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:

"Burst her open and give me a drink, a man might as well die from a
good fill of whiskey as to camp in this God-forsaken swamp and die of
fever; I've got a chill now."

The barrel was opened. The "tar heel" took a long, a steady, and
strong pull from a tin cup; then holding it to a comrade, he said:
"Go for it, boys, she's all right; no poison thar, and she didn't come
from them thar gun boats either. Yankees ain't such fools as to throw
away truck like that. No, boys, that 'ar liquor just dropped from