Solicitude of the Sisters for the patients under their care. Friendships formed that were only parted by death. Interesting reminiscences of Mother M. Augustine MacKenna concerning the Government Hospital at Beaufort, N. C. A victim of camp fever and how he was relieved by the nurse.

In December, 1862, General Foster, with a large detachment of the men under his charge made an attack on the town of Goldsborough, North Carolina, and almost ruined it. An immense number of soldiers were wounded, and, as the doctors’ stores had not arrived, the surgeons had no old linen or lint with which to bind up the wounds of the poor sufferers. For this reason they presented a most fearful spectacle. Some had their heads and faces wrapped in coarse cloth, and were so besmeared with blood that the sight was a painful one.

Others, indeed the greater number, had either one or both feet in a terrible condition, the feet having been pierced with balls. There were broken legs, broken arms and one unhappy victim had both hands shot off, and the condition of these agonizing wounds was something terrible.

The first task of the Sisters was to feed the wretched sufferers, who had had but little care bestowed upon them. After that the difficult and distressing duty of cleansing their wounds was undertaken and was left entirely to the Sisters.

One very large man named Sherman, an Englishman, had his mouth and chin so shattered that the doctors decided that his mouth had better not be touched, as he must certainly die. However, the Sisters with soft sponges and warm water began to loosen the horrible rags with which the poor man’s face and head were covered. He, poor fellow, had heard enough of the doctor’s opinion to render him hopeless, and when he found that efforts were being made to relieve him he tried to evince his gratitude by signs. When the wraps were removed blood began to flow from his mouth, and a Sister took out with her finger several loosened teeth, and thus greatly facilitated his breathing. The utmost possible care was taken of this patient, and the satisfaction of seeing him perfectly restored to health, though disfigured in a dreadful manner, was in itself a great reward. The dumb gratitude he displayed when he came to say “good-bye” as he was leaving the hospital was very pathetic.

Another interesting case was that of David Brant, a ruddy-faced lad about 18 years of age. He was suffering in some way that could not at first be discovered. It was noticed that he kept moving his feet in a distressing sort of way. These members were uncovered, when, to the surprise of the Sister attending him, it was found that he had still his boots on and that they seemed ready to burst. Some of the soldiers at hand came with knives and cut them off, piece by piece, with great difficulty, and then, alas! it was found that veins of the boy’s legs had burst open, and his boots were filled with clotted blood. The doctors were sent for, and had great trouble in stanching the blood, and in tying up the arteries. It need hardly be added that the poor lad died the next day in great agony. He was the victim of a forced march in which the men were made to run for several miles without stopping. The Sisters wrote to his father the least painful account possible of the poor son’s death, and received a most grateful reply, the bereaved gentleman adding that but for them he would never have known the real truth of the sad event.

“Hiram” was a victim of camp-fever; unfortunately for him he had been kept in camp too long after he took sick, and the fly-blister had been applied to the back of his neck. Some of his comrades took it off, but applied no dressing of any kind, so that the coarse blue flannel collar of his shirt grew into the raw sore, and his hair also festered into it. It was his cries that first attracted the attention of a Sister, for he was brought into the hospital in this condition.

She found a soldier trying to relieve him by applying a coarse wet towel in cold water to his neck, and this caused the screams of the sufferer. A soft sponge, warm water and castile soap came into requisition here, and when the hair was cut so as to free it from the sore, and the gathers of the shirt loosened from the collar, the poor boy began to feel a little relief. As he lay with his face buried in the pillow he did not see who was attending him.

“Who is doing that?”

“A Sister of Mercy,” was the reply.

“No,” said he, “no one but my mother could do it.”

By degrees the sore was nicely dressed with soft old linen and cold water—the only dressing allowed by the doctors—and then Hiram stole a glance at his new friend and nurse.

“What are you, at all?” was the first question.

The Sister tried to make him understand what a Sister of Mercy does, or tries to do for those who suffer, and he sank back in his pillow, saying,

“I don’t care what you are; you are a mother to me.”

He was only 16, full of bright intelligence and wit, but after suffering dreadfully for six weeks from the fatal fever he died in the arms of his father, who had been apprised by the Sisters of poor Hiram’s condition, and had come from Boston to remain with him.

Many such sad incidents might be related, but no doubt such are the records of every hospital. The Sisters continued their services until May, 1863, when General Foster, under whose protection they had been able to effect much good, was ordered to Tallahassee, Florida, where there was no need of a military hospital. The necessity for the Sisters was now not so great in North Carolina—most of the poor men having been released from their sufferings, many by death and others by recovery—so preparations were commenced for returning to New York.

The Sisters felt very much for the poor negro girls who had attached themselves to them so affectionately, and who in their simple ignorance thought that the “North ladies” could do anything and everything. Some very amusing incidents took place in connection with our “contrabands.” One night a Sister, having forgotten something in the kitchen, went for it at a later hour than usual. All the negro girls and women who worked for the hospital—scrubbing, washing, ironing, etc.—slept in the rooms over the kitchen; and the Sister, hearing peals of laughter, did not think it beneath her dignity to act the part of a listener under these “colored” circumstances.

She therefore went noiselessly up the stairs, and, to her great amusement, heard herself perfectly imitated by one of the girls. This Sister had for many months been giving the general instructions to the women and girls; now she heard the very tones of her voice and the manner of her delivery most perfectly reproduced; another genius undertook to represent another Sister, and so on until every Sister was portrayed, to the great delight of the company, the members of which never dreamed of the amused listener on the kitchen stairs.

The solicitude of the Sisters for the welfare of their patients frequently caused warm friendships that continued long after the close of the war. Sister Mary Gertrude and Mother Mary Augustine were two of the Sisters attached to the hospitals in Beaufort and Newberne. One of those cases that came under their care was that of Charles Edward Hickling, of the Forty-fifth Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteers. The bravery and manliness of this young soldier won the hearts of all.

Illness contracted in the service finally caused his death in 1867. He bore all his suffering with great fortitude. During his illness the Sisters visited him at his home, and after his death sent consoling letters to the bereaved family.

These letters show the tender sympathy and generous interest of the Sisters towards the soldiers to such an extent that the writer feels justified in giving brief extracts from what were intended to be personal missives.

Sister Mary Gertrude, under date of January 3, 1868, wrote to the parents: “How can I express to you in adequate terms the very great grief and affectionate sympathy I feel toward you in your great affliction. May God be your comfort and your refuge in this trying hour, for in sufferings such as these no creature can give you consolation. We must look higher. He who sent the cross can alone give the power to sustain its weight. Do not give way to despondency, my very dear friends. The dear boy has only gone before you for a time—we are all hastening towards our turn. In a very little time we, too, shall have passed the eternal gates, there to meet all we have loved and lost, and with them praise the tender mercy of the good God to us whilst in our exile. * * * I have been, and am still with you, in thought and spirit, going through the least detail of all the trying circumstances of this sad bereavement.”

Mother Augustine, who was the Superior of the Sisters at the Newberne Hospital, writing to a devoted friend—Miss Susan Messinger—said on January 4, 1868:

“So our brave soldier boy is gone, his long and trying march has brought him to the goal, and in his young enthusiasm he has gone to join the numerous band of those who were his companions on the field and in the fight, in danger and in privations, exposure and fatigue, but not in the long years of patient and heroic endurance which requires more of a martyr’s fortitude than a soldier’s courage. Dear Charles! He is the last of our soldier boys—the last link that bound us to the Boston Regiment, the brave Massachusetts Volunteers, whose heroism we shall never forget. * * * Eternity! Dear Charles knows its wonders now. Let us pray that we may so live, so use our powers here that our eternity may be with those who have fought their way through the trials and sorrows of life to its unending peace.”