THE NORTH CAROLINA HOSPITALS.
Solicitude of the Sisters for the patients under their care.
Friendships formed that were only parted by death. Interesting
reminiscences of Mother M. Augustine MacKenna concerning the
Government Hospital at Beaufort, N. C. A victim of camp fever and
how he was relieved by the nurse.
[Illustration]
There were many incidents of interest in the hospitals at Beaufort and
Newberne, N. C., told by Mother M. Augustine MacKenna to her niece,
Sister Dolores, and other members of the community of the Sisters of
Mercy. Some of these were incorporated in a neat little book called the
“Milestone,” issued last year to commemorate the golden jubilee or 50th
anniversary of the Sisters of Mercy in New York City. The principal
points are embodied in the paragraphs that follow.[18]
Beaufort is a village on a little peninsula that runs out into Bogue
Sound. It is directly opposite to Fort Macon, which is built on an
island in these shallow waters. Before the war Beaufort was a place of
fashionable resort for sea bathing, and its principal hotel, though a
frame building, contained five hundred rooms and was elaborately
furnished; but having been sacked in the spring of 1862 everything of
value was destroyed. It was therefore in a sadly denuded condition when
it was utilized as a hospital and made the temporary resting place of
two hundred disabled men, just two months previous to the coming of the
Sisters.
Only the common army rations had been provided for these sufferers, and
their situation was painful in the extreme. A complete dearth of
utensils in every department marked the early management of the
hospital. There was no modern means of washing clothes, it had to be
done with a few small, old-fashioned tubs, and the untrained hands of
some escaped field slaves.
No artificial light of any kind, not even a candle, could be procured at
that time in Beaufort, and there was no proper food or refreshing drink
for the patients. The Sisters sent an urgent requisition to the United
States Sanitary Commission, and very soon the hospital was amply
provided with all necessaries and many comforts in the line of
dressing-gowns, towels, sponges, castile soap, “Aunt Klyne’s cologne,”
etc.
Even in the midst of such suffering many amusing incidents frequently
occurred, as for instance when a Sister undertook the task of getting
the kitchen cleaned. This establishment had been until now under the
control of a certain functionary called the kitchen steward. He was a
native of Maine, of short, stout build; never wore shoes (on account of
the heat, he said), but always wore an immense straw hat in the house
and out of it, and constantly sat in a wheelbarrow at the kitchen door
with a huge bunch of keys dangling from the belt of his ticking apron.
He was a woodcutter in his native forests before he was drafted into the
army; he could neither read nor write, and his name was Kit Condon. The
negroes, and indeed his fellow-soldiers, called him “Mr. Kit!” It took a
great amount of persuasion to induce “Mr. Kit” to relinquish his keys,
the token of his dignified office, to the “North lady,” as the Sister in
charge was called, and he eyed the cleaning process from his wheelbarrow
with evident disapproval.
“Mr. Trip,” a soldier six feet high, was another important personage in
the culinary department, and this with “Edward, the baker,” who made his
“cookies,” buns, pies, etc., on the marble top of a ruined billiard
table, completed the kitchen force.
The renovating that kitchen received was marvelous! Piles of greasy sand
were swept into the ocean through a never-to-be-forgotten hole in the
very midst of the kitchen floor. The house being built on “piles” or
timber supports, this portion of it was directly above the water. After
the debris of a meal had been thrown them through this opening the
fishes could be seen by hundreds when the tide was in, and nothing could
surpass their voracity, unless indeed it was their quarrelsomeness, for
they seemed bent on annihilating one another.
One day much excitement was created by the arrival of an escaped slave.
A tall young girl was seen running breathlessly across the sort of
bridge or causeway that connected the hospital premises with the village
of Beaufort. She was quickly followed by an elderly Southerner, and he
was very close to her when she got to the end of her perilous race.
The soldiers cheered her wildly, and called to her that she was safe
with them, while they pointed their bayonets at her pursuer and swore in
no measured terms that they would pitch him into the sea if he laid a
finger on the girl.
However, some of the officers took up the case and brought both man and
girl into the General’s office, in order to come to an understanding.
The man cried out, “She is my gal; she is my gal; she was born upon my
place; she is mine.” But the General would not listen to this claim, and
told the man the girl was free from the moment she claimed the
protection of the army.
She was all trembling and exhausted with fear, fatigue and excitement,
and during the remainder of that day she had to be encouraged and
consoled and petted like a baby, although she was 17. Her name was
Ellen, and she had a sweeter face and softer manners than are generally
found among colored persons.
Towards the end of October the tides became very high, and the water was
driven under and around the hospital with greater impetuosity by the
wind. On one occasion the water was profane enough to invade the “Hall”
where a good old Unitarian minister held forth to his sparse
congregation, and the “meeting” had to be discontinued. The next tide
was still more daring, for it swept clear through the kitchen and dining
room, leaving in both a debris of dead crabs and little fish, not to
mention seaweed of every variety. All this rendered the place very
uninhabitable, and General Foster, with his usual thoughtfulness,
authorized the Sisters to move to Newberne and to take possession of
the Stanley House, the officers and doctors receiving orders at the same
time to remove the patients thither as soon as possible.
The two Sisters sent to inspect the prospects in Newberne had a
delightful sail in an open boat through the sound, past Fort Macon and
past the sea-green islands on to Moorhead City, which “city” consisted
of twelve houses and a few “shanties.” On arriving at Newberne the
Sisters were agreeably surprised at the aspect of the “Stanley” House,
so-called because it had originally been the home of Governor Stanley,
of North Carolina.
A handsome lawn or courtyard lay in front of the house. Beautiful large
cedars grew within this enclosure, and as their berries were now
ripening flocks of mockingbirds were rejoicing in their branches and
filling the air with their own inimitable harmony. In a corner stood a
grand old “Pride of India,” the first tree of the kind the Sisters had
ever seen; climbing roses clustered around the windows, and numbers of
little songsters made their abode in the foliage.
The house was fine and in perfect repair, having been used as General
Burnside’s headquarters. It had not been ransacked or rifled as most of
the other houses had been. Of the two large handsome parlors one was set
aside for a chapel, and a beautiful one it became soon afterwards.
In the last week of October the hospital at Beaufort was vacated, and
the sick soldiers were much more comfortably settled in their winter
quarters. The “hospital” was distinct from the “Stanley residence” and
consisted of three houses and several newly-erected pavilions; a nice
shady path and a large garden separated these from the Sisters’
domicile.
[Illustration: AN ARMY EXPRESS OFFICE.]
In December, 1862, General Foster, with a large detachment of the men
under his charge made an attack on the town of Goldsborough, North
Carolina, and almost ruined it. An immense number of soldiers were
wounded, and, as the doctors’ stores had not arrived, the surgeons had
no old linen or lint with which to bind up the wounds of the poor
sufferers. For this reason they presented a most fearful spectacle. Some
had their heads and faces wrapped in coarse cloth, and were so besmeared
with blood that the sight was a painful one.
Others, indeed the greater number, had either one or both feet in a
terrible condition, the feet having been pierced with balls. There were
broken legs, broken arms and one unhappy victim had both hands shot off,
and the condition of these agonizing wounds was something terrible.
The first task of the Sisters was to feed the wretched sufferers, who
had had but little care bestowed upon them. After that the difficult and
distressing duty of cleansing their wounds was undertaken and was left
entirely to the Sisters.
One very large man named Sherman, an Englishman, had his mouth and chin
so shattered that the doctors decided that his mouth had better not be
touched, as he must certainly die. However, the Sisters with soft
sponges and warm water began to loosen the horrible rags with which the
poor man’s face and head were covered. He, poor fellow, had heard enough
of the doctor’s opinion to render him hopeless, and when he found that
efforts were being made to relieve him he tried to evince his gratitude
by signs. When the wraps were removed blood began to flow from his
mouth, and a Sister took out with her finger several loosened teeth,
and thus greatly facilitated his breathing. The utmost possible care was
taken of this patient, and the satisfaction of seeing him perfectly
restored to health, though disfigured in a dreadful manner, was in
itself a great reward. The dumb gratitude he displayed when he came to
say “good-bye” as he was leaving the hospital was very pathetic.
Another interesting case was that of David Brant, a ruddy-faced lad
about 18 years of age. He was suffering in some way that could not at
first be discovered. It was noticed that he kept moving his feet in a
distressing sort of way. These members were uncovered, when, to the
surprise of the Sister attending him, it was found that he had still his
boots on and that they seemed ready to burst. Some of the soldiers at
hand came with knives and cut them off, piece by piece, with great
difficulty, and then, alas! it was found that veins of the boy’s legs
had burst open, and his boots were filled with clotted blood. The
doctors were sent for, and had great trouble in stanching the blood, and
in tying up the arteries. It need hardly be added that the poor lad died
the next day in great agony. He was the victim of a forced march in
which the men were made to run for several miles without stopping. The
Sisters wrote to his father the least painful account possible of the
poor son’s death, and received a most grateful reply, the bereaved
gentleman adding that but for them he would never have known the real
truth of the sad event.
“Hiram” was a victim of camp-fever; unfortunately for him he had been
kept in camp too long after he took sick, and the fly-blister had been
applied to the back of his neck. Some of his comrades took it off, but
applied no dressing of any kind, so that the coarse blue flannel collar
of his shirt grew into the raw sore, and his hair also festered into it.
It was his cries that first attracted the attention of a Sister, for he
was brought into the hospital in this condition.
She found a soldier trying to relieve him by applying a coarse wet towel
in cold water to his neck, and this caused the screams of the sufferer.
A soft sponge, warm water and castile soap came into requisition here,
and when the hair was cut so as to free it from the sore, and the
gathers of the shirt loosened from the collar, the poor boy began to
feel a little relief. As he lay with his face buried in the pillow he
did not see who was attending him.
“Who is doing that?”
“A Sister of Mercy,” was the reply.
“No,” said he, “no one but my mother could do it.”
By degrees the sore was nicely dressed with soft old linen and cold
water--the only dressing allowed by the doctors--and then Hiram stole a
glance at his new friend and nurse.
“What are you, at all?” was the first question.
The Sister tried to make him understand what a Sister of Mercy does, or
tries to do for those who suffer, and he sank back in his pillow,
saying,
“I don’t care what you are; you are a mother to me.”
He was only 16, full of bright intelligence and wit, but after suffering
dreadfully for six weeks from the fatal fever he died in the arms of his
father, who had been apprised by the Sisters of poor Hiram’s condition,
and had come from Boston to remain with him.
Many such sad incidents might be related, but no doubt such are the
records of every hospital. The Sisters continued their services until
May, 1863, when General Foster, under whose protection they had been
able to effect much good, was ordered to Tallahassee, Florida, where
there was no need of a military hospital. The necessity for the Sisters
was now not so great in North Carolina--most of the poor men having been
released from their sufferings, many by death and others by recovery--so
preparations were commenced for returning to New York.
The Sisters felt very much for the poor negro girls who had attached
themselves to them so affectionately, and who in their simple ignorance
thought that the “North ladies” could do anything and everything. Some
very amusing incidents took place in connection with our “contrabands.”
One night a Sister, having forgotten something in the kitchen, went for
it at a later hour than usual. All the negro girls and women who worked
for the hospital--scrubbing, washing, ironing, etc.--slept in the rooms
over the kitchen; and the Sister, hearing peals of laughter, did not
think it beneath her dignity to act the part of a listener under these
“colored” circumstances.
She therefore went noiselessly up the stairs, and, to her great
amusement, heard herself perfectly imitated by one of the girls. This
Sister had for many months been giving the general instructions to the
women and girls; now she heard the very tones of her voice and the
manner of her delivery most perfectly reproduced; another genius
undertook to represent another Sister, and so on until every Sister was
portrayed, to the great delight of the company, the members of which
never dreamed of the amused listener on the kitchen stairs.
The solicitude of the Sisters for the welfare of their patients
frequently caused warm friendships that continued long after the close
of the war. Sister Mary Gertrude and Mother Mary Augustine were two of
the Sisters attached to the hospitals in Beaufort and Newberne. One of
those cases that came under their care was that of Charles Edward
Hickling, of the Forty-fifth Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteers. The
bravery and manliness of this young soldier won the hearts of all.
Illness contracted in the service finally caused his death in 1867. He
bore all his suffering with great fortitude. During his illness the
Sisters visited him at his home, and after his death sent consoling
letters to the bereaved family.
These letters show the tender sympathy and generous interest of the
Sisters towards the soldiers to such an extent that the writer feels
justified in giving brief extracts from what were intended to be
personal missives.
Sister Mary Gertrude, under date of January 3, 1868, wrote to the
parents: “How can I express to you in adequate terms the very great
grief and affectionate sympathy I feel toward you in your great
affliction. May God be your comfort and your refuge in this trying hour,
for in sufferings such as these no creature can give you consolation. We
must look higher. He who sent the cross can alone give the power to
sustain its weight. Do not give way to despondency, my very dear
friends. The dear boy has only gone before you for a time--we are all
hastening towards our turn. In a very little time we, too, shall have
passed the eternal gates, there to meet all we have loved and lost, and
with them praise the tender mercy of the good God to us whilst in our
exile. * * * I have been, and am still with you, in thought and spirit,
going through the least detail of all the trying circumstances of this
sad bereavement.”
Mother Augustine, who was the Superior of the Sisters at the Newberne
Hospital, writing to a devoted friend--Miss Susan Messinger--said on
January 4, 1868:
“So our brave soldier boy is gone, his long and trying march has brought
him to the goal, and in his young enthusiasm he has gone to join the
numerous band of those who were his companions on the field and in the
fight, in danger and in privations, exposure and fatigue, but not in the
long years of patient and heroic endurance which requires more of a
martyr’s fortitude than a soldier’s courage. Dear Charles! He is the
last of our soldier boys--the last link that bound us to the Boston
Regiment, the brave Massachusetts Volunteers, whose heroism we shall
never forget. * * * Eternity! Dear Charles knows its wonders now. Let us
pray that we may so live, so use our powers here that our eternity may
be with those who have fought their way through the trials and sorrows
of life to its unending peace.”