Terrible loss of life at the battle of Pittsburg Landing or Shiloh. Sister Anthony wins enduring laurels. Seven hundred wounded soldiers crowded on one boat. The deck of the vessel resembles a slaughter house. A Sister of Charity acts as assistant surgeon. Sisters refuse to abandon their patients. Sketch of the life of Sister Anthony.

The battle of Shiloh, Tenn, sometimes known as the battle of Pittsburg Landing, was one of the great combats of the war. Shiloh cost the Union army in killed, wounded and prisoners 14,000 men, while the Confederates lost 10,700 men, including General Albert Sidney Johnston, who fell in the first day’s fight. The battles were fought on the 6th and 7th of April, 1862. The morning of the 6th was clear and beautiful, with no indications of a storm; but the day’s terrific battle was followed by a night of drenching rain. The battle of the next day was also succeeded by a fearful storm, which in this case consisted of rain, hail and sleet. An eye-witness writing of this says: “And to add to the horrors of the scene, the elements of Heaven marshaled their forces—a fitting accompaniment to the tempest of human devastation and passion that was raging. A cold, drizzling rain commenced about nightfall and soon came harder and faster, then turned to pitiless, blinding hail. This storm raged with unrelenting violence for three hours. I passed long wagon trains filled with wounded and dying soldiers without even a blanket to shield them from the driving sleet and hail which fell in stones as large as partridge eggs until it lay on the ground two inches deep.”6

It was by the work that she did at and after this battle that Sister Anthony, a notable member of the Sisters of Charity, won enduring laurels. She left Cincinnati for Shiloh, accompanied by two other Sisters of Charity, Dr. Blackman, of Cincinnati; Mrs. Hatch and daughter, Miss McHugh, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and some charitable ladies of the Queen City. This trip was made on Captain Ross’ boat, under the care of Dr. Blackman. Sister Anthony, whose mind is unimpaired and whose memory is excellent, thus tells of her experience at Shiloh:

“At Shiloh we ministered to the men on board what were popularly known as the floating hospitals. We were often obliged to move farther up the river, being unable to bear the terrific stench from the bodies of the dead on the battlefield. This was bad enough, but what we endured on the field of battle while gathering up the wounded is simply beyond description. At one time there were 700 of the poor soldiers crowded in one boat. Many were sent to our hospital in Cincinnati. Others were so far restored to health as to return to the scene of war. Many died good, holy deaths. Although everything seemed dark and gloomy, some amusing incidents occurred. Some days after the battle of Shiloh the young surgeons went off on a kind of lark, and Dr. Blackman took me as assistant in surgical operations, and I must acknowledge I was much pleased to be able to assist in alleviating the sufferings of these noble men.

“The soldiers were remarkably kind to one another. They went around the battlefield giving what assistance they could, placing the wounded in comfortable places, administering cordials, etc., until such time as the nurses could attend to the wounded and sick. I remember one poor soldier whose nose had been shot off, who had almost bled to death and would have been missed had we not discovered him in a pen, where some kind comrade had placed him before he left the field, every other place of refuge being occupied. His removal from the pen caused great pain, loss of blood, etc. The blood ran down his shirt and coat sleeves, down his pantaloons and into his very boots. He was very patient in the boat up the river. On arriving in Cincinnati he was placed in a ward in our hospital. Shortly after his arrival in the city a gentleman came to Cincinnati and called at the Burnett House, which was then used as a military hospital, inquiring for his son. After searching everywhere else he called at St. John’s Hospital. I met this sorrowing father just as I was leaving the hospital to attend to some business. From the description he gave I concluded that the boy without the nose must be his son. I took him to the ward. When we reached the bed where the man lay the father did not know him.

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘if he is my child I shall know him by his head.’ Running his fingers through the boy’s hair he exclaimed: ‘My son! my dear boy!’

“There was one young man under the care of Sister De Sales. This Sister spoke to him of heaven, of God and of his soul. Of God he knew nothing, of heaven he never heard, and he was absolutely ignorant of a Supreme Being. He became much interested in what the Sister said and was anxious to know something more of this good God of whom the Sister spoke. This good Sister of Charity instructed him, and, no priest being near, she baptized him and soon his soul took its flight to that God whom he so late learned to know and love.

“Were I to enumerate all the good done, conversions made, souls saved, columns would not suffice. Often have I gazed at Sister De Sales, as she bent over the cots of those poor boys, ministering to their every want, in the stillness of the night. Ah! here is one to whom she gives a cool drink, here another whose amputated and aching limbs need attention, there an old man dying, into whose ears she whispers the request to repeat those beautiful words: ‘Lord, have mercy on my soul!’ I asked myself: ‘Do angels marvel at this work?’

“Day often dawned on us only to renew the work of the preceding day, without a moment’s rest. Often the decks of the vessels resembled a slaughter house, filled as they were with the dead and dying.”

The following is what an eye-witness says of Sister Anthony: “Amid this sea of blood she performed the most revolting duties for those poor soldiers. Let us follow her as she gropes her way among the wounded, dead and dying. She seemed to me like a ministering angel, and many a young soldier owes his life to her care and charity. Let us gaze at her again as she stands attentive kindness and assists Dr. Blackman while the surgeon is amputating limbs and consigning them to a watery grave, or as she picks her steps in the blood of these brave boys, administering cordial or dressing wounds.”

A Sister relates a sad story of a young man who was shot in the neck. The wound was very deep. From the effect of this and the scorching rays of the sun he suffered a burning thirst. He was too weak to move, when suddenly the rain fell down in torrents. Holding out his weak hands, he caught a few drops, which sustained life until he was found among the dead and dying on the battlefield. Cordials were given which relieved him. His looks of gratitude were reward enough. Many other soldiers who were thought to be dying eventually recovered.

After the Sisters had finished their work at Shiloh they followed the army to Corinth, where the Confederates had retreated. The river was blocked by obstacles in the stream and progress by boat was necessarily slow. Finally the impediments became so thick that the boat was stopped altogether. The vessel was crowded and the situation was a critical one. The captain finally said that it was a matter of life and death and that the Sisters would have to flee for their lives. To do this it would have been necessary to abandon their patients, who were enduring the greatest misery on the boat. This the Sisters heroically refused to do. All expressed their willingness to remain with the “wounded boys” until the end and to share their fate, whatever it might be. Such heroism melted the hearts of hardened men. The Sisters fell on their knees and called on the “Star of the Sea” to intercede for them, that the bark might be guarded from all harm. And their prayer was answered. Two brave pilots came, who steered the boat to their destination and to a place of safety.

After the war Dr. Blackman became an active member of the medical staff of the Good Samaritan Hospital in Cincinnati and ever proved a sincere friend of Sister Anthony. The Sisters unite in praising the services of Mrs. Hatch and her daughter. Miss Hatch was a most estimable lady, who bestowed upon the soldiers the greatest of charity and kindness. Many of them called her “Sister Jennie,” a rare compliment for one who was not a religious.

The groans of the soldiers on the battlefield of Shiloh still linger in the memories of many of the Sisters. Sister Anthony and her colleagues frequently picked their way through the files of the dead and wounded, and on many occasions assisted in carrying the sufferers to the boats. These floating hospitals were unique in many ways, but they will ever remain memorable as the scenes of the Sisters’ greatest triumphs, where they did so much for the cause of humanity and where so many unwarranted prejudices were removed from the minds of brave men.

Among the war Sisters none was regarded with more affection and reverence than this same Sister Anthony, who spent her last years near Cincinnati, surrounded with all the loving attentions and comforts that should go with honorable old age. Her work for humanity was spread over a long series of years, and the heroic labors she performed during the war form but an episode in a busy and useful career. But it was a brilliant episode, one that deserves to be handed down to history and that brought fadeless laurels to a modest and unpretending woman.

Sister Anthony O’Connell was born in Limerick, Ireland, of pious Catholic parents. She came with them to this country at an early age, and, in pursuance of a long-cherished idea, renounced the world and was vested with the familiar habit of the Sisters of Charity. Her novitiate and earlier years in the order were spent at Emmittsburg, Md. Finally she was placed in charge of a community at Cincinnati. According to good people in that city who carefully watched her career, she displayed unusual devotion, business talent and self-sacrifice. Through her exertions an orphan asylum was founded at Cumminsville, where large numbers of friendless and homeless children were cared for and reared to a sense of their responsibility to God and man.

When the Civil war broke out Governor David Tod issued a call for volunteer nurses. Alive to the necessities of the occasion, Sister Anthony relinquished the care of her asylum to other hands and, taking a band of Sisters with her, offered their services. Their work was in the South, most of it being in and around Nashville, Shiloh, Richmond, Ky.; New Creek and Cumberland. Colonel John S. Billings, M. D., now of the Surgeon General’s office at Washington, is one of the physicians having personal knowledge of Sister Anthony, and he speaks of her in the very highest terms. “I first knew Sister Anthony,” he said to the writer, “in 1859, when she was in charge of the old St. John’s Hospital, on Fourth street, Cincinnati, in which I was resident physician, and I have known her ever since. I can say very cordially that she was a competent hospital manager and that I have always had the greatest respect and affection for her.”7.

Sister Anthony and her brave assistants spent many months in Nashville. The care and attention that was bestowed upon the sick and wounded soldiers of both the Union and Confederate armies did much to dispel the thoughtless prejudices that had previously existed against the Sisters. They went about like good angels, easing many a troubled spirit and showering love upon all with whom they came in contact. Sister Anthony stood out in bold relief from all the others, and one who has knowledge of those times says: “Happy was the soldier who, wounded and bleeding, had her near him to whisper words of consolation and courage. Her person was reverenced by Blue and Gray, Protestant and Catholic alike, and the love for her became so strong that the title of the ‘Florence Nightingale’ of America was conferred upon her, and soon her name became a household word in every section of the North and South.” Many of the Sisters with whom she worked fell upon the field of honor, but Sister Anthony lived and survived to enjoy a peaceful old age and the sweet thought and consolation of work well done.

The ending of the war, however, did not end her work. After the white wings of peace had been spread over the battlefields she returned to Cincinnati and made an effort to found an asylum that should be larger and greater than old St. John’s, where she had labored before the war. For a time it looked as if this noble intention was to be frustrated. Funds were not available and the usually charitable people of the city seemed to be indifferent. They only seemed, however, for just when the effort was about to be given up in despair, John C. Butler and Lewis Worthington, two of the wealthy men of the city, came forward with sufficient money to build and equip a magnificent institution. The result of this was the establishment of the Good Samaritan Hospital. Sister Anthony was placed in charge and the work she did there equaled, if it did not exceed, her war experiences. Already a model nurse, she became a model hospital manager. In the hospital she increased her great knowledge and made a science of nursing the sick. She remained in executive control of the institution until 1882, when devoted friends finally prevailed upon her to relinquish her task and live in peace and quiet the remainder of her life. She has had several successors, the one now in charge being Sister Sebastian.

Sister Anthony departed this life at 6 P. M. on Wednesday, December 8, 1897, in her room, in St. Joseph’s Maternity Hospital and Infant Asylum, conducted by the Sisters of Charity at Norwood, O. Her last days were as tranquil and peaceful as the most devoted friend could desire. The fortnight before her death was spent chiefly in prayer. On the Saturday prior to her demise she received Holy Communion in the chapel attached to the hospital. It was destined to be her last visit to the holy table she loved so much. That same day she was prostrated and compelled to take her bed. Here she remained until she calmly expired on the following Wednesday.

Sister Anthony made her home with the Sisters at Norwood during the last few years of her life. Her love for the poor unfortunates of the hospital and the helpless little foundlings in the asylum was boundless. Notwithstanding her extreme age she was very active and delighted to mingle with the inmates every morning, giving them words of comfort and consolation and in a hundred and one little ways trying to lighten their burdens. She was ever cheerful and kind, and those who knew her best cannot recall an instance where a word of impatience or complaint ever escaped her lips.

The news of her death created great sorrow among the old soldiers, with whom she was a great favorite. Many military organizations took formal action as an evidence of their regard and esteem. For instance, William H. Lytle Post, Grand Army of the Republic, passed the following resolutions of respect:

“Whereas, The venerable Sister Anthony departed this life on Wednesday afternoon, after a life of usefulness in taking care of the sick and doing boundless charity, and

“Whereas, She was one of the most active nurses during the war, doing many kind, silent acts, and

“Whereas, She will be buried from St. Peter’s Cathedral, Saturday, at 9 o’clock, be it

“Resolved, That, in order to show our gratitude and affection for her and appreciation of her services as an army nurse, we attend her funeral and invite all other posts to participate with us.”

It is the usual custom for the Sisters of Charity to be buried from the mother house, but in recognition of the great services of Sister Anthony the Archbishop ordered that the funeral be from the Cathedral. The body remained at the Foundling Asylum, where she died, until Friday, when the remains were brought to Cincinnati and laid in state at the Good Samaritan Hospital. The following morning the last services were held in the Cathedral. The scene was a memorable one. A vast multitude gathered near the church; only a very small proportion was able to gain admittance to the sacred edifice. As the cortege approached heads were bowed in grief and silent reverence. Not a wreath or flower relieved the simple severity of the pall, but a dozen men stood about the casket, its guard of honor. These were the men who on the field of battle, in the rain of bullet and shell, had watched the coming of that form, that now lay cold within the narrow house, with anxiety born of despair. The battle flags now furled and draped in their hands had been the beacon that had led her where pain and fever raged, and it was meet that the Stars and Stripes should follow to her tomb.

In the casket’s wake came the guard of honor and one hundred Sisters of Charity in their sombre habits. The forward pews had been reserved for the Sisters and orphans of the asylum, which the dead Sister had founded. The white head-dresses of the little girls and white collars of the boys were in marked contrast to the black garb of the Sisters, silhouetted against the brilliant background. Archbishop Elder, Bishop Byrne, of Nashville, a large number of priests and fifty seminarians were present.

Archbishop Elder celebrated the mass, assisted by the Rev. J. C. Albrinck. Rev. John H. Schoenelt was the deacon of the mass, and Rev. Father Van Briss sub-deacon. The deacons of honor were the Very Rev. John Murray and the Very Rev. John M. Mackay. Rev. Henry Moeller was master of ceremonies.

Bishop Byrne, of Nashville, who preached the sermon, said among other things: “We are come together to pay the last tribute to one who is worthy of such a tribute—to one whose figure was a familiar one on the streets of Cincinnati, and whom you all knew and loved. Her fame extended beyond the limits of the State and was not circumscribed by the limits of a continent, and the Church, always in sympathy with such nobility of character, has draped her altars in black. Though she is dead she lives. Every prophecy of the word conspires to express this, that she has gone to live forever. That prophecy bids us to exult for a soul gone to Christ. These are the words of the epistles, these are the sentiments expressed by the Church. * * * Christ was her inspiration, and for this reason she trod the battlefield and entered hospitals pregnant with pestilence. Her presence was more to those brave sons of America than that of an angel. Yet she was only a type of many. For the same reason she loved the waifs and castaways, the destitute, afflicted and lowly. I repeat that she was but the type of many, and every Sister of Charity does these acts. One thing more precious than all she has left us and that is her glorious example. To her own Sisters, to her own community, not to Catholics alone, her example is precious. Her fidelity and devotion should be an inspiration.”

The words of the prelate impressed his listeners, as was evidenced by their tears, and when his Grace, the Archbishop, arose there was emotion in his voice as he said:

“You have heard it said what lessons may be drawn from this sad occasion. The pleasures and pains of this world pass away, and only the things done for God last always. Only what is done for the world to come lays by as an eternal treasure. We owe a debt of gratitude to her whose life was so quiet and yet so glorious. We owe her a debt of gratitude for the example she has set us for our encouragement.”

Thereupon the blessing followed, and the mourners filed from the church, preceded by the casket, which after being placed in the hearse, began its last journey to the mother house at Delhi, followed by eight carriages containing the Sisters and the clergy. Arrived there the soulless tenement was placed in the vault of the cemetery, to find private burial without further ceremony at the hands of the good Sisters, her friends and companions.

The following beautiful description of the funeral and interment of Sister Anthony is from the Cincinnati Tribune of December 12, 1897:

“Friday afternoon the remains of Sister Anthony were brought to the Good Samaritan Hospital, where they lay in state in the chapel, visited by hundreds of sorrowing friends. A great number of girls employed in factories near the hospital visited the chapel after working hours to pay a last tribute of respect to her who was at all times their friend and confidant in times of trouble.

It was at the earnest request of the Sisters at the hospital that the remains of Sister Anthony were brought in. They wanted to have her with them once more for the last time, amid the scenes of her noblest work, to pray beside her bier and bid a last farewell to the spirit which they all emulate.

Visitors thronged the chapel far into the night and there was little rest for the Sisters, who were up at dawn and in the chapel again, where the Rev. Father Finn, of the Society of Jesus, sang requiem mass, assisted by the St. Xavier’s choir, under the direction of Mr. Boex.

When the time came for the departure to the Cathedral a number of the friends joined in singing “Lead, Kindly Light” and “Sweet Spirit Hear My Prayer” while the body was borne from the chapel.

These two beautiful hymns were the favorites of Sister Anthony, and she would have wished that they be sung at her funeral.

In the Cathedral, the temple of the religion she loved and worked and prayed for, two veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic, bearing aloft the flags of their country draped in sombre black, stood sentinel at her bier.

There was the procession of priests and companies of Sisters of Charity instead of the rank and file of soldiery; there were embroidered robes and black habits in place of the blue and gray; there were candles instead of camp fires; there was the chime of bells and the chanting of the choir instead of the call of trumpets and beat of drums; there was the organ pealing instead of the musketry roll; there was the fragrance of incense instead of the smoke of the battlefield; there was the counting of beads instead of the binding of wounds; there was the bier and the sable pall instead of the hospital stretcher; there were the whispered prayers of 2000 people on bended knees for the repose of the soul of Sister Anthony.

The morning light streamed dimly and softly through the stained glass windows, and electric lights took the place of the stars in heaven’s blue canopy, but it was the bivouac of the dead.

The ministering angel to soldiers, the comfort of widows and orphans, the friend of the poor, the sick and the unfortunate was dead, and about her, come to do her honor, were soldiers, orphans and widows; those who had been poor and sick and unfortunate, her greatest care in life.

The altars of the church were draped in black, and with high requiem mass and eulogies the priests of the church paid tribute to a noble member of their sisterhood.

Far up above the Ohio, on a beautiful plateau, with a view for miles in every direction, is the mother house of the Sisters of Charity, founded away back in the thirties by pioneers of the order from Emmittsburg, Md.

Here is the grave of Sister Anthony. She lies beside Mother Regina Mattingly and Mother Josephine Harvey, who were with her when she first came West, and with her helped to found the mother house. To-day they sleep together in the little graveyard and near the home they made for their sisterhood.

Their graves are in a little grove of birches and ever-greens and surrounded by the graves of their Sisters who have gone before.

Their graves are marked by simple stone crosses, bearing their names in the world and in religion.

When the funeral train reached the house the Sisters, headed by their chaplain, received the body and bore it to the chapel, where it lay in state for two hours. The Sisters wanted their dear friend for that long at least, for the mother house she always considered her home, and they regarded her as a mother and loved her as such, for to all she was ever the same sweet, lovely and loving friend.

The services for the dead were read by the Rt. Rev. Bishop Byrne, after which the body was borne to the grave.

With slow and solemn tread the long file of black-robed Sisters marched before. A drizzling rain had begun to fall, and in the murky atmosphere the scene took on a solemnity and grandeur impossible to picture. The Sisters chanting prayers and the priests following in their purple robes, and their heavy bass voices joining in had a beautiful effect.

As the procession neared the burying ground the ‘Miserere’ was chanted by all.

There were very few at the graveside besides those connected with the church. Thus ended the earthly career of this “Angel of the Battlefield.”