Leonidas Polk Family Papers

June 2, 1961 Page Nineteen

Our officers —our instructors, I mean. in tactics— are well qualified to perform the duties which devolve on them, and instill very rigid principles of discipline in those under them. . .

These same "rigid principles of discipline" were to prove permanently imbedded upon his character after graduation and throughout his varied life. His roommate at the Point was Albert Sidney Johnston. Their paths were to diverge sharply after graduation, only to recross decades later at Shiloh Chapel, where Johnston's path was to end. The man to be largely responsible for this recrossing was their friend and fellow cadet, Jefferson Davis.

During his second class year Polk's cadet life underwent a change which foreshadowed his remarkable career to come: he was converted to Christianity through the efforts of the cadet chaplain. Polk's sincerity and dedication toward this newly chosen path were indicative of the militant determination so vital to all leaders. It took more than ordinary soldier courage for Polk to kneel during the confession in the church service while his friends remained seated; it took strength of conviction for the tall, broad shouldered cadet to stride to the front of the chapel to be publicly baptized; and it took the type of individualism which marks greatness for him to organize the little cadet "praying squad" which he daily led to the vacant prison room of the barracks for devotions. His "praying squad" ultimately grew large enough to require the chapel, and with it grew corresponding conviction in Polk's soul that God meant his life for some field of service other than that of a soldier.

He graduated number eight in the Class of 1827 and despite his distinctive Academy record, despite the resulting delay of his marriage, and against the wishes of his military-minded father, Leonidas resigned his hard-earned commission and entered a seminary. The very qualities instilled in Polk at the Academy demanded that he persevere toward the goal his conscience dictated.

A few years later, Leonidas Polk held the responsibility of Missionary Bishop of the Southwest for the Episcopal Church. His parish included Arkansas, Louisiana, Alabama, the largely unsettled republic of Texas, and the Indian Territory; his parishioners included river boatmen, tavernkeepers, homesteaders, and horse-thieves. As a matter of principle he carried no weapons, but on every side his military training at West Point proved fully as valuable to his survival during the week as his seminary training to his sermons on Sunday. He led a seemingly charmed life, once missing passage on an ill-fated riverboat which suffered an explosion enroute, only because he had taken time to visit an old West Point classmate. The gray-eyed clergyman with the straight back of a soldier and the dignity of a troop commander became a legend in the area he served.

In 1841, he became the resident Bishop of Louisiana. Three years later, his cousin, James K. Polk, was elected President of the United States. Years passed and the Civil War found Leonidas immersed in preparations for the establishment of the Episcopal University of the South, an institution which he had long felt was sorely needed in the southern states. The cornerstone of the first building was set, but the sound of cannon at Fort Sumter permanently stunted its growth. The southern representatives came home from Congress, and Leonidas Polk suddenly found himself senior bishop of the dioceses of the Confederate States of America, and on his desk lay an official correspondence from his friend, Jefferson Davis, urgently requesting his services as an officer in the newly formed army. After careful consideration, which in the case of Polk meant prayerful consideration, he agreed to accept a commission until some one better qualified could be found for the position. The same rugged determination which marked his separation from the profession of arms characterized his return to it. His action was highly praised and highly criticized by men of both the North and South, but once he had defined to his own satisfaction in which direction lay his duty, nothing deterred him from it. He was given the rank of Major General with the mission of defense of the Mississippi Valley. One critic is reported to have declared, "What! you, a bishop, throw off the gown for the sword!" To which the quick-witted bishop replied, "No, sir. I buckle the sword over the gown." That sword, never again to be unbuckled, was to cut swaths through many a Union battleline.

His was a remarkable readjustment to the military. The same voice that had rung the gospel message from the pulpit now issued commands from horseback. Soldiers of the army received his orders with the same respect the faithful had accorded his ministerial directives. He seized the initiative in moving his troops into Kentucky to forestall the Federal advance he felt inevitable. At Shiloh he conducted a war with the same calmness and sense of confidence with which he had formerly conducted worship services. What he lacked as a military strategist, he amply compensated for as an on-the-scene symbol of courage and inspiration for his men and as a surprisingly capable tactician. His bearing seemed to invite confidence in others. Major Butler, a godson of Andrew Jackson. lay dying of his wounds after the battle of Belmont at the opening of the war. He requested to see General Polk and was heard to say as the General left his room. "There goes one of the noblest men God ever made." The scene was touchingly similar to one that had taken place in slave quarters during a Louisiana cholera epidemic, when a stricken slave's final wish was to lay his head on Bishop Polk's breast as he died.

Polk was noted for being stubborn and self-willed in battle, but perhaps these qualities supplemented rather than detracted from his leadership ability. A man who rides to battle at the head of his columns needs every ounce of audacity and self-confidence that his spirit can muster. At dusk, during the battle of Perryville, Kentucky, General Polk noticed a line of men which he took to be Confederates firing on the flank of his own men. Since none of his aides were near, Polk galloped to the firing line and demanded that the colonel in charge cease firing immediately. It was only when the Indiana colonel gave his name and division that the General realized that he had ridden into Union lines and was speaking with an officer of the Federal Army. A man with less presence of mind would have attempted immediate escape, but Polk was far too shrewd for any action so foolhardy, and perhaps instantly aware of his opportunity to turn his mistake to advantage. One can imagine that his quick mind weighed the possibilities of the situation: the light was dim, his uniform blouse was dark, and he knew a soldier's respect for superior authority. Riding up to the colonel he sharply repeated his demand for an immediate cease fire and then slowly rode his horse down the Union line ordering the men to stop firing. In his own words, "I experienced a disagreeable sensation like screwing up my back, and calculating how many bullets would lie between my shoulders every moment." But not a single soldier fired. He had saved his own life by a bluff few men would be bold enough to dare. Calmly riding back to his own lines he announced matter-of-factly to a nearby Confederate commander, "Colonel, I have reconnoitered those fellows pretty closely, and there is no mistake as to who they are. You may get up and go at them."

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