Long before we reached Camp
Saxton we could see the beautiful grove, and the ruins of the old
Huguenot fort near it. Some companies of the First Regiment were drawn
up in line under the trees, near the landing, to receive us. A fine,
soldierly-looking set of men; their brilliant dress against the trees
(they were then wearing red pantaloons) invested them with a
semi-barbaric splendor. It was my good fortune to find among the
officers an old friend,--and what it was to meet a friend from the
North, in our isolated Southern life, no one can imagine who has not
experienced the pleasure. Letters were an unspeakable luxury,--we
hungered for them, we could never get enough; but to meet old
friends,--that was "too much, too much," as the people here say, when
they are very much in earnest. Our friend took us over the camp, and
showed us all the arrangements. Everything looked clean and comfortable,
much neater, we were told, than in most of the white camps. An officer
told us that he had never seen a regiment in which the men were so
honest. "In many other camps," said he, "the colonel and the rest of us
would find it necessary to place a guard before our tents. We never do
it here. They are left entirely unguarded. Yet nothing has ever been
touched.
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