“What! Are you the Sister I met in Boston? Oh, yes! you are—I know you now. And how could you have attended on me with greater care than on any of the other patients?—me who insulted you so.”
“It is our Lord’s way,” replied the Sister gently. “I did it for His sake, because He loved His enemies and blessed those who persecuted Him. I knew you from the moment you entered the hospital. I recognized you from the scar over your forehead, and I have prayed for you unceasingly.”
“Send for the priest!” exclaimed the dying soldier, “the religion that teaches such charity must be from God.”
And he died in the Sister’s faith, holding in his failing grasp the emblem of man’s redemption, and murmuring prayers taught him by her whose glance of mild rebuke had long filled him with remorse through every scene of revelry or of peril.
Rev. John Bannon, S. J., was one of the priests who performed efficient service as a chaplain during the war. Father Bannon is now spending the autumn of his life in performing the works of mercy and charity which go to make up the life of a good priest, at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, Ireland.
Writing of his wartime experience in a letter dated December 10, 1897, he says:
“Twice only did I come into relations with the Sisters’ hospitals. The first time was at Corinth, Miss., after my arrival with the Missouri troops from Arkansas. There I found the Sisters of Charity (bonnet blanc), from Mobile, Ala., in possession of an hospital, located in a large brick building situated on a hill overlooking a railroad crossing—for the town of Corinth was little more at that time. During the temporary illness of Father Coyle, who was chaplain of the nuns, I visited the hospital for him a few times. On one occasion a Sister indicated to me a cot in a distant corner of the ward, whereon lay a large, burly man, heavily bearded and of uncompromising aspect. He had been questioning the Sister about her religion and desired further explanations; so I was asked to go see him and give him satisfaction.
“After a few questions about his home and family, and wounds and personal comfort, I asked him about the nursing and treatment of the hospital, a question which brought him to ‘attention,’ for he sat upright in bed, looking at me sternly, and almost fiercely said:
“‘See, now Mister, if you come here to spy after the Sisters you’re in the wrong shop. There’s not a man wouldn’t rise agin ye if you said a word agin them. Don’t do it. Don’t do it, or I’ll—’ and he fell back exhausted.
“‘But, my friend,’ I said, ‘I’m a friend of theirs; I’m a priest.’