Beaufort, S. C. May 18th, 1862.
My dear Mother:
I am going to write you a short letter to-night, as there are some rumors of business on hand this week, which may not leave me much time for correspondence. If it should turn out a false alarm, I will try and write again shortly. Time is slipping by rapidly, as my clothes testify especially, and unless I soon receive a reinforcement to my stock, I shall look like a “Secesh” after a twelve-month blockade. My present suit, after standing by me nobly for several months, seemed all of a sudden to give out all over, as you know clothes will do at times. Fact is, I supposed I should have been home for a few days long before now, but a favorable moment does not seem to turn up ready made to suit my case exactly. If you have a chance, please send me a cravat, as my own, under the influence of the weather, after passing through a thousand varieties of color, has finally settled into such rueful hues, that I have concluded to beg for another. Any lady that will make me a present of a new cravat, shall receive in exchange the old one as a specimen of what things come to after having been through the wars. A box of tooth-powder would likewise be acceptable as my teeth are getting quite shabby. Never mind, I will come home and get tinkered up one of these days, a thing I am mightily in need of. I wonder whether opening the Port of Beaufort will bring hitherward a large installment of the commerce of the world; if so, never mind about the tooth-powder.
We have all been pleasantly excited by the cunning escape of the negroes from Charleston with the Steamer “Planter.” The pilot, Robert, is the hero of the hour, and is really a most remarkable specimen of the dusky sons of Africa (alias nigger), never using a word of less than three syllables when an opportunity offers.
We all were in the habit of abusing Genl. Sherman in old times, but with customary fickleness, wish him back again now. This last batch of General officers with the “Great Superseder” (Hunter) at the head, is poor trash at best, so that there are few who would not rejoice to have “Uncle Tim” (Sherman) back again, notwithstanding his dyspepsia and peripatetic propensities. This is entre nous, and quite unofficial, for as my superior officer, I must recognize in the “Great Superseder” a miracle of wisdom, forecast and discretion. Oh my, what an ill-natured letter! Never mind, behind it all there is lots of love in it for those whose eyes it is likely to meet, and kisses too for my mother, sisters, nephews and others where they would be at once desirable and proper.
The “Connecticut” has arrived, but the mail has not been distributed yet.
Yours affec’y.,
W. T. Lusk.
