ADVANCE PICKET
STATION, PORT ROYAL ISLAND, April 6.
We are seven miles
N. W. of Beaufort. Six companies are encamped here, one at Port Royal Ferry,
one at the Seabrook plantation three miles from here, one at Rose's two miles
off in another direction, one at the brick-yard, three miles off in still
another. Picket duty is always honorable, and being assigned to it for a time
seems like a sort of compensation for taking us away from Jacksonville, but a
pill is a pill, sugared or no, and we have been dosed with a very bad one which
will forever stick in my crop. . . . This old plantation house is not large
enough to decently hold the colonel and his staff, but if we are very quiet I
guess we shall get on amiably. Tonight I sleep on the dirty floor of an attic
with two dormer windows and two room mates. The Col. wanted me to share his room
below, but in this damp climate I shall always seek an upper room when it is
possible.
The scattering of
our men will give us pleasant rides and plenty of excitement. The country
hereabouts is just as charming as pine barrens, slight elevations, running
streams, acres of large white single roses climbing to the tops of respectable
trees, and milk-white clusters of locust blossoms with their delicate
fragrance, wild crimson honeysuckle and trees of Cornus Florida in full bloom
can make it. Don't you think I might be happy? Well, I am.
