2

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 di-
verge 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 under-
went 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 dedica-
tion 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 devo-
tions. His "praying squad" ultimately grew large enough
to require the chapel, and with it grew corresponding con-
viction 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 de-
spite his distinctive Academy record, despite the resulting
delay of his marriage, and against the wishes of his mil-
itary-minded father, Leonidas resigned his hard-earned commission
and entered a seminary. The very qualities
instilled in Polk at the Academy demanded that he per-
severe 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, Ala-
bama, the largely unsettled republic of Texas, and the
Indian Territory; his parishioners included river boat-
men, 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 build-
ing was set, but the sound of cannon at Fort Sumter per-
manently stunted its growth. The southern representatives
came home from Congress, and Leonidas Polk suddenly
found himself senior bishop of the dioceses of the Con-
federate 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 fore-
stall the Federal advance he felt inevitable. At Shiloh he
conducted a war with the same calmness and sense of con-
fidence 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, Ken-
tucky, 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 fir-
ing line and demanded that the colonel in charge cease fir-
ing 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 offi-
cer 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 per-
haps instantly aware of his opportunity to turn his mis-
take 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 Con-
federate 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."

(Continued on page 21)