and all said, "Peace to his ashes."

I may here say, that if one is compelled to fight against his
friends, as I was, there are several ways in which he can avoid
taking life. A cartridge without a ball, a pretended discharge
without a cap, or an extra elevation of the piece, will save his
friends and not expose him to suspicion. Not rarely, also, in the
heat of battle, a hated officer meets his fate by a ball from his
own men, instead of the enemy.

The second day after the battle a sad accident added to the gloom. A
crowd had assembled to see the monster Whitworth rifled gun fired
off, as it had continued loaded since the day of the fight. She was
named the "Lady Polk," and the militant bishop and general was
present to add interest to the scene. The gunner warned the crowd
that there was some danger, but they heeded not, and pressed close
around. The general stood near, why should not others? I stood
within thirty feet, and as the gunner ran back with the lanyard, so
did I. The next moment occurred the most terrific explosion I had
ever heard. As the dust and smoke lifted, we saw the shattered
remains of nine men; two more died subsequently from wounds received
here. Both the percussion-shell and the gun had burst, and hence the
destruction of life. General Polk narrowly escaped; his cloak was
swept from him and cut in two as with a sword.

A word of this man, who laid aside his spiritual for military
duties, will close my history of soldiering on the Mississippi.

Major-general Leonidas Polk is a tall, well-built man, about
fifty-five years of age; hair slightly gray; wears side whiskers,