The major often went on commissions from our camp on the Avenue de l’Imperatrice down into the city.  In those days many of the young French swells, to keep from going into the field, had donned the ambulance uniform and passed their time loafing about the cafes in the Boulevards.  This became so great a scandal that Trochu was obliged to issue an order forbidding the uniform to be worn except on active duty.  One day, as the major, bound on some errand in the interest of a Frenchman lying wounded in our hospital, was majestically riding his superb stallion Garryowen down the Champs Elysees, his long tawny side-whiskers waving gently in the breeze, his wiry frame erect as a ramrod, the blue regulation-coat buttoned close to his throat with American buttons, the International brassard on his arm and the ambulance shield on his cap,—­as the major, I say, sailed down in this state, he was hailed by one of the chiefs of the French ambulance, which just then was all powerful in Paris.  The major pulled up Garryowen leisurely, and the little Frenchman, who spoke tolerable English, demanded brusquely, “Don’t you know General Trochu has forbidden to wear ambulance uniform when off duty?  And we want this thing stopped.”

The major very deliberately leaned over and caught the little French official by the button of the coat, and in an undertone asked, “And, sure, who are you?”

“I am Mr. So-and-so,” mentioning the name of one of the chiefs of the French International corps.

“Oh, ye are, are ye?” rejoined the major, retaining his hold of the little man’s button.  “Then, Mr. So-and-so, give my compliments—­Major O’Flynn’s compliments, if ye loike it better—­to General Trochu, and tell him, if you plase, that the gentlemen of the American ambulance and meself buy our own clothes and pay for them, ride our own horses and fade them; and when we want or have time to parade aither the one or the other, we will ask permission from the general himself.”

Releasing his hold of the Frenchman’s button, the major saluted and rode gracefully away upon his errand of mercy.  ’And after this specimen of his politeness none of us was ever interfered with.

I have heard from others that the major and the Begum are still alive and thriving.  One day in the times of the Commune I had crept up behind the Arc de Triomphe, during a lull in the fire, to take a look at the Communist batteries at Porte Maillot.  Now, the major lived halfway between the Arc and the batteries.  Suddenly from my concealment I saw the gateway of his house open, and the major sally forth on Garryowen.  He gave merely a glance at the batteries, and slowly rode up toward the Arc.  There was not a soul else visible on the highway, and it must have been he who drew the attention of the Versaillais, for their guns opened at once and the shells came spinning around in the neighborhood.  Garryowen, the grand, the beautiful, was as accustomed to fire as his rider was:  neither was shaken from his equilibrium.  With the same easy pace they gradually wound their way up to and around the Arc de Triomphe, and thus calmly down the Champs Elysees.  The droll, gallant fellow waved me a graceful good-day as he passed me peeping from behind my hiding-place; and that was my last sight, and a characteristic one, of Major Thomas Vincent O’Flynn, of Her Majesty’s Indian army.