BOMBARDMENT OF FORT SUMTER.
The hospital was filled with the sick, and around the town lay thousands of men just arrived from the most remote Southern States. A cold wet spell had preceded the present heat, and many of the men were ill and lay in their tents until vacancies opened for them in the badly sheltered houses in the town. The men in one regiment had contracted measles on their march; this spreading among others with the exposure incidental to army life thinned their numbers before the ball and the sword had begun their quicker work.
On reaching their lodgings the Sisters found supper prepared, and after disposing of this they soon retired to rest. The stillness and darkness of the town was frightful. No sound but the Sisters’ voices or footsteps was to be heard. Not a light gleamed from the fastened windows for fear of discovery by the hidden enemy. The whole army had been sleeping or resting on their arms since their arrival, expecting an early attack.
The medical director, who had sent for the Sisters, came early in the morning and took them to the hospital. With his assistant he escorted them from room to room, introducing them and saying to the patients: “Now you will have no cause to complain of not getting nourishment, medicine and attention at the right time, for the Sisters of Charity will see to all these things.”
The town had been by turns in the possession of the North and South, and was therefore completely drained of provisions and necessary conveniences for the sick. Notwithstanding these difficulties things were beginning to look more comfortable, when a telegram was received from Winchester ordering the whole Confederate Army to repair to that town immediately. The Northern Army, it was announced, would attempt to cross the Potomac above and below Harper’s Ferry, thus surrounding the Southern Army and cutting off all supplies.
The soldiers moved at once, with the exception of those who served the sick, and those who were to collect the tents and finally destroy bridges and tracks. Provisions were cast into the river by the wholesale, in order to deprive the enemy of benefit. Then came new orders to wait a while, but the invalids had already been removed to the depot, to await the return of the cars from Winchester. Arrangements were now being made for the destruction of the bridges and tracks, and the Sisters were sent to remain with a worthy Catholic family far away from these structures. During the night one explosion after another shook the grand bridge and seemed to shake the mountains. The little Catholic church, the only one that had not been applied to military purposes, was filled and surrounded by the frightened people. The worn-out pastor was their only consoler.
The Sisters looked at the awful destruction around them, and felt encompassed with desolation. All the next day they hourly expected to be called to the cars, but no word came. They now learned that the ladies of Winchester had written to the medical director requesting him not to let the Sisters of Charity serve the sick, as they themselves would wait on them. The Sisters knew that the ladies had been enthusiastic in caring for the Confederate sick and, thinking the delay was owing to the embarrassment the doctors might experience in regard to this, one Sister, acting as spokeswoman, said to them:
“Gentlemen, we are aware of the ardor with which the Winchester ladies have labored for your poor men, and also know of their desire to serve the men alone—that is, without any aid of ours; therefore be candid enough to allow us to return to our home. If you feel any difficulty respecting the ladies of Winchester tell us. The Sisters consider it reasonable that they should wish to serve their own people, and will not be offended, but rather feel grateful for your friendly candor.”
The physicians replied that they did not care for the objections that had been made to the Sisters; that the ladies of Winchester could never do for the sick what the Sisters of Charity would do, and therefore unless the Sisters insisted on returning home the doctors would hold them to their undertaking.
The physicians begged the Sisters not to leave the town, but to await the signal for departure. Expecting all day and even until 11 P. M. to be sent for, and feeling that rest was absolutely necessary, the Sisters were preparing for bed when the kind lady of the house came into their room, saying: “My dear, poor Sisters, a wagon and your baggage are at the door for you.” They soon left their benevolent hostess, who wept to see them pursuing such hardships. It was a genuine farm wagon, with two negroes as drivers. The worthy pastor of Harper’s Ferry, who was determined not to leave the Sisters entirely to strangers, attended to their trunks and found seats for them. The heavy spray from both rivers was thick in the air. Here and there a star appeared between broken clouds, giving barely light enough to see the sentinels at their posts. One of these, advancing, asked the countersign, which the pastor gave him. The wagon, running on the high terrace edge of the Potomac River, made, with the darkness, a gloomy prospect for the Sisters.