Marye's Mercy
The sun was thin and watery in the sky as it rose above the Rappahannock. Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been beautiful, a splendid sight to enjoy. Yet, the screams of 8,000 dying men strewn across the forward slope of Marye’s heights ruined the bucolic beauty of that cold morning. They had fallen the previous afternoon, as the Army of the Potomac threw itself up the heights against the entrenched brigades of men in grey and khaki. Though many were shot, most did not die initially—lying where they fell, they lingered in that horrible way of the grievously wounded. It was December 14th, 1862, near a small town in Northern Virginia called Fredericksburg. One would not assume there was much room for Christian mercy in a place like this, where thousands of men were doing their level best to kill one another. Yet, mercy is what these men needed.
Corporal Gordon Thomas lay delirious 200 yards from the stone wall. His chest hurt: a .58 caliber ball was lodged in his breastbone. He had been there since the 5th New Hampshire drew close to the summit, and one of the Georgians of Cobb’s brigade fired a shot that struck him down. That had been 12 hours ago. For 12 hours, Thomas laid on that slope, hungry and parched, the life draining from him. He hadn’t the strength to move, he hadn’t the energy to pray. He lay there in his stupor, lingering, waiting for death to take him. His thoughts were frenetic and fleeting. The scripture in his pack forgotten, he had drifted in and out of consciousness for some time. Pain and confusion subsumed him.
They could never have carried the works. The regiment of New Hampshiremen of which Gordon was a part had been the forlorn hope of Hancock’s First Division, the vanguard of the army which lurched up the heights—aimed like a spear at the entrenched brigades of Kershaw and Cobb. They threw themselves at the rebels, trudging up the steep grade, over the creek, and further still up into the teeth of the defenders. These men, staunch puritans of the old breed, moved with a fervor unique to the Calvinists, to whom war was a righteous effort, and they died for it. 200 of the 270 men of the 5th New Hampshire fell to the guns of the waiting rebels, and the regiment broke. None of this was of much concern to Gordon at this moment, though, as he clung to life. Breathing was hard. He tried to remember his prayers, to murmur an appeal to heaven, but his mind was clouded, and the words failed to come .
A figure appeared before him, the rising sun over the Rappahannock appearing behind him as a halo, the face obscured by Gordon’s blurry vision and the blinding light. The figure seemed to Thomas to be angelic, a being of divine mercy sent down to relieve him of his pain and his thirst. A hand reached down and craned his head up, before pressing a canteen to his lips. Thomas drank greedily, the cool fresh water working as the nectar of life, rejuvenating his ailing senses. He didn’t notice the sting of the alcohol as the figure wiped his wound clean, nor did he feel the bandages packing in to stop the bleeding, slow as it was. He just lay there, more aware of his pain, yet more willing to cling onto life.
The figure was a 19-year-old sergeant of the 2nd South Carolina named Richard R. Kirkland. He worked diligently down the line, loaded with canteens and bandages, rendering aid to the stranded Union soldiers on the upper heights. A few men in blue fired harassing shots at him but, once they realized what he was doing, held their fire and allowed him to continue his mission of mercy. When his bandages were out, and his canteens were empty, he returned to his lines to refill, and went out again. He saved as many as he could, and those who were beyond saving he comforted. To himself, it was his duty as a Christian; to those stranded men of II Corps, though, he was an angel.
Kershaw had told him not to go. It was a suicidal task. Safe behind the wall, he had no obligation to go out to render aid to those dying men. Yet, he was compelled by a sense of duty to his fellow Christians, to alleviate suffering, and to preserve life. It was a love for life which, despite his profession, remained strong within him through those long months of campaigning.
Less than a year later, at a place in Georgia called Chickamauga, Kirkland saw several of his fellows pinned down in a field by harassing Union fire. Kershaw once again told him not to go. He went, he saved them, and he in turn was struck down.