Mr. Redmond Barry (better known as Barry Lyndon) tells his uncle the
story of a singular encounter at Berlin with Mr. Alan Stuart, called Alan
Breck, and well known as the companion of Mr. David Balfour in many
adventures. Mr. Barry, at this time, was in the pay of Herr Potzdorff,
of his Prussian Majesty’s Police, and was the associate of the Chevalier,
his kinsman, in the pursuit of fortune.
Berlin, April 1, 1748.
UNCLE BARRY,—I dictate to Pippi, my right hand being wounded, and that by
no common accident. Going down the Linden Strasse yesterday, I
encountered a mob; and, being curious in Potzdorff’s interest, penetrated
to the kernel of it. There I found two men of my old regiment—Kurz and
another—at words with a small, dark, nimble fellow, who carried bright
and dancing eyes in a pock-marked face. He had his iron drawn, a heavy
box-handled cut-and-thrust blade, and seemed ready to fall at once on the
pair that had been jeering him for his strange speech.
“Who is this, lads?” I asked.
“Ein Engländer,” answered they.
“No Englishman,” says he, in a curious accent not unlike our brogue, “but
a plain gentleman, though he bears a king’s name and hath Alan Breck to
his by-name.”
“Come, come,” says I in German, “let the gentleman go his way; he is my
own countryman.” This was true enough for them; and you should have seen
the Highlander’s eyes flash, and grow dim again.
I took his arm, for Potzdorff will expect me to know all about the
stranger, and marched him down to the _Drei Könige_.
“I am your host, sir; what do you call for, Mr. Stuart of —?” said I,
knowing there is never a Scot but has the name of his kailyard tacked to
his own.
“A King’s name is good enough for me; I bear it plain. Mr. —?” said he,
reddening.
“They call me the Chevalier Barry, of Ballybarry.”
“I am in the better company, sir,” quoth he, with a grand bow.
When a bowl of punch was brought he takes off his hat, and drinks, very
solemnly, “To the King!”
“Over the water?” I asked.
“Nay, sir, on _this_ side,” he said; and I smoked the Jacobite. But to
shorten the story, which amuses my tedium but may beget it in you, I
asked him if he knew the cards.
“I’m just daft when I get to the cartes,” he answered in his brogue, and
we fell to piquet. Now my Scot wore a very fine coat, and on the same
very large smooth silver buttons, well burnished. Therefore, perceiving
such an advantage as a skilled player may enjoy, I let him win a little
to whet his appetite, but presently used his buttons as a mirror, wherein
I readily detected the strength of the cards he held. Before attempting
this artifice, I had solemnly turned my chair round thrice.
“You have changed the luck, sir,” says Mr. Breck, or Stuart, presently;
and, rising with a mighty grave air, he turned his coat and put it on
inside out.
“Sir,” says I, “what am I to understand by this conduct?”
“What for should not I turn my coat, for luck, if you turn your chair?”
says he. “But if you are not preceesely satisfied, I will be proud to
step outside with you.”
I answered that we were not in a Highland wilderness, and that if no
malice were meant no affront was taken. We continued at the game till,
though deprived of my mirror, I had won some 500 Fredericks. On this he
rose, saying, “Sir, in this purse you will find the exact sum that I am
owing you, and I will call for my empty sporran the morn. It was Rob
Roy’s before it was mine.” Therewith he laid on the table a sort of
goatskin pouch, such as Highlanders gird about their loins, and marched
forth.
I set to work at opening his pouch, that was fastened by a spring and
button, seeming easy enough of access. But I had scarce pressed the
button when lo! a flash, a pistol shot, and my right hand is grazed with
a bullet that flew out of the bag. This Highlander of the Devil had some
mechanism in his purse that discharged a small steel pistol when unwarily
opened. My hand is but slightly wounded, yet I cannot hold my sword, nor
hath my search brought me any news of Alan Breck. He has vanished like
an emissary of the Devil or the Pretender, as I doubt not he is. But I
will have his blood, if he is not one of their Scotch fairies.—Your
loving Nephew,