The heroism of the nuns, however, was now well known in camp, and never did workers find more sympathetic subordinates than the Sisters had in their orderlies. The fact that they would never lodge complaints or have the orderlies punished only made the men more zealous in their service. One of the Sisters found it necessary to correct her orderly. “Perhaps, James,” she said, “you do not wish me to speak to you a little severely.” He at once interrupted her: “Troth, Sister, I glory in your speaking to me. Sure, the day I came to Balaklava I cried with joy when I saw your face.” One who had taken a glass too much was so mortified at being seen by the Rev. Mother—whom the soldiers call their commander-in-chief—that he sobbed like a child. Another in the same predicament hid himself that he might not be seen by the Sister. He had never hidden from the enemy; a medal with three clasps bore eloquent testimony to his bravery. “I don’t like to say anything harsh,” said the Sister. “Speak, ma’am,” interrupted the delinquent; “the words out of your blessed mouth are like jewels falling over me.”
One of the Sisters writes: “We have not a cross here with anyone. The medical officers all work beautifully with us. They quite rely on our obedience. Sir John Hall, the head medical officer of the army, is quite loud in his promise of the nuns. The hospital and its hunts are scattered over a hill. The respect of all for the Sisters is daily increasing. Don’t be shocked to hear that I am so accustomed to the soldiers now and so sure of their respect and affection that I don’t mind them more than the school children.” The soldiers in the camp envied the good fortune of stratagem to have a few words with the nuns. “Please, sir,” they would say to the chaplain, “do send a couple of us on an errand to the hospital to get a sight of the nuns.”
As the time for the nuns’ departure approached the cordial manifestations of respect and kindly feeling were only the more multiplied. “The grateful affection of the soldiers (a Sister writes) is most touching, often ludicrous. They swarm around us like flocks of chickens. A black-veiled nun, in the midst of red coats all eyes and ears for whatever she says to them, is an ordinary sight at Balaklava. Our doors were besieged by them to get some little keepsake; a book in which we write ‘Given by a Sister of Mercy’ is so valuable an article that a Protestant declared he would rather have such a gift than the Victoria Cross or Crimean medal.”
The Sunday after the nuns’ departure the men who went to the chapel sobbed and cried as though their hearts would break. When the priest turned to speak to them and asked their prayers for the safe passage of the nuns they could not control their emotion. “I was obliged to cut short my discourse,” wrote the chaplain, “else I should have cried and sobbed with my poor men.” This sympathy was shown by Protestants and Catholics alike, and from the commander-in-chief to the private soldier, from the first medical officers to the simple presser in the surgery, all was a chorus in praise of the “untiring, judicious and gentle nursing of the Sisters of Mercy.”
Two Sisters of Mercy were summoned to their crowns from the hospitals of the East. One was English, a lay Sister from the convent at Liverpool. She fell a victim to the cholera which raged at Balaklava. The other was a choir Sister from Ireland, Sister M. Elizabeth Butler. Already rumors of peace had brought joy to the camp, when toward the close of February 7, 1855, she caught typhus attending the sick and in a few days joyfully bade farewell to the world. One of the surviving Sisters describes her funeral. The Eighty-ninth Regiment obtained the honor and privilege of bearing the coffin to the grave. One officer earnestly desired to be among the chosen, but thought he was not worthy, as he had not been at Holy Communion on that morning. The whole medical staff attended. The Sisters of Charity at the Sardinian camp sent five of their number to express sympathy and condolence. Eight chaplains attended to perform the last rites for the heroine of charity.
The place of interment was beside the departed lay Sister, on a rocky hill rising over the waters of the Black Sea. The funeral was a most impressive sight. The soldiers in double file, the multitudes of various nations, ranks and employments, the silence unbroken, save by the voice of tears, the groups, still as statuary that crowded the rocks above the grave, the moaning of the sullen waves beneath, all combined in a weird pageant never to be forgotten by the thousands that took part in it. The graves of these cherished Sisters were tended with loving attention. Marked by crosses and enclosed by a high iron railing set in cut stone, they are still quite visible from the Black Sea beneath. Many a pilgrim went thither to strew the graves with flowers; and to the present day many a vessel entering the Black Sea lowers its flag in memory of those heroines, who in the true spirit of charity devoted their lives to alleviate the suffering of their countrymen.
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VII.
VERY REV. JAMES FRANCIS BURLANDO, C. M.
The Very Rev. James Francis Burlando, of the Congregation of the Mission, who is mentioned several times in the text of this volume, was born on May 6, 1814, in the city of Genoa, Italy. Very early in life he became impressed with the desire of adopting the priesthood as his vocation, and on the 16th of February, 1837, his Archbishop, Cardinal Tadini, conferred on him the holy orders of sub-deacon and deacon.
Soon after this he sailed for the United States and enlisted for the American missions under Rev. John Odin, C. M., late Archbishop of New Orleans, who at that time was seeking recruits for the infant seminary at the Barrens, Missouri. Before Father Burlando could come here he was obliged to meet and overcome a very strong opposition on the part of his good father, who, although a fervent Christian, could not bear the idea of being separated from his first-born son.