The Holy Warrior

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I’ll see them. I have to go over to Shady Grove tomorrow—be there for two days, but if you get worse, send Asa to get me.”

  “Guess I’ll last till you come back through on Thursday,” Dan told him, and he closed his eyes as Miller left the room.

  “How is he, Dr. Miller?” Caroline was at the fireplace, cooking. She put down the spoon she was holding and walked to where the doctor was standing. Missy looked up from where she was sitting on a stool, peeling potatoes.

  “I don’t like it,” he answered. “It may be just stomach cramps—or something he ate—but this has been going on for nearly a week, so I doubt it’s that.” He opened his bag, gave them the drug, and told them to send Asa for him if their father got worse.

  “We’ll trust God to heal him,” Caroline said.

  Miller did not respond, but gave her a direct look and asked, “What do you think about Rev. Winslow’s leaving the church?” It had been two weeks since Winslow had announced that he was leaving to do mission work among the Indians, and people had talked much about it. The doctor himself thought it was a good decision, but he was curious about the Greenes’ reaction. He did not look at Missy, but it was for her he was most concerned.

  “I think it’s wonderful, Doctor!” Caroline responded. Her thin face lit up and there was warm approval in her voice. “It’s the field that Brother Winslow and his wife are best suited for.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Have you heard when they’re leaving?” There was no trace of emotion in Missy’s face that Miller could see. “I suppose it’ll be soon?”

  “The new minister will be coming in two weeks, Jennings told me. Can’t imagine the Winslows staying longer than that—not after—” He broke off abruptly, then said, “Put three drops of the laudanum in a cup of water—more if the pain gets worse. I’ll be back on Thursday.”

  After he left, Missy got up and walked back and forth across the small room, her face tense. “I can’t help being afraid for Father,” she worried.

  “I know, Missy,” Caroline answered. “I feel the same way. It’s not an ordinary stomachache.” She brushed her hair off her forehead and added, “I’ve prayed until I don’t know what else to say to God. It’s like speaking to the air—and that frightens me,” she whispered. “Always before when I’ve prayed, I knew God was there, listening—but now—”

  Just then Asa came in asking what the doctor had said, and his face grew long when he heard that his father was no better. Missy put a comforting arm around him, hoping to take away some of the fear that gnawed at him, but her reassurances sounded weak—even to her.

  It was a terrible night. Despite his efforts, Dan Greene could not help but groan, and though he tried to muffle his voice, it carried to the three young people sitting in the kitchen. No one was able to sleep. Finally when the groans grew louder, Asa asked, “Can’t we do anything for him?”

  “I’m afraid to give him more laudanum,” Caroline replied. “If he doesn’t get better by morning, we’ll send for Dr. Miller and—”

  Suddenly they were interrupted by their father’s call, and all three went quickly to his room. Dan was holding his stomach with both hands and gasping in pain. “Send for Chris!”

  Missy said, “We’ll get Dr. Miller, Father!”

  “No—Christmas! Get Christmas, Asa!”

  “Take Thunder, Asa—tell Chris to hurry!” Caroline urged him.

  Both women stayed with their father, bathing his face, and soon they heard Asa leave on Thunder, riding at a dead run. Caroline and Missy made Dan as comfortable as possible and then waited. The minutes passed for what seemed like hours. Finally they gave him a heavy dose of the pain medicine and in twenty minutes he fell into a fitful sleep.

  The ticking of the clock punctuated the slow passage of time, and by the time they heard the pounding of hoofbeats on the road, Dan had roused out of the drugged sleep, and was doubled over with pain, his eyes wild and feverish.

  They heard the front door open, and soon Chris appeared in the doorway, his hair wildly blown by the ride. He rushed to stand beside the bed, and the sight of Dan twisting in pain made him drop to his knees. “Dan! Dan!” he cried out, and his voice seemed to cut through the agony of the sick man.

  “Christmas...?” he gasped, and reached out one hand. Chris seized it and held on tightly. “I was afraid you—wouldn’t make it,” he whispered.

  “Dan, God is able—!”

  “No! It’s time for me to go—the Lord has—told me so.” Asa came into the room just in time to hear the words, and he gave a cry and threw himself beside Chris. Dan’s eyes cleared, and he said in a stronger voice, “Help me up.” Chris pulled him to a sitting position, resting the man’s back against the headboard. Dan took a deep breath and went on. “Better—much better.”

  “Dr. Miller’s on the way, Dan,” Chris told him.

  Dan’s eyes were bright in the sunken sockets; obviously he was in terrible pain. But his voice, though weak, was steady. “No time. Want to—ask you something, Christmas.”

  “Anything, Dan!”

  As though he had not heard Chris, Dan paused, regarding each of his children in turn, and rested his hand on the shaking shoulder of Asa, who was trying most manfully not to cry. “Asa—God knows I hate to leave thee—but thee will be all right—God has told me so.”

  Her mind in a whirl, Missy noted absently that he had slipped into his Quaker speech patterns, the speech of his youth. She moved to the other side of the bed, and Caroline followed her; they both knelt and clasped his free hand.

  The terrible lines of pain faded from his face as he turned his head to look at his daughters. His breath came in shallow, quick spurts. “Caroline—my dear child!” She sobbed, but he continued. “God has been thy—life.” He struggled for a moment, then said, “He is calling thee—follow Him—to the Indians.”

  “You know, Father?” she smiled through her tears. “It’s what I must do!”

  “Yes—I know. God has told me—” His eyelids fluttered, and a tremor shook his body. “Chris!” he cried. “Thee must take them with thee—all my children!”

  Chris stared at him. He glanced at Missy and Caroline, then at Asa. “Dan, I’ll take Caroline. She’ll go anyway—but it wouldn’t be right for Asa and Missy. Uncle Paul would be glad to have them!”

  “No—no! God has told me that thee must take them! Thee must!—Promise!” he gasped.

  Chris could not think clearly. He could not bring himself to make such a vow to Dan, for he knew how hard the life would be on Missy and Asa.

  Then Asa cried, “I’m going with you, Chris! I’ll run away if you won’t take me!”

  Chris looked at once toward Missy, and her face, though wet with tears, was set stubbornly. “Father, if Chris will have me,” she said, “I’ll go help with the work.”

  Chris felt the grip of Dan’s hand growing slack and he heard him whisper, “Promise—take them with thee!”

  “I’ll take them, Dan!” he promised, giving the hand a squeeze. “Did you hear me? I promise!”

  Dan opened his eyes and looked for the last time around the room. “You have been my good children always,” he sighed. And then he closed his eyes and slipped away, a gentle smile on his lips.

  Chris stood up slowly, shaken. As he looked at the three young people beside the bed, the enormity of the promise he’d made hit him. He was incapable of breaking such a vow, but to take these three into hostile Indian country was a crushing burden—and he knew it would get heavier as time went on.

  Chris stepped outside and stood on the porch for a while, and then he heard the door close. He turned to see Caroline, Missy, and Asa come out of the house and wait for him to speak. Already it’s started, he thought grimly. Aloud he said, “You heard me promise your father. I intend to keep my word—but none of you promised him. I want all three of you to pray over this thing like you’ve never prayed over anything before.”

  Caroline replied calmly, “It’
s my calling from God, Chris. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell Father for weeks now.”

  Missy crossed her arms and spoke quietly. “I don’t have a word from God on this—but I know my father heard from the Lord. I’ll do what he asked.”

  “Me, too, Chris!” Asa whispered. “It’s what he wanted.”

  As if those words released him, in that moment Christmas Winslow felt the presence of God as he rarely had before. It was as if God were saying to him, Don’t be afraid—I will help you. He let the silence run on, enveloping him peacefully, and murmured with finality, “God’s will be done!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE MISSIONARIES

  By the time faint red streaks illuminated the sky, Asa had been up and dressed for an hour. The excitement of leaving home for the mountains had filled him for days, and now, peering out the window, he could make out the faint outlines of the two wagons that held all their goods. Smiling, he thought of the arguments that Missy and Caroline had carried on with Chris, begging him to let them take this and that favorite piece. Chris had been adamant. “Take what you please, but it’ll have to go in these two wagons—that’s all the boats will hold.”

  A door slammed below, and Asa whirled around. “Come on, Sky! It’s time to go!”

  He grabbed his rifle and shot pouch and bolted for the door, but stopped when he saw that Sky had not moved from where he sat cross-legged on his bed, regarding Asa solemnly. The two had spent much time together in the past five months, but as far as Asa could tell, they were no closer than when Sky had first come.

  Asa stood poised at the door, eager to leave. “Aw, Sky, for cryin’ out loud—ain’t you even a little excited about goin’? Good night! Your father’s takin’ you back home!”

  “He is not my father—Black Elk is my father.” The harsh words echoed the flash of anger in Sky’s eyes. He got up off the bed and brushed past Asa. “We’d better go.”

  Asa shook his head and followed him out of the room. Outside, they found Chris loading the last few things into the wagons. “We can help, Chris,” Asa offered. He leaned his rifle carefully against the wall and waited for instructions. Sky stood by, stoically observing.

  “You can go put the harnesses on the horses, but watch out for that mare,” Chris called after them as they headed for the barn. “She’s a little frisky.” He watched them go, painfully aware that, as usual, Sky had said nothing to him. Although he was loathe to admit it, Chris knew that he was much closer to Asa than to his own son. His failure to get through Sky’s armor hurt him more than anything ever had. Shaking his head, he went back into the kitchen, where the women were almost running into each other as they made the final breakfast in the small room.

  His eyes went at once to Dove, who was carefully turning hoecakes on a skillet before the fire. She met his gaze and smiled weakly, and he felt the same doubt that had beset him for weeks, for she looked pale and sick in the dim lamplight. He tried to remember the fresh beauty of her face as it had been when he’d first seen her, but the memory had almost gone. Her cheeks were sunken now, and the hair that had been so sleek and black was now dry and touched with gray here and there. Her skin, which had been smooth and clear, was rough, and there was only a spark of life in her eyes. Trying not to let his concern show on his face, he went to her and took the pan out of her hands, saying, “I’ll do that. You sit down and drink some coffee.”

  “I’m all right,” she protested, but she sat down anyway. As she began to sip the coffee, Chris saw that her hands were trembling, and her high cheekbones had a touch of unnatural red that was almost certainly fever. He hoped that she was not too sick now to travel. The first few months she had been there, he had often told her: “This country is too low and damp, Dove. Bad for anyone with a cough. But when I get you back to the mountains, you’ll get better.”

  To which she had always responded, “It will be good to be back home, Bear Killer—Chris.” She never complained, but he had seen that she would never adjust to the white world.

  As he turned the cakes, Chris thought about the change in White Dove. The years of slavery had crushed her spirit so badly that she lived for only one thing: “If it had not been for our son, I would have killed myself, Chris!” she had told him. “I wanted to die—but I lived so that in some way I could help him.”

  Although they shared the same room, from the time Chris brought her home he never touched Dove, never loved her as a man loves his wife. Sensing the fear in her when he came near, he treated her with kindness, recognizing that her reaction was the result of brutal treatment by callous men. He had said, “You’ve been badly hurt, Dove. I want you to rest and take care of yourself—until I have my young wife back again.”

  At once she knew he understood, and gratitude filled her heart and overflowed in tears. She had learned to endure rough treatment stoically, but she did not know how to handle his tenderness. “That girl is gone, Chris,” she told him, but he had laughed and said, “Just you wait!”

  Her health had improved markedly, but she was still not her old self, and tired easily. Chris was disturbed by this new sign of illness. He sighed, setting the skillet down. Not wanting to take such a long journey unless he was sure it would be safe for her, Chris sent Dove back to their room to lie down while he went for the doctor.

  Upon examining her, Dr. Miller led Chris out of the room. “I wish she could have been rescued earlier, Rev. Winslow,” he told Chris privately. “I’m afraid she’ll never be as strong as she was before. Your wife is very ill.”

  “What do you think it is, Doctor?”

  “Almost certainly consumption.”

  “I—I thought that might be it. Will a different climate help?”

  “Well, we’ll certainly hope so. Should help some.” But there was little assurance in Miller’s tone, and Chris knew that Dove was in serious condition. He had spent long hours praying for her to improve and for Sky to open up to him, but in neither case did he see any visible results.

  Missy overheard the two men talking, and went into the next room and patted Dove softly on the shoulder. “I’ll fix you a good breakfast—some of those battered eggs and some honey for your hoecake,” she said. “Why don’t you get up and get dressed again?” After the doctor had gone, she told Chris, “You go get the boys; we’re almost ready to eat.” She finished cooking the food, and by the time Chris returned with Asa and Sky, she and Caroline had the table set and the piping-hot food spread out. “The last meal in this house,” Missy reminded them as she took her seat across from Chris.

  “Will it be hard for you to leave here?” he asked.

  “No—it was a good home—but now that Mother and Father are gone, it’s just another house,” Missy answered.

  Caroline’s face was animated. “It’s going to be a good life.”

  “Let’s hope so... but it’ll be the last meal you’ll have in a house until we get to St. Louis,” Chris remarked.

  “I’m so anxious to meet the missionaries,” Caroline said. “I wish Bishop Asbury had told us more about them.” The bishop had written Chris, informing him that a small group of volunteers had been formed to work among the Indians, and that they would meet in St. Louis no later than the first of July.

  “What was the name of the minister who’s heading the mission?” Missy asked.

  “Rev. Aaron Small. He’s giving up a prosperous church in Georgia,” Chris stated. “Bishop Asbury speaks highly of him. He’s done some mission work with the blacks in his area.”

  Finally the meal was finished, the pots and dishes cleaned and packed, and the teams hitched to the wagons. As they all assembled around the wagons, Chris asked, “Sky, you think you can handle that team?”

  For once Sky spoke with some excitement. “Yes! I can drive.”

  Chris nodded. “Let’s go to the mountains then.”

  He helped Dove into one wagon, then Caroline, as Sky and Missy got into the other. Two riding mounts were tied behind each wagon, and Asa mounted T
hunder. Chris spoke to the team and the wagons moved away from the house. As they passed the grove he looked back and saw that despite her brave words, Missy was dabbing at her eyes. Dove, who had been watching, said quietly, “She will be lonely.”

  “For a while. But it’s good for you—getting away from this place. You’ll get rid of that cough in the mountain air.”

  Dove did not reply, and he did not speak about it again. They reached the main road, turned west and settled down for the long journey to the mountains.

  The trip to St. Louis was sheer joy to Asa; even Sky smiled from time to time as they made their way across the country. It was a dry June, and the sun was hot; but every night they camped beside rivers or small streams, stopping early enough to make a good evening meal. Missy and Caroline sunburned, then tanned under the hot sun, but both of them seemed to thrive. The fresh air and sunshine—along with the exercise of the trail—made Asa say, “Gosh! You two look bettern’ you ever did!”

  Chris smiled. “Time we get to the Rockies, you two’ll be so pretty we’ll have to guard you day and night. I’d wager those poor trappers won’t ever have seen anything so beautiful as you girls!”

  Caroline flushed scarlet, but Missy sniffed, “I’ve seen your trappers, Christmas Winslow. I’d just as soon cuddle up to a grizzly bear.”

  Chris laughed at the remark. “I expect you’re right. Bear would probably smell better—and have better manners, too.”

  Dove did not fare well on the trip. She coughed a great deal, and although she tried to walk beside the wagon sometimes, as the others did, it soon became too much for her. Saying little, she would sit beside Chris for long stretches before she was forced to get inside the wagon and rest. Missy often drove Chris’s wagon, freeing him to roam ahead on his horse looking for game, and the two women became close.