by Dr. James Ray, Executive Editor

Telegraph Road in Fredericksburg, bordered by its quaint stone wall, initially left no more than a pleasant impression. After all, beautiful Virginia could produce hundreds of such peaceful scenes — country roads and stone walls all bordered by green meadows. However, closer attention made me realize that Telegraph Road was more than just another beautiful stretch of geography. Indeed, on that lovely spring day at Fredericksburg, I saw more than the present day geography.

In my mind, I heard the roar of cannons and artillery. I smelled the smoke of battle and visualized the scenes of long ago in the winter of 1862. Across the green meadows I saw the men in blue charging toward the stone wall. I visualized many — then MOST — of the blue-clad young men dropping to the ground. The blades of grass were quickly transformed into red mush from the clods of blood flowing from mortal wounds.

The army of northern Virginia under the leadership of General Robert E. Lee was well fortified along Telegraph Road, also known as the “Sunken Road.” The road was located near the rear of Fredericksburg. The Union Army was forced to charge uphill in order to attack the Confederate positions. Involved in the defense of Fredericksburg were two seasoned Generals, Stonewall Jackson and Joseph Kershaw. On the Union side, President Abraham Lincoln had placed General Ambrose Burnside in charge. Lincoln was desperate or a victory. The Union forces were in disarray and morale was lagging. Public support for the war was also decreasing due to Federal defeats on the battlefield. General Burnside was under pressure to gain a victory for Lincoln and that pressure led him into making less than wise decisions. Desirous of quick victory, Burnside sent wave after wave of Union troops right into the face of confederate fire. Pressing up the grassy slopes toward the Confederate position, the Union army was devastated. They were easy targets for the men in Gray, positioned behind the stone wall running along the sunken road. This section of Telegraph Road was in an area known as Marye’s Heights.

With each charge of the Bluecoats, a fresh line of Confederate riflemen would take position at the wall to fire while a previous line stepped back to reload. As hundreds of Bluecoats dropped wounded to the frozen earth, they were followed by other hundreds of comrades behind them. Behind the wall at Marye’s Heights a new line of Graycoats with freshly loaded rifles stepped forward to bring the charging enemy down.

General Kershaw rode on horseback along the road behind his troops shouting encouragement to hold position at any cost. They did! The Union attacks continued throughout the day. Once or twice a bluecoat would get within feet of the wall, but would then be brought down by Confederate fire. There was not one Union soldier that actually reached the wall during the battle at Marye’s Heights.

The Union’s attempt to breech the Confederate lines had utterly failed and thousands of bleeding, suffering and dying men lay groaning on the meadow in front of the Southern position. No rescue could be attempted by the Northern Army lest they be fired on at close range by the enemy. Union soldiers, lying wounded on the grass, used the bodies of their dead fellow-soldiers for cover.

That night as the sun set over Fredericksburg the temperatures dropped to freezing. Les Carroll, in his excellent work on this event, describes the desperate scene of the wounded Union soldiers.

“The thick smoke from the daylong battle mixed with the fog to form a gray, gloomy cloud over the battlefield. A dark mood fell on the battlefield with the night. The Confederate soldiers sat or lay crammed behind the stone wall desperate to stay warm and alert to movements of the enemy. Just yards in front of them, on the frozen plain, nine or ten thousand Federal soldiers lay dead and wounded. The injured Union boys were helpless and cold, in terrible pain and unable to get back to their lines. Their fellow soldiers could not come forward to help them. Night fell and the agonizing cries for water and warmth filled the air. The dreadful cries of the wounded Union soldiers continued throughout the morning. The lingering fog and smoke kept the battlefield dark and obscure. But the cries still found their way out of the fog. Richard Kirkland listened with a heavy heart.”1

Richard Kirkland was a 19-year-old Confederate soldier from Camden, South Carolina. Kirkland was a young man with deep southern values and a high regard for human life. He had joined the southern army to defend his beloved country. Shivering in the cold with fellow Confederates, he had listened all night to the anguish coming from the grassy meadow. With each shiver the piecing wail from the wounded enemy reached his ears. Throughout the long cold night the desperate cries continued. Kirkland was plunged into agony for the young men who had been his enemies. Now they seemed to no longer be enemies. Now they were fellow human beings, hurting, with fathers, mothers, sisters and wives back home. They were hurting and dying human beings on a frozen battlefield with no one to help — human beings who were loved by someone — but someone far away.

Richard Kirkland could bear those cries no longer. Leaving the wall, he made his way up the hill on Marye’s Height to the Stephens House where General Kershaw was headquartered. Kirkland made a plea. With the general’s permission, he would like to take water to the wounded Union soldiers lying out on the battlefield. The general was touched. From his window in the upstairs room, he had watched and directed the battle. He had watched as his Confederate position along the sunken road was attacked by 30,000 enemy soldiers. Looking out of the window, he could see almost 10,000 Union troops dead and dying, groaning and pleading for help. He was touched. At first he refused permission for Kirkland to go. Union sharpshooters would kill him immediately. If he allowed such a thing, he would be sending the young man to certain death. Kirkland pleaded a second time. The general could no longer refuse permission. Such compassion was rare; however, the attempt would be entirely at Kirkland’s own risk. He would bear full responsibility for his own fate. No cease-fire could be arranged.

Kirkland quickly borrowed as many canteens as he could carry. After filling them with water at the well near Stevens House, he raced out onto the battlefield. Union sharpshooters immediately opened fire. What was a graycoat doing moving among their wounded and dead comrades? “Probably,” they reasoned, “robbing the dead.” But wait — this man was not robbing the dead. The union sharpshooters ceased firing as they watched the lone figure out on the battlefield. This man had no gun but was loaded with canteens of water. Could they believe what their eyes were seeing? They watched Kirkland as he moved from soldier to soldier holding their heads in his lap, tenderly pouring water down their parched throats. When all the canteens were empty, Kirkland ran back to the well, refilled the canteens and returned to the battlefield. There he gently straightened out broken, twisted limbs and again gave water to his thirsting enemies.

Seeing the angel of mercy, other men cried for help. Trembling hands rose in the air to signal for help from this angel in Gray. Soldiers on both sides watched in awe. The two armies seemed paralyzed by this brazen and compassionate act of mercy. Carroll comments:

“One dying soldier thrust a letter to his family into Richard’s cold hands, using his dying breath to request that the letter be delivered after his death, which was certain. Another soldier entrusted Kirkland with a watchbox. The dying blue-clad soldier asked Richard to send the box to his girlfriend, but insisted that Richard keep the pocket watch for himself.”2

When Richard Kirkland had at last completed his mission, he again returned to his position behind the wall. The soldiers of the northern army and the men in gray spontaneously broke out into cheers and applause. For one moment of time the fervor and horror of war mingled with compassion and mercy in a display of unity. Both sides called him the “Angel of Marye’s Height.” A few months later Richard Kirkland was killed at the Battle of Chickamauga. Ironically he died while defending two fellow soldiers as they made their escape from ambush. His last words were, “Tell Pa I died right. I died at my post.” Today there is a street in Fredericksburg, Virginia, named after Richard Kirkland.

lthough the story of Richard Kirkland never made it into the great journals covering the War Between the States, it was forever engraved on the hearts of the Blue and the Gray who witnessed it firsthand. It would be told and retold for generations. Les Carroll describes in his book a memorial to Richard Kirkland.

More than 110 years after the war ended, Richland Kirkland was nominated for the highest honor available to Confederate soldiers by the Sons of Confederate Veterans. The award was dated August 17, 1977, and presented a month later to the governor of South Carolina, James B. Edwards. Artist Robert Wilson painted a moving portrait of Richard Kirkland’s compassion, also titled “The Angel of Marye’s Heights.” The painting was unveiled in 1984 and hangs in the capitol building in Columbia, South Carolina.3

Part of the inscription on Kirkland’s grave in Camden, South Carolina, reads, “If thine enemy thirsts, give him to drink.” Yes, that day walking along Telegraph Road at Marye’s Heights seemed ordinary — ordinary that is, until I met Richard Kirkland. That account has become part of me. I marvel at a man driven by compassion for desperate men. Today we live in a world where multitudes living in spiritual despair are crying for the water of life — hopeless billions pleading for the only water that can satisfy — Jesus Christ. The story illustrates the need for those who can no longer stand to hear their cry, who will risk all, even death to take Christ the Water of Life to their thirsting souls.

Richard Kirkland was driven by compassion; can we be less?

1 CARROLL, LES, The Angel of Marye’s Heights, p. 39, 40 Palmetto Bookworks, Columbia, SC

2 Ibid, p. 50

3 Ibid, p. 80