The Holy Warrior

by Gilbert, Morris

  Adam considered his son’s remark, and it disturbed him. He knew Nathan to be a devout man, though he was unable to accept the camp meetings that had swept across the country like a wave. In August of 1801, Adam and Nathan had gone to Cane Ridge, Kentucky, to see for themselves what the excitement was about. They had been astonished how big it was; settlers came by the thousands with tents and wagonloads of supplies, prepared to camp out on the grounds until the meetings ended. No one had an exact count of the attendance, but Peter Cartwright, a Methodist clergyman, estimated between twelve to twenty-five thousand—remarkable indeed, considering the largest city in the state had less than eighteen hundred people.

  Adam had been moved by the experience—but then, he had been converted under the preaching of George Whitefield. Even now, years later, he could remember every detail plainly, how he had “fallen under the power,” as the phenomena came to be known. He had seen men and women cut down like ripe grain under the powerful preaching of Jonathan Edwards, so at the Cane Ridge meeting, he had not been shocked—but Nathan had.

  Adam groped for words to make his son understand. “Nathan, tell me the name of the most powerful intellect that ever stood in an American pulpit.”

  “Why, Jonathan Edwards!”

  “You are right—so think about this, son: His was the greatest mind in the church, and yet many times—many times!—when I was in his church at Northhampton, I saw almost every element that you fault the modern revivals for. I saw men and women shouting and shaking like a giant had hold of them; I saw them lying on the floor so thick a man couldn’t walk between them. Edwards always said that—with a few exceptions—these things were of God.”

  Nathan replied, “I can’t answer you, Father. If there are two men in this world I trust, it’s you and Dan. Still, the Bible says that we must act decently and in order.”

  The argument had come full circle, so Adam changed the subject. “I hope Christmas gets here soon. He was supposed to be here two days ago. I still fret about him among those Indians.”

  “Maybe he’ll come this afternoon,” Nathan reassured him as they all got up to leave the arbor.

  The afternoon passed, and the family gathered inside the spacious dining room. Adam sat at one end, with Paul and his wife Charity at his right. Their son, Whitfield, and his wife Alice were on Adam’s left. Nathan’s family took up a large section. The boys, Alex and George—aged twenty-five and twenty-six—sat on one side of Nathan; their twenty-three-year-old daughter Judith, a regal beauty, was seated beside Julie. Across from them Dan Greene and his wife Anne sat, their three children lined up beside them.

  The Greenes’ second daughter, Missy, was a tall girl, and at age sixteen was awkwardly trapped between girlhood and womanhood. Her blond hair was usually in need of combing; her brown eyes large and watchful. She looks like a young colt—all arms and legs! Adam thought, but he saw that the fine lines were there, and when she got past the leggy stage, she would have the graceful bearing that some tall women have.

  At fourteen, Asa was a carbon copy of his father: thick black hair, dark eyes, strongly built. He was a stubborn boy, Adam knew, but not wild.

  He gave their eldest, Caroline, a careful glance—she had always puzzled him. She was twenty-six years old, and one of the quietest girls he had ever met. She had built some sort of wall around herself, and Adam had never been able to get close to her.

  There were others there, and Adam could name about half of the distant cousins—women who had changed the Winslow name for another. He looked down the table and was snapped out of his reverie when he heard Paul ask him to say the blessing.

  Getting to his feet, he bowed his head. “Lord, how grateful we are for this food! Thank you. And we thank you for our family—earth’s only wealth. We are thankful that we are not alone in this world, for you have given us to one another. Now we ask that every member of the House of Winslow will be a child of God—faithful to you, O Lord of all the earth!”

  The hushed “amens” floated around the table. The lull was broken as they fell to eating, and the room was filled with laughter and talk. Adam said to Paul, “I’m glad you did this, Paul. It’s right for families to be together again.”

  After supper the men retired to the large parlor and the women all pitched in to help with the dishes. Paul and Charity kept two servants, but the sudden influx of relatives necessitated extra hands. Charity moved through the crowded kitchen, giving orders cheerfully and often stopping to show someone how to do something better. Coming up behind Missy, she looked down at the blue china dishes the girl was washing in a pan of hot soapy water. “Why, Missy Greene!” she exclaimed, “look at the food you left on this dish!” She shook her head, adding, “You must have your mind on something else, because you’re surely not thinking of the dishes.”

  “She’s mooning because Chris didn’t come,” Asa said with a grin.

  No one expected the outburst the boy’s teasing would incur. Missy’s face went white—then red—and she turned and shouted, “You shut your mouth, Asa!”

  The boy’s eyes flashed, and a stubborn thrust of his chin accompanied his retort. “I don’t have to shut up! Everybody knows you’re plum silly over—ow!”

  A ringing slap on the cheek cut him off, and for one instant he stood there, stunned, with the clear imprint of Missy’s hand on his left cheek. He gave a howl and threw himself at her, and the two of them fell to the floor in a kicking ball of fury, yelling at the top of their lungs.

  Caroline gave a cry of distress and tried to separate them, to no avail; she could only stand there, looking helpless. The sudden eruption of violence had frozen everyone else in place except Charity. Her years on ship had given her a great deal of experience with such things, for sailors are simple men, often childish and fights were not uncommon.

  Her green eyes blazing with a mixture of humor and impatience, Charity grabbed the large pan of soapy dishwater and without hesitation dumped it over the pair, then stood back.

  The sudden deluge caught both of them with their mouths open. Asa rolled around on the floor gagging and Missy managed to sit up, sputtering. Their fight was forgotten, but the water had flattened Missy’s blond hair and it hung in her face in soapy braids. She stared up at Charity Winslow in bewilderment.

  “Now, if you’re through with your fits, clean up this mess, then go change your clothes.” Though her aunt was only five feet five, Charity seemed to tower over Missy as the girl got to her feet. Drawing herself up, Charity berated the two children with iron in her voice. “I’m ashamed of you! If you were mine, I’d cane you both until you learned a few manners! Now get busy!”

  Missy’s fair complexion was pale as ivory as she knelt without a word to mop the floor. Asa, at her side, was also too cowed to speak. When the floor was clean, she turned and left the room, determined not to cry in front of the family.

  She ran blindly to the room she shared with several younger relatives, and fell across the bed sobbing. Scalding tears rolled down her cheeks, and her whole body shook with the force of her crying. When she was calmer she got up and paced the floor, dreading the moment when she would have to go down and face those who’d seen her make such a fool of herself.

  Missy is as sensitive as a girl without a skin! She’d heard her father say that once, and it was true. Her height made her feel ugly—she would gladly have given all her quick intelligence to be six inches shorter. She often compared herself—always unfavorably—with small, petite girls, and had driven her mother wild by habitually stooping to make herself seem shorter.

  “I hate Asa! I wish he’d die!” she muttered, immediately feeling a wave of guilt wash over her. Unable to tolerate it any longer, she ran out of the room and found her way out a side door that opened into the arbor, taking a path that led into the woods. The day before, she and Asa had wandered here, where the banks of a small brook wound around the edge of the fields and into the deeper woods. She picked her way along the path to a natural dam that had create
d a pond about fifteen feet across, and seated herself on a large moss-covered rock. The silence seeped into her spirit, and soon she felt better.

  An hour went by, then another. She watched a water snake slither down the far bank in a movement graceful and deadly, snatching a small frog in one swift strike. The snake swallowed his prey and wriggled out of the water not three feet from her foot, its body swollen with the dead frog.

  The moon edged across the sky unnoticed, and still she sat there, as if she were a part of the rock. She saw an owl cruise over, and she watched a nervous doe hover over her spotted fawn that staggered on absurdly long legs. The mother drank, coaxing her fawn to do the same before they melted into the dark wood.

  Rustling leaves behind her startled Missy, gripping her with an unknown fear. Panicking, she turned around to see a large black shape appear against the background of the foliage less than ten feet away. It’s a bear! The thought chilled her.

  She leaped to her feet and made a wild lunge for the path, but her foot slipped on the moss, and she fell sprawling and helpless as the dark shape loomed closer. “Go away!” she cried out, desperately rolling over to kick at the bear.

  “Go away? Why, here I’ve come halfway across the country and now you tell me to git?” The shape grinned at her.

  “Christmas!” Missy scrambled to her feet and flung herself into his arms, her relief causing her to forget herself. “You scared me to death! I thought you were a bear!”

  “You’re not the only one who’s scared,” Christmas told her, the smile disappearing from his lips. “Your mother is about crazy with worry, child!” There was an edge in his soft voice as he added, “You ought not to worry her, Missy, her being so poorly.”

  The gentle rebuke was a blow to the girl, and tears sprang to her eyes. Dropping her head, Missy turned and trudged blindly down the path, speechless. To her, a reprimand from Christmas was ten times worse than from anyone else. She had looked forward to his arrival for so long—and now this!

  “Wait!” he said, running after her. He stopped her and gently turned her around to face him. There was gentleness in his eyes. She had always been his pet, and it distressed him to see her hurt. “It’s not so bad as that.”

  “It is! I’ve acted like an idiot!”

  “Me too, Missy—lots of times,” he laughed softly. “I heard all about it. You and Asa fought like wildcats, so Charity said.”

  “Did she say what we fought about?” Missy felt her face get hot.

  “No. Wanna tell me about it?”

  “Oh—it was nothing.”

  “Guess little brothers are just a pain in the neck sometimes.”

  “I’m such a fool!”

  Christmas looked at her thoughtfully. Missy had grown two inches taller since he had seen her last year. The high point of his yearly trip east was the time he spent with the Greenes, and watching Missy and Asa grow up was a pleasure that carried him through the long winters in the mountains. He was fonder of her than he knew, and now he wanted to ease her grief.

  “Go on and feel bad then,” he grinned, “but I can tell you something that’ll make you feel better, I bet. Matter of fact, I’ll bet you what I got in my pocket against a big hug and a kiss that I can make you whoop and holler in ten seconds.”

  “Bet you can’t!”

  “I’m coming home with you and I’m gonna stay there two months and you and me—we’re gonna get a sample of every bird’s egg in the country, and I’m gonna teach you how to shoot like a mountain man!”

  “Christmas!” she exclaimed, her face beaming with joy—as he had hoped—and her brown eyes widening in delight.

  “See? You lose,” he said. “Now, give me that hug and kiss—then we better get back before they send out a search party.”

  She threw her arms around him and he smiled, thinking, This won’t last long. Someday soon she’s going to grow up and be too big to hug.

  Assuring himself that that time was still far off, he let her lead him back to the house, chattering and pulling at his hand.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CAMP MEETING

  Years later, the Greenes never referred to those months as “the summer of 1806.” It was always “the summer Chris stayed with us.”

  On July 4th of that year the Greenes had a big celebration dinner to welcome their guest. After the meal, Chris left the room, returning with a rifle in one hand and a small sack in the other. Setting down the rifle, he took something out of the sack—a powder horn, Asa saw, and a shot pouch—and picked up the handsome rifle again. Asa eyed it longingly, thinking it was a gift for his father, and paled when Chris held the rifle out to him. “You can’t be a mountain man without a rifle, boy.” Asa was speechless. His hands trembled as he took the heavy gun, running his fingers down the barrel, caressing the smooth stock. His throat was thick and tears stung his eyes. Not wanting Chris to notice and think he was a baby, Asa turned away with a husky “Thanks.”

  Chris grinned and clapped Asa on the shoulder and explained, “I’m never around anybody but Indians at Christmastime, so I decided this Christmas’ll be on July 4th.” He fished around in the sack and handed a package to Caroline. “Hope you like this, Caroline. You’re hard to buy for, but maybe this will please you.”

  Caroline’s gift was a fine leather book with HOLY BIBLE in gold letters across the front. Her fingers gently traced the words. “It’s beautiful, Christmas,” she said softly. “I’ll treasure it always.”

  The bulky package Dan unwrapped was a volume of Rev. Charles Wesley’s sermons—something he’d always longed for. The bindings were all calf leather, and the paper was thick vellum. “Why—these must have cost a fortune, Christmas!” he exclaimed.

  He handed Anne a small package, saying, “This isn’t Indian made, Anne. Came from over the water.”

  Chris watched her as she removed the paper, and he was saddened by how thin and wan she looked. She had been such a pretty young woman when he had first met her, but her last pregnancy had almost killed her, and she never recovered her strength after losing the baby. Nothing seemed to relieve her nagging cough, and she was unable to do hardly any work.

  “Why, Christmas! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! Look, girls—a pearl case.”

  They admired the delicate mother-of-pearl case, finely worked with gold wire, and then Chris said, “Well, that’s all—oh, except this.” He handed Missy a length of braided leather, saying, “You like to ride so much, I thought you’d like an Indian-made bridle. This one was made by a Sioux woman named Still Water—made of elk hide she chewed herself to make it soft.”

  The Greenes cast furtive glances at each other. It seemed unfair that Chris would give Missy such a small gift when he had given the rest of them such expensive things. Even Asa felt bad and tried to console her. “Hey, Missy, that’s really a nice bridle.” The others, somewhat embarrassed for her, admired it loudly.

  But Missy was delighted with her present. “Thank you, Christmas!” she smiled. “You always think of the best gifts for us!”

  “Oh, it’s not much,” Chris shrugged. “Say, did you notice there’s no bit for the horse’s mouth? Gotta be a pretty fair rider to control an animal with an Indian bridle. Come on—we’ll try it out on the mare.”

  “All right.”

  Leaving the house together, they heard Asa clamoring to fire the rifle. Dan, who had not lost his interest in guns since his younger days, gave in and took his son down the road to find a safe place—away from the house—for shooting practice.

  Watching her brother proudly carrying his rifle, Missy said, “What nice gifts!—much nicer than what we usually get for Christmas.”

  “It’s little enough, Missy. I’ve taken a lot more from the Greenes than I’ll ever be able to pay back.” They came to the barn, and Chris put his hand on the bolt, swinging the door back. “Let me get Lady out for you.”

  “All right.” Missy was perfectly capable of getting the mare, but it pleased her to have Chris
do it. She turned the bridle over in her hands, examining the finely worked leather, and did not look up when she heard the sound of the horse’s hooves. Still toying with the bridle, she walked closer to where Chris stood, glanced up, and froze in her tracks.

  It was not Lady that Chris had led out. It was a beautiful chestnut stallion!

  “Here’s the rest of your present, Missy,” Chris said quietly, handing her the hackamore he’d slipped over the neck of the animal.

  She took the reins without looking at Chris, for her eyes were filled with the beauty of the horse. He was young, but very tall and rangy. His eyes were large and his coat glistened under the rolling bands of smooth muscles as he stamped the ground.

  Chris moved back to lean against the barn, savoring the sight. Somehow he knew that even when he grew old, he’d still be able to pull this scene up from the place old dreams lie—the tall girl, leggy and strong, with the dying sun putting red lights in her blond hair, looking up with wonder at the powerful colt.

  He was pulled out of his reverie when Missy turned and looked at him with enormous eyes that were brimming with tears. “I—I can’t ever thank you enough...!”

  Embarrassed, Chris shifted his weight and pushed himself away from the wall. Brusquely, he told her, “Well, you’ve got to teach this horse a few things, Missy. He’s got a mind of his own, and he’s big enough to make life miserable for you if you don’t show him who’s boss.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Whatever you call him.”

  She thought hard before saying, “When he runs, I bet it sounds like thunder. What’s the Indian name for thunder, Chris?”

  “Wah-tee-nah.”

  She mulled it over, then shook her head. “No, it’ll just be Thunder.” On the heels of that decision a new thought occurred to her. “Will you teach me to ride him—like you taught me to shoot?”

  “Do what I can—but you’re a natural rider, Missy. You ride like you’re a part of the horse—just like the Sioux.”