Richard could listen no longer. For hours the cries of the wounded begging for water had disturbed the cold December night, cries of his comrades and cries of the enemy, cries of fellow human beings unable to stumble or even crawl off the battlefield. In their cries, perhaps he heard the voices of his brothers who were serving elsewhere. Despite his youth (age 19), Richard was a sergeant; but a mere sergeant cannot order a cease fire, cannot negotiate a truce, cannot tell the combatants to take their guns home and let the politicians fight it out. But he could take water to the wounded. What an insane idea. Rightly, his commanding officer refused permission. But Richard persisted. The commander relented; secretly sure he would lose a good soldier to enemy fire.
Bedecked with canteens, Richard walked unarmed onto the battlefield. Enemy soldiers held their fire, uncertain what Richard was doing. They watched, astonished and admiring, as Richard moved among the wounded, giving water with no regard to the uniform the suffering soldier wore. We may debate the meaning of “hero” but those men to whom he gave water or blankets during those incredible ninety-minutes would insist Richard, who would die in another battle the next year, deserved the title. Others agreed. A statue in his memory stands near the battlefield where he performed his act of mercy.
I hope it’s one statue that’s left alone, one statue allowed to recall the heroic decency of Fredericksburg's "Angel of Marye’s Heights.” A man who was wrong. A man who did what was right. Richard Rowland Kirkland, Confederate soldier.
