* * *
Night wore on, and the men rested as best they could. The first rays of dawn crept through the ragged foliage of the war-weary woods, and should have awakened the birds, had they not all fled weeks earlier. A smoky mist still hung in the air, but it was beginning to lift.
“Be ready, men,” Lieutenant Clayhill commanded. “Their attack will come soon.”
As if in answer to his words, a shot rang out from the Union lines, followed by a full volley. Rounds zipped through the air like angry insects, tearing leaves and thudding into trees and the embankment. The few soldiers of the Confederate regiment who were not already on the line quickly took shelter wherever they could and readied their weapons.
O’Reilly had moved his team of mules and wagon to an area safe from musket fire hours earlier. Now he scuttled across the encampment in a hunched position, a shiny object in hand, to comply with his most recent order. Reaching the Lieutenant, he handed the officer the telescoping brass spyglass that had been left behind in his tent.
Clayhill took it, giving it the once over as if expecting damage, then drawled, “Thank you, Private. Now see if you can manage to locate your weapon and position yourself to repel the invaders, since I see no sign of your little friends.”
“Yes, Sir, Lieutenant, Sir.” O’Reilly sighed, a deep soul-searching sigh, and wished he had saved a bit more of the fine old Irish whiskey in his flask. Then he smiled, and his ears pricked up, for he thought he could heard the faint strains of a lively Irish jig drifting across the glen. “‘Tis ready I’ll be, Sir. No doubt about that.”
“Hold your fire, men,” ordered Lieutenant Clayhill. “That first volley was just to spook us. Save your rounds for their advance, if they dare to make one.”
The lieutenant raised a hairsbreadth above the embankment, just enough to take a quick scan through his spyglass at the opposing forces beyond. The foot soldiers were still hunkered down on their side, too, which suggested that something else would precede their advance. Clayhill was not at all surprised when he heard the dull boom of mortar fire coming from the Union position opposite their regiment. It was a deep, resonant sound that vibrated the ground, the air, their very bodies, and it was followed by the whistling shriek of heavy rounds arcing through the air toward them. Now Clayhill pricked up his ears. He, too, thought he could hear the faint yet unmistakable sound of an
Irish jig wafting through the air as well. Now that was odd. Very odd indeed. Dare he hope that the help they so badly needed was even now on the way...?
The mortar rounds seemed to be taking a second or so longer than usual to hit. What did that mean? The lieutenant frantically scanned skyward through his brass spyglass and was astonished to see one of the enemy mortar rounds arcing his way, ever so slowly, almost hanging in midair at the high point of its trajectory. As if that weren’t strange enough, he then saw something even more astonishing!
Perched atop that mortar round was a tiny leprechaun. The green clad elf was peering down, leaning first one way and then the other, left, right, forward, back, seeming to steer the flight of the round by shifting his weight and the angle of his wind resistance. Clayhill’s mouth gaped as he hastily swung his spyglass farther and saw other rounds, with other leprechauns, going through the same gyrations, also heading their way. Was this their idea of helping? Abruptly, the leprechauns leaped free of the mortar rounds, holding their hats aloft to float them through the air, safely above the battlefield. The mortar rounds promptly resumed their normal speed, whizzing down to the Confederate regiment’s camp.
KA-WHUMP! went the first round, hitting dead center in the circular sandbag pit where the first stash of powder kegs were stored, blowing the kegs high in the air with the initial force of the explosion, as if a small volcano had erupted. As the kegs shot high overhead, burning from the blast, they reached a point several hundred feet in the air and abruptly exploded in a chorus of huge BANGS and flashes.
“Oooooo!” said the regiment in unison, gazing up at the aerial display.
The first blast was immediately followed by a second, as another mortar round that had been steered to target by fairy folk now impacted in the sandbag pit where the other stockpile of powder kegs reposed, with similar results. KA-WHUMP! WHIZ! BOOM!
“Aaaaah!” chorused the men, but then they ducked as splinters from the kegs began to rain down on them.
“O’Reilly---!” screamed Lieutenant Clayhill, who seemed singularly unimpressed by the dazzling display. “What are they doing? They’re helping the wrong side!”
Scrambling for shelter, O’Reilly gave a helpless shrug. He dove for cover as more rounds hit.
Boom! went the mess tent, as pots and pans went cartwheeling through the air amid clouds of flour. Bam! went a stockpile of firewood. Bang! went Lieutenant Clayhill’s own tent, and long underwear and extra uniforms were suddenly cavorting in the sky above their heads.
“Here they come!” shouted the lieutenant, pointing over the embankment toward the Union line. “Get ready!”
Amid bugle calls and drum beats and battle cries, the soldiers of the Union Army came up over their own embankment and charged toward the Confederate line. They were frankly not looking that good themselves at this point in the war, but they were at least better supplied. At a dead run they came, with their rifles and fixed bayonets...closer...and closer...and closer still.
“Ready, men,” said Lieutenant Clayhill. “Ready...fire!”
The Confederate regiment already had their weapons to their shoulders. They each picked a target. They drew a bead. They squeezed the triggers!
POP! POP-POP-POP! POP-KA-POP-POP!
“Pop?” Clayhill’s face twisted in a look of consternation. Instead of the sharp crackle of musketry he expected to hear, there was only a volley of soft popping sounds, like snapping a finger against the side of your open mouth. No bang, no flash!
The men tilted up their muskets and stared in awe at the ends of the barrels. Instead of a coil of smoke drifting up from the end of each rifle, there was only a short length of string hanging down, with a cork dangling at the end. Their weapons had been turned into simple pop guns!
“Great Merciful Heavens...” drawled the lieutenant. He looked to his right. He looked to his left. The cannon placements on either side of their regiment were faring no better. The barrel of each big gun abruptly dropped just before firing, shooting into the ground instead of at the enemy. And he could swear he saw leprechauns jumping up and down on the ends of the barrels before they dropped.
Clayhill dashed back to where his horse stood tethered. He quickly mounted, reaching for the hilt of his saber. He would fight the Yankees like a proper southern gentleman.
He pulled the blade free of its scabbard and raised it high, about to shout a command to his men, when out of the corner of his eye he saw something fluttering in the early morning breeze. The corner of it smacked him in the face. “What the---”
The lieutenant stared in horror at the white flag that was waving from the blade of his uplifted saber. A white flag of surrender. “Surrender, hell!” said he. Clayhill snatched down the blade and tore the flag loose from it, throwing it aside.
Up went the saber once more! Out popped a new white flag! A bigger one this time.
Clayhill gasped. Ahead of him, each of his men’s upraised muskets now also had a white flag sprouting from the ends of their barrels. They were waving in the breeze with great merriment. And that jig...that damned jig...still played faintly somewhere.
His face red with rage, the lieutenant vowed, “I will not be defeated, fairy folk or not!” He threw down his treasured saber and pulled out his pistol as the Union soldiers reached the top of the embankment. He debated with himself whether to shoot at them or at O’Reilly. The latter seemed more appealing.
A leprechaun suddenly appeared on top of his horse’s head. The little sprite flashed a mischievous smile and waved.
Now here was a worthy target, the very source of his troubles. Clayhill cocked the pistol and leveled it at the tiny man in green. “Why you!” he mouthed in a mean-spirited drawl.
The leprechaun frowned. Suddenly, the cinch strap of Clayhill’s saddle loosened a bit...quite a good bit, actually...and the saddle and Clayhill swung rapidly around and down. The lieutenant ended up, still in the saddle, upside down beneath his horse. His head was against the ground and his hat was jammed tightly over his eyes. The barrel of his pistol was securely stuck in the dirt. This was no way to lead a charge, nor to meet the enemy. He hung there, doing a slow boil.
The Union Army came cautiously into camp, the men sizing up the situation, their guns and bayonets ready. The Confederates with the white flags on their muskets had little else to do with their non-functioning weapons except wave them solicitously and hope for the best. It hardly seemed sporting to shoot them, so the Union troops quickly rounded them up and prepared them for transport back behind the Union lines as prisoners.
“I’m Major General John A. McClernand,” said the Union officer in charge. “Where’s O’Reilly---?”
Approaching him with caution and great respect, O’Reilly said, “Ah, that would be me, Sir.”
The general fixed him with an odd stare. Then he smiled. “Well, Mr. Sean O’Reilly, your little friends gave me your message. Certainly was a surprise to see the wee folk here. How long have you been held prisoner by these Rebs?”
“Long enough, Sir,” said O’Reilly. “I’ve been little more than a red-headed slave to these fine folks.”
“Well, Sean, my own ancestry is Scottish, but we Scots and Irish have common Gaelic roots, not to mention elves and fairyfolk of our own. Glad we could help each other out, and that no one got hurt.”
“No gladder than I, Sir. No gladder than I.”
At that moment there came sounds of gunfire from the right and left of them, and not all that far away. There was little doubt about what it meant.
“‘Twould be the other regiments,” warned O’Reilly, “moving in to fill the gap.”
“We’d best pull back,” McClernand told him. “We’re not prepared to move into Vicksburg just yet, though I’ll wager it won’t be long before they have to give in.”
The king of the leprechauns suddenly materialized on O’Reilly’s shoulder. “Well, Sean, are ye pleased with the granting of your favor?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Most pleased, indeed. Thank you!”
The leprechaun king gave him a wink and a smile and touched the brim of his tiny hat. Then he vanished in a greenish poof of smoke and was gone.
At that point, Lieutenant Clayhill was being led away, fit to be tied, literally as well as figuratively. His rumpled hat seemed to cap a full head of steam, and most of his ire was directed at none other than ex-Private Sean O’Reilly.
Clayhill’s look was scathing. His neck and face were livid.
“Why’d you throw your lot in with those damn Yankees, O’Reilly? Why’d you betray the South?”
“Sure’n don’t you know,” said O’Reilly in a scolding tone. “‘Tis Belfast I’m from originally. I’m Northern Irish!”
THE END
Copyright © 2000 and 2012 Gary Alan Ruse
Also by Gary Alan Ruse:
The Cross of St. Anne -- a supernatural suspense novel.
https://www.thecrossofsaintanne.com/
Murder in Deer Park -- a historical mystery novella.
https://www.murderindeerpark.com/
Visit the author’s main website here:
https://www.garyalanruse.com/
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