Angels of the Battlefield / A History of the Labors of the Catholic Sisterhoods in the Late Civil War

by George Barton

Three large manufacturing establishments in the city of Louisville had been placed at the service of the Government and were being used as hospitals at that time. The rooms were long, and lines of cots extended along each side. The hospitals were divided into sections and each section was placed under the watchful charge of a Sister of Charity. The system that characterized the three establishments was such that no sufferer was neglected or without a nurse. This was in striking contrast with the disorder and lack of system that had prevailed prior to the advent of the Sisters. There were twenty-three Sisters in the three hospitals, in charge of an army surgeon, and they worked faithfully from their entrance into the hospitals until the close of the war, without a cent of compensation.

There had been one battle and several severe skirmishes in Kentucky about that time, and when the Sisters arrived at the hospitals the scene was enough to bring tears into the eyes of the most hardened. A great many Confederates had been captured and were being held as prisoners of war. Within the walls of the hospitals hundreds of Union men and Confederates lay groaning in a common agony. Those that were not mortally wounded and that had not submitted to the amputation of a leg or an arm were raving in the worst forms of fever or had contracted erysipelas, pneumonia and kindred ailments. About it all there was a heroism that was touching, and as the Sisters passed from cot to cot many a soldier suffering with a shattered limb or bullet-pierced body lifted his wan face and gave forth a smile of welcome and of recognition.

The Sisters soothed the restless patients, bathed the fevered brows and moistened the parched lips “with a touch impartially tender.” The attitude of the men themselves was not without interest. Many of them had never seen a Sister before; the majority of them looked upon the Sisters with distrust and suspicion. The change that came in a short while came as actual knowledge comes when it dissipates prejudice and misrepresentation. They could not help but be impressed with the quiet demeanor and the self-sacrifice of the Sisters, and unreasoning dislike and bigotry soon gave way to natural respect and esteem.

But the beauty of the Sisters’ lives, their habit of thinking of all but themselves, had its effect upon many a hardened sinner. Five hundred men died in “hospital number one,” and of that number only one passed away seemingly indifferent to his future.

An incident told by one of the surviving Sisters carries a moral with it. One of the soldiers in the hospital, a Catholic, refused to do anything for the benefit of his soul. His end seemed to be approaching and he was transferred to some other place, where he could be reasoned into submission and repentance. A man who occupied a cot near that of the unrepentant Catholic had heard the Sisters pleading with him. He listened with a thoughtful manner, and when the hard hearted man had been removed, called a Sister to his side. He begged to be further instructed in the Catholic faith. His request was complied with, he was baptized, confessed, received Holy Communion and finally died a most holy and edifying death.

The parish priests of Louisville and several of the Jesuit Fathers paid regular visits to the hospitals. Each priest came on an average of three times a day, but there was not a moment during the day or night when a priest was not within easy call. The Sisters by their forethought and intelligence made the work of the clergy comparatively easy. A man who desired to be baptized was prepared by the Sisters and ready when the priest arrived. Those to whom it was necessary to administer the last rites of the Church were gradually brought to realize the importance of these rites by these same Sisters. So it was from day to day, from week to week, from month to month. The Sisters were unflagging in their devotion to the men in their charge. They nursed, they prayed, they consoled, in fact, as more than one grateful soldier exclaimed, proved themselves little short of earthly angels.

A pathetic scene took place one day in “hospital number two.” A young soldier, a Catholic and a Scotchman, lay on his death-bed, far from home and family and country, but surrounded by all the loving devotion of the Sisters. He knew that his end was at hand and had been prepared by all of the sacred rites of the Church for his journey into the great unknown. He was slowly expiring from a fatal wound and was unable to move.

In a feeble voice he asked the Sister to hand him a package of letters that he had read over and over again, and which he always kept in view. They were given him and he read them over once again and for the last time. After that he selected several from the package and placing them close to his heart said slowly, but distinctly: “Sister, leave them here until I am dead. That will not be long. Then send them to my father and mother in Scotland. Tell them that I thought of them until the last. Get the money that is coming to me. Give some of it for Masses for an offering for my soul and forward the remainder to my parents. Now I am ready to die. Good-bye.” With a faint smile he closed his eyes and in a short time the spirit had fled from his youthful body. The instructions were carried out to the letter, as were the last wishes of all the dying soldiers whenever it was possible and practicable. One of the most important tasks of the Sisters was to write to the near relatives of the deceased, giving accounts of their last moments and delivering entrusted messages from the dying.

On more than one occasion the Sisters supplied the place of a mother to the wounded and the dying. Many a pathetic death-bed scene is still fresh in the memory of the now venerable Sisters who have survived those trying times. They were able to repress their emotions in most cases, but there were times when nature asserted itself, and the tears of compassion flowed freely. This was especially the case when drummer boys and buglers—mere children—were brought into the hospitals. In such cases all the tenderness of the Sisters’ gentle natures went out in abundance to the wounded “lambs,” as they delighted to call the young ones. One day three blue-eyed, fair-haired lads in soldier attire were brought into “hospital number one.” They were ill of typhoid pneumonia and they were in an advanced stage, too. They were placed on cots side by side and there they lay for days, uncomplaining and innocent, giving expression to the quaintest thoughts in the most childish way. They were like brothers, although they were not, and all three were of about the same height and age. The gratitude they expressed to the Sisters was more by their manner than anything they said.

One afternoon one of the three looked up at the Sister who was nursing him, and with a wistful look in his blue eyes exclaimed: “Oh, you are such a good lady; just like my mother to me.” In spite of the care that was lavished on them the three little heroes died, as so many heroes have died—unknown, unhonored and unsung. In the same room another lad of twelve or thirteen, whose life was fast ebbing away, cried out: “Oh, Sister, put your head right down by me and don’t leave me.” The request was complied with, and the little fellow clasped the Sister about the neck and never let go his hold until grim death relaxed it soon afterward. Who could look on such scenes unmoved! Many boys died thus. Death seemed to pluck the choicest and freshest of the earth to make its bouquets during those four fearful years. The Sisters’ care of their “lambs” after their death was as tender and reverential as it had been in life. Their eyes were closed with a prayer, their silken locks parted and their little hands folded as if in supplication to the Divine mercy. Who can doubt but what the blessings of heaven were showered upon these innocent, heroic souls?