Early the next morning, a messenger arrived from the Cranagh, with a small packet of my clothes and effects, and a farewell letter from the two brothers. I had but time to glance over its contents when the tramp of feet and the buzz of voices in the street attracted me to the window, and on looking out I saw a long line of men, two abreast, who were marching along as prisoners, a party of dismounted dragoons keeping guard over them on either side, followed by a strong detachment of marines. The poor fellows looked sad and crest-fallen enough. Many of them wore bandages on their heads and limbs, the tokens of the late struggle. Immediately in front of the inn door stood a group of about thirty persons; they were the staff of the English force, and the officers of our fleet, all mingled together, and talking away with the greatest air of unconcern. I was struck by remarking that all our seamen, though prisoners, saluted the officers as they passed, and in the glances interchanged I thought I could read a world of sympathy and encouragement. As for the officers, like true Frenchmen they bore themselves as though it were one of the inevitable chances of war, and, however vexatious for the moment, not to be thought of as an event of much importance. The greater number of them belonged to the army, and I could see the uniforms of the staff, artillery and dragoons, as well as the less distinguished costume of the line.

Perhaps they carried the affectation of indifference a little too far, and in the lounging ease of their attitude, and the cool unconcern with which they puffed their cigars, displayed an over-anxiety to seem unconcerned.

That the English were piqued at their bearing was still more plain to see; and indeed, in the sullen looks of the one, and the careless gaiety of the other party, a stranger might readily have mistaken the captor for the captive.

My two friends of the evening before were in the midst of the group. He who had questioned me so sharply now wore a general officer’s uniform, and seemed to be the chief in command. As I watched him I heard him addressed by an officer, and now saw that he was no other than Lord Cavan himself, while the other was a well-known magistrate and country gentleman, Sir George Hill.

The sad procession took almost half an hour to defile; and then came a long string of country cars and carts, with sea-chests and other stores belonging to our officers, and, last of all, some eight or ten ammunition-waggons and gun-carriages, over which an English union-jack now floated in token of conquest.

There was nothing like exultation or triumph exhibited by the peasantry as this pageant passed. They gazed in silent wonderment at the scene, and looked like men who scarcely knew whether the result boded more of good or evil to their own fortunes. While keenly scrutinising the looks and bearing of the bystanders, I received a summons to meet the general and his party at breakfast.

Although the occurrence was one of the most pleasurable incidents of my life, which brought me once more into intercourse with my comrades and my countrymen, I should perhaps pass it over with slight mention, were it not that it made me witness to a scene which has since been recorded in various different ways, but of whose exact details I profess to be an accurate narrator.

After making a tour of the room, saluting my comrades, answering questions here, putting others there, I took my place at the long table, which, running the whole length of the apartment, was indiscriminately occupied by French and English, and found myself with my back to the fireplace, and having directly in front of me a man of about thirty-three or thirty-four years of age, dressed in the uniform of a chef de brigade; light-haired and blue-eyed, he bore no resemblance whatever to those around him, whose dark faces and black beards proclaimed them of a foreign origin. There was an air of mildness in his manner, mingled with a certain impetuosity that betrayed itself in the rapid glances of his eye, and I could plainly mark that while the rest were perfectly at their ease, he was constrained, restless, watching eagerly everything that went forward about him, and showing unmistakably a certain anxiety and distrust, widely differing from the gay and careless indifference of his comrades. I was curious to hear his name, and on asking, learned that he was the Chef de Brigade Smith, an Irishman by birth, but holding a command in the French service.

I had but asked the question, when, pushing back his chair from the table, he arose suddenly, and stood stiff and erect, like a soldier on parade.

‘Well, sir, I hope you are satisfied with your inspection of me,’ cried he, and sternly, addressing himself to some one behind my back. I turned and perceived it was Sir George Hill, who stood in front of the fire, leaning on his stick. Whether he replied or not to this rude speech I am unable to say, but the other walked leisurely round the table and came directly in front of him. ‘You know me now, sir, I presume,’ said he, in the same imperious voice, ‘or else this uniform has made a greater change in my appearance than I knew of.’

‘Mr. Tone!’ said Sir George, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

‘Ay, sir, Wolfe Tone; there is no need of secrecy here; Wolfe Tone, your old college acquaintance in former times, but now chef de brigade in the service of France.’

‘This is a very unexpected, a very unhappy meeting, Mr. Tone,’ said Hill feelingly; ‘I sincerely wish you had not recalled the memory of our past acquaintance. My duty gives me no alternative.’

‘Your duty, or I mistake much, can have no concern with me, sir,’ cried Tone, in a more excited voice.

‘I ask for nothing better than to be sure of this, Mr. Tone,’ said Sir George, moving slowly towards the door.

‘You would treat me like an ÉmigrÉ rentrÉ? cried Tone passionately, ‘but I am a French subject and a French officer!’

‘I shall be well satisfied if others take the same view of your case, I assure you,’ said Hill, as he gained the door.

‘You ‘ll not find me unprepared for either event, sir,’ rejoined Tone, following him out of the room, and banging the door angrily behind him.

For a moment or two the noise of voices was heard from without, and several of the guests, English and French, rose from the table, eagerly inquiring what had occurred, and asking for an explanation of the scene, when suddenly the door was flung wide open, and Tone appeared between two policemen, his coat off, and his wrists inclosed in handcuffs.

‘Look here, comrades,’ he cried in French; ‘this is another specimen of English politeness and hospitality. After all,’ added he, with a bitter laugh, ‘they have no designation in all their heraldry as honourable as these fetters, when worn for the cause of freedom! Good-bye, comrades; we may never meet again, but don’t forget how we parted.’

These were the last words he uttered, when the door was closed, and he was led forward under charge of a strong force of police and military. A postchaise was soon seen to pass the windows at speed, escorted by dragoons, and we saw no more of our comrade.

The incident passed even more rapidly than I write it. The few words spoken, the hurried gestures, the passionate exclamations, are yet all deeply graven on my memory; and I can recall every little incident of the scene, and every feature of the locality wherein it occurred. With true French levity many reseated themselves at the breakfast-table; whilst others, with perhaps as little feeling, but more of curiosity, discussed the event, and sought for an explanation of its meaning.

‘Then what’s to become of Tiernay,’ cried one, ‘if it be so hard to throw off this “coil of Englishmen?” His position may be just as precarious.’

‘That is exactly what has occurred,’ said Lord Cavan; ‘a warrant for his apprehension has just been put into my hands, and I deeply regret that the duty should violate that of hospitality, and make my guest my prisoner.’

‘May I see this warrant, my lord?’ asked I.

‘Certainly, sir. Here it is; and here is the information on oath through which it was issued, sworn to before three justices of the peace by a certain Joseph Dowall, late an officer in the rebel forces, but now a pardoned approver of the Crown; do you remember such a man, sir?’

I bowed, and he went on.

‘He would seem a precious rascal; but such characters become indispensable in times like these. After all, M. Tiernay, my orders are only to transmit you to Dublin under safe escort, and there is nothing either in my duty or in your position to occasion any feeling of unpleasantness between us. Let us have a glass of wine together.’

I responded to this civil proposition with politeness, and, after a slight interchange of leave-takings with some of my newly-found comrades, I set out for Derry on a jaunting-car, accompanied by an officer and two policemen, affecting to think very little of a circumstance which, in reality, the more I reflected over, the more serious I deemed it.