The train of war surrounding the headquarters of the Emperor of France
is an imposing sight.
I seek the Marshal, Duke of Magenta, with whom I am personally
acquainted.
Not knowing exactly where his army corps is encamped, I stop my little
carriage on the park opposite the house occupied, since Friday
evening, by the Emperor Napoleon. I find myself suddenly in the midst
of a group of generals, sitting on straw chairs and wooden stools,
smoking their cigars and inhaling the fresh air before the improvised
palace of the Sovereign.
While I inquire about the location of Marshal MacMahon, several
generals, very suspicious of my arrival, question the corporal, wounded
at Magenta, who begged permission to accompany me on this excursion
through the armies as his rank would ensure me safe conduct. Sitting
beside the coachman, he gives me, in a certain degree, official
character. The generals desire to know who I am and to discover the
object of the mission with which they suppose I am charged, for they
cannot imagine that a simple traveler would dare to risk himself alone
in the midst of the camps at such a time.
The corporal, who knows nothing, remains impenetrable, while he replies
respectfully to their questions. Their curiosity increases considerably
when they see me leave for Borghetto where the Duke of Magenta is.
The second corps, commanded by the Marshal, has been moved from
Cavriana to Castellaro, which is at a distance of five kilometers;
its divisions are encamped on the right and left of the road leading
from Castellaro to Monzambano. The Marshal, himself, with his staff,
occupies Borghetto.
Although the night has arrived, we continue our way. The fires of the
bivouac, fed by whole trees, and the lighted tents of the officers,
present a picturesque appearance. The last murmurings of a sleeping,
yet watchful, camp soothes a little my excited imagination. Under this
beautiful star-lit sky, a solemn silence at last takes the place of the
noises and emotions of the preceding days. I breathe with delight the
pure sweet air of a splendid Italian night.
Having obtained only incomplete information, we mistake our way and
follow a road leading to Volta. We are about to fall into the army
corps of General Neil, made Marshal three days before, which is
encamped on the outskirts of the town.
My Italian coachman is so frightened at the idea of being very near the
Austrian lines that, more than once, I am obliged to take the reins
from his hands and give them to the corporal seated beside him on the
box. The poor man had run away from Mantua several days before to save
himself from the Austrian service, taking refuge in Brescia, he hired
out as a coachman. His fears grow greater on hearing the discharge of a
distant gun, fired by someone who disappears in the underbrush. After
the retreat of the Austrian army, many of the deserters hid themselves
in the cellars of the houses of the villages, abandoned by their owners
and partially plundered. In order not to be captured, they, at first,
ate and drank in those underground retreats, then, being at the end of
their resources and pressed by hunger, but well armed, they ventured
out at night.
The unhappy and terrified Mantuan can no longer guide his horse. He
constantly turns his head, he casts affrighted glances at all the
thickets along the road, at all the hedges and hovels, fearing, any
moment, to see emerge some hidden Austrians.
His fears increase at every turn of the road and he almost swoons,
when, in the silence of the night we are surprised with a shot from a
guard, whom we do not see on account of the darkness. His terror knows
no limit when we almost collide with a large, wide open umbrella which
we vaguely catch sight of at the side of the road near a path leading
to Volta. That poor umbrella, riddled with bullets and balls was,
probably, a part of the baggage of some canteen-woman who had lost it
during the storm of the twenty-fourth.
We were retracing the road to reach Borghetto. It was after 11 o'clock.
We were making the horse gallop and our modest vehicle rolled across
the space, almost without noise, on to the Strato Cavallara, when cries
of "Who goes there? Who goes there? Who goes there? or I fire," came
like a bolt from the mouth of an invisible sentinel. "France," replies
immediately a loud voice, which adds, in giving his rank: "Corporal
in the First Engineer Corps, Company Seventh." "Go on," is the reply.
Without this presence of mind of the corporal we would have received a
shot almost in the face.
Finally, at a quarter before twelve we reach, without other adventure,
the first houses of Borghetto.
All is dark and silent. However, a light shines on the ground floor
of a house on the principal street, where are at work in a low room
the accounting officers. Although embarrassed in their work and very
much astonished at our appearance at such an hour, they treat us very
kindly. A paymaster, Signor Outrey, gives me a cordial invitation to
be his guest. His orderly brings a mattress on which I throw myself,
completely dressed, to rest for several hours, after drinking some
excellent bouillon, which seems to me the more delicious as I am
hungry and for several days have eaten nothing even passable. I can
sleep quietly, not being, as in Castiglione, suffocated with fetid
exhalations and tormented with the flies, which though satiated with
corpses, attack also the living.
The corporal and the driver settled themselves simply in the carriage,
remaining in the street, but the unfortunate Mantuan, always in great
terror, could not shut his eyes during the whole night and the next day
he was more dead than alive.
Tuesday, the twenty-eighth, at six in the morning I was received
most kindly by Marshal MacMahon. At ten o'clock I was on the way to
Cavriana. Soon after I entered the modest house, since historic, for
there was lodged the Emperor Napoleon.
At three o'clock in the afternoon I found myself once more in the midst
of the wounded of Castiglione, who expressed their joy at seeing me
again.
The thirtieth of June I was in Brescia.
This city, so charming and picturesque, is transformed, not into a
large temporary shelter for the wounded like Castiglione, but into
a vast hospital. Its two cathedrals, its palaces, its churches, its
monasteries, its colleges, its barracks, in a word all its buildings
receive the victims of Solferino.
Fifteen thousand beds, of some sort, have been improvised in
forty-eight hours. The inhabitants have done more than was ever done
before under similar circumstances.
In the centre of the city the old basilica, "il Duomo recchio,"
contains a thousand wounded. The people come to them in crowds, women
of every class bring them quantities of oranges, jellies, biscuits and
delicacies. The humblest widow or the poorest little old woman believes
that she must present her tribute of sympathy and her modest offering.
Similar scenes occur in the new cathedral, a magnificent temple of
white marble, where the wounded are taken by the hundreds. It is the
same in forty other buildings, churches or hospitals which contain
nearly twenty thousand wounded.
The municipality of Brescia understood the extraordinary duty imposed
upon it by such grave circumstances. With a permanent existence it
associates with itself the best men of the town, who bring to it eager
co-operation.
In opening a monastery, a school, a church, the municipality created,
in a few hours, as if by magic, hospitals with hundreds of beds, vast
kitchens, improvised laundries for linen and everything that would be
necessary.
These measures were taken with so much courage that, after a few days,
one was able to admire the good order and regular management of these
hurriedly arranged hospitals. The population of Brescia, which was
forty thousand, was suddenly almost doubled by the great number of
wounded and sick. The physicians, numbering one hundred and forty,
displayed great self-devotion during the whole duration of their
fatiguing service. They were helped by the medical students and some
volunteers. Aid committees being organized, a special commission was
appointed to receive donations of bedding, linen and provisions of all
kinds; another commission administered the depot or central store house.
In the large rooms of the hospitals, the officers are ordinarily
separated from the soldiers. The Austrians are not mixed with the
allies. The series of beds are all alike, on the shelf above the bed of
each soldier, his uniform and military cap indicate to which branch of
the service he belongs.
They have commenced to refuse permission for the crowd to enter, it
embarrasses and hinders the nurses.
At the side of soldiers, with resigned faces, are others who murmur
and complain. The idea of an amputation scarcely frightens the French
soldier, because of his careless nature, but he is impatient and
irritable; the Austrian, of a less thoughtless disposition, is more
inclined to be melancholy in his isolation.
I find in these hospital wards some of our wounded from Castiglione.
They are better cared for now, but their torments are not ended.
Here, is one of the heroes of the Imperial Flying Guard, wounded at
Solferino. Shot in the leg, he passed several days at Castiglione,
where I dressed his wounds for the first time. He is stretched on a
straw mattress; the expression of his face denotes profound suffering;
his eyes are hollow and shining; his great pallor gives evidence that
purulent fever has set in to complicate and increase the gravity of his
condition; his lips are dry; his voice trembles; the assurance of the
brave man has given place to fear and timidity; care even unnerves him;
he is afraid to have any one approach his poor injured leg which the
gangrene has already attacked.
A French surgeon, who makes the amputations, passes by his bed; the
sick man, whose touch is like burning iron, seizes his hand and presses
it in his own.
"Do not hurt me! My suffering is terrible!" he cries.
But one must act, and without delay. Twenty other wounded must be
operated on during the same morning, and one hundred and fifty are
waiting for bandages. One has not time to pity a single case nor to
await the end of his hesitation. The surgeon, cool and resolute,
replies: "Let me do it." Then he rapidly lifts the covering. The broken
leg is swollen double its natural size; from three places flows a
quantity of fetid pus, purple stains prove that as an artery has been
broken, the sole remedy, if there is one, is amputation.
Amputation! Terrible word for this poor young man, who sees before him
no other alternative than an immediate death or the miserable life of a
cripple.
He has no time to prepare himself for the last decision, and trembling
with anguish, he cries out in despair: "Oh! What are you going to do?"
The surgeon does not reply. "Nurse, carry him away, make haste!" he
says. But a heartrending cry bursts from that panting breast; the
unskilled nurse has seized the motionless, yet sensitive, leg much too
near the wound; the broken bones penetrating the flesh, has caused new
torments to the soldier whose hanging leg shakes with the jolts of the
transportation to the operating room.
Fearful procession! It seems as if one were leading a victim to death.
He lies finally on the operating table. Nearby, on another table, a
linen covers the instruments. The surgeon, occupied with his work,
hears and sees only his operation. A young army doctor holds the arms
of the patient, while the nurse seizes the healthy leg and draws the
invalid to the edge of the table. At this the frightened man shrieks:
"Do not let me fall!" and he seizes convulsively in his arms the young
physician, ready to support him and who pale from emotion is himself
almost equally distressed.
The operator, one knee on the floor and his hand armed with the
terrible knife, places his arm about the gangrenous limb and cuts
the skin all around. A piercing cry sounds through the hospital. The
young physician, face to face, with the tormented man can see on his
contracted features every detail of his atrocious agony.
"Courage," he says, in a low tone to the soldier, whose hands he feels
gripping his back, "two minutes more and you will be saved."
The doctor stands up again; he separates the skin from the muscles
which it covers, leaving them bare; as he draws back the skin he cuts
away the flesh, then returning to the attack, with a vigorous turn, he
cuts away every muscle to the bone; a torrent of blood gushes out of
the arteries, just opened, covering the operator and flowing down on to
the floor.
Calm and expressionless, the rough operator does not speak a word; but,
suddenly, in the midst of the silence reigning in the room, he turns
in anger to the awkward nurse, reproaching him for not knowing how to
press on the arteries. This latter, inexperienced, did not know how to
prevent the hemorrhage by applying his thumb properly on the bleeding
arteries.
The wounded man, overcome by suffering, articulates feebly, "Oh! it is
enough, let me die!" and a cold sweat runs down his face.
But he must bear it still another minute,--a minute which seems an
eternity.
The young physician, ever full of sympathy, counts the seconds as he
watches sometimes the operating surgeon, sometimes the patient, whose
courage he tries to sustain, saying to him: "Only one minute more!"
Indeed, the moment for the saw has come and already one hears the
grinding of the steel as it penetrates the living bone, separating from
the body the member half gangrenous.
But the pain has been too great for that weak, exhausted body; the
groans have ceased, for the sick man has swooned. The surgeon, who is
no longer guided by his cries and his groans, fearing that this silence
may be that of death, looks at him uneasily to assure himself that he
has not expired.
The restoratives, held in reserve, succeed, with difficulty, in
reviving his dull, half-closed, vacant eyes. The dying man, however,
seems to return to life, he is weak and shattered, but at least his
greatest sufferings are over.
Imagine such an operation on an Austrian, understanding neither
Italian nor French and letting himself be led like a sheep or an ox to
slaughter without being able to exchange one word with his well-meaning
tormentors! The French meet everywhere with sympathy; they are
flattered, pampered, encouraged; when one speaks to them about the
battle of Solferino, they brighten up and discuss it: That memory, full
of glory for them; drawing their thoughts elsewhere than on themselves,
lessens a little their unhappiness. But the Austrians have not this
good fortune. In the hospitals where they are crowded, I insist upon
seeing them and almost by force enter their rooms. With what gratitude
these good men welcome my words of consolation and the gift of a little
tobacco! On their resigned faces is depicted a lively gratitude, which
they do not know how to express. Their looks tell more than any word of
thanks.
Some of them possess two or three paper florins, a small fortune for
them, but they cannot change this modest value for coins.
The officers particularly show hearty appreciation of the attentions
bestowed upon them. In the hospital where he is lodged, Prince von
Isenburg occupies with another German prince, a comfortable little room.
During several successive days I distribute, without distinction of
nationality, tobacco, pipes and cigars in the churches and hospitals
where the odor of the tobacco lessens a little the nauseous stench
produced by the crowding of so many patients in suffocating places.
Besides that, it is a distraction, a means of dispelling the fears of
the wounded before the amputation of a member; not a few are operated
on with a pipe in the mouth, and some die smoking.
Finally all the supply of tobacco in Brescia is exhausted. It must be
brought from Milan.
An eminent inhabitant of Brescia, Signor Carlo Borghetti, takes me in
his carriage, from hospital to hospital. He helps me to distribute my
modest gifts of tobacco, arranged by the merchants in thousands of
little bags that are carried by willing soldiers in very large baskets.
Everywhere I am well received. Only a doctor of Lombardy, named Calini,
will not allow the distribution of cigars in the hospital San Luca,
which is confided to his care. In other places the physicians, on the
contrary, show themselves almost as grateful as their patients. But
wishing to try once more at San Luca, I visit again that hospital and
succeed in making a large distribution of cigars, to the great joy
the poor wounded, whom I had innocently made suffer the torments of
Tantalus.
During the course of my investigations I penetrate into a series
of rooms forming the second floor of a large monastery, a kind of
labyrinth of which the ground and the first floors are full of the
sick. I find in one of the upper rooms four or five wounded and
feverish patients, in another ten or fifteen, in a third about twenty,
all neglected (this is very excusable; there were so many wounded,
everywhere), complaining bitterly of not having seen a nurse for
several hours and begging insistently that someone bring them bouillon
in place of cold water which they have for their only drink. At the
end of an interminable corridor, in a little isolated room, is dying
absolutely alone, motionless on a mattress, a young corporal attacked
with tetanus. Although he seems full of life as his eyes are wide open,
he hears and understands nothing and remains neglected.
Many of the soldiers beg me to write to their relatives, some to their
captains, who replace in their eyes their absent families.
In the hospital of Saint Clement, a lady of Brescia, Countess Bronna,
occupies herself, with saintly self-abnegation, in nursing those
who have had limbs amputated. The French soldiers speak of her with
enthusiasm, the most repellant details do not stop her. "Sono madre!"
she says to me with simplicity: "I am a mother!" These words well
express her devotion as complete as motherly.
In the hospital San Gaetano, a Franciscan monk, distinguishes himself
by his zeal and kindness to the sick. A convalescent Piedmontese,
speaking French and Italian, translates the petitions of the French
soldiers to the Lombardy physicians. They keep him as interpreter.
In a neighboring hospital chloroform is used. Some patients are
chloroformed with difficulty, accidents result and sometimes it is
in vain that they try to revive a man who a few minutes before was
speaking.
I am stopped many times on the street by kind people who beg me to come
to their homes, for a minute, to act as interpreter to the wounded
French officers, lodged in their houses, surrounded by the best care,
but whose language they do not understand. The invalids, excited and
uneasy, are irritated at not being understood, to the great distress of
the family whose sympathetic kindness is received with the bad humour
that fever and suffering often call forth. One of them, whom an Italian
physician desires to bleed, imagining that they wish to amputate him,
resists with all his strength, overheating himself and doing himself
much harm. A few words of explanation in their mother tongue, in the
midst of this lamentable confusion, alone succeed in calming and
tranquilizing these invalids of Solferino.
With what patience the inhabitants of Brescia devote themselves to
these who have sacrificed themselves in order to deliver them from a
foreign rule! They feel a real grief when their charge dies. These
adopted families religiously follow to the cemetery, accompanying to
its last resting place, the coffin of the French officer, their guest
of a few days, for whom they weep as for a friend, a relative or a son,
but whose name, perhaps, they do not know.
During the night the soldiers, who have died in the hospitals, are
interred. Their names and numbers are noted down, which was rarely done
in Castiglione. For example, the parents of Corporal Mazuet, aided by
me in the Chiesa Maggiore and who lived in Lyons, 3 Rue d'Alger, never
received other information about their son than that which I sent them.
All the cities of Lombardy considered it due to their honor to share in
the distribution of the wounded.
In Bergamo and Cremona special commisions organized in haste are aided
by auxiliary committees of devoted ladies. In one of the hospitals of
Cremona an Italian physician having said: "We keep the good things
for our friends of the allied army, but we give to our enemies only
what is absolutely necessary, and if they die, so much the worse for
them!" A lady, directing one of the hospitals of that city, hastened
to disapprove of these barbarous words, saying that she always took
the same care of Austrians, French and Sardinians, not wishing to make
any difference between friends and enemies, "for," she said, "Our Lord
Jesus Christ made no distinction between men when it was a question of
doing them good."
In Cremona, as everywhere else, the French physicians regret their
insufficient number. "I cannot, without profound sorrow," said Dr.
Sonrier, "think of a small room of twenty-five beds assigned, in
Cremona, to the most dangerously wounded Austrians. I see again their
faces, emaciated and wan, with complexion pallid from exhaustion and
blood poisoning, begging with heartrending gestures, accompanied by
pitiful cries, for one last favor, the amputation of a limb (which they
had hoped to save), to end an intolerable agony of which we are forced
to remain powerless spectators."
Besides the group of courageous and indefatigable surgeons, whose names
I would like to be able to cite (for, certainly, if to kill men is a
title to glory, to nurse them and cure them, often at the risk of one's
own life, merits indeed esteem and gratitude), medical students hasten
from Bologna, Pisa and other Italian cities. A Canadian surgeon, Dr.
Norman Bettun, professor of anatomy in Toronto, comes to assist these
devoted men. Besides the people of Lombardy, French, Swiss and Belgian
tourists seek to render themselves useful, but their efforts had to
be limited to the distribution of oranges, ices, coffee, lemonade and
tobacco.
In Plaisance, whose three hospitals are administered by private
individuals, and by ladies serving as nurses, one of these last, a
young lady, supplicated by her family to renounce her intention to pass
her days in the hospital, on account of the contagious fevers there,
continued her labors so willingly and with such kindness that she was
greatly esteemed by all the soldiers. "She enlivens the hospital," they
said.
How valuable, in the cities of Lombardy, would have been some hundreds
of voluntary nurses, devoted, experienced and, above all, previously
instructed! They would have rallied around themselves the meagre band
of assistants and the scattered forces. Not only was time lacking to
those who were capable of counselling and guiding; but the necessary
knowledge and experience was not possessed by the greater number of
those who could offer only personal devotion, which was insufficient
and often useless. What, indeed, in spite of their good will, could
a handful of persons do in such urgent need? After some weeks the
compassionate enthusiasm began to cool and the people, as inexperienced
as they were injudicious in their kindness, sometimes brought improper
food to the wounded, so that it was necessary to deny them entrance to
the churches and hospitals.
Many persons, who would have consented to pass one or two hours
a day with the sick, gave up their intention, because a special
permission was necessary, which could only be obtained by petitioning
the authorities. Strangers disposed to help met with all kinds of
unexpected hindrances, of a nature to discourage them. But voluntary
hospital workers, well chosen and capable, sent by societies with the
sanction of the governments and respected because of an agreement
between the belligerents, would have surmounted the difficulties and
done incomparably more good.
During the first eight days after the battle the wounded, of whom the
physicians said, in low tones, when passing by their beds and shaking
their heads: "There is nothing more to be done," received no more
attention and died neglected. And is not this very natural when the
scarcity of the nurses is compared with the enormous number of the
wounded? An inexorable and cruel logic insists that these unfortunate
men should be left to perish without further care and without having
given to them the precious time that must be reserved for the soldiers
who could be cured. They were numerous, however, and not deaf, those
unfortunate men on whom was passed such pitiless judgment! Soon they
perceive their deserted condition and with a broken and embittered
heart gasp out the last breath while no one notices.
The death of many a one among them is rendered more sad and bitter
by the proximity, on a cot by his side, of a young soldier, slightly
wounded, whose foolish jokes leave him neither peace nor tranquillity.
On the other side, one of his companions in misery has just died; and,
he dying, must see and hear the funeral ceremony, much too rapidly
performed, which shows him in advance his own. Finally, about to die,
he sees men, profiting by his weakness, search his knapsack and steal
what they desire.
For that dying man there have been, lying in the postoffice for eight
days, letters from his family; if he could have had them, they would
have been to him a great consolation; he has entreated the nurses to
bring them that he may read them before his last hour, but they replied
unkindly, that they had not time as there was so much else to do.
Better would it have been for you, poor martyr, if you had perished,
struck dead on the field of butchery, in the midst of the splendid
abomination which men call "Glory!" Your name, at least, would not have
been forgotten, if you had fallen near your colonel defending the flag
of your regiment. It would almost have been better for you had you been
buried alive by the peasants commissioned for that purpose, when you,
unconscious, were carried from the hill of the Cypresses, from the foot
of the tower of Solferino or from the plains of Medole. Your agony
would not have been long. Now, it is a succession of miseries that you
must endure, it is no longer the field of honor that is presented to
you, but cold death with all its terrors, and the word "disappeared"
for a funeral oration.
What has become of the love of glory which electrified this brave
soldier at the commencement of the campaign and during that day at
Solferino, when, risking his own life, he so courageously attempted to
take the lives of his fellow-creatures, whose blood he ran, with such
light feet, to shed? Where is the irresistible allurement? Where the
contagious enthusiasm, increased by the odor of powder, by the flourish
of trumpets and by the sound of military music, by the noise of cannon
and the whistling of bullets which hide the view of danger, suffering
and death.
In these many hospitals of Lombardy may be seen at what price is bought
that which men so proudly call "Glory," and how dearly this glory costs.
The battle of Solferino is the only one during our century to be
compared by the magnitude of its losses with the battles of Moscow,
Leipzig and Waterloo.
As a consequence of the twenty-fourth of June, 1859, it has been
calculated that there were in killed and wounded, in the Austrian and
Franco-Sardinian Armies, three field-marshals, nine generals, fifteen
hundred and sixty-six officers of all grades, of whom six hundred and
thirty were Austrians and nine hundred and thirty-six allies, and about
forty thousand soldiers and non-commissioned officers.
Besides that, from the fifteenth of June to the thirty-first of August,
there were in the hospitals of Brescia, according to the official
statistics, nineteen thousand six hundred and sixty-five patients with
fever and other illnesses, of whom more than nineteen thousand belonged
to the Franco-Sardinian Army.
On their side, the Austrians had at least twenty thousand sick soldiers
in Venice, beside ten thousand wounded, who, after Solferino, were sent
to Verona, where the overcrowded hospitals were finally attacked by
gangrene and typhus fever.
Consequently, to the forty thousand killed and wounded on the
twenty-fourth of June, must be added more than forty thousand sick with
fever or dying from illness caused by the excessive fatigue experienced
on the day of the battle or during the days which preceded and
succeeded it or from the pernicious effects of the tropical temperature
of the plains of Lombardy, or, finally, from the imprudence of these
soldiers themselves.
If one does not consider the military point of view, the battle of
Solferino was then, from the point of humanity a European catastrophe.
The transportation of the wounded from Brescia to Milan, which takes
place during the night because of the torrid heat of the day, presents
a dramatic sight with its trains loaded with crippled soldiers arriving
at the station filled with crowds of people.
Lighted by the pale flare of the tar torches, the mass of men seems
to hold its breath to listen to the groans and the stifled complaints
which reach their ears.
The Austrians, in their retreat, having torn up several places on the
railroad between Milan and Brescia--this road was restored for use
by the first days of July, for the transportation of ammunition, of
supplies and of food sent to the allied army--the evacuation of the
hospitals in Brescia was in this way facilitated.
At each station, long and narrow sheds have been constructed to receive
the wounded. These, when taken from the cars, are placed on mattresses,
arranged in a line one after the other. Under these sheds are set up
tables covered with bread, soup, lemonade, wine, water, lint, linen
and bandages. Torches, carried by the young men of the place where
the convoy stops, light the darkness. The citizens of Lombardy hasten
to present their tribute of gratitude to the conquerors of Solferino;
in respectful silence they bandage the wounded whom they have lifted
carefully out of the cars to place them on the beds made ready for
their use. The women of the country offer refreshing drinks, and food
of all kinds, which they distribute on the cars to those who must go on
to Milan.
In this city, where about a thousand wounded have arrived every night
for several nights in succession, the martyrs of Solferino are received
with great kindness. No longer are rose leaves scattered from the
flag-ornamented balconies of the luxurious palaces of the Milanese
aristocracy, on shining epaulets and on striped gold and enameled
orders, by beautiful and graceful ladies whom exaltation and enthusiasm
rendered still more beautiful. To-day, in their gratitude, they shed
tears of compassion which are interpreted by devotion and sacrifice.
Every family possessing a carriage, goes to the station to transport
the wounded. The number of equipages sent by the people of Milan
probably exceeds five hundred. The finest carriages as well as the
most modest carts are sent every evening to Porto Tosca, where stands
the railroad station for Venice. The Italian ladies consider it an
honor to themselves to place in their rich carriages, which they have
provided with mattresses, sheets and pillows, the guests assigned to
them and who are accompanied by the greatest noblemen of Lombardy,
aided in this work by their not less considerate servants.
The people applaud the passage of these men, famed because of their
suffering. They respectfully uncover their heads. They follow the
slow march of the convoy with torches illuminating the sad faces of
the wounded, who try to smile. They accompany them to the door of the
hospitable palace, where awaits them the most devoted care.
Every family wishes to receive the French wounded and, by all sorts of
kindness, try to lessen the sadness caused by distance from home, from
parents and from friends.
But after a few days the greater number of the inhabitants of Milan
are obliged to remove to the hospitals the wounded whom they have
received in their houses. The administration desires to avoid too
great scattering of the nursing and any increase of fatigue for the
physicians. Before Solferino, the hospitals of this city contained
about nine thousand wounded from preceding battles.
Great Milanese ladies watch beside the bed of the simple soldier, of
whom they become the guardian angels. Countess Verri, née Borroméo,
Madame Uboldi de Capei, Madame Boselli, Madame Sala-Taverna, Countess
Taverna and many others, forgetting their luxurious habits, pass whole
months by these beds of suffering. Some of these ladies are mothers,
whose mourning garments testify to a recent and sorrowful loss. One of
them said: "The war robbed me of my oldest son; he died eight months
ago, from a shot received while fighting with the French Army at
Sebastopol. When I knew that the French wounded were coming to Milan
and that I could nurse them, I felt that God was sending me His first
consolation."
Countess Verri-Borroméo, president of the Central Aid Committee, has
charge of the great depot for linens and lint. In spite of her advanced
age she devotes many hours a day to reading to the sick.
All the palaces contain wounded. That of the Borroméo family has
received three hundred. The Superior of the Ursulines, Sister Marina
Videmari, has converted her convent into a hospital and serves in it
with her companions. This convent-hospital is a model of order and
cleanliness.
The Marchioness Pallavicini-Trivulzio, who presides over the great
Turin Committee with admirable devotion and self-forgetfulness,
collects the donations from different cities and countries; thanks to
her activity the depot in Milan, situated contrada San Paolo, remains
always well provided.
Some weeks later, in the streets of Milan, there were seen passing
a few companies of convalescent French soldiers sadly returning to
France. Some have their arms in slings, others are supported by
crutches or bear marks of wounds. Their uniforms are well worn and
torn, but they wear fine linen, which the rich men of Lombardy have
generously given them in exchange for their blood-stained shirts:
"Your blood flowed to defend our country," they said, "and we wish
to keep these memories of it." These men, not long ago so strong, so
robust, now deprived of an arm or a leg or with head bandaged, bear
their misfortune with resignation. But, thus incapable of continuing
in the army and earning bread for their families, they already with
bitterness, behold themselves, after their return to their native
land, objects of commiseration and pity, a care to others and to
themselves.
In one of the hospitals of Milan, a sergeant of the Zouave Guard,
with an energetic and proud face, who has had one leg amputated and
had borne that operation without a complaint, was seized, some time
after, with extreme sadness, although his health was improving and his
recovery rapidly taking place. This sadness, increasing daily, was
incomprehensible. A Sister of Charity, perceiving tears in his eyes,
questioned so insistently that he at last confessed that he was the
sole support of his aged and infirm mother to whom he used to send each
month five francs of his pay. He added that, being unable to help her,
this poor woman must be in great need of money. The Sister of Charity,
touched with compassion, gave him five francs, the value of which was
immediately sent to France. When the directress of the hospital wished
to make him another gift, he would not accept it, and said to her
thankfully: "Keep this money for others who need it more than I; as for
my mother, I hope next month to send her her usual allowance, for I
count on soon being able to work."
A lady of Milan, bearing an illustrious name, placed at the disposition
of the wounded one of her palaces, with one hundred and fifty beds.
Among the soldiers, lodged in this magnificent mansion, was a grenadier
of the Seventieth Regiment of the French Infantry, who, having
undergone an operation, was in danger of death. The lady, trying to
console him, spoke to him of his family. He told her that he was the
only son of poor peasants in the Department of Gers, and that he was
very sad at leaving his parents in misery, for he alone provided
for their maintenance. He added that his greatest consolation would
be to kiss his mother before he died. Saying nothing to him of her
project, the noble lady suddenly decides to leave Milan, takes the
train, reaches the Departments of Gers, near the family, whose address
she has procured, takes possession of the mother of the wounded man.
After having left a large sum of money for the infirm old father, she
brings the humble villager with her to Milan; and six days after the
confession of the grenadier, the son kisses his mother, weeping and
blessing his benefactress.
But why recall so many pitiful and melancholy scenes and thus arouse
such painful emotions? Why relate, with complaisance, these lamentable
details and dwell upon these distressing pictures?
To this very natural question we reply with another question.
Would it not be possible to establish in every country of Europe, Aid
Societies, whose aim would be to provide, during war, volunteer nurses
for the wounded, without distinction of nationality?
As they wish us to give up the desires and hopes of the Societies
of the Friends of Peace, the beautiful dreams of the Abbot of Saint
Pierre and of Count Sellon; as men continue to kill each other without
personal enmity, and as the height of glory in war is to exterminate
the greatest number possible; as they still dare to say, as did Count
Joseph de Maistre, that "war is divine"; as they invent every day with
a perseverence worthy of a better aim, instruments of destruction more
and more terrible, and as the inventors of these death-dealing engines
are encouraged by all the European governments--who arm themselves in
emulation one of another--why not profit from a moment of comparative
calm and tranquillity in order to settle the question which we have
just raised, and which is of such great importance from the double
point of view of humanity and Christianity.
Once presented to the consideration of every man, this theme will
probably call forth opinions and writings from more competent persons;
but, first, must not this idea, presented to the different branches
of the great European family, hold the attention and conquer the
sympathies of all those who possess an elevated soul and a heart
capable of being moved by the suffering of their fellow-men?
Such is the purpose for which this book has been written.
Societies of this kind, once created, with a permanent existence, would
be found all ready at the time of war. They should obtain the favor of
the authorities of countries where they are created, and beg, in case
of war, from the sovereigns of the belligerent powers the permission
and the facilities necessary to carry out their purpose. These
societies should include in their own and each country, as members of
the central committee, the most honorable and esteemed men.
The moment of the commencement of war, the committee would call
on those persons who desire to dedicate themselves, for the time
being, to this work, which will consist in helping and nursing, under
the guidance of experienced physicians, the wounded, first on the
battle-field, then in the field and regular hospitals.
Spontaneous devotion is not as rare as one might think. Many persons,
sure of being able to do some good, helped and facilitated by a
Superior Committee, would certainly go, and others, at their own
expense, would undertake a task so essentially beneficent. During our
selfish century what an attraction for the generous-hearted and for
chivalrous characters to brave the same danger as the soldier with an
entirely voluntary mission of peace and consolation.
History proves that it is in no way chimerical to hope for such
self-devotion. Two recent facts especially have just confirmed this.
They occurred during the war in the East and closely relate to our
subject.
While Sisters of Charity were nursing the wounded and sick of the
French army in the Crimea, into the Russian and English armies, there
came, from the north and west, two groups of self-devoted women nurses.
The Grand Duchess Helen Pavlovna, of Russia, born, Princess Charlotte,
of Wurttemberg, widow of the Grand Duke Michael, having enlisted
nearly three hundred ladies of St. Petersburg and Moscow, to serve as
nurses in the Russian hospitals of the Crimea; she provided them with
everything necessary, and these saintly women were blessed by thousands
of soldiers.
In England, Miss Florence Nightingale, having received a pressing
appeal from Lord Sidney Herbert, Secretary of War of the British
Empire, inviting her to go to the aid of the English soldiers in the
Orient, this lady did not hesitate to expose herself personally by
great self-devotion. In November, 1854, she went to Constantinople and
Scutari with thirty-seven English ladies, who, immediately on arrival
gave their attention to nursing the great number of men, wounded in
the battle of Inkerman. In 1855 Miss Stanley, having come to take part
in her labor with fifty new companions, made it possible for Miss
Nightingale to go to Balaklava to inspect the hospitals there. The
picture of Miss Florence Nightingale, during the night, going through
the vast wards of the military hospitals with a small lamp in her
hand, noting the condition of each sick man, will never be obliterated
from the hearts of the men, who were the objects or the witnesses of
her admirable beneficence, and the memory of it will be engraven in
history.
Of the multitude of similar good works, ancient or modern, the greater
number of which have remained unknown and without fame, how many have
been in vain, because they were isolated and were not supported by
a united action, which would have wisely joined them together for a
common aim.
If voluntary hospital workers could have been found in Castiglione on
the twenty-fourth, the twenty-fifth, and the twenty-sixth of June, and
also in Brescia, Mantua, and Verona, how much good they might have done.
How many human beings they might have saved from death during that
fatal Friday night, when moans and heartrending supplications escaped
from the breasts of thousands of the wounded, who were enduring the
most acute pains and tormented by the inexpressible suffering of thirst.
If Prince von Isenburg had been rescued sooner, by compassionate hands,
from the blood-soaked field on which he was lying unconscious, he
would not have been obliged to suffer for several years from wounds
aggravated by long neglect; if the sight of his riderless horse had not
brought about his discovery among the corpses, he would have perished
for lack of help with so many other wounded, who also were creatures of
God, and whose death would be equally cruel for their families.
Those good old women, those beautiful young girls of Castiglione could
not save the lives of many of those whom they nursed! Besides them were
needed experienced men, skillful, decided, previously trained to act
with order and harmony, the only means of preventing the accidents,
which complicate the wounds and make them mortal.
If there could have been a sufficient number of assistants to remove
the wounded quickly from the plains of Medole, from the ravines of San
Martin, on the slopes of Mount Fontana, or on the hills of Solferino,
there would not have been left during long hours of terrible fear
that poor bersaglier, that Uhlan, or that Zouave, who tried to raise
himself, in spite of cruel suffering, to gesticulate in vain for
someone to send a litter for him. Finally, the risk of burying the
living with the dead would have been avoided.
Better means of transportation would have made it possible to avoid in
the case of the light infantryman of the Guard the terrible amputation
which he had to undergo in Brescia, because of the lack of proper care
during the journey from the battle-field to Castiglione.
The sight of those young cripples, deprived of an arm, or a leg,
returning sadly to their homes, does it not call forth remorse that
there was not more effort made before to avert the evil consequences of
the wounds, which, often could have been cured by timely aid?
Would those dead, deserted in the hospitals of Castiglione, or in
those of Brescia, many of whom could not make themselves understood,
on account of the difference of language, have gasped out their last
breath with curses and blasphemies, if they had had near them some
compassionate soul to listen to them and console them?
In spite of the official aid, in spite of the zeal of the cities of
Lombardy, much remained to be done, although in no other war has been
seen so great a display of charity; it was nevertheless unequal to the
extent of the help that was needed.
It is not the paid employee, whom disgust drives away, whom fatigue
makes unfeeling, unsympathetic and lazy who can fulfil such a noble
task. Immediate help is needed, for that which can to-day save the
wounded will not save him to-morrow; the loss of time causes gangrene,
which leads to death. One must have volunteer nurses, previously
trained, accustomed to the work, officially recognized by the
commanding officers of the armies, so that they may be facilitated in
their mission.
These nurses should not only find their place on the battle-field, but
also in the hospitals, where the long weeks pass away painfully for
the wounded, without family and without friends. During this short
Italian war, there were soldiers who were attacked with home-sickness
to such a degree that, without other illness and without wounds, they
died. On the other hand, the Italians, and this is comprehensible,
showed scarcely any interest in the wounded of the allied army, and
still less for the suffering Austrians. It is true, courageous women
were found in Italy, whose patience and perseverance never wearied;
but, unfortunately, in the end they could be easily counted; the
contagious fevers drove many persons away, and the nurses and servants
did not respond for any length of time, to that which might have been
expected of them. The personnel of the military hospitals is always
insufficient; and, if it were doubled or tripled, it would still be
insufficient. We must call on the public, it is not possible, it never
will be possible to avoid that. Only by this co-operation can one hope
to lessen the sufferings of war.
An appeal must be made, a petition presented to the men of all
countries, of all classes, to the influential of this world, as well as
to the most modest artisan, since all can, in one way or another, each
in his own sphere, and according to his strength, co-operate in some
measure in this good work.
This appeal is addressed to women as well as to men, to the queen,
to the princess seated on the steps of the throne, as well as to the
humble orphaned and charitable maid-servant or the poor widow alone in
the world, who desires to consecrate her last strength to the good of
others.
It is addressed to the general, to the marshal, the Minister of War, as
well as to the writer and the man of letters, who, by his publications,
can plead with ability for the cause, thereby interesting all mankind,
each nation, each country, each family even, since no one can say for
certain that he is exempt from the dangers of war.
If an Austrian general and a French general, after having fought
one against another at Solferino, could, soon afterwards, finding
themselves seated side by side at the hospitable table of the King
of Prussia, converse amicably one with the other, what would have
prevented them from considering and discussing a question so worthy of
their interest and attention?
During the grand manoeuvers at Cologne, in 1861, King William of
Prussia invited to dinner, in Benrath Castle, near Dusseldorf, the
officers of the different nations, who were sent there by their
governments. Before going to the table the King took by the hand
General Forey and General Baumgarten: "Now that you are friends," he
said to them, smiling, "sit there, beside one another, and chat." Forey
was the victor of Montebello, and Baumgarten was his adversary.
On extraordinary occasions, such as those which assembled at Cologne,
at Chalons, or elsewhere, eminent men of the military art of different
nations, is it not to be desired that they will profit by this kind
of congress to formulate some international, sacred, and accepted
principle which, once agreed upon and ratified, would serve as the
foundation for societies for aid for the wounded in the different
countries of Europe? It is still more important to agree upon and adopt
in advance these measures, because when hostilities have commenced,
the belligerents are ill-disposed one towards the other, and will not
consider these questions, except from the exclusive point of view of
their own interests.
Are not small congresses called together of scientists, jurists,
medical men, agriculturists, statisticians, and economists, who meet
expressly in order to consider questions of much less importance? Are
there not international societies which are occupied with questions of
charity and public utility? Cannot men, in like manner, meet to solve a
problem as important as that of caring for the victims of war?
Humanity and civilization surely demand the accomplishment of such a
work. It is a duty, to the fulfilment of which every good man, and
every person possessing any influence owes his assistance.
What prince, what ruler, would refuse his support to these societies,
and would not be glad to give the soldiers of his army the full
assurance that they will be immediately and properly nursed in case
they should be wounded?
With permanent societies, such as I propose, the chance of waste and
the injudicious distribution of money and supplies would often be
avoided. During the war in the East an enormous quantity of lint,
prepared by Russian ladies, was sent from St. Petersburg to the Crimea;
but the packages, instead of reaching the hospitals to which they were
sent, arrived at paper mills which used it all for their own industry.
By perfecting the means of transportation, by preventing the accidents
during the journey from the battle-field to the hospital, many
amputations will be avoided, and the burden of the governments, which
pension the injured will be proportionately lessened.
These societies, by their permanent existence, could also render great
service at the time of epidemics, floods, great fires, and other
unexpected catastrophes; the humane motive which would have created
them would instigate them to act on all occasions in which their labors
could be exercised.
This work will necessitate the devotion of a certain number of persons,
but it will never lack money in time of war. Each one will bring his
offering or his compassion in response to the appeals which will be
made by the committee. A nation will not remain indifferent when its
children are fighting for its defense. The difficulty is not there;
but the problem rests entirely in the serious preparation, in all
countries, of a work of this kind, that is, in the creation of these
societies.
In order to establish these committees at the head of the societies,
all that is necessary is a little good-will on the part of some
honorable and persevering persons. The committees, animated by an
international spirit of charity, would create corps of nurses in a
latent state, a sort of staff. The committees of the different nations,
although independent of one another, will know how to understand and
correspond with each other, to convene in congress and, in event of
war, to act for the good of all.
If the terrible instruments of destruction now possessed by the nations
seem to shorten wars, will not, on the other hand, the battles be
more deadly? And in this century, when the unexpected plays such an
important role, may not war bring about the most sudden and unforseen
results?
Are there not, in these considerations alone, more than sufficient
reasons for us not to allow ourselves to be taken unawares?