At midnight the captain of the sloop notified us that we were now at our place of disembarkation, and we began to scramble up the ladder, a small lamp hanging near by and out on deck.  The wooden wharfs were even with the deck, so we had no difficulty in stepping from one to the other.  But the night was pitch dark, and our only mode of keeping direction was taken from the footsteps of the soldiers on the wharf and in front.  Here we came very near losing one of our best soldiers.  Jim George was an erratic, or some said “half witted” fellow, but was nevertheless a good soldier, and more will be said of him in future In going out of the hold on deck he became what is called in common parlance “wrong shipped,” and instead of passing to the right, as the others did, he took the left, and in a moment he was floundering about in the cold black waves of the river below.  The wind was shrieking, howling, and blowing—­a perfect storm—­so no one could hear his call for help.  He struck out manfully and paddled wildly about in the chilly water, until fortunately a passing sailor, with the natural instinct of his calling, scented a “man overboard.”  A line was thrown Jim, and after a pull he was landed on shore, more dead than alive.

“How long were you in the water, Jim?” someone asked.

“Hell! more dan t’ree hours,” was the laconic and good-natured reply.

Had we lost Jim here, the regiment would have lost a treat in after years, as time will show.

We went into camp a mile or so from the historic old Yorktown, if a few old tumbled down houses and a row of wooden wharfs could be called a town.  The country around Yorktown was low and swampy, and the continual rains made the woods and fields a perfect marsh, not a dry foot of land to pitch a tent on, if we had had tents, and scarcely a comfortable place to stand upon.  Fires were built, and around these men would stand during the day, and a pretense of sleep during the night.  But the soldiers were far from being despondent; although some cursed our luck, others laughed and joked the growlers.  The next day great numbers visited Yorktown through curiosity, and watched the Federal Fleet anchored off Old Point Comfort.  Here happened a “wind fall” I could never account for.  While walking along the beach with some comrades, we came upon a group of soldiers, who, like ourselves, were out sight-seeing.  They appeared to be somewhat excited by the way they were gesticulating.  When we came up, we found a barrel, supposed to be filled with whiskey, had been washed ashore.  Some were swearing by all that was good and bad, that “it was a trick of the d——­n Yankees on the fleet,” who had poisoned the whiskey and thrown it overboard to catch the “Johnny Rebs.”  The crowd gathered, and with it the discussion and differences grew.  Some swore they would not drink a drop of it for all the world, while others were shouting, “Open her up,” “get into it,” “not so much talking, but more drinking.”  But who was “to bell the cat?” Who would drink first?  No one seemed to care for the first drink, but all were willing enough, if somebody else would just “try it.”  It was the first and only time I ever saw whiskey go begging among a lot of soldiers.  At last a long, lank, lantern-jawed son of the “pitch and turpentine State” walked up and said: