attle and the Yankee line came in close
proximity. If I mistake not, it was a dark, drizzly, rainy evening.
The cannon balls were ripping and tearing through the bushes. The two
lines were in plain view of each other. General Pat Cleburne was at this
time commanding Hardee's corps, and General Lucius E. Polk was in command
of Cleburne's division. General John C. Brown's division was supporting
Cleburne's division, or, rather, "in echelon." Every few moments,
a raking fire from the Yankee lines would be poured into our lines,
tearing limbs off the trees, and throwing rocks and dirt in every
direction; but I never saw a soldier quail, or even dodge. We had
confidence in old Joe, and were ready to march right into the midst of
battle at a moment's notice. While in this position, a bomb, loaded
with shrapnel and grapeshot, came ripping and tearing through our ranks,
wounding General Lucius E. Polk, and killing some of his staff. And,
right here, I deem it not inappropriate to make a few remarks as to the
character and appearance of so brave and gallant an officer. At this
time he was about twenty-five years old, with long black hair, that
curled, a gentle and attractive black eye that seemed to sparkle with
love rather than chivalry, and were it not for a young moustache and
goatee that he usually wore, he would have passed for a beautiful girl.
In his manner he was as simple and guileless as a child, and generous
almost to a fault. Enlisting in the First Arkansas Regiment as a private
soldier, and serving for twelve months as orderly sergeant; at the
reorganization he was elected colonel of the regiment, and afterwards,
on account of merit and ability, was commissioned brigadier-general;
distinguishing himself for conspicuous bravery and gallantry on every
battlefield, and being "scalped" by a minnie ball at Richmond, Kentucky--
which scar marks its furrow on top of his head today. In every battle
he was engaged in, he led his men to victory, or held the enemy at bay,
while the surge of battle seemed against us; he always seemed the
successful general, who would snatch victory out of the very jaws of
defeat. In every battle, Polk's brigade, of Cleburne's division,
distinguished itself, almost making the name of Cleburne as the Stonewall
of the West. Polk was to Cleburne what Murat or the old guard was to
Napoleon. And, at the battle of Chickamauga, when it seemed that the
Southern army had nearly lost the battl