Private William N. Nelson, Nineteenth 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 fifty 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 Harper’s Ferry, and marching into Pennsylvania. The Union army under General Meade advanced to meet him, and then came Gettysburg.
CHAPTER XIV.
GETTYSBURG.
Twelve Sisters depart for the battlefield from the Mother House at Emmittsburg. A white handkerchief on a stick serves as a flag of truce. An open charnel house red with the blood of American manhood. The little church in the town of Gettysburg filled with the sick and wounded. A Sister saves the life of a helpless man. “I belong to the Methodist Church.”
What is now generally conceded to have been the decisive battle of the Civil War was fought on the 1st, 2d and 3d of July, 1863. It took place in and around Gettysburg, a town located only about ten miles north of Emmittsburg, the mother house of the Sisters of Charity. The Union army was under the control of General George G. Meade, 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 third 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 twenty-five 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 One Hundred and Seventh Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers, Second Division, First (Reynolds) Corps was approaching St. Joseph’s Academy near Emmittsburg 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 ofttimes 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.[10]
The night of the third day the rain fell heavily, and it continued raining all the next day. On Sunday morning immediately after Mass, Rev. James Francis Burlando, with twelve Sisters, left Emmittsburg 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.[11] 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 Burlando 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 head-dress, known as cornettes. 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 cornettes 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 in sight of the ravages of grim war.
It was a sight that once seen 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, sat guarding this gruesome open-air charnel.
With the first streak of gray dawn the work of interment 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 2834 Union soldiers were killed and 14,492 wounded. On the Confederate side there were 5500 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 Satterlee Hospital, in West Philadelphia, where their wants were looked after by the Sisters of Charity in that institution. The remainder were forced to remain in Gettysburg.