Beaufort, S.C., February 2, 1862
I was then in the delicious doubt of our first picket detail which I was to command. After all it did n’t come to much and the only danger I had to face arose from the terror of my own horses at the sight of the sabres of my men and at the dulcet sounds of the band at guard mounting. Lord! what a time I had, and for an instant your son proved himself a trooper in profanity at least. But imagine the feelings of a young officer leading the first detail of his regiment ever seen at a public parade on seeing his men and horses go shooting over the field in all directions like squibs on the 4th of July. With stern decision I at once disgraced and sent home two horses and their riders and paraded the rest in style, marching them in review in a way which almost restored our honor. Then I escorted the officer of the day to his post and stationed my details and then visited the outposts.
We are all alone on an island here, and on its shores our pickets stand and gaze placidly at the pickets of the enemy on the shore opposite. About three times a week one party or the other try to cross in boats and get fired at, but no one ever seems to be hurt and so the danger is apparently not alarming. I visited our furthest pickets and found them on Barnwell’s Island at the house of Mr. Trescot, the author of whom we have heard. It is n’t a pleasant picture, this result of war. Here was a new house on a beautiful island and surrounded with magnificent cotton fields, built evidently by a gentleman of refinement and very recently, and there was the garden before it filled with rubbish, and within broken furniture, scraps of books and letters, and all the little tokens of a refined family. Scattered over the floors and piled in the corners were the remains of a fine library of books of many languages, and panels and glasses were broken wherever so doing was thought an easier course than to unlock or open. I wandered round and looked out at the view and wondered why this people had brought all this upon themselves; and yet I could n’t but pity them. For I thought how I should feel to see such sights at Quincy. . . .
