The Holy Warrior

by Gilbert, Morris

  Then she skipped to the last letter in the pack.

  March 11, 1809

  Dear Missy,

  Finished—at last! I can’t believe that my studies are over and that I’ll be home in two months! It’s been harder than I ever thought it would be—but it’s over.

  I will see you in May—but I wanted to warn you that Caroline has told me about your sweetheart, Tom Cantrell. (I’m a little hurt that you didn’t tell me yourself, but I suppose a grown young lady doesn’t tell such things to gray-haired old uncles like me!) I may as well warn you, I’m going to give the young fellow a good examination and a heart-to-heart talk. I think too much of my Missy girl to have her throw herself away on some worthless scoundrel!

  Seriously, your father tells me that the young man is acceptable in every respect, and when I arrive home, I’ll congratulate him on getting the finest girl in the world!

  Love,

  Christmas

  She gave her head an impatient shake and snorted “Tom Cantrell!” before she heard Asa yell from the front yard, “He’s comin’! Christmas is comin’!” She threw the box down and dashed out of the room, her eyes flashing—and then remembered that she was a grown woman now, so she slowed down and forced herself to go out on the porch at a more sedate pace to join the others.

  Christmas was three hundred yards away when he saw them on the porch waiting. Lifting his hat, he gave a wild cry and spurred his horse to a run. He pulled the big bay up and leaped to the ground, his face flushed but alive with pleasure. Except for two visits, the last a year ago, he had not left Yale, and Missy’s heart leaped at the sight of him as he grabbed Asa in a bear hug, lifting the boy off the ground. Dan gave him a hug, and he carefully put an arm around Anne’s frail shoulders, saying, “Anne, it’s good to see you!” Caroline stood at the foot of the steps, and he broke through her reserve by leaning down and kissing her cheek, saying warmly, “Caroline! I’ve missed you!”

  She colored at the unexpected kiss, reached up to touch her cheek, and her eyes were bright as she said, “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Missy came down the steps, thinking that he’d greet her as he did Caroline—but with a whoop he seized her in his powerful arms and swung her around in a wide circle, crying out, “Who’s this girl? What’s happened to my little Missy?”

  She had been too big for anyone to pick up for a long time, and she felt like a child in his arms; still, it annoyed her that he would treat her like Asa. She wanted to be treated like a woman.

  He put her down but kept his arms around her; looking up so far into a man’s eyes made her feel very strange. For the first time since childhood she felt delicate—feminine—and her anger fled as he stooped to give her a sound kiss on the cheek, then held her at arms’ length, smiling and shaking his head.

  “The little girl I left behind has grown into a beautiful young lady!” he said. “But I still mean to take you and Asa to the mountains—even if you are a grown-up lady!”

  “Oh, Christmas!” she cried, “when can we go?”

  “Now wait just a minute, Rev. Winslow.” Dan spoke up, his face mock-solemn. “If you haven’t learned at Yale that Methodist preachers don’t go to the woods with single young ladies, then Timothy Dwight has gotten much too liberal. You’ll have to take the young lady’s father along if you want to go traipsing all over the woods!”

  “Done!” Chris laughed, fondly looking from one face to the next. “It’s good to be home.”

  He has changed a little, Missy thought, watching him follow her parents into the house. His face was paler than she remembered—the three years of studying inside had done that, no doubt—but he looked no older, and he was as energetic as ever. Still, his eyes had lost the wild gleam that she remembered, and his manner was calmer, less intense.

  The afternoon passed quickly, Dan and Chris sitting on the porch most of the time. The others came and went, stopping now and again to listen to their conversation, which was all about the seminary. Dan listened carefully as Chris spoke with warmth of Timothy Dwight. “He’s a wonder, Dan. When he took over as the president of Yale, there were only a handful of students who were converted. Most of them were pretty close to being infidels. But Rev. Dwight started in fighting deism and skepticism—and revival broke out.”

  Dan gave Chris an odd look. “Did you meet Dwight’s father?”

  “Oh yes. He’s a grand old fellow—big as the side of a barn. He came to see his son pretty often.”

  “Did you know he had a fight with your grandfather once?”

  “A fight! Over what?”

  “Over which one of them would marry Mary Edwards—the youngest daughter of Jonathan Edwards.” Dan laughed at Chris’s shocked expression. “Adam wanted to marry her, but he lost out to young Dwight.”

  “If he had married her—my grandfather would have been Jonathan Edwards!” Chris exclaimed.

  Dan laughed and said, “Never mind, Christmas. I think you got some of your better qualities from your grandmother, Molly.”

  All afternoon neighbors came by to greet the new minister, and Caroline sniffed, “Look at that, Missy! Ellen Jennings come to call—and she hasn’t been to church twice running in years!”

  Missy looked at the attractive girl who stood beside Chris, gazing up at him with a dazzling smile. Ellen was the youngest daughter of Ellis Jennings, a wealthy landowner. “She’s pretty,” Missy observed, and felt a twinge of jealousy stir when the girl laughed and reached out to touch Chris’s arm. After all, Ellen was a petite girl, and seemed totally at ease with men—two qualities Missy envied.

  Finally the Jennings left, and Ellen called “We’ll expect you next Tuesday evening, Rev. Winslow!” as she drifted down the steps beside her father.

  “Beautiful girl,” remarked Dan, grinning at Chris as he led the younger man inside the house. “Her father’s quite influential in the Methodist world. Gives more money than anyone. If a preacher were to get Jenning’s girl, I guess that minister could find himself in one of the biggest pulpits in the country.”

  Caroline walked into the room just in time to overhear her father’s last remark, and was visibly annoyed. “I doubt that Ellen’s fitted to be a minister’s wife, Father. Supper’s ready.” With that, she swept back into the kitchen.

  Both men stared after her. Christmas observed, “The life of a preacher’s wife is not an easy one, for a fact. Guess there’re not many women who’d be willing to live like that.” He rose from his chair and followed Caroline.

  That evening he asked Missy to go for a ride, and they saddled and rode until dark in the foothills. Coming back, he said, “I always wondered how you’d figure out a way to ride in a dress. You sure treed that coon! Real practical—and you look nice, too.”

  Missy felt the red creep into her cheeks. “Thank you, Christmas.” It had taken her months to convince her parents to permit her to make her own riding suit, complete with a split skirt that was full enough to satisfy the demands of modesty, while enabling her to continue to ride with a conventional saddle. Normally, women rode side saddle, but Missy revolted against that idea. In her mind the skirt was a much better solution to the problem.

  They turned down an old path that led through the forest of large hardwoods and dismounted at the creek that bubbled over smooth, moss-covered stones. “Oh, Missy, am I glad to be here!” Christmas exclaimed. “College just about got the best of me.”

  She had taken off her shoes and was dabbling her feet in the brook. Sure is a pretty sight, he thought, admiring how the dappled shadows fell on her cheeks. “I’m glad you’re here too, Christmas. It was lonesome without you. Every time I rode Thunder, I thought of you and how we’d do this when you got back.”

  The minutes flew by as they drank in the sounds of the wood. At last Chris stirred and said, “We have to get back. Your mother said that young Cantrell was coming to sit on the porch with you tonight.”

  She ignored the teasing light in his eyes, tossing her heavy mane of hair so tha
t it fell down her back. “He’s too short” was her cryptic remark.

  He stared at her in surprise. “Didn’t know there was a height requirement for a young man.”

  “There isn’t—if you’re small, like Caroline—or like Ellen Jennings. But if you’re a giant like I am—”

  She didn’t finish her sentence, for he had reached out and turned her around, gripping her shoulders. “Missy,” he chided her sharply, “that’s not fit talk!”

  To her horror she felt her eyes fill with tears, which she blinked away furiously, saying, “It’s true! I’m a—a giraffe!”

  “You’ve never even seen one of those critters—and I don’t want to hear you talk so!” His eyes flashed in the falling darkness. “What would your father say? What I hear you saying is that you’re not satisfied with your looks—and that’s what the Bible calls vanity, Missy.” His rebuke cut her, and she dropped her head, biting her lower lip. “What if you’d been born blind—or crippled? I’ve seen women who’d give anything to look like you!”

  “What do you know about it!” Missy blurted out, raising her head to meet his gaze. “You don’t know what it’s like. When I was growing up the boys never paid attention to me like they did to other girls. They treated me like a boy, just because I was big and strong and could run fast. Well, that’s fine when you’re twelve years old—but when you get to be sixteen and are nearly six feet tall, it’s awful! What do you think it feels like never to get asked to parties because you tower over all the boys your age? I—I’m nineteen years old—and no man has ever wanted me—because I’m so—big!”

  Before she could choke out the last word, her body was racked with sobs and tears were running down her cheeks. She turned blindly toward the horses, hoping to get away, but Chris caught her arm and turned her around. He pulled her close in a comforting hug, and she leaned against him, unleashing the unshed tears of a lifetime. She had never spoken to a soul as she had to him, and now that her secret was out, she could only lay her head on his shoulder and weep.

  Christmas stood there, patting her shoulder gently. My Missy. All these years I’ve known her—I can’t believe that I never once saw this coming! he thought. When the sobs lessened, she took a deep breath and drew back. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her, groping for the right words to say to her. After she had wiped her tears and returned his handkerchief, he said slowly, “Missy, I’m sorry I hurt you. I can be mighty self-centered at times, but I would never knowingly hurt your feelings for the world.”

  “It’s all right,” she murmured quietly.

  “No, it’s not. All I can say is this: To me you always seemed—just right. Just what a girl ought to be. I—I never once thought that you could be unhappy with yourself—because to me you’re beautiful.”

  She shrugged and avoided his eyes. Forcing a smile she said, “I—I guess we’d better go home.” Then, “Don’t think of this time, Chris. I never cried over it before—and I promise not to bother you with it again.”

  “No!” he returned sharply. “It’s no ‘bother’ to listen to the problems of people we love.”

  She threw her head back and looked up at him with a strange expression. “I’ll remember that.” Then they mounted and rode slowly back to the house. Dan saw them come in, noticing that Missy looked a little troubled, but thought little of it—though Caroline did. As they prepared for bed that evening, she asked casually, “Did you have a nice ride with Christmas?”

  “It was fine.” Missy said no more, but her silence spoke volumes to her sister. Caroline did not press her, but after they were in bed she asked, “Are you going to marry Tom?” Christmas had met the young man that night, and had been pleasantly surprised to see that he was not a dwarf, as Missy had implied. Cantrell was a well-built young man only an inch or two shorter than Missy—soft-spoken, with steady gray eyes and a quick mind. “I like him,” he’d commented to Missy after Cantrell left.

  There were several other young ladies in the area who shared Chris’s opinion, as well. Missy liked Tom—but not enough. “No,” she sighed. “I told him so tonight.” Caroline did not speak, but Missy could feel her unspoken disapproval. She thinks I’m a fool, but I can’t help it! She remembered earlier days, simpler days, and she cried out silently:

  O God, why do we have to grow up?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I’VE ALWAYS LOVED YOU!”

  By the time Chris had been home six months, Missy knew that she was in love with him. She also realized bitterly that he would never think of her as anything more than a young girl he was very fond of—and she withdrew from him in a manner that confused and hurt him. Trying to smooth things over, he began seeking her out quite often. Usually he would appear on his big bay, saying, “Let’s work these horses out, Missy.” They would say little during those rides, but she was aware of a change in him.

  He was gone most of the time, preaching—with some success—in the most backward parts of Kentucky. Worn thin and dusty he would appear from time to time at the Greenes’ home. They all noticed that at those times Ellen Jennings managed to be very much present, sitting in the front row of Dan’s church where Chris was always asked to preach, leaning forward attentively as he spoke.

  “She’ll get him, for sure,” Martha Shipton said. She was Missy’s close friend, a lively girl of seventeen. “Mark my words, he gets a little closer every time he comes here! Did you see them with their heads together at the social last night? If they’d been any closer, they’d have been wearing each other’s clothes!”

  Missy had to smile at the way Martha put it, but she had not failed to notice that Chris spent much of his free time with Ellen. “I don’t think he’ll ever marry,” she said finally. “He lost his wife and baby, you know, and once he told me that he didn’t mean to have another family. Too hard when you lose them, he said.”

  “Bosh! Men talk like that, but you just watch, Missy—they’ll be married in six months. Then he’ll be made pastor of some rich Methodist church—and that’s about the last we’ll see of Rev. Chris Winslow!”

  “I’ve got to go home, Martha.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “Not well.” Missy rubbed her forehead wearily. “She’s not able to get out of bed at all now—and with Caroline so busy helping Father with the church, I have to take care of her.”

  “I’ll help you,” Martha offered instantly. “Why don’t I come over tomorrow?”

  “It’s good of you, Martha, but Mother’s gotten a little... hard to please. Maybe when she’s better.”

  She returned and took care of her mother’s needs, then cooked supper for herself and Asa. He was subdued, fearful of what his mother’s sickness might mean, and for once he went to bed early without argument.

  Missy was washing the dishes when she heard a horse leave the road and come to the house. Drying her hands, she went to the door and opened it to find Chris there. “Why, I didn’t know you were back,” she uttered in surprise. “Come in—supper’s still warm.”

  “Maybe just a cup of coffee, Missy,” he replied. He followed her to the kitchen, sat down wearily in a chair and sipped the hot black coffee. “How’s your mother?”

  “She was better last week, but yesterday she had a bad spell. She can’t keep anything down—and the cough is worse.”

  He put the coffee cup down, stared at it, then lifted his eyes. “Missy, she’s very sick.”

  “I know. She’s not going to live.” She sat down and rested her chin on her hand, brushing back a lock of hair from her forehead with her other hand. “She slips away a little every day.”

  Chris nodded sadly, thinking again—as he often did—of how bright Missy’d been as a child. “Do you remember when you took care of me—when Knox brought me to this house just about dead?”

  Missy’s features softened with a smile. “I remember—you were my ‘patient.’ I remember holding the cup so you could drink the soup, and even feeding it to you, a spoonful at a time.
When your fever went up, I’d put cool, wet towels on your forehead. And when you got better, I’d take you for short walks to the creek.” Her eyes brightened. “I still have the bird egg collection you gave me.”

  “Do you now? I’d like to go again. Maybe we could get that woodpecker egg I promised you. I never did get that one, did I, Missy?”

  She stirred and there was a sadness in her voice. “I don’t know, Chris. That was a long time ago.” Their eyes met and held across the table.

  “I hate to bother you with this, Missy, but I got bad news today—”

  “Remember what you told me, Christmas,” Missy interrupted. “ ‘It’s no bother to listen to the people you love.’ Especially when they have a problem. What’s wrong?”

  He smiled at her sadly, then pulled a letter from his coat pocket. “I got a letter from my father.” He hesitated. “My grandfather died two weeks ago.”

  “Oh, Chris!” She quickly put a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry—I know how you loved him.”

  “Well, he was eighty-two, and he went easy. Father put it all down in the letter.”

  “Could I hear it, Chris?”

  “Why—of course, Missy.” He unfolded the sheet of paper and scanned the letter for the place he wanted as she watched his face in the lamplight. It pained Missy to see him like this; obviously the news had cut him deeply. Though Adam was her great-uncle, she herself did not know him that well. Finding his place, Chris began to read aloud:

  “He was never in any pain, son, and we are grateful for that! For the last week, he slept most of the time; though when he did awaken, his mind was perfectly clear. The night before your grandfather died, he woke up and said, ‘Nathan—who’s here?’ I said, ‘Just my family, Father. See—here’s Julie, and Judith and the boys.’ He looked at us all—me, your mother, and the children, and then he shook his head. ‘No, I heard Molly.’