The Holy Warrior Read online

  © 1989 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3373-8

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg

  Cover design by Danielle White

  To Johnnie, my wife

  All things must have names, but no words can ever capture the essence of the best things. The word wife, for example, is a poor, frail substitute to describe the years of happiness, comfort, and support that the companion God gave me has brought into my life. Every year I say the same thing: we have saved the best ’till last—and so again, my heart, the old vows are echoing, so I must say once more—I love, honor, and cherish you as never before.

  Perhaps such vows, such thoughts, and such words may be outmoded. If so, it only proves that our feelings have outlasted time and fashion, and I can only say—thank you for all you have given me.

  No woman ever fulfilled the old words of the old Book better than Johnnie Morris:

  Who can find a virtuous woman?

  Her price is far above rubies.

  The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.

  Her children arise up and call her blessed.

  Her husband also, and he praiseth her.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  THE MOUNTAIN MAN

  1. The Captive of Merton

  2. Charles Traps a Man

  3. “Let the Mountains Kill Me!”

  4. Sioux Country

  5. White Indian

  6. The Raid and the Reward

  7. The Homecoming

  8. The Revenge of Red Ghost

  9. Death at High Noon

  PART TWO

  THE PASTOR

  10. The Reunion

  11. Camp Meeting

  12. Missy Grows Up

  13. “I’ve always Loved You!”

  14. Out of the Past

  15. The Rescue

  16. The Preacher Takes a Wife

  17. Generation of Vipers

  18. “Take Them With Thee!”

  PART THREE

  THE MISSIONARY

  19. The Missionaries

  20. On the Trail

  21. The Platte

  22. “Your God Is Strong!”

  23. Two Proposals

  24. The Last Battle

  25. “You Have Been True to Me...!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE CAPTIVE OF MERTON

  Jonas Billings, the innkeeper of the Blue Swan, glanced up at the sound of the squealing hinge coming from the heavy oak door. The man who had pushed his way through the door stood there, looking over the taproom. An officer. Billings hurriedly finished serving a tall man with a pockmarked face and the highly painted woman perched on his lap, then turned to go, but he was caught by a hard grip on his wrist. “Wot’s yer ’urry, Billings? That bloke can wait. Look at ’im all dressed up in ’is nice uniform!” He threw his head back and roared with drunken laughter, and the slender man with the pale face across from him grinned wolfishly.

  “Wonder if ’is underwears got frills on it, eh, Bully?” the smaller man hooted.

  “Might be I ought to find out,” the other laughed. He kissed the woman lustily on the mouth, then gave Billings a rough shake. “Never mind ’im—and leave that bottle, you ’ear me?”

  “Take it easy, Maitland,” the burly innkeeper warned. Pulling his arm free, Billings made his point. “You’ve had enough. You want to wind up back in your cell?”

  The big man swore and shook his fist in Billings’ face. “Not likely! Not me! They’d ’ave to kill me first!” He took a huge drink from the tankard, glared around the room and bellowed, “Bully Maitland! That’s me, and I’ve got a five-year thirst—so don’t get in me way!”

  Billings left the table and came to stand before the new customer. “Yes, sir, Captain,” he said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I understand no one is admitted inside the prison walls after six. Is that so?”

  The dark-haired man was of average height and wore the uniform of a Navy officer. His features were regular, even handsome, except for the large scar along his lower jaw that descended beneath his collar. His direct gaze never wavered as he spoke, and Billings knew quality when he saw it.

  “I’m afraid that’s the way of it, Captain. I take it you just come in on the stage? Too bad, sir!”

  “You have a room?”

  “That I do, and first class, it is.” Billings smiled and moved toward the bar, saying, “Let me offer you a drink—on the house.”

  “No, but I’d like some hot tea—or coffee.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll have me wife fix you up a nice supper.” He called out through a door behind the bar, “Betty, fix some of that beef and warm up some of the kidney pie. And hot coffee.”

  “My name’s Winslow.” He was looking up at a pair of fencing foils that were mounted over the bar. “Those are very nice.”

  “Aye, sir. Belonged to me grandfather, they did.” He reached up and pulled the weapons down, placing them on the bar for the officer’s inspection.

  Winslow looked at them closely. “Do a little fencing yourself, I’d venture.”

  “I’ve done a bit.”

  Intrigued, he grasped the handle and stretched out his arm to examine the foil’s balance. As he did so, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head to look into the smiling face of the woman who’d been sitting on the loud customer’s lap.

  “Well, now!” she said saucily. “Give me a sea-going man every time! Like to buy me a drink, sailor?”

  Winslow shrugged. “Better go back to your friend,” he advised.

  “Not likely!” the woman snapped angrily. “ ’E ain’t nothin’ but a jailbird!” She moved closer, running a finger down the scar on his jaw. She lowered her voice to a coaxing whisper. “Come on, Love! I knows how to show a brave man like you a real good time!”

  Winslow shook his head and was about to move away when a roar of anger made him wheel quickly.

  “Steal my woman, will you!” Furious, Bully Maitland rushed across the room, his fist drawn back, and swung it hard at Winslow’s head. Missing his target as the officer deftly moved to one side, the man crashed against the bar. With a stream of curses he straightened up, spying at the same time one of the foils near his hand. Snatching the weapon, he began to move toward Winslow. “Come on, Bill, we’ll carve this pretty cove up! Use yer dirk!”

  “You crazy fool!” Billings shouted. “You’ll hang!”

  The tall man seemed not to hear. He was joined now by his partner, who held a thin dagger in front of him in the manner of an expert knife fighter.

  In a flash Winslow reached out, picked up a chair and threw it at Maitland, then stepped forward and picked up the other foil as the man fell. He stood there with a grim smile on his lips, waiting.

  Maitland leaped to his feet, but paused at the sight of the foil in the officer’s h
and. Still, he was both angry and drunk enough to yell, “ ’E can’t ’andle us both, Bill! Git ’im from that side.”

  The two men moved apart and Billings yelled again, but they paid no heed. When they were on opposite sides of Winslow, Maitland yelled, “Stick ’im, Bill!”

  The smaller man lunged with his knife. Winslow feinted to the side as his rapier flickered in the light. With a movement too fast to follow, the tip of the blade struck Bill’s hand, sending the knife flying, and then flicked across his face, leaving a thin red line welling up with blood.

  “Wot...!” Maitland gasped. It had all happened so fast, the bully seemed frozen to the spot. Recovering quickly, he started to back across the room, trying desperately to stave off Winslow’s advance. It was useless, as Billings saw, for the officer was toying with the man. Time after time Winslow could have killed Maitland but did not drive his blade home. Finally, when the man’s back was against the wall, his face white with fear, Winslow’s blade caught the other’s at the guard and sent it flying through the air. Just as quickly, Bully Maitland felt a cold steel tip tight against his throat.

  “Nooooo!” he moaned with fear. “Don’t! Don’t kill me—please!”

  Winslow dropped his blade. “Get out of here,” he commanded his attackers coldly, then walked back to the bar, his face as calm as if he’d been reading the newspaper. At a word from Billings, the two men scurried out, followed closely by the woman.

  “Sorry about that, Captain! The two of ’em just got out this morning. I reckon they over-celebrated.”

  Winslow looked at the door. “If I’d known that, I might have had a question for them.”

  “Something about the prison, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well now, you see that chap with the white beard? He’s one of the guards—was, I should say. He’s leaving on the morning stage.” Billings hesitated, lowering his voice. “I know he’s not got a dime. If you’d buy him a bit of supper, Captain, he could tell you ’most anything about Merton Prison.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bradley—that’s all I know.”

  “Have your wife cook up another piece of meat—and do you have a room we could use?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I get Bradley?”

  “Yes.”

  Half an hour later Bradley was stuffing food down his throat and washing it down with draughts of beer. Winslow let him finish, eating almost nothing himself. Finally he said, “If you’re finished, I have a few questions for you.”

  “Yes, sir! Anything I can do!”

  “Do you know a prisoner named Christmas Winslow?”

  “Why, ’course I do, Cap’n!” Bradley took another drink of beer, then stared at his host. “Be you a friend of his?”

  “A relative.”

  “Ah! I’m sorry for the lad!”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Been sick for months now.” Bradley shook his head. “He’s been gettin’ worse for some time now, sir. He’s not likely to make it—and it’s sorry I am to have to tell you.”

  “I’ve come to get him out.”

  Bradley stared at him. “But—his sentence!”

  “I have a presidential pardon signed by President Adams—and a personal letter from President Washington.”

  Bradley stared at him in awe. “Well... that oughter do it—though Hindleman will argue.”

  “Hindleman? He’s the warden?”

  “No, he’s the Devil!” Bradley said, with a glint of anger in his eyes. “Thinks he’s a little god in there, Cap’n! It’s him has made the boy work out in the cold when he was so sick he couldn’t walk. I tried to give the poor boy a break—but it was little I could do!”

  Winslow nodded, reached into his pocket and took out two gold coins. “Here’s something that may help, Bradley. I appreciate what you tried to do for the boy.”

  Bradley took the coins with a trembling hand. “Ah, sir! That’s good of you!” Then he said, “Be careful, Cap’n! Hindleman hates to lose prisoners—one less for him to torment.”

  “I don’t think we need be concerned about that, Bradley,” the officer replied with a cold smile, and there was something in his dark eyes that made the other draw back a little.

  “No, sir,” he said with a broad grin. “I can see Warden Hindleman won’t have his way this time!”

  The Warden of Merton Prison was in only slightly better condition than the institution itself, Paul Winslow observed as he entered the shabby office. He had visited several naval prisons, and they were bad enough; but the dilapidated factory building that he had found settling into a bog twenty miles northwest of Boston was far worse.

  Winslow was in a bad temper, having been forced to wait nearly two hours before the guard posted at the gate would admit him into the compound of the three-story square building. From there he had spent another hour in a vile-smelling room waiting for the privilege of seeing Warden Clement Hindleman.

  Hindleman, he saw upon entering the office, was a grossly fat man, spilling out of his clothes on all sides. He had the flushed face and veined nose of a heavy drinker; although it was only eleven-thirty, he was well on his way to being drunk. The odor of whiskey was overpowering, and a jug sat on his desk—close to his fat hand.

  “Well, wot is it?” the warden demanded. His voice was thick and his hand unsteady as he poured himself another glass of liquor, tossing it down his throat without waiting for his visitor’s reply. He then shook his shoulders, gave Winslow a look of irritation, and raised his voice. “Well, speak up! I don’t ’ave any business with the Navy!”

  “You have business with me—if you’re sober enough to take care of it.” The soft answer cut like cold steel, causing Hindleman to sit up in his chair, a flush of anger coloring his cheeks.

  “Your business, Cap’n!” he demanded. “And be quick about it—I’m a busy man.”

  Captain Winslow stared at him coldly, then reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. “This won’t take long. Then you can get back to your whiskey.”

  Warden Hindleman snatched the pouch, ripped it open and stared at the single sheet of paper. He sat stock-still, and when he looked up his eyes were wide with shock. “Why—I can’t let this man go!”

  “Shall I tell President Adams and President Washington that is your answer?”

  The officer’s crisp reply struck the warden like a blow, and he cried out angrily, “There’s procedures to be followed, blast ye!”

  “In this case, here is your procedure: You will have Mr. Christmas Winslow placed into my charge in exactly one hour. If not, I will have no choice but to notify the governor of Massachusetts that the warden of this place is an incompetent drunk! Then, Hindleman, you won’t be so busy. In fact, you’ll have plenty of time to get dog drunk all the time.” He rose swiftly to his feet and said, “Perhaps I’ll do that anyway—in addition to notifying the federal authorities...!”

  “Now wait! Just wait, Cap’n!” Hindleman’s face had gone pale, and he raised his hands in a gesture of pleading. “You don’t have to jump down a man’s throat that way! I just have to be sure of a thing like this!”

  Winslow allowed him a minute to apologize, then said, “I need to be back in Boston by night. Have one of your guards take me to the prisoner.”

  “Yes, sir, Cap’n!” He got up and went to the door, shouting loudly, “Nelson! Take Captain Winslow to the hospital—see that the prisoner Christmas Winslow gets released into his custody. Here, you’ll need that in writing.”

  As the warden scribbled a few words on a paper and handed it to Paul, he muttered, “Winslow’s pretty sick. Might not be good to take him out in this bad weather.”

  “I think his chances are better with me than with you,” the officer retorted, then whirled and followed the guard out of the office.

  “Hospital’s this way,” the guard muttered. He led Winslow down a narrow hallway to a steel door guarded by two men. Inside, the room was very large, pa
cked with men who stared at the visitor as he strode across the area. It was freezing, and most of the prisoners wore so many layers of rags that they looked grossly overweight. But their cheeks were hollow, and their huge eyes stared vacantly out of gaunt and hungry faces. Most of them were milling around, trying to keep warm, but many were lying prone, too weak to do even that.

  They passed through another steel door that led to a rickety staircase. It shook alarmingly under their feet, and Winslow half expected the structure to crash beneath their weight, but the guard paid no heed. “This here’s the hospital,” he announced, opening the door with a key he pulled from his vest. “Ain’t no doctor here ’cept on Wednesday. That’s the medical assistant there. Name’s Phelps. Used to be a doctor his own self—but he practiced on his own wife. Cut her throat, ’e did!” He laughed at his crude jest, then called out, “Phelps! This here gentleman has come to take Winslow with him. Get ’im all ready.”

  Phelps was a slight prisoner, with intelligent dark eyes, dulled with his condition, and he seemed to be almost too exhausted to speak. His voice was so thin that Winslow had to lean forward to hear him. “Let Winslow out? How can that be?”

  “Bloke’s been pardoned.”

  “Pardoned?” A slight smile appeared on Phelps’ thin lips, and he shook his head. “Sir, you may have an official pardon—but I fear your man is past such things.”

  “What do you mean? Where is he?”

  “I’ll show you.” Phelps led the way out of the large room—past a dozen men who lay on cots, covered to their chins with rough blankets—to a door at the far end. Opening the door for Paul, the doctor asked cautiously, “Are you a relative, may I ask?”

  “Yes,” Winslow answered. “How long has he been sick? What’s wrong with him?”

  Phelps motioned the man into the next room. “He’s been sick for weeks. As to what’s wrong with him—” He broke off and made no further answer. Winslow stepped inside and went at once to a bed beside the window where a man lay, and looked down at him.

  He had met his second cousin only once, and that had been years ago. Nathan Winslow had moved his family to Virginia; after that he occasionally made the trip to Boston—where Paul lived with his family—but he had brought his family with him only once. Winslow remembered the boy, who had been thirteen, as a tall, healthy-looking youngster with a mop of red hair and blue eyes. Christmas had been quite wild even then, spending most of his time in the woods, for he was as skillful at hunting and tracking as most grown men.