Napoleon III.
By Saturday following the battle the wounded who had been assembled in the city became so numerous that the attempt to cope with the attention they required became impossible, and the most terrible scenes followed. There was food and water, but the wounded died from hunger and thirst, for there were not hands enough to minister to their necessities. There was lint in abundance, but not enough persons to apply it, nor to give it out. To make matters even worse, a sudden panic occurred. A detachment of hussars escorting a convoy of prisoners was mistaken by some of the peasants for Austrians and the report rapidly spread that the Austrian Army was returning. Houses were barricaded, their inhabitants hiding in cellars and garrets, and the French flags were burned. Others fled to the fields, and still others hastily sought Austrian wounded upon whom to lavish care. Down the streets and roads, blocked with vehicles of all kinds carrying wounded, raced frightened horses, amidst a din of curses and cries of fear and pain. Indescribable confusion prevailed; the wounded were thrown from the wagons and some were trampled under foot. Many of those in the temporary hospitals rushed out into the streets, only to be knocked down and crushed, or to fall exhausted from their weakness and fright. What agonies, what suffering, were undergone during those terrible days of June 25th, 26th and 27th! Wounds infected because of the heat, the dust and lack of care became insufferable. Poisonous vapors filled the air. Convoys of wounded still poured in. On the stone floors of the churches men of different nationalities lay side by side; French, Austrians, Slavs, Italians, Arabs, covered the pavement of the chapels, their oaths, curses and groans echoing through the vaulted roofs of the sanctuaries. The air was rent with cries of suffering—“We are abandoned, we are left to die in misery, and yet we fought so bravely.” In spite of the sleepless nights and the fatigue they had endured, they found no rest. In their distress they cried in vain for help. Some struggled in the convulsions of lockjaw. There lay one, his face black with the flies which infested the air, turning his eyes to all sides for help, but no one responded. There lay another, shirt, flesh and blood forming a compact mass that could not be detached. Here a soldier entirely disfigured, his tongue protruding from a shattered jaw, attracted M. Dunant’s pitying attention, and taking a sponge full of water he squeezed it into the formless cavity representing the man’s mouth. There, a miserable victim, whose nose, lips and chin had been taken off by a sabre cut, unable to speak and half blind, made signs with his hands, and M. Dunant brought him water and bathed his wounds gently. A third, with cloven skull, expired in a pool of his own blood on the floor of the church, a horrible spectacle, and those about him pushed aside his body with their feet, as it obstructed the passage.
By Sunday morning, though every household had become a hospital, M. Dunant succeeded in organizing a volunteer corps of women to aid the hundreds of wounded in the churches and open squares who were without assistance. Food and drink had to be brought them, as they were literally dying of hunger and thirst; their wounds had to be dressed; their poor bleeding bodies, covered with dust and vermin, washed, and all this in a terrible heat, in a nauseating atmosphere, and amidst the cries and lamentation of the suffering. In the largest church of Castiglione were nearly five hundred soldiers and a hundred more lay on the pavement in front of the church. In the churches the Lombard women—young and old—went from one to another, carrying water and giving courage to the wounded. From the fountains the boys brought great jugs of water. After the thirst of the suffering men had been assuaged, bouillon and soup were provided. Before any lint had been obtained the men’s underlinen had been torn into bandages to bind their wounds. M. Dunant bought new linen and sent his carriage to Brescia for other necessary supplies, for oranges, lemons and sugar, for refreshing drinks. He secured some new recruits for his volunteer band of mercy—an old naval officer, some English tourists, a Swiss merchant and a Parisian journalist. Some of these soon found the work more than they could endure and withdrew.
Pitiful are the stories M. Dunant tells of individual cases. Man after man would cry out in despair, “Oh, do not let me die,” as they seized the hands of their kind benefactor. “Oh, sir, please write to my father to console my poor mother!” exclaimed a young corporal of only twenty. M. Dunant took the address of his parents and in a few minutes the poor boy was dead. He was an only son, and but for the letter M. Dunant sent his parents they would never have learned his fate. An old sergeant, decorated with many chevrons, repeated with great sadness and with bitter conviction, “If I had only had care at first I should have lived—and now I must die,” and death came to him at nightfall. “I will not die! I will not die!” cried with almost fierce energy a grenadier of the guards, who only three days before was well and strong and who now, fatally wounded, struggled against this certain fate. M. Dunant talked with him, and, listening, he became calm and consoled, and finally resigned himself to death with the simplicity of a child.
On the steps of an altar, which were covered with straw, lay an African Chasseur, wounded in the thigh, leg and shoulder. For three days he had had nothing to eat. He was covered with dried mud and blood, his clothing was in rags. After M. Dunant had bathed his wounds, given him some bouillon and placed a blanket over him the poor fellow lifted his benefactor’s hands to his lips with an expression of infinite gratitude. At the entrance of the church was a Hungarian who kept crying aloud for a doctor. His back and shoulders, lacerated by grape-shot, were one quivering mass of raw flesh. The rest of his body was horribly swollen. He could not lie down nor rest. Gangrene had set in and the end came soon. Not far from him lay a dying zouave, crying bitterly. The fatigue, the lack of food and rest, the horror of the suffering, the fear of dying without any care developed among even the bravest soldiers a nervous condition that reduced many to tears. Often when not overcome by pain the dominant thought of the soldier was for his mother, and the fear of what she would suffer when she learned of his death. Around the neck of one of the dead men was found a locket containing the portrait of an elderly woman, evidently his mother, which, with his left hand, he had pressed to his heart.
On the pavement outside the church lay about one hundred French soldiers. They were placed in two long rows between which one could pass. Their wounds had been dressed and some soup given to them. They were calm, following with their eyes M. Dunant as he moved among them. Some said he was from Paris; others from South France. One asked if he were not from Bordeaux. Each wished to claim him for their own province or city. They called him “The Gentleman in White” because of the white clothes he wore. The resignation of these poor soldiers was pathetic; they suffered without complaint and died humbly and quietly.
On the other side of the church were wounded Austrian prisoners, fearing to receive the care they defied. Some tore away their bandages, others remained silent, sad and apparently without feeling, but most of them were thankful for any kindness received and their faces expressed their gratitude. In a remote corner one boy, not yet twenty, had received no food for two days. He had lost an eye and was burning with fever. He had hardly strength enough to speak or to drink a little soup. With good care he improved, and later, when sent to Brescia, he was almost in despair at being parted from the good women of Castiglione, whose hands he kissed while begging them not to abandon him. Another prisoner, delirious with fever, and also under twenty, lay with whitened hair from the horrors of the battle and his sufferings.
The women of Castiglione, noticing that M. Dunant made no distinction because of the nationality of the wounded, followed his example, caring for all alike, repeating with compassion: “All are brothers.”
All honor to these good women and young girls of Castiglione, devoted as they were modest. They never considered fatigue, nor disgust, nor sacrifice; nothing daunted nor discouraged them in their work of mercy.