THE SISTERS OF MERCY.
An application from the Secretary of War to the Superior of the
order. Nine Sisters depart for the Government Hospital at
Beaufort, N. C. A dinner of pork and beans and mouldy bread. The
steward who expected the Sisters to poison some of the patients.
Complimented by Jefferson Davis. A convent confiscated by General
Slocum. Secular ladies who had “other engagements” when the
smallpox appeared.
[Illustration]
None of the Sisters who gave up their time and talents to the cause of
suffering humanity did better work than the Sisters of Mercy. Their most
conspicuous service was on Southern battlefields, although, like their
colleagues in this merciful work, they were subject to the call of duty
no matter whence it came. On the 19th of June, 1862, Vicar General
Starrs, of New York, applied for a sufficient corps of nurses to take
charge of a military hospital in North Carolina. The proposition was
laid before the Sisters of St. Catherine’s Convent of Mercy, in New York
City, and the invitation promptly and cheerfully accepted.
Nine Sisters were selected for the mission. They included Sisters Mary
Augustine MacKenna, M. Elizabeth Callanan, M. Paul Lennon, M. Gertrude
Ledwith, M. Paula Harris, M. Veronica Dimond and M. Agatha MacCarthy.
The Mother Superior and Mother Alphonsus decided to go with the party.
The chaplain was Rev. Father Bruhl, a native of Hungary, sixty years of
age. He had a long, flowing grey beard, and while he was not possessed
of an adequate knowledge of English, he was equipped with a valuable
experience of hospital work incident to warfare. This was derived from
long and laborious service in the French army during the war which
resulted in the taking of Algiers.
The Sisters bade adieu to their convent friends on the 15th of July, and
boarded the Government boat Catawaba, which was to take them to the
scene of their future labors at Beaufort, N. C. The Sisters were under
the care of General Foster, who showed them every consideration.
It happened that 500 horses, destined for cavalry service, were to be
passengers on the vessel, and as the tedious and somewhat distressing
process of getting them into the hold only commenced after the Sisters
boarded the boat the Catawaba could not leave the dock until the
afternoon of July 16.
A non-Catholic officer writing from Beaufort at this time says:
“The Hammond General Hospital, at Beaufort, N. C., is eligibly located
on the bay, the tide rising and falling entirely around the main
building. It is under the care of the Sisters of Mercy, whose earnest
devotedness to the noble task they have assumed is manifested in the
cleanly condition of the place and the comfort and contentment displayed
by all the patients. One kitchen, a perfect ‘bijou’ of a kitchen, is
devoted to the use of the Sisters, where they prepare every kind of
delicacy which the condition of the sick require, in such a manner as
those good Sisters only can prepare such things. The prejudice which
exists in some illiberal-minded persons toward Catholics would be very
speedily and effectually dispelled could they witness, as we have, these
worthy ladies modestly but earnestly pursuing their vocation among the
sick and wounded, with no hope of reward until He, whose divine example
they imitate, shall say: ‘I was weary and ye ministered unto me.’ Long
may Sister Mary Madeline, the Superior, and her amiable Sisters be
spared to pursue their work of faith and love among us. Our soldiers
feel truly grateful to Mrs. Foster, the accomplished wife of our Major
General, for her consideration in bringing the Sisters here.”
[Illustration: SISTERS OF SATTERLEE HOSPITAL.]
The structure which was known as the “hospital” is thus admirably
described by Mother Mary Carroll: “It was a large building that had
formerly been a summer hotel. It was so near the shore that at high tide
the waves rolled in and out under the timber props on which it was
erected. It was a frame building, containing 500 rooms. The Sisters
arrived in the midst of a heavy rain storm. As they passed from the
wharf to the building, in single file, all dressed in black, the
patients, looking out of the windows, took them for nine lone widows,
seeking the dead bodies of their husbands!
“The place contained no furniture except a few miserable bedsteads, and
was in a most desolate condition. There was only one broom and very few
utensils. The broom, in possession of Chloe, a saucy little negress, was
seldom available. Along the shore were wrecks of pianos, tables, chairs,
glass, etc. There were no candles or lamps, and every one was compelled
to retire before night.”
Truly, a forsaken habitation for women, the most of whom had been
brought up in homes of comfort and refinement. The house was extremely
dirty, and the Sisters got very little rest the first night. The next
day a transformation took place. The new-comers, with what assistance
they could obtain from the natives, began the work of housecleaning.
“Bob” Sproul, a young negro, who was presented with a red shirt, was
installed as water carrier. He was so delighted with the conspicuous but
useful garment that he wore it outside of his Sunday coat and proclaimed
himself “the best-dressed man in North Carolina.”
The first dinner of the Sisters was a “sumptuous repast” of pork and
beans and mouldy bread, to which was added coffee sweetened with
molasses. Eight rooms were assigned to the nurses. These rooms were
located on the second story, and opened out on a piazza overlooking the
sound. In spite of the great consideration shown the Sisters, they were
compelled to undergo many privations. Two of the Sisters, whose names
are not recorded, died from the effects of these hardships, and several
were dangerously ill.
Nearly all the patients differed from the Sisters in religious belief,
and their coming caused several humorous as well as pathetic incidents.
Many of the soldiers had never met “a real, live” Sister before. Their
minds had been installed with false notions, and it was some days before
they appreciated the Sisters in their real character and at their true
worth. After the work in the locality was finished, the steward of the
hospital confessed that he often sat up until 1 o’clock in the morning
watching the Sisters, fully expecting them to poison the patients, or
do some other terrible thing, they being “confessed emissaries of the
Pope.”
The dress of the Sisters scared some of the others. “Great heavens!”
shrieked one patient to the nurse that bent over him, “are you a man or
a woman? But your hand is a woman’s hand; its touch is soft, and your
voice is gentle. What are you?”
“Only a poor servant of the Great Master, come from afar to serve you,”
said the Sister.
“Sister,” moaned another, “I’m dying. I want to be what you are; help
me.”
“What the Sister believes, I believe,” cried another, who had probably
never known any religion. “Sister, tell me what to answer when the
priest comes to baptize me.”
When the patients finally recovered sufficiently to leave the hospital
they would offer little keepsakes to the Sisters--a button, a shred of
blue or gray, a pebble--with a fervent “God bless you, Sister. I’ll
never forget you. Pray for me.”
The Sisters became part of the patients’ lives. They did more than nurse
them. They cheered them in their hours of despondency, and wrote letters
for them to the anxious ones at home. Some of the Sisters, by reason of
ill health, were compelled to return to New York. Their places were
promptly filled with recruits from the Mother House.
The perfect discipline among the Sisters, the spirit of humility and
self-sacrifice that prevailed generally, was exhibited when the Mother
Superior in charge was succeeded by Mother M. Augustine McKenna. Mother
Augustine was one of the women who had previously prepared food for the
soldiers. The patients and others were surprised to learn, after the
change, that she was not only a person of great executive ability, but
that she was also a woman of the utmost refinement, and one of the most
intellectual members of the Sisterhood.
In October, 1862, it was found that Beaufort was too much exposed for
the patients, and they were removed to Newberne. The residence of
Governor Stanley was placed at the disposal of the Sisters. It was
transformed into a handsome convent, the parlor being used as a chapel.
After the raids at Goldsboro all of the wards were crowded with sick and
wounded. Americans, Germans, Irish and Creoles, all came in the same
ambulances, with their clothing matted to the skin from ghastly wounds.
They were all treated alike by the nurses, who were working in the cause
of humanity.
Some time after the war Jefferson Davis, ex-President of the late
Confederacy, addressing a number of the Sisters, said: “Will you allow
me, ladies, to speak a moment with you? I am proud to see you once more.
I can never forget your kindness to the sick and wounded in our darkest
days, and I know not how to testify my gratitude and respect for every
member of your noble order.”
Mr. Davis met Mother Mary Teresa Austen Carroll in 1887, and he
reiterated his expressions of thankfulness toward the sisters who had
performed what he called a great work. Many other dignitaries and
soldiers on both the Union and Confederate sides testified to the good
services rendered by the Sisters of Mercy. Their labors, however, did
not end with the war, for after that cruel period they busied themselves
in establishing homes for widows and asylums for the orphans.
The Sisters of Mercy also worked with unremitting zeal during the war
at Mississippi Springs, Oxford, Jackson and Shelby Springs. The Southern
Sisters, after devoting months to the service of the sick and wounded
soldiers in these localities, returned home to Vicksburg only to find
that General Slocum had confiscated their convent for a headquarters.
Father Michael O’Connor, S. J., formerly Bishop of Pittsburg, was a
personal friend of Secretary of the War Stanton, and he at once
interested himself in the cause of the Sisters. After a brief
correspondence their property was restored to them.
In February, 1862, the Mayor of Cincinnati applied to the Archbishop of
the same city for a sufficient number of Sisters to nurse the sick and
wounded soldiers of the Ohio regiments. The application was sent to
Mother Teresa, who not only complied with it, but headed the delegation
of Sisters that went to the front. Grant and Johnson had met at Shiloh
and the battle of Pittsburg Landing was the result. The Sisters went
down the river on the Superior, preparing bandages and other hospital
necessaries on the way.
There was plenty of work to do when they landed, and it was entered upon
with zeal. A number of secular ladies also arrived upon the scene and
insisted upon aiding in the work. The Sisters cheerfully accepted their
assistance. In a few days small-pox broke out among the patients and the
secular ladies suddenly remembered that they had important engagements
elsewhere. They deserted the temporary hospitals with more haste than
dignity, leaving the Sisters in undisputed possession. Mother Teresa was
especially devoted during the small-pox epidemic, joining the other
Sisters in personally dressing the wounds of the patients suffering
from this loathsome disease.
The Sisters of Mercy also worked zealously in St. Louis. They visited
almost daily the hospitals on the Fair Grounds in that city, where an
average of from 1000 to 2000 sick and wounded men were being cared for.
Many other visitations were made to private hospitals and private
dwellings, where the necessities of the occasion happened to place the
disabled soldiers. Particular attention was paid to the patients in the
McDowell College, used as a hospital for sick prisoners of war. The
Sisters sent large hampers to this institution filled with clothing and
with delicacies in the way of food and drink.
Some of the poor sufferers were stone-blind, but as soon as they
discovered that the Sisters of Mercy were among them they would stretch
out their hands, crying, “Welcome, Sisters. If you had never given us
anything we would still rejoice to have you come amongst us with your
consoling words.”
Three of the prisoners of war in the McDowell Hospital were condemned to
be shot as a measure of “retaliation”--one of the cruel customs of the
war. The sentence of death had been passed with all due military
solemnity, and the carrying out thereof was inevitable. Knowing this to
be the case the Sisters visited the condemned men in their cells and
urged them to make suitable preparations for death. The unfortunate men
received the Sisters with cordiality, but they were furious at the
decree which condemned them to death, and absolutely refused to consider
any suggestions which would cause them to forgive their enemies. While
the Sisters were pleading with the men an armed guard stood at the door
and two other sentinels paced up and down the corridor with a
regularity and grimness that filled the scene with awe.
Finally perseverance conquered. The doomed men relented, and a clergyman
accompanied them to the scaffold. They were blindfolded when making
fervent acts of contrition, and while engaged in this pious devotion
were launched into eternity.
One of the duties that devolved upon the Sisters during the war, as well
as thereafter, was the care of the widows and orphans of the soldiers.
There was one pathetic case in the McDowell Institution. It concerned
two little girls, daughters of Southern prisoners. Their mother and
married sister had died in the prison, and their father was among the
missing. The little ones were seriously ill when they were brought to
the attention of the Sisters. They were in such a sad plight that their
clothes had to be changed in the yard, and the cast-off garments buried.
Baptism was administered to them, and their physical needs given
immediate attention. The younger child, about 8 years of age, died a few
days later. The other recovered and was instructed in the ways necessary
for a life of virtue and usefulness. At the close of the war she was
claimed by her father. He had searched the city in a vain endeavor to
find his offspring, and when he had all but abandoned hope located her
in the “House of Mercy,” conducted by the Sisters. On being given
positive pledges that the child would be properly cared for the Sisters
restored her to the anxious father.
Mary Mulholland, who became known as Mother Francis of the Sisters of
Mercy, did wonderfully effective work during the war. She was born in
Armagh, Ireland, in 1808, but came to this country when a mere child.
Her one desire was to become a member of one of those devoted
Sisterhoods that give their lives to the service of the Creator. In
spite of the opposition of her parents this object was finally achieved.
The opportunity came when Bishop Quarter engaged a colony of Sisters of
Mercy for Chicago in 1843. The journey to the Western city was by stage
and boat. A terrific storm arose while the party was crossing Lake
Michigan. A high wave swept over the deck of the vessel, carrying men,
women and children into the angry waters.
Mary Mulholland was one of those that went overboard, and when a brave
man--a Mr. Ogden, who afterwards became the first Mayor of
Chicago--attempted to save her she cried: “Leave me to my fate; save the
others.” He did save others, but he saved her, too, for a future of
usefulness and good works. The future Mother of the Order received the
white veil from the Bishop in April, 1847, and was professed by
dispensation December 28, 1848. Her business accomplishments made her a
valuable member of the community.
Speaking of the experience of this good woman in the Civil War Mother
Carroll says[16]: When the Civil War broke out Mother Frances organized
among the Sisters a band of volunteer nurses to minister to the sick and
wounded on Southern battlefields. She accompanied them to Missouri, and
set them to work. In Chicago she looked after the soldiers, whether sick
or prisoners. A Sister who shared with her the fatigues of these great
works writes: “Many soldiers crying out in agony on their hard beds
blessed her as she passed her holy hands over their burning brows. The
absent fathers and mothers for whom they called could not come, but
this gentle, humble, self-sacrificing soul supplied their places. A
Southern lad of 18 cried like a child when she laid her hand on his
clammy brow. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, ‘I thought you were my mother.’ She
prepared him for death, and he died in her arms.
Mother Francis was a power in the prisons and hospitals when the most
influential gentlemen and committees were refused admission. There were
so many sympathizers with Confederates in Chicago that a general
uprising between Federals and Secessionists was often feared. Whenever
or wherever the Sisters of Mercy appeared the sick and wounded soldiers,
whether in blue or gray uniform, were abundantly supplied with
everything necessary for their comfort. Once when Secretary Stanton
refused to supply more rations during the current month the case was
laid before the President, who wrote:
“To all whom it may concern:--On application of the Sisters of
Mercy in Chicago of the Military Hospital in Washington furnish
such provisions as they desire to purchase and charge the same to
the War Department.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.”
After the war Mother Frances continued her useful work in many convents
of her order, dying peacefully on December 8, 1888.[17]