg he baptized one hundred persons. The approach of the federal troops placed the hospital in imminent danger, and it was decided to remove the sick and the hospital's stores to Richmond. The Surgeon General of the Confederate Army begged that the sisters would take charge of the Stuart Hospital in that city, which they did on the 13th of February 1865. Father Gauch accompanied them and continued his mission of zeal and charity. The sisters were then ten in number, and as usual found plenty to do to place the sick in a comfortable situation. They had just accomplished this when the city was evacuated, and on the 13th of April they left Richmond for the Mother House at Emmitsburg. A terrible engagement took place near the Antietam River in Maryland, not far from the Potomac, on the 17th of September 1862. Not only were thousands on both sides killed, but as many more were left wounded on the battlefield, with the farmhouses and barns their only prospective shelter. As the fighting had been from twelve to fifteen miles in space, the towns of Boonesboro and Sharpsburg were selected for hospital purposes. The general in charge of the Maryland Division requested the people to aid the fallen prisoners, as the government provided for the northern soldiers, and would have cared for all if it had enough for that purpose. The Superior of the Sisters of Charity, with the people of Emmitsburg, collected a quantity of clothing, provisions, remedies, delicacies, and money for these poor men. The overseer of the community drove in a carriage to the place with Father Smith, C. M., and two of the sisters. Boonesboro is about thirty miles from Emmitsburg, and the wagon containing the supplies reached the town by twilight. Two officers of the northern army saw the cornets by the aid of the lighted lamps, and, pointing to the carriage, one said to the other, Ah, there come the Sisters of Charity, now the poor men will be equally cared for. The sisters were kindly received at the house of a worthy physician, whose only daughter had previously been their pupil. There were in the town four hospitals. The morning after their arrival they set out for the battlefield, having Miss Jeanette, their kind hostess, as a pilot. They passed houses and barns occupied as hospitals, fences strewn with bloody clothing, and further on came to the wounded of both armies. The poor men were only separated from the ground by some straw for beds, with here and there a blanket stretched above them by sticks driven into the earth at their head, and feet to protect them from the burning sun. The sisters distributed their little stores among the men, although their wretched conditions seemed to destroy all relish for food or drinks. Bullets could be gathered from the small spaces that separated the men. They were consoled as much as possible, but the sisters scarcely knew where to begin, what to do. If they stopped at one place, a messenger would come to hastily call them elsewhere. In a wagon shed lay a group of men, one of whom was mortally wounded.  The poor fellow seemed to gain new strength while the sisters were near him. They were about to move away when the officer recalled them, saying, I fear the man is dying rapidly. Come to him. He has been so valiant that I wish to let his wife know that the sisters of charity were with him in his last moments. Father Smith was summoned and hastily prepared the man for death. The thought of having the sisters near him seemed to fill the poor man with joy, and gave him the confidence and courage to die with a smile upon his lips. Two wounded Protestant ministers lay among the wounded soldiers, and with one of these Father Smith spoke for a long time while preparing the man for his end. The steward, who seemed delighted to see the sisters, informed them that he had met members of their order during the Crimean War. A northern steward and a southern surgeon became involved in a personal dispute, which ended by one challenging the other to meet him in mortal combat, in a retired spot near the battlefield. Both withdrew towards an old shed, at the same time talking in a loud voice, threatening each other in angry tones. No one interfered, and the duel would have taken place had not one of the sisters followed them. She spoke to both of them firmly and reproachfully, taking their pistols from them, and the affair ended by their separating like docile children, each retiring to his post. Nightfall drove the sisters to their lodgings in the town, but they returned early in the morning. The medical director met the sisters, saying, You dine with me today," and added, If you will remain, I shall make arrangements for your accommodations. But he was ordered elsewhere a few hours later, and the sisters saw no more of him. The sisters were requested by one of the officers to attend the funeral of the brave flag bearer. It was about dusk, and eight or ten persons followed the body to the grave, besides Reverend Father Smith and the sisters. Presently they saw about two hundred soldiers on horseback, galloping towards them. A few of the horsemen approached the group of mourners, and taking off their caps and bowing, one of them said, I am General McClellan, and I am happy and proud to see the sisters of charity with these poor men. How many are there? Two was the reply. We came here to bring relief to the suffering, and we returned in a day or so. Oh, he replied, Why can we not have more here? I would like to see fifty sisters ministering to the poor sufferers. Whom shall I address for this purpose? Father Smith gave him the address of the superior Emmitsburg. Then he asked, Do you know how the brave standard bearer is doing? He was informed that the flag bearer was just about to be buried, whereupon he joined the procession and remained until after the internment. General McClellan at this time was in the full flush of a vigorous manhood, with the added prestige of a West Point education. His command was considered the finest body of men in either the Union or the Confederate army. Just prior to the Battle of Antietam, General McClellan had ordered a review of his troops before the President and the members of his cabinet. It was a magnificent sight to see seventy thousand well-drilled and well-dressed soldiers keeping step to the tune of martial music. What a difference between then and now. The finest blood in the nation lay spilled upon the field of Antietam. The dread hand of death had broken up and demoralized the army of the Potomac. General McClellan was the idol of his men and was affectionately styled Little Mac. Upon his staff were two volunteers from France, the Camp d'Eperi and the Duke des Chartres. They were grandsons of King Louis Philippe, were commissioned in the Union army, and served without pay as aides to camp to General McClellan. The Camp d'Eperi has written what is considered to be the best and most impartial history of the Civil War extent. Both of these distinguished volunteers were with General McClellan at the time of his conversation with the sisters. About this time the work of removing the wounded soldiers to Frederick City and Hagerstown began. During the time the sisters remained on the battlefield, they went from farm to farm trying to find those who were in most danger. The sisters were in constant danger from bombshells which had not exploded and which only required a slight jar to burst. The ground was covered with these and it was hard to distinguish them while the carriage wheels were rolling over straw and dry leaves. The farms in the vicinity were laid waste. Unthressed wheat was used for roofing of tents or pillows for the men. A few fences that had been spared by the cannonballs were used for fuel. The quiet farmhouses contained none of their former inhabitants. Stock in the shape of cattle and fowl seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. Even the dogs were either killed or had fled from the appalling scene. It was very remarkable also that on none of the battlefields during the war were there any carrion birds, not even a crow, though piles of dead horses lay here and there. Some of these animals were half burned from the efforts made to consume them by lighting fence rails over them, but this seemed rather to add to the foulness of the atmosphere than help to purify it. Long ridges of earth with sticks here and there told so many of the northern army lie there or so many of the southern army lie there. General McClellan's army was encamped in the neighborhood with arms stacked, shining in the sun, like spears of silver. A northern soldier was rebuking a sympathizing lady for her partiality towards the fallen Southerners and said, How I admire the Sisters of Charity in this matter. When I was in Portsmouth, Virginia, they were called over from Norfolk to serve their own men, the Southerners, in their hospitals and labored in untiring charity, when, a few weeks later, our men took the place and the same hospital was filled with the northern soldiers. These good Sisters were called on again, when they resumed their kind attention the same as if there was no sectional change in the men. This, he continued, was true Christian charity, and I would not fear for any human misery when the Sisters have control. This, young lady, is what all you young ladies ought to do. The following day, Father Smith celebrated two masses in the parlor of the house at which he was stopping. The Sisters left this place on the 8th of October, having spent six days among the wounded soldiers, who had nearly all been removed at this time from the neighborhood. End of Chapter 11. Chapter 12 of Angels of the Battlefield. This is a labor box recording. All labor box recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit laborbox.org Angels of the Battlefield by George Barton, New Orleans. On the 25th of April, 1862, a fleet under the famous Admiral Farragut, together with a land force under General Benjamin F. Butler, captured the city of New Orleans, Butler assumed charge of the commercial metropolis of the Southwest, as it was then called. While the gunboats proceeded up the Mississippi River, subjugating other cities and towns along its banks, one of these was Donaldsonville. In shelling this place, Admiral Farragut injured some of the property under the charge of the Sisters of Charity. The Superior entered a complaint with General Butler, and in return received the following chivalrous letter. Headquarters, Department of the Gulf, New Orleans, Louisiana, September 2, 1862, Santa Maria Clara, Superior and Sister of Charity. Madam, I had no information until the reception of your note that so sad a result to the Sisters of your community had happened from the bombardment of Donaldsonville. I am very, very sorry that Rear Admiral Farragut was unaware that he was injuring your establishment by his shells. Any injury must have been entirely accidental. The destruction of that town became a necessity. The inhabitants harbored a gang of cowardly guerrillas who committed every atrocity. Amongst others, that affiring upon an unarmed boat crowded with women and children going up the coast, returning to their homes, many of them having been at school in New Orleans, it is impossible to allow such acts, and I am only sorry that the righteous punishment meted out to them in this instance, as indeed, in all others, fell quite as heavily upon the innocent and unoffending as upon the guilty. No one can appreciate more fully than myself, the holy, self-sacrificing labors of the Sisters of Charity. To them old soldiers are daily indebted for the kindest offices. Sisters to all mankind, they know no nation, no kindred, neither war nor peace. Their all-pervading charity is like the boundless love of him who died for all, whose servants they are and whose pure teachings their love illustrates. I repeat my grief that any harm should have befall on your society of sisters and will cheerfully repair it so far as I may. In the manner you suggest by filling the order you have sent to the city for provisions and medicines, your sisters in the city will also further testify to you that my officers and soldiers have never failed to do to them all in our power to aid them in their usefulness and to lighten the burden of their labors with sentiments of the highest respect. Believe me, your friend, Benjamin F. Butler. Some time after this general Blanchard, who was in command of the military in Monroe, Louisiana, made a request for sisters to care for the sick and wounded under his charge, a deputation of sisters was at once sent from St. Mary's Asylum in Natchez. The sisters were obliged to leave in the night, in consequence of a dispatch announcing the approach of the Federal Gunboat Essex, which might have prevented their departure had they remained until the next day. Hence, they were compelled to cross the Mississippi River shortly before the midnight hour. The Good Bishop of Natchez, now most Reverend W. H. Elder, Archbishop of Cincinnati, alarmed for their safety, determined to accompany them to the post to which they were destined. And he did so. The pastor of the Church at Monroe was also one of the party. The sisters and their friends crossed the river in a skiff and, reaching the other side, found an ambulance awaiting them. They traveled the remainder of that night and the following two days over a very rough and dangerous road. General Blanchard had a matron and nurses employed in the hospital. He dismissed these and arranged with the sisters to take charge the day after their arrival. Sister E. had in her ward a convalescent patient who, deeming himself of more consequence than the others, was somewhat peaked at her for not showing him special attention. The sister kept him in his place and treated him precisely as she did the others. One day she went as usual to administer the medicines. And as she was passing the ward in which he was located, she heard him utter most terrible oaths. She passed on quietly, but on her return showed her displeasure at his disorderly conduct. He made every apology for his misbehavior. The sister proceeded on her way, having a bottle in each hand. At a very short distance from where the man was standing she stopped to say a few words to another patient. She happened to look back and notice the convalescent man, put his hand in his coat pocket, and at the same instant the crack of a pistol shot was heard. The ball passed through the front of the sister's cornet. Within an inch or two of her forehead, the poor man with whom the sister had been talking, thought he was wounded again, jumped up and clapped his hands on his old wound, as if to assure himself of its escape from harm. The sister, pale, but with perfect presence of mind, still held her bottles and made her way through the cloud of smoke and the crowd that had gathered at the report of the pistol. The man was arrested and would have been dealt with in a summary manner, but at the request of the sister he was released. He claimed that it was an accident. It was afterwards discovered that he was a gambler and had loaded the pistol to shoot an enrollment officer in town. In the meantime things were reaching a crisis in the city of Natchez. One morning, the sound of a shell bursting over the town filled the people with consternation. The scene that followed is beyond description. Women and children rushed through the streets screaming with terror. The asylum was thronged by persons of every description who begged to be admitted within its walls. One of the sisters speaking of this says, I can never forget the anguish I felt at the sight of mothers with infants in their arms, begging us to preserve the lives of their little ones without a thought about their own safety. At the sound of the first shell our good bishop hastened to the asylum to assist us in placing the children out of danger of the shells. The bishop was surrounded as soon as he appeared and nothing could be heard but cries of, Oh, Father, hear my confession, and bishop, baptize me, do not let us be killed without baptism. The bishop kindly went into the confessional, but soon perceived that he would be detained there too long. Therefore he requested the sisters to assemble all in the chapel, and he would give a general absolution, as the danger was so imminent. Immediately their cries and sobs were suppressed. The bishop, after a few touching words, bade us remember that no shell could harm the least one among us without the divine permission. He then gave a general absolution to all present. Shells passed over the building in rapid succession while the sisters were kneeling in the chapel. Some of the bombs fell in the adjoining yard. Yet not one of those in the asylum was injured. Within the silence of death reigned. No sound was heard but the fervent aspirations of the bishop and the suppressed sobs of the smaller children. Giving the final blessing, the bishop said, Tell the sisters to take the children away as soon as possible. When all were in readiness, each of the orphans, with a bundle of clothing, passed out of the asylum with the thought that they were never again to enter its loved walls. Five of the sisters accompanied them, and the others, with two sick children, followed in a marked wagon, the only vehicle that could be procured. While the sisters were placing the small children in the wagon, a shell passed over the horse's head, so near as to frighten and cause the animal to jump. But it fell some distance away without exploding. The poor children had to go five miles without resting, so great was the danger. After remaining some weeks in the country, the authorities compromised, and the gunboat left the city without doing any further damages. The bishop announced the forty hours devotion in thanksgiving. Good work was done in the charity hospital, New Orleans. The sisters of charity had charge of this hospital and attended many hundreds of the sick and wounded on both sides. It was the same with the Marine Hospital of New Orleans. The first act of one of the sisters on entering a ward in this hospital was to grasp a cup of water from a nurse and baptize a dying soldier. One sister relates how she endeavored for a long time to get a cot for a very sick patient who lay on the floor, reclining on his carpet bag.  The patient was unwilling to go without his carpet bag and his boots, fearing they would be stolen if he left them. He kept a watchful eye on them all the time, and the sister, understanding the reluctant movements of the patient, took up the carpet bag in one hand and the boots in the other and followed. The poor man was very much struck with the humility and charity of the sister and said, the soldiers wonder how the sisters can work so hard without pay. The sister replied, our pay is in a coin more precious than gold. It is laid up in a country more desirable than any that exists on this earth. After the Battle of Fredericksburg in December 1862, the sisters who had been looking after the sick and wounded in the hospitals near Richmond soon found their labors reduced very materially. The armies on both sides were becoming more accustomed to the hardships of the camps, and as a result there was less sickness in the various regiments. There had also been a cessation of battles in the vicinity of Richmond, and as a consequence there were no wounded men to care for. The sisters, feeling that their usefulness was at an end, called upon the officer in charge and asked for passports in order that they might return through the lines to their Emmitsburg home. The official would not consent to their going away, claiming that he knew they would be needed in other places in the near future, this being the case they remained. The next day a letter came from the military in Central Georgia, begging for sisters of charity to be sent to their hospital there. Five sisters left for this place on the night of February 24, 1863. A fierce battle had taken place, rendering the services of the sisters very necessary. On the way, at many places where they stopped, there was great curiosity of the sight of their peculiar garb. Upon one occasion, having to wait two hours for a terrain, the curious bystanders examined the sisters closely, saying, Who are they? Are they men or women? Oh, what a strange uniform this company has adopted. Surely the enemy will run from them. Once or twice the crowd pushed roughly against the sisters, as though to see whether they were human beings or not. A sister spoke to a woman at the station, and there upon many in the crowd clapped their hands and shouted, She spoke, she spoke. At one of the towns where the sisters stopped, they did not know where to look for lodgings. Acting upon the first impulse, they went to the Catholic pastor's residence and inquired where they might be accommodated. The good old priest, strange as it may seem, had never seen their costume before, and as every day had its impostures to avoid, he was reserved and cautious, even unwilling to direct them to any house. At last his pity got the better of his prudence, and he said slowly, I will show you where the sisters of Mercy live. He took them there, where the good mother received them with open arms, saying, Oh, the dear sisters of charity, you are truly welcome to my house. This lady had been kindly entertained some years before by the sisters of charity at Baltimore. The poor, abashed priest, had kept near the door, fearing he had put trouble on the good sisters of Mercy. But when he saw the reception accorded the visitors he brightened up, approaching one of the sisters with outstretched hands, he said, Oh, ladies, make friends, I thought you were impostors. Continuing the journey, one night a cry suddenly went up, the cars have gone through the bridge and we are in the river. The greatest excitement prevailed in the train. Passengers rushed to and fro, falling over one another in their confusion. The sisters had gone through so many exciting scenes during the war that they had learned the value of retaining their presence of mind in such an emergency. They remained still and soon learned that the accident had not occurred to their train, but to one coming in the opposite direction, except by the help of torches very little could be done until daylight. Two of the sisters, however, crossed the other side of the bridge and gave suitable attention to the sufferers, washing and minding their wounds. None were killed or in serious danger. By twelve o'clock the next day they reached the town. No refreshments were to be had. The work of devastation on the part of Sherman's army had preceded them. Fortunately a little basket of lunch, originally prepared for five sisters, offered some sustenance. The next day the number of sisters had increased to eleven and several strangers also, with whom they shared their supplies. At nine o'clock, the same evening, a poor soldier near them in the car said, Oh, but I am hungry. I have not had one crumb of food this day. Out came the magic basket and the sufferer was satisfied. Immediately others asked for food. The two following days the sisters had the soldiers to supply besides themselves. And yet the generous basket was true to all demands. On the third day's journey they reached their field of labor. It was in the town of Marietta. A very fine building had been prepared for hospital purposes, and the whole place, with its wants and workings, was placed in charge of the sisters. Their trained hands soon reduced everything to a system. And, from that hour until its close, the affairs of the institution went like clockwork. The sisters were five weeks without having the opportunity or facilities for hearing mass. The two sisters at last went to Atlanta, where there were two priests, and begged that they might at least have mass at Easter, which was then approaching. This was agreed to, and not only the sisters, but many poor soldiers made their Easter duty. An earnest appeal was also made for a chaplain, and headquarters appointed one. Before he arrived, however, orders were given to remove. As the enemy was advancing, the sisters had just received many wounded soldiers, and these men grieved bitterly when the religious left them. On the 24th of May, in response to an urgent appeal, the sisters reached Atlanta, where nearly all the houses were filled with the sick and wounded. Only tents could be raised for the sisters. They had 500 patients in the tents at the start, and large numbers were added daily. The sisters were provided with a little log house, containing two small rooms. The mice ran over them at night, and the rain was so constant through the day that their umbrellas were always in their hands. Two of them became very ill. The surgeon told them to keep in readiness for a move, but the patients were so happy and doing so well, under their care that he could not think of their leaving at that time. A poor man, badly wounded, had been very cross and abusive towards the sister who served him, but she increased her kindness and on the surface did not seem to understand his rudeness. At last he became very weak, and one day when she was waiting on him she saw that he was weeping. She said, Have I pained you? I know I am too rough. Pardon me this time, and I will try to spare you pain again. For I would rather lessen than augment distress in this hour of misery. He burst into tears and said, My heart is indeed pained at my ingratitude towards you, for I have received nothing less than maternal care from you, and I have received it in anger. Do pardon me. I declare I am forced to respect your patience and charity. When I came into this hospital and found that the sisters were the nurses, my heart was filled with hatred. My mind was filled with prejudice. A prejudice which I confess was inherited from those nearest and dearest to me. I did not believe that anything good could come from the sisters, but now I see my mistake all too clearly, and in seeing it I recognize the unintentional blackness of my own heart. I have seen the sisters in their true light. I see their gentleness, their humility, their daily, I, their hourly sacrifices, their untiring work for others. In a word, their great love for humanity. Forgive me if you can. This man soon after expired with the most edifying sentiments upon his lips. The sisters were employed at Camp Denison until the hospitals there were systemized. Then they went to New Creek, Virginia, and Cumberland, Maryland. During Pope's campaign, they followed Siegel's Corps in the ambulances. After the Battle of Stone River, they went to Nashville and took charge of Hospital 14, capable of accommodating 700 or 800 patients. The following document, written on the occasion of the sisters leaving Nashville, will show the light in which they were regarded by the inmates of the hospital. The paper was signed by 236 persons. General Hospital, Number 14, Nashville, Tennessee, November, 1863. To the late superior and sisters of charity in attendance of said hospital, the undersigned attaches and the patients in said hospital have learned with regret that you contemplate leaving your present post of labor, and the object of this is to express the hope that you may be induced to forego that intention and kindly consent to remain with us.  Should you leave us we can only say that wherever you may go you will bear with you the soldier's gratitude and our earnest hope and prayer is that in whatever field you may labor in future you may be as happy as you have been kind and charitable to us, and may Heaven's choices, blessings be showered upon you for your kindnesses to the poor sick and wounded soldier. Private William N. Nelson, 19th Illinois Infantry, writes that he was passing through the ward getting signatures to the above petition when one poor fellow who was lying on the bed almost dead aroused himself and said, I want to sign that paper, I would sign it 50 times if asked for the sisters have been to me as my mother since I have been here, and I believe had I been here before I would have been well long ago. But if the sisters leave I know I shall die. This is the feeling of every sick soldier under the care of the sisters. On May 2, 1863, General Joseph Hooker, who had succeeded Burnside, fought General Lee at Chancellorsville, but was defeated. Lee followed up this victory by crossing the Potomac at Harpers Ferry and marching into Pennsylvania. The Union army under General Mead advanced to meet him and then came Gettysburg. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of Angels of the Battlefield. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, Angels of the Battlefield, by George Barton, Gettysburg. What is now generally conceded to have been the decisive battle of the Civil War was fought on the 1st, 2nd and 3rd of July, 1863. It took place in and around Gettysburg, a town located only about 10 miles north of Emmitsburg, the mother house of the Sisters of Charity. The Union army was under the control of General George G. Mead and the Confederate forces under General Robert E. Lee. Over 140,000 men were engaged in that bloody struggle, which lasted until the evening of the 3rd day. The contending armies by their movements advanced more and more toward the Sisters' House in Maryland. The scene of this historic battle covered an area of over 25 square miles. The soldiers were so close to the Sisters' House that the buildings trembled from the fearful cannonading. On the morning of July 1, as the head of the 107th Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers 2nd Division 1st Reynolds Corps was approaching St. Joseph's Academy near Emmitsburg. The soldiers were greeted with a remarkable and impressive sight. A long line of young girls led by several Sisters of Charity took their position along the side of the road and, at a word from the Sister-in-Charge, all fell upon their knees and, with upturned faces toward the vaulted skies, earnestly prayed for the spiritual and physical safety of the men who were about to go into deadly battle. The sight was at once solemn and inspiring in the extreme. The roughest soldiers, oft times, have the tenderest hearts, and this scene affected them more than they cared to confess. In an instant the head of every soldier in the line was bowed and bared and remained so until the prayer was finished, all instinctively felt that the prayers of those self-sacrificing women and innocent children would be answered. To many of the men it was a harbinger of coming victory, as certain as the sunshine that smiled upon them on that beautiful July morning. The scene was photographed upon the mind of many a veteran and remained ever afterwards as one of the sweetest memories of the war. The night of the third day the rain fell heavily, and it continued raining all the next day. On Sunday morning, immediately after mass, Reverend James Francis Berlando, with twelve Sisters, left Emmitsburg for the battlefield, taking refreshments, bandages, sponges, and clothing, with the intention of doing all that was possible for the suffering soldiers, and then returning home the next evening. The roads previous to the rain had been in a bad condition, and the two armies had passed over them with difficulty. But with the mighty rain the mud became so thick that they were almost impassable, the subdued Southerners having retired. Their thousands of dead and wounded were left on the field and in the barns and farmhouses in the vicinity. Scouts of the north were stationed here and there, prepared to meet and cope with any eleventh hour surprises. One of these bands, seeing the Sisters' carriages, was about to fire on them, thinking they were the ambulances of the enemy. The Sisters had reached a double blockade of zigzag fence, thrown across the road for defensive purposes. The visitors wondered whether they dare go around it by turning into the fields, for in the distance they saw soldiers, half hidden in the woods, watching them. Father Berlando put a white handkerchief on a stick and, holding it high in the air, walked towards them, while the Sisters alighted and walked about, so that the concealed soldiers might see their white headdress, known as cornets. The men viewed the priest sharply, for they had resolved to refuse to recognize a flag of truce if it were offered, but the sight of the cornets reassured them. They met the priest and, learning his mission, sent an escort with him to open a passage for the Sisters through the fields. The meek messengers of peace and charity soon came inside of the ravages of Grimoire. It was a sight that one scene was not soon to be forgotten. Thousands of guns and swords, representing the weapons of the living, the wounded and the dead, lay scattered about. The downpour from heaven had filled the roads with water, but on this awful battlefield it was red with real blood. The night before the unpitying stars shone down upon the stark forms of the flower of American manhood, hundreds of magnificent horses, man's best friend to the end, had breathed their last and lay by the sides of their dead masters. Silent sentinels upon horseback, as motionless, almost as the dead about them, set guarding this gruesome open-air charnel. With the first streak of gray dawn, the work of internment had begun. Bands of soldiers were engaged in digging graves, and others were busy carrying the bodies to them. There was no attempt at system. Vast excavations were made, and as many bodies as possible placed in them. The dead were generally buried where they fell. In one trench at the foot of the slope known as Culp's Hill, sixty Confederates were buried. In that three days' fight, 2,834 Union soldiers were killed, and 14,492 wounded. On the Confederate side there were 5,500 killed, and 21,500 wounded. Thousands of the slightly wounded cared for themselves without the assistance of either doctor or nurses. Thousands of others were shipped to the Satterley Hospital in West Philadelphia, where their wands were looked after by the Sisters of Charity in that institution. The remainder were forced to remain in Gettysburg. This was the condition of things that confronted the brave Sisters as they rode over the battlefield on that scorching July day, frightful as it may seem, their carriage wheels actually rolled through blood. At times the horses could scarcely be induced to proceed, on account of the ghastly objects in front of them. The sight of bodies piled two and three high caused the animals to rear up on their hind legs and kick over the traces in a most uncomfortable manner. In the midst of the sickening scenes, the Sisters discovered one little group sitting about an improvised fire trying to cook some meat. The carriage was directed to this point, and here again Father Berlando informed the soldiers of his errand. The officers seemed well pleased and told the Sisters to go into the town of Gettysburg, where they would find sufficient employment for their zealous charity. Every large building in Gettysburg was being filled as fast as the wounded men could be carried in within and around the city. 113 hospitals were in operation, besides those located in private houses. On reaching Gettysburg the Sisters were shown to the hospital where they distributed their little stores and did all they could to relieve and console the wounded soldiers. Two of the Sisters returned to Emmitsburg that same evening with Father Berlando for the purpose of sending additional nurses to relieve those already on the ground. On arriving at the first hospital the surgeon in charge took the Sisters to the ladies who had been attending there and said to them, Ladies, here are the Sisters of Charity come to serve our wounded. They will give all the directions here. You are only required to observe them. Those addressed, cheerfully bowed, their assent. The soldiers seemed to think that the presence of the Sisters softened their anguish. One Sister was giving a drink to a poor dying man with the teaspoon. It was slow work and a Gentleman who entered unobserved at the time stood nearby without speaking for some moment. This Gentleman was from a distance and was in search of the very person the Sister was serving. Standing a moment in silence he exclaimed in a loud voice, May God bless the Sisters of Charity and repeated it emphatically, adding, I am a Protestant, but may God bless the Sisters of Charity.  The stations of the Cross hung around the walls, with a very large oil painting of St. Francis Xavier holding in his hand a crucifix. The first man put in the sanctuary was baptized, expressing truly Christian sentiments. His pain was excruciating and when sympathy was offered him he said, Oh, what are the pains I suffer compared with those of my Redeemer. Thus disposed he died. The soldiers lay on the pew seats, under them and in every aisle. They were also in the sanctuary and in the gallery, so close together that there was scarcely room to move about. Many of them lay in their own blood and the water used for bathing their wounds, but no word of complaint escaped from their lips. Others were dying with lockjaw, making it very difficult to administer drinks and nourishment. Numbers of the men had their wounds dressed for the first time by the Sisters' surgeons, at that juncture being few in number. When the Sisters entered in the morning, it was no uncommon thing to hear the men cry out, Oh, come, please dress my wound.  To all the pain suffered by the soldiers was added the deprivations of home friends and home comforts, which in such times come so vividly to the mind. Four of the Sisters attended the sick in the Transylvania College building, which for the time being was used as a prison for about 600 Confederate soldiers. The Sisters dressed their wounds as in other cases. Every morning when they returned, eight or ten bodies lay at the entrance of the College awaiting internment. Two youths lay in an outstretched blanket and a little ditch two inches deep was around the earth they lay upon to prevent the rain from running under them. There was quite a sensational scene in this prison one morning. One of the Sisters hearing a great noise among the patients looked to see the cause. She discovered a group of men with guns aimed at one poor helpless man. There had been a quarrel, and no one attempted to stop the strife. The Sister promptly and with no thought of personal danger hurried over to the group and placed her hand on the shoulder of the prospective corpse. Then she pushed him back into the Surgeon's room, holding her other arm out to hinder the men from pursuing him. There was a dead silence. The poor man was put safely inside the Doctor's room, and his tormentors retired without a word, quietly putting away their guns. The silence continued for some time. The Sister placidly resumed her duties in the mess room. Presently the Doctor came to her and said, Sister, you have surprised me. I shall never forget what I have witnessed. I saw their anger and heard the excitement, but feared that my presence would increase it. I did not know what to do. But you came and everything was all right. Indeed, this will never die in my memory. Well, replied the Sister calmly, what did I do more than any other person would have done.  A woman? exclaimed the Doctor. Why, all the women in Gettysburg could not have effected what you have. No one but a Sister of Charity could have done this. Truly it would have been well if a company of Sisters of Charity had been in the war. For then it might not have continued so long. One young man, after being baptized, requested the Sister to stay with him until he died. He prayed fervently until the last breath, and almost his final words were, O Lord, lest the Sisters of Charity, this brought a crowd around him. As his bed was on the floor, the Sister was kneeling by him and continued to pray for him until the last.  They who stood near said one to another. Was this man her relative? No, was the reply, but she is a Sister of Charity. Well, said one of the company, I have often heard of the Sisters of Charity, and I can now testify that they have been properly named. The surgeon remarked to the religious, Sisters, you must be more punctual at your repass. I see you are often here until four o'clock in the afternoon without your dinner, working for others with a two-fold strength. Where it comes from, I do not know, forgetting no one but yourselves. You should, however, try to preserve your own health. A Protestant gentleman remarked to one of the Sisters that, the Sisters of Charity have done more for religion during the war than has ever been done in this country before. Both the Catholic Church and the Methodist Church in Gettysburg were used for hospital purposes. One day a Sister from the Catholic Church had ordered her supplies, as usual, from the sanitary store. Soon after this a Sister who was nursing the sick in the Methodist Church called at the store, and as she was about to leave the merchant said, Where are these articles to be sent? I believe you belong to the Catholic Church. No, sir, replied the Sister, with a barely suppressed smile. I belong to the Methodist Church. Send the goods there. After the more severely wounded had been removed by friends, or had died, the officers began directing the work of transferring the remaining patients from the town hospital to a wood of tents called the General Hospital. A Sister was passing through the streets of Gettysburg about this time when a Protestant chaplain, running several squares to overtake her, said, I see Sisters of Charity everywhere but in our General Hospital. Why are they not there? The Sister told him that when the wounded men had been removed none of the surgeons or officers had asked them to go there, or they would have gone willingly. Well, he said, I will go immediately to the provost and ask him to have you sent there. I feel sure that he needs you there. In going over the field encampment one of the Sisters was pleased and saddened to find her own brother, whom she had not seen for nine years. He had been wounded in the chest and ankle and was in one of the hospitals in town. The meeting under such circumstances was an affecting one. Both were devoted, loyal souls, each doing duty earnestly according to his or her knowledge of the right. Through the kindness of the officer of the day the wounded man was permitted to be removed to the hospital where a Sister was in charge. A few days after the Battle of Gettysburg Father Berlando wrote a letter to one of his reverend colleagues in Maryland. Some of the facts mentioned in this document have already been told in this chapter, but the fact that it was written while the echoes of that famous fight were still fresh makes it of unusual interest. It is as follows. Emmitsburg, July 8, 1863, Reverend and Dear Sir, you have been informed, without doubt, by the papers that we have been visited by the Army of the Potomac, and that very near us has been fought a terrible battle, the most bloody since this secession. Saint Joseph has well taken care of his house and Saint Vincent of his daughters. We have not been troubled, or at least we have escaped with the slight loss of a little forage and some wooden palings which have served for the wants of a portion of the Army. The evening of the 27th of June the troops commenced to appear upon a small hill a little distance from Saint Joseph's regiment after regiment, division after division, all advanced with artillery and cavalry, and taking possession of all the heights encamped in order of battle. The 28th, 29th, and 30th we were completely surrounded. General Howard and his suite took possession of our house in Emmitsburg. General Schultz and his suite were close to Saint Joseph's in the house which served some time since for an orphanage. The other generals took orders in different houses along the line of Army. For the protection of Saint Joseph's General Schultz gave orders that guards should be posted in its environs, and General Howard did the same for our little place in Emmitsburg. A great number of officers asked permission to visit the house, and all conducted themselves with courtesy. Expressing gratitude for the services rendered the soldiers and military hospitals by the sisters. On Monday this portion of the Army departed and was replaced by another, not less numerous, which ranged itself in line of battle as the first. A colonel of artillery, Mr. La Trobiere, with other officers quartered in the orphanage, he also visited the institution. The sisters distributed bread, milk, and coffee. On the first of July the battle commenced about seven miles from Emmitsburg, whilst the booming of the cannon announced that God was punishing the iniquities of man. Our sisters were in church praying and imploring mercy for all mankind. On Sunday I accompanied eight nurses bearing medicaments and provisions for the wounded. At the distance of six miles we were stopped by a barricade, and at about 300 yards there was another to intercept all communication. At the second was stationed a company of Federal soldiers who perceived us from afar. I descended from the carriage and raising a white handkerchief advanced to the second barricade and announced the purpose of our errand. Immediately several soldiers were sent to open the way, and the two vehicles continued their route without danger. At some distance we found ourselves again in face of another barricade, which compelled us to make a long circuit. Behold us at last upon the scenes of combat. What a frightful spectacle. Ruins of burned houses, the dead of both armies lying here and there. Numbers of dead horses, thousands of guns, swords, vehicles, wheels, projectiles of all dimensions, coverings, hats, habiliments of all color, covered the fields and the road. We made circuits to avoid passing over dead bodies, horses, terrified, recoiled, or sprang from one side to the other. The further we advanced the more abundant were the evidences presented of a terrible combat, and tears could not be restrained in the presence of these objects of horror. At last we halted in the village of Gettysburg. There was found a good portion of the Federal army in possession of the field of battle. The inhabitants had but just issued from the cellars wherein they sought safety during the engagement. Terror was still painted upon their countenances. All was in confusion. Each temple, each house, the Catholic Church, the courthouse, the Protestant seminary were filled with wounded, and still there were many thousands extended upon the field of battle nearly without succor. I placed two of our sisters in each one of the three largest improvised hospitals, offered some further consolations to the wounded, and then returned to St. Joseph's. The next day I started with more sisters and a reinforcement of provisions. Meanwhile, provisions had been sent by the government, and the poor wounded succored. And the inhabitants having recovered from their terror have given assistance to thousands of suffering and dying. Eleven sisters were now employed in this town transformed into a hospital. We shall send some sisters and necessaries tomorrow, if possible, whilst I write you the sound of cannonading re-echos from the southwest, where another engagement takes place. My God, when will you give peace to our unhappy country? Yours, Burlando. End of Chapter 14