Beaufort, S. C. April 12th, 1862.
I hardly know how, writing from peaceful Beaufort, I can
find themes so exciting as to gratify the tastes of the public, used to tales
of victories purchased at bloody rates; yet the importance of the work now quietly
being wrought at Beaufort must not be underrated.
Here too, as well as on the splendid fields of the West, the
spirit of John Brown is marching on. Toward the close of last autumn our troops
entered Beaufort, then deserted by its inhabitants, and looking sad and
desolate. Now the winter has passed away and the spring is far advanced. Nature
has put on her most lovable hues. The dense dark foliage of the pine and the
magnolia harmoniously mingle with the bright new leaves of the forest. The
streets of the city are once more busy with life. Vessels float in the harbor.
Plantations are being cultivated. Wharves are being built. Business is
prosperous. And the quondam proud resort of the proudest of Aristocrats
is being inundated with Yankees acquainted with low details regarding Dollars
and Cents. There are all sorts of Yankee ventures in town, from the man with
the patent armor recommended by McClellan, which no one buys, to the
enterprising individual who manufactures pies in the old Connecticut style, and
who has laid the foundation of an immense fortune. Even the "one only man
of Beaufort," catching the spirit of trade, displays a few dingy wares in
a shop-window. “But why,” the impatient public asks, “is our Army so far away
from Savannah?” “Strategy, my dear public,” I answer. Can anything be more beautiful
than the strategy of our Leaders, which strips war of its terrors and makes it
so eminently safe? Tell me, if Mars chooses to beat his sword into a
ploughshare, and devote himself to the cultivation of sea-island cotton, and
invites live Yankees to assist him therein, ought not the satire of the thing
to please the restless spirit of John Brown and excite it to renewed efforts in
its great performance of marching on? Now there is no doubt that our Army ought
long ago to have been in possession of both Charleston and Savannah. Common
sense teaches us that much, although we know nothing whatever of military
affairs forsooth, and still less of the peculiar circumstances which happen to
govern the action of our Generals. Well, when we see matters in this condition,
common sense teaches us that the proper remedy is to decapitate incompetency,
and to put the "right man in the right place." The proper time for
doing this is when, after long and earnest labor, a Commander is seen to be
ready to strike a blow. Then is the moment to clamor loudly for his dismissal,
and insist that another be put in his place, and when this one shall reap the
harvest his predecessor sowed, we will all nod our heads approvingly at such
evidence of our own ineffable wisdom. This is decidedly the most pleasant mode
of proceeding for a public unacquainted with military matters but governed by
common sense, and it is so satisfactory to all parties concerned, excepting
perhaps the poor devil that gets decapitated. This, however, is a digression, intended
possibly as a sort of “hӕc
fabula docet” derived from the recent capture of Pulaski. So, to return —
Oh, darn it all, my dear Horace, I'll send the subscription
price of the Evening Post without further delay. Here I've been
floundering around, using up whole reams of paper trying to work up a newspaper
style, but I have only succeeded in getting together a vast amount of material
to kindle fires with. I thought I was doing beautifully when I commenced this,
but, becoming disgusted with myself, I have concluded to give you the benefit
of the production and spare the public. Thanks many times for your long, kind
letter. You don't know how enjoyable it was. It has got to be late at night and
soldiers must rise early you know. I have just been reading over this epistle
and see that I have been making a feeble effort to be funny. Prithee forgive
me. I didn't mean to. Give my love to Cousin Lou, Miss Hattie, Anima Mia, Miss
Alice (if it be proper), and friends upon Murray Hill.
Very afFec'y.,
Will Lusk.
SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters
of William Thompson Lusk, p. 138-40
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