Beaufort, S. C. Jan. 26th, 1862.
My dear Mother:
Another Sunday has come around, time slips quietly by —
still nothing striking has taken place. We are all impatiently awaiting the
advent of some steamer, bringing us news from the Burnside Expedition. Is our
country really so prolific in great Commanders? Is there a Napoleon for each
one of the dozen armies that compose the anaconda fold? Ay, ay, it would be a
sad disappointment if the fold should happen to snap somewhere! Things look
like action down here, and that not long hence. We have been gathering our
troops gradually on the islands about the mouth of the Savannah river. Thither
have gone our Connecticut friends, and yesterday three more steamers, loaded, took
the remainder of Gen. Wright's Brigade with them. We are left here quite
unnoticed on Port Royal Island, in seeming safety, though there are many troops
around us. An army, boasting much, awaits us on the mainland, but an army
having still a wholesome dread of Yankees. I made them a sort of visit the
other night (25th), passing up Hospa Creek in a light canoe, hidden by the
darkness and the long grass of the marshes. A negro guide paddled so lightly
that, as we glided along, one might have heard the dropping of a pin. It was
fine sport and as we passed close by the enemy's pickets we would place our
thumbs to our noses, and gracefully wave our fingers toward the unsuspecting
souls. This was by no means vulgarly intended, but as we could not speak, we thus
symbolically expressed the thoughts that rose in our bosoms. We pushed on until
coming to a point where a stream like a mere thread lay before us. Here we
paused, for this was a stream we wished to examine. At the mouth of the stream
stood the sentries of the enemy. We could hear their voices talking. We lay
under the river grass, watching. Soon a boat pushed across the little stream to
the opposite shore. We shoved our canoe far into the marsh, and lay there
concealed. Then all was still and we thought it time to return, so back we
went, and returned home unnoticed and in safety. Such little excursions give a
zest to the dulness of camp. I have not yet been able to give Miss Mintzing's
letter to any one who could send it to her friends, yet I hope such an opportunity
will speedily come. What is Tom Reynolds now doing?
The paymaster has not visited us this long time, and I have
but fifty cents in my pocket. However, when one has nothing to spend, he feels
quite as happy down here, as money can buy but few luxuries in camp. We don't
starve though. Secession cows give us milk, speculators bring us butter, and
the negroes sell us chickens.
SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters
of William Thompson Lusk, p. 118-9
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