IN AND AROUND RICHMOND.
Sisters of Charity inaugurate their labors in the Confederate
Capital. St. Anne’s Military Hospital begins with three hundred
patients. A zealous Sister makes her colleague prisoner in the
pantry. An odor of death, and how it was caused. The Union soldier
who was “shot at Manassas.” Nurses who first got “a puff and then
a buff.”
[Illustration: LEE.]
In the early part of June, 1861, Dr. Gibson, who was in charge of the
Military Hospital at the Confederate capital, Richmond, Va., called upon
the Sisters of Charity of Emmittsburg to come to the relief of the sick
and wounded soldiers in that neighborhood. The late Rt. Rev. John
McGill, the Bishop of the Diocese of Richmond, did not object to having
the Sisters engage in a work of mercy, but he was opposed to any
hospital or infirmary which might prove to be an obstacle to or impair
the prosperity of the church hospital of St. Francis de Sales. The civil
authorities did not make any impression upon the prelate, but when the
Sisters themselves called at the episcopal palace and begged to be
assigned to the work, the Bishop could not resist, and the coveted
consent was obtained.
It was announced that the Sisters would begin their work on the
following Saturday. Two physicians called at the convent, and conducted
them to the institution, which afterwards became known as St. Anne’s
Military Hospital. The structure was in an unfinished state, and the
walls were not plastered. But it was thoroughly ventilated and free from
dampness, and that meant much in a building designed for the care of the
sick.
The house contained altogether about three hundred patients. Each ward
held from twelve to fourteen men, and the rooms opened into one another.
It was noon when the Sisters arrived, and they were shocked to find that
many of the wounded men had not yet broken their fast. The first care of
the newcomers was to relieve the hunger of the patients. To effect this
they went to the kitchen, making the acquaintance of “Nicholas,” the
cook; “Black George,” his assistant, and other occupants of this section
of the house. While these employes were good men and were doing their
very best, they succeeded but poorly in having an orderly kitchen, or in
providing the soldiers with the sort of food adapted to their weakened
condition.
One Sister among those who had volunteered to work in the hospital was
detained a little later than the others. She felt remorseful at the
unavoidable delay, but determined to compensate for it by unusual
activity. The first thing that caught her alert eye on her arrival was a
pantry with the door wide open. Burning with zeal to be useful she
closed and locked the door. Suddenly there was a rapping from the
inside. The zealous Sister was not superstitious, nor could she be
called nervous, but these strong noises frightened her, and she became
pale as the rappings continued to grow in volume and number.
“Open the door and let me out,” came in sepulchral tones from the
pantry.
The key was applied and the door hastily opened, and out walked another
frightened Sister, who had been imprisoned while searching for supplies.
After many little incidents of a trivial character order was restored
from chaos. Some of the soldiers declared that the first meal they
received from the Sisters was better than anything they had eaten since
entering the army. The Sisters, that first night, got no sleep, for the
wants of the sufferers were pressing.
One of the patients called a Sister to his bedside and in a low voice
said: “You know the doctors think I may not live over night, therefore I
have a great favor to ask that I hope you will not refuse. I have a
mother.” Here tears checked his utterance. The Sister said: “I
understand; you want me to write to her.” “Yes,” he said; “say that her
child is dead, but do not tell her how I have suffered; that would break
her heart.”
This delicate mission, like many similar ones entrusted to the Sisters,
was faithfully fulfilled.
The wounded men came from the battles and skirmishes that had taken
place in the vicinity of Richmond, notably Phillippi, Big Bethel,
Romney, Rich Mountain, Carrick’s Ford and Manassas, Va. The last
engagement, which is also known as the first battle of Bull Run, ended
disastrously for the Union forces. It occurred on the 21st of July,
1861, and the Sisters silently going the rounds in their infirmary could
almost hear the reverberating sound of the shot and shell.
Toward night about fifty wounded soldiers, prisoners from Manassas, were
brought into the hospital, some dying and others wounded, and until
better accommodations could be provided they had to be laid on the
floor.
One of the Sisters was called by the doctor, who said: “Sister, get
something for this poor man’s head; he has just asked for a log of
wood.”
The Sister went out, but where to get a pillow was a mystery; everyone
was engaged. At last a pillow case was found, and the bright idea came
to the Sister: “I will stuff it with paper.” She brought it to the man,
who was a down-East Yankee, thinking the invention suited the individual
for whom it was destined. The poor fellow, despite his suffering, smiled
as it was given him.
It was very late when the Sisters finally prepared to retire after a
hard day’s work. They were not settled in their room before Sister
Blanche remarked:
“I cannot sleep; there is such an odor of death about this apartment.”
Nevertheless they composed themselves as best as they could. In the
morning the secret of the strong odor was revealed. A pair of human
limbs amputated the week before had been carelessly thrown in the
adjoining room. It was a great trial for the Sister to visit that room.
She covered her nose and mouth with her handkerchief and threw open the
windows. Under her directions the limbs were at once interred. One of
the Sisters writing in her diary at his time says: “Yesterday a man was
buried with three legs.”
On Sunday morning an addition of eleven Union officers was received to
the number of wounded. They were given accommodations in the garret. In
the officers’ quarters were found captains, majors, lieutenants and
sergeants, all wounded. One fellow blessed with a fine voice had a
guitar loaned him, and he could always be seen in a corner whiling away
the dull hours. Sometimes these invalid officers were annoyed by
visitors who were untiring in their questions.
“Where were you shot at?” asked one inquisitive individual, meaning in
what part of the body.
“Shot at Manassas,” was the laconic reply.
As one of the Sisters was crossing the porch a tall, brawny soldier
cried out: “You ladies have a sight of work to do, but I tell you what,
you get high pay.”
“None at all,” was the quiet answer.
“What!” said he, starting back with surprise; “you don’t tell me you do
all this work for nothing?”
“Precisely,” was the quiet response.
One of the nurses or hands about the place being sadly put out about
something that went wrong exclaimed that he was “neither an angel nor a
Sister of Charity,” and that he would not put up with it at all. Sister
Mary Ann, in speaking of the varied dispositions of the men, said that
the Sisters “first got a puff and then a buff.”
Five of the Union officers who were in the garret clubbed together after
their departure and sent the Sisters a check for fifty dollars for the
benefit of the orphanage in Richmond.
The Infirmary of St. Francis de Sales had been in operation by the
Sisters for the sick in general when the war commenced, but after that
it was utilized for the wounded soldiers. On May 16, 1861, the Sisters
in this institution were appealed to by the medical authorities. Very
soon the building was too much crowded for the patients. The Government
then took a large house, which was transformed into a hospital. It was
thought that male nurses would answer the purpose. In a few days,
however, the surgeon and officers in charge went to the Sisters at the
Infirmary, begging them to come to their assistance at the new hospital,
as the sick were very much in need of their services. The Sisters went
to this hospital on June 26, 1861.
Other hospitals in and around Richmond were built, and as rapidly as
they were made ready for use the surgeons applied for Sisters to take
charge of them. All of the Sisters outside of the blockade which existed
at that time were at military posts, except those engaged in caring for
the orphans. The schools and academies controlled by the Sisters had
been closed for some time. As the Sisters were sent to many different
hospitals the number that could be assigned for each one was small. The
hospitals were often without the necessaries of life. For the Sisters’
table rough corn bread and strong fat bacon were luxuries; as for
beverages, they could rarely tell what was given to them for tea or
coffee, for at one time it was sage and at another herbs.
Soon after going to one of the new hospitals in Richmond the surgeon in
charge said to one of the Sisters: “I am obliged to make known our
difficulties to you that you may enable me to surmount them, for you
ladies accomplish all you undertake. Until now we have been supplied
with the delicacies necessary for our patients from Louisiana, but the
blockade prevents this at present and I fear to enter the wards, as the
poor men are still asking for former refreshments, and they cannot be
quieted. We dislike to inform them of the strait we are in, though this
state of affairs may be of short duration.”
The Sister hardly knew what to do, but proposed that wagons be sent
among the farmhouses for the purpose of gathering in fowl, milk, butter
and fruit. This was done, but in the meantime complaints had been made
to headquarters that since the Sisters had come to the hospital all
delicacies had been withheld from the poor sick. The surgeon and Sisters
knew nothing of this complaint until a deputy Government official
arrived to learn the truth of the charges. He visited the wards during
meal time, after which he entered the room where the Sisters dined. Then
he told the surgeon the motive of his visit. The surgeon was glad to
explain to the deputy the cause of the complaints. The deputy informed
the soldiers that the nurses were not in any way responsible for their
sufferings, and that the fare of the Sisters was always worse than that
furnished to the soldiers.
The men soon became convinced that they had been too hasty in their
judgment of the Sisters, and that the stoppage of the delicacies was for
unavoidable causes. They found before long that the “Angels of the
Battlefield,” as they came to call the Sisters, had but one desire, and
that was to add to their comfort, as much as the limited supplies would
permit.