“General Polk is killed!” the men in Beauregard’s
gun emplacement cried.
General Polk’s escorts quickly gathered Polk’s
torn body together, placed it in a stretcher, and
carried it down the back side of the hill, trailed by
the General’s horse, Jerry, to the shelter of a tent
in a ravine the rearward slope of the ridge, but it was
immediately apparent from the horrific wound
that nothing could be done – as one modern bishop
would put it, “his soul was in heaven before his
head hit the ground.” Johnston and Hardee both
wept like children. “We have lost much!” Johnston
cried, placing his hand on Polk’s head. “I would
rather anything than this!”