What is now generally conceded to have been the decisive battle of the Civil War was fought on the 1st, 2d and 3d of July, 1863. It took place in and around Gettysburg, a town located only about ten miles north of Emmittsburg, the mother house of the Sisters of Charity. The Union army was under the control of General George G. Meade, and the Confederate forces under General Robert E. Lee. Over 140,000 men were engaged in that bloody struggle, which lasted until the evening of the third day. The contending armies by their movements advanced more and more toward the Sisters’ house in Maryland. The scene of this historic battle covered an area of over twenty-five square miles. The soldiers were so close to the Sisters’ house that the buildings trembled from the fearful cannonading.

On the morning of July 1, as the head of the One Hundred and Seventh Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers, Second Division, First (Reynolds) Corps was approaching St. Joseph’s Academy near Emmittsburg the soldiers were greeted with a remarkable and impressive sight. A long line of young girls led by several Sisters of Charity took their position along the side of the road and at a word from the Sister in charge all fell upon their knees and with upturned faces toward the vaulted skies earnestly prayed for the spiritual and physical safety of the men who were about to go into deadly battle. The sight was at once solemn and inspiring in the extreme. The roughest soldiers ofttimes have the tenderest hearts, and this scene affected them more than they cared to confess. In an instant the head of every soldier in the line was bowed and bared, and remained so until the prayer was finished. All instinctively felt that the prayers of those self-sacrificing women and innocent children would be answered. To many of the men it was a harbinger of coming victory as certain as the sunshine that smiled upon them on that beautiful July morning. The scene was photographed upon the mind of many a veteran and remained ever afterwards as one of the sweetest memories of the war.10

The night of the third day the rain fell heavily, and it continued raining all the next day. On Sunday morning immediately after Mass, Rev. James Francis Burlando, with twelve Sisters, left Emmittsburg for the battlefield, taking refreshments, bandages, sponges and clothing, with the intention of doing all that was possible for the suffering soldiers and then returning home the next evening.11 The roads previous to the rain had been in a bad condition and the two armies had passed over them with difficulty. But with the mighty rain the mud became so thick that they were almost impassable. The subdued Southerners having retired, their thousands of dead and wounded were left on the field and in the barns and farmhouses in the vicinity. Scouts of the North were stationed here and there, prepared to meet and cope with any eleventh hour surprises. One of these bands seeing the Sisters’ carriages was about to fire on them, thinking they were the ambulances of the enemy. The Sisters had reached a double blockade of zigzag fence thrown across the road for defensive purposes. The visitors wondered whether they dare go around it by turning into the fields, for in the distance they saw soldiers, half hidden in the woods, watching them. Father Burlando put a white handkerchief on a stick and holding it high in the air, walked towards them, while the Sisters alighted and walked about, so that the concealed soldiers might see their white head-dress, known as cornettes. The men viewed the priest sharply, for they had resolved to refuse to recognize a flag of truce if it were offered, but the sight of the cornettes reassured them. They met the priest and, learning his mission, sent an escort with him to open a passage for the Sisters through the fields. The meek messengers of peace and charity soon came in sight of the ravages of grim war.

It was a sight that once seen was not soon to be forgotten. Thousands of guns and swords, representing the weapons of the living, the wounded and the dead, lay scattered about. The downpour from heaven had filled the roads with water, but on this awful battlefield it was red with real blood. The night before the unpitying stars shone down upon the stark forms of the flower of American manhood. Hundreds of magnificent horses—man’s best friend to the end—had breathed their last and lay by the sides of their dead masters. Silent sentinels upon horseback, as motionless almost as the dead about them, sat guarding this gruesome open-air charnel.

With the first streak of gray dawn the work of interment had begun. Bands of soldiers were engaged in digging graves and others were busy carrying the bodies to them. There was no attempt at system. Vast excavations were made and as many bodies as possible placed in them. The dead were generally buried where they fell. In one trench at the foot of the slope known as Culp’s Hill sixty Confederates were buried. In that three days’ fight 2834 Union soldiers were killed and 14,492 wounded. On the Confederate side there were 5500 killed and 21,500 wounded. Thousands of the slightly wounded cared for themselves without the assistance of either doctor or nurses. Thousands of others were shipped to the Satterlee Hospital, in West Philadelphia, where their wants were looked after by the Sisters of Charity in that institution. The remainder were forced to remain in Gettysburg.

This was the condition of things that confronted the brave Sisters as they rode over the battlefield on that scorching July day. Frightful as it may seem, their carriage wheels actually rolled through blood. At times the horses could scarcely be induced to proceed on account of the ghastly objects in front of them. The sight of bodies piled two and three high caused the animals to rear up on their hind legs and kick over the traces in a most uncomfortable manner. In the midst of the sickening scenes the Sisters discovered one little group sitting about an improvised fire trying to cook some meat. The carriage was directed to this point and here again Father Burlando informed the soldiers of his errand. The officers seemed well pleased and told the Sisters to go into the town of Gettysburg, where they would find sufficient employment for their zealous charity. Every large building in Gettysburg was being filled as fast as the wounded men could be carried in. Within and around the city one hundred and thirteen hospitals were in operation, besides those located in private houses. On reaching Gettysburg the Sisters were shown to the hospital, where they distributed their little stores and did all they could to relieve and console the wounded soldiers.

Two of the Sisters returned to Emmittsburg that same evening with Father Burlando, for the purpose of sending additional nurses to relieve those already on the ground. On arriving at the first hospital the surgeon in charge took the Sisters to the ladies who had been attending there and said to them: “Ladies, here are the Sisters of Charity come to serve our wounded; they will give all the directions here; you are only required to observe them.” Those addressed cheerfully bowed their assent.

The soldiers seemed to think that the presence of the Sisters softened their anguish. One Sister was giving a drink to a poor dying man with a teaspoon. It was slow work and a gentleman who entered unobserved at the time stood near by without speaking for some moments. This gentleman was from a distance and was in search of the very person the Sister was serving. Standing a moment in silence, he exclaimed in a loud voice: “May God bless the Sisters of Charity,” and repeated it emphatically, adding: “I am a Protestant, but may God bless the Sisters of Charity.”

The Catholic Church in Gettysburg was filled with sick and wounded. The stations of the cross hung around the walls, with a very large oil painting of St. Francis Xavier holding in his hand a crucifix. The first man put in the sanctuary was baptized, expressing truly Christian sentiments. His pain was excruciating and when sympathy was offered him he said: “Oh, what are the pains I suffer compared with those of my Redeemer.” Thus disposed he died. The soldiers lay on the pew seats, under them and in every aisle. They were also in the sanctuary and in the gallery, so close together that there was scarcely room to move about. Many of them lay in their own blood and the water used for bathing their wounds, but no word of complaint escaped from their lips. Others were dying with lockjaw, making it very difficult to administer drinks and nourishment. Numbers of the men had their wounds dressed for the first time by the Sisters, surgeons at that juncture being few in number. When the Sisters entered in the morning it was no uncommon thing to hear the men cry out: “Oh, come, please dress my wound,” and “Oh, come to me next.” To all the pain suffered by the soldiers was added the deprivations of home friends and home comforts, which in such times come so vividly to the mind.

Four of the Sisters attended the sick in the Transylvania College building, which for the time being was used as a prison for about six hundred Confederate soldiers. The Sisters dressed their wounds as in other cases. Every morning when they returned, eight or ten dead bodies lay at the entrance of the college awaiting interment. Two youths lay in an outstretched blanket and a little ditch two inches deep was around the earth they lay upon, to prevent the rain from running under them.

There was quite a sensational scene in this prison one morning. One of the Sisters hearing a great noise among the patients looked to see the cause. She discovered a group of men with guns aimed at one poor, helpless man. There had been a quarrel, and no one attempted to stop the strife. The Sister promptly and with no thought of personal danger hurried over to the group and placed her hand on the shoulder of the prospective corpse. Then she pushed him back into the surgeon’s room, holding her other arm out to hinder the men from pursuing him. There was a dead silence. The poor man was put safely inside the doctor’s room and his tormentors retired without a word, quietly putting away their guns. The silence continued for some time. The Sister placidly resumed her duties in the mess room.

Presently the doctor came to her and said: “Sister, you have surprised me. I shall never forget what I have witnessed. I saw their anger and heard the excitement, but feared that my presence would increase it. I did not know what to do, but you came and everything was all right. Indeed, this will never die in my memory.”

“Well,” replied the Sister calmly, “what did I do more than any other person would have done? You know they were ashamed to resist a woman.”

“A woman!” exclaimed the doctor; “why, all the women in Gettysburg could not have effected what you have. No one but a Sister of Charity could have done this. Truly it would have been well if a company of Sisters of Charity had been in the war, for then it might not have continued so long.”

One young man after being baptized requested the Sister to stay with him until he died. He prayed fervently until the last breath, and almost his final words were: “Oh, Lord, bless the Sisters of Charity.” This brought a crowd around him, as his bed was on the floor. The Sister was kneeling by him and continued to pray for him until the last; then she closed his mouth and bandaged his face with a towel, in the usual manner. They who stood near said one to another: “Was this man her relative?”

“No,” was the reply; “but she is a Sister of Charity.”

“Well,” said one of the company, “I have often heard of the Sisters of Charity, and I can now testify that they have been properly named.”

The surgeon remarked to the religious: “Sisters, you must be more punctual at your repast. I see you are often here until 4 o’clock in the afternoon without your dinner, working for others with a two-fold strength. Where it comes from I do not know—forgetting no one but yourselves. You should, however, try to preserve your own health.”

A Protestant gentleman remarked to one of the Sisters that “the Sisters of Charity have done more for religion during the war than has ever been done in this country before.”

Both the Catholic church and the Methodist church in Gettysburg were used for hospital purposes. One day a Sister from the Catholic church had ordered her supplies, as usual, from the sanitary store. Soon after this a Sister who was nursing the sick in the Methodist church called at the store and as she was about to leave the merchant said:

“Where are these articles to be sent? I believe that you belong to the Catholic church.”

“No, sir,” replied the Sister, with a barely suppressed smile. “I belong to the Methodist church. Send the goods there.”

After the more severely wounded had been removed by friends, or had died, the officers began directing the work of transferring the remaining patients from the town hospital to a wood of tents, called the general hospital.

A Sister was passing through the streets of Gettysburg about this time when a Protestant chaplain, running several squares to overtake her, said:

“I see Sisters of Charity everywhere but in our general hospital. Why are they not there?”

The Sister told him that when the wounded men had been removed none of the surgeons or officers had asked them to go there or they would have gone willingly.

“Well,” he said, “I will go immediately to the provost and ask him to have you sent there. I feel sure that he needs you there.”

In going over the field encampment one of the Sisters was pleased and saddened to find her own brother, whom she had not seen for nine years. He had been wounded in the chest and ankle and was in one of the hospitals in the town. The meeting under such circumstances was an affecting one. Both were devoted, loyal souls, each doing duty earnestly according to his or her knowledge of the right. Through the kindness of the officer of the day the wounded man was permitted to be removed to the hospital where his sister was in charge.

A few days after the battle of Gettysburg Father Burlando wrote a letter to one of his reverend colleagues in Maryland. Some of the facts mentioned in this document have already been told in this chapter, but the fact that it was written while the echoes of that famous fight were still fresh makes it of unusual interest. It is as follows:

Emmitsburg, July 8, 1863.

Rev. and Dear Sir:—You have been informed without doubt by the papers that we have been visited by the Army of the Potomac, and that very near us has been fought a terrible battle, the most bloody since the secession. St. Joseph has well taken care of his house, and St. Vincent of his daughters; we have not been troubled, or at least we have escaped with the slight loss of a little forage and some wooden palings, which have served for the wants of a portion of the army.

The evening of the 27th of June the troops commenced to appear upon a small hill a little distance from St. Joseph’s. Regiment after regiment, division after division, all advanced with artillery and cavalry, and taking possession of all the heights encamped in order of battle. The 28th, 29th and 30th we were completely surrounded. General Howard and his suite took possession of our house in Emmitsburg; General Schultz and his suite were close to St. Joseph’s, in the house which served some time since for an orphanage; the other Generals took quarters in different houses along the line of army.

For the protection of St. Joseph’s General Schultz gave orders that guards should be posted in its environs, and General Howard did the same for our little place in Emmittsburg. A great number of officers asked permission to visit the house, and all conducted themselves with courtesy, expressing gratitude for the services rendered the soldiers in military hospitals by the Sisters.

On Monday this portion of the army departed, and was replaced by another not less numerous, which ranged itself in line of battle as the first. A colonel of artillery, Mr. Latrobiere, with other officers quartered in the orphanage; he also visited the Institution. The Sisters distributed bread, milk and coffee.

On the 1st of July the battle commenced about seven miles from Emmittsburg. Whilst the booming of the cannon announced that God was punishing the iniquities of man our Sisters were in church praying and imploring mercy for all mankind.

On Sunday I accompanied eight Sisters bearing medicaments and provisions for the wounded. At the distance of six miles we were stopped by a barricade, and at about three hundred yards there was another to intercept all communication. At the second was stationed a company of Federal soldiers, who perceived us from afar. I descended from the carriage, and raising a white handkerchief advanced to the second barricade, and announced the purpose of our errand. Immediately several soldiers were sent to open the way, and the two vehicles continued their route without danger. At some distance we found ourselves again in face of another barricade, which compelled us to make a long circuit. Behold us at last upon the scenes of combat—what a frightful spectacle! Ruins of burned houses; the dead of both armies lying here and there; numbers of dead horses; thousands of guns, swords, vehicles, wheels, projectiles of all dimensions, coverings, hats, habiliments of all color, covered the fields and the road. We made circuits to avoid passing over dead bodies; horses, terrified, recoiled or sprang from one side to the other. The further we advanced the more abundant were the evidences presented of a terrible combat, and tears could not be restrained in the presence of these objects of horror. At last we halted in the village of Gettysburg. There was found a good portion of the Federal army in possession of the field of battle. The inhabitants had but just issued from the cellars wherein they had sought safety during the engagement. Terror was still painted upon their countenances. All was in confusion, each temple, each house, the Catholic church, the Court House, the Protestant Seminary were filled with wounded, and still there were many thousands extended upon the field of battle nearly without succor. I placed two of our Sisters in each one of the three largest improvised hospitals, offered some further consolations to the wounded and then returned to St. Joseph’s.

The next day I started with more Sisters and a reinforcement of provisions. Meanwhile provisions had been sent by the Government, and the poor wounded succored, and the inhabitants having recovered from their terror have given assistance to thousands of suffering and dying. Eleven Sisters were now employed in this town transformed into a hospital. We shall send some Sisters and necessaries to-morrow if possible. Whilst I write you the sound of cannonading re-echoes from the Southwest, where another engagement takes place. My God, when will you give peace to our unhappy country?

Yours, BURLANDO.