The Holy Warrior Page 2

  But Paul could see no trace of this boy in the face of the man he looked at now. His cheeks were cadaverous under skin that was mottled gray. The sick man had a fever, and despite the bitter cold that settled in the room, there was a sheen of perspiration on his brow. Paul reached out and took the wrist, shocked at its thinness; the pulse was faint and irregular, and his shallow breathing could not hide the ominous rattle in his chest. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked the assistant.

  “Merton Prison is what’s wrong with him, Captain,” Phelps replied bluntly. “It started as a bad cold—and he was made to work in the cold and not given enough to eat. Got wet—which brought on a fever. Well, Hindleman says if they can stand, they work. So he went out in freezing cold with not enough to wear; went from bad to worse. Double pneumonia, I think, or consumption.”

  As the captain of a frigate, Paul Winslow had seen enough sick men to know about such things. Staring at the boy, Paul considered his best course of action. Move him? Could be risky, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Paul had learned through experience that sometimes it is better to “risk” the ship than to lie back and wait for something worse to develop.

  He put the thin hand back under the blanket and turned to Phelps. “Put the warmest clothes you can find on him.”

  “You’ll kill him if you take him out in this weather!” Phelps protested.

  “He’ll die if he stays here!”

  Phelps nodded slowly, “You’re right there, Captain. I’ll get him ready.”

  Winslow left the room and called for the guard, who came running. “Have this man carried to the front gate at once. I’ll have my carriage waiting.” Barely waiting for the guard’s “Yes, sir, Cap’n,” Paul turned and made his way out of the prison.

  The air was biting cold as he left the building, but Captain Winslow had planned the journey back to Boston as carefully as he planned a voyage of his ship, the Constellation. By now it had become second nature to him—ordering supplies, foreseeing emergencies. When his father had asked him to pick Christmas up and bring him home, he had spent considerable time rigging up the carriage for a sick man.

  He had taken the largest closed carriage and removed the back seat so there was room enough for a tall man to lie down. He’d had the servants bring a mattress down from upstairs, along with plenty of blankets. Aware that the cold would be his greatest enemy, Paul had ordered his servant Jason to tie blankets all over the interior of the compartment, forming a snug cocoon with thick walls of wool. That’ll keep the cold out. Be a lot warmer than that tomb he’s been in, Winslow thought as he pulled up to the front of the building.

  It had taken six men to get the tall form down the stairs, and they were waiting with the sick man, who was muffled in blankets. “Put him in here, Sergeant,” Winslow said, watching to make sure that they handled the unconscious man carefully. He pulled the fresh blankets over Christmas, throwing the filthy old ones on the ground, then got into the seat and whipped his horses up without a word to the guards. He passed by the guard at the front gate without incident; obviously, the man had been warned—by Hindleman, no doubt—not to give him any difficulty.

  Glancing up at the sky, Paul saw that he would be hard pressed to get home by dark. He could not drive as rapidly as he had on the journey to Merton; the sick man would be shaken too badly. But he was prepared for that as well; it would take an army of bandits to get past the arsenal he had at his feet: two double-barreled pistols, an over-and-under shotgun, a Kentucky hunting rifle and a sword—all of which he used expertly.

  All afternoon he drove steadily along the snow-packed road. He stopped twice to get hot broth from farmhouses, and was able to ladle a little of it down the sick man’s throat. Christmas had opened his eyes once or twice, but he didn’t seem to recognize anything. Paul made one last stop just before dark, at an inn a few miles from Boston. He ate a few bites himself, then went back to try to get Christmas to eat a little more. One spoonful of broth choked the sick man, producing a spasm of coughing. Paul held him tightly, and the coughing subsided; that was enough broth, he decided. As he was situating Christmas back in the carriage, Christmas’s eyes flickered open. Paul saw at once there was a light of consciousness in them.

  “Are you awake, Christmas?” Paul asked.

  “Yes.” Just that one word, but the eyes were fixed on Paul’s face. He moved his lips slowly; he seemed to have difficulty speaking. Paul leaned closer, and finally heard him ask, “Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m Paul Winslow, Christmas. I’m taking you home.”

  The eyes suddenly turned cold and the wide mouth closed like a trap. Christmas Winslow shut his eyes, and just before he passed out, Paul heard him say with finality: “I won’t ever go home! I’ll die first!”

  Then his body went limp, and Paul gently laid him back and put the covers in place. He closed the compartment against the cold and mounted the seat. The moon was rising and the stars gave icy points of light in the fast-falling darkness. As Paul continued the journey, he mused over what he’d heard. He knew that Christmas Winslow had been a wild one—the black sheep of the family. Charles had told him that Christmas had renounced his family, and would have nothing to do with his parents.

  Paul was grateful that his own son, Whitfield, had shown none of this rebellious spirit, though he could easily have inherited it. Paul’s father Charles—and, indeed, he himself!—had been the wild ones in the family tree. Adam and Nathan had been the steady Winslows. But now this tall son of Nathan Winslow had gone bad, while Paul’s own son gave every indication of being a good man. No accounting where the dark side of the Winslows will crop up next, Paul thought soberly.

  This troubled him, and his face grew sad as he made his way into the city. By the time he pulled up in front of the stately house outside of Boston, it was almost midnight; but Jason, accompanied by two other servants, was out the door as soon as the carriage pulled up.

  “You back, Captain,” he said. Without being told, he moved toward the carriage and pulled the blankets from the opening. “We done got Mister Christmas’s bedroom ready. Yo’ pa is waiting fo’ ya.” Then he smiled and said, “You done bring the prodigal home, ain’t ya now, Captain?”

  Paul Winslow sighed and shook his head, saying as he turned to go inside to his father, “Yes, Jason—but he’s a mighty reluctant prodigal!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHARLES TRAPS A MAN

  When Knox Winslow arrived in Boston two weeks after Chris had been pardoned, his first visit with his brother proved to be quite a shock. He had been impressed with the stately home of his New England relatives, which seemed huge and ornate compared with his own home in Virginia. He had heard a great deal about Paul Winslow, whose rapid rise as a Navy officer made him something of a hero to many.

  When he had first met his second cousin, he was a little shocked to see that Paul was not a large man, as he had expected of such a warrior; his own father, Nathan Winslow, could have knocked the trim officer down with one blow. But it was common knowledge that Paul Winslow was probably the best swordsman in America, and Knox could tell instinctively that the stories of the man’s coolness under fire were not exaggerated.

  “Well, Knox, how are your parents?” Paul Winslow had seen to it that the young man had been fed well; Charity had outdone herself with a meal of lobsters and homemade corn-bread dressing. Then she had shooed them into the informal study—used by their son Whitfield for his own work. There the two men relaxed and drank hot coffee.

  “Pretty well, sir” was Knox’s immediate response. The twenty-year-old son of Nathan and Julie was quick in most things, Paul decided. The officer prided himself in his ability to assess a man’s character almost immediately; before he had known the young man half an hour Paul had said to himself: Too bad the other one isn’t of this cut! For though Christmas was bigger and stronger, there was a decency and courtesy in Knox that the other lacked.

  “They think a lot of you, Uncle Paul.”
The older man smiled. Uncle Paul. This manner of address was customary between the older and younger generations of the Winslow clan; although he was really more distantly related, Captain Winslow appreciated the affectionate title the boy had bestowed on him. After a brief pause, Knox continued. “Grandfather Adam is fond of your father, as well. He often tells us stories of when Charles was a boy.”

  As if the sound of his name had summoned him, Charles Winslow appeared at the door, and both men rose as he came in, leaning heavily on his cane. “Plague take it! I’ve got rid of that blasted idiot Cory! Now, let’s have a drink of that good whiskey, Paul!”

  “Dr. Webb says you shouldn’t drink it, Father,” Paul said evenly, but there was a grin on his face, and he allowed his right eyelid to fall in a sly wink as he glanced at Knox.

  “He’s a worse fool than she is! Now, obey your father, as the Good Book says. Reach me that bottle before that ebony witch comes in on her broomstick!”

  Knox had told the truth: He had heard stories of Charles Winslow all his life—most of them unflattering. But his grandfather had said in his last conversation before Knox left, “You’ll find my brother different from the man in the stories, Knox. All his life he’s been his own worst enemy—and he tries to live up to the stories about himself. I’ve been praying for him for more than forty years, and God’s not going to let that time be wasted!”

  The old man, Knox saw, looked like a Winslow. His bright blue eyes and fair hair had marked many of the men of his family. But age had worn him down, and illness had taken its toll. As Charles slumped into a chair, aided by his son, Knox could see that the man was very ill. His eyes were the only thing about him that seemed alive—his eyes and his spirit, which flashed out as he commanded again, “I say get me that bottle! We’ll see if this whelp can drink like a gentleman!”

  Paul winked at Knox again, then pulled down a square crystal bottle and poured three small drinks in matching glasses. Charles threw his back and breathed a ragged sigh of pleasure, then shoved the glass forward. “Again!”

  Paul bit his lip and a worried look appeared on his thin face. “You really shouldn’t, Father. It’s not good—you’re not well!”

  “Not good for me? You sound like that crazy doctor—and like Cory! I don’t have long to hang around here, and I’m not going to get better—so fill that glass up and don’t argue with me, son. I’m not one of your seamen, you know!”

  A spark of amusement glinted in Paul’s eye. “If you were, I’d have you keelhauled. You’re more trouble than any man I ever saw. And if you don’t stop pestering Cory, she’s going to poison you.” Cory was the middle-aged black servant who served as a nurse for his father; there was a running war between the old man and the black woman.

  The second drink went down, and Charles Winslow smacked his lips. “Ahhhhh! Now that’s fine-drinking whiskey.” He looked at Knox with a light in his eyes and said, “Don’t suppose any of Adam’s brood ever gets to taste good liquor? I hear the whole tribe’s got religion so bad they won’t even eat an egg laid on Sunday.”

  Knox was unruffled; as his grandfather had warned, Charles’s badgering was more bluster than substance. “Why, Mr. Winslow, I guess whiskey is pretty scarce at our house, for a fact.”

  “Not with your brother, though,” Charles retorted, and his bright blue eyes flew to Knox’s face. “Adam tells me the boy’s drunk enough whiskey to float Paul’s frigate.”

  “Well, sir—” Knox shifted uncomfortably, and could not think of anything to say. He loved his brother Christmas, and had spent a great deal of energy defending him against the attacks of others. He had several scars to prove it. Knox was not going to give this old man the satisfaction of agreeing to these accusations.

  “Oh, never mind, never mind! Adam’s always been a great letter writer, so I know more about you than you think.” Charles smiled wickedly and added, “For example, you’ve always been jealous of your brother because he’s a big, strong fellow, and you’re a runt!”

  Knox’s face turned pale, for the truth of the old man’s words hit him like a rock. “I can’t help it if I’m small.”

  “You’re not small, boy; you’re just measuring yourself up against somebody else—and that’s a bad thing sometimes,” Charles warned. Knox was only marginally less than average height, and he was slight of build, but he had grown up in the shadow of his brothers, Christmas and George, both large men, and he had allowed the matter to prey on his mind.

  “And you’ve always admired your brother—which bothers you a lot, because you know he’s a no-good rascal.”

  “He’s not that bad!”

  “Yes, he is,” Charles countered calmly. “It takes a scoundrel to know one, and I’ve spent enough time with Christmas Winslow to say with certainty that he’s one of the rotten Winslows—like me.”

  “Like—like you, sir?” Knox had never met a person in his life who could admit to being a villain with such nonchalance. Most people, he knew, spent a great deal of effort trying to convince others that they were respectable. “My grandfather says you’re not so bad.”

  “Your grandfather would make excuses for Judas Iscariot, boy!” Charles grinned, and slapped his frail leg with an equally thin hand. “Why, Saul Howland and I did our best to skin Adam Winslow out of every dime he had—and he never took a shot at either of us!”

  “But, he says you saved his life once,” Knox argued. “He told me how you jumped in front of him and took a bullet that was meant for him.”

  Charles Winslow dropped his head, and the silence in the room ran on so long that both Knox and Paul thought the old man had dozed off. But then he lifted his head and there was a quivering smile on his thin lips and a bright light in his bright eyes. “The only good thing I ever did for that man—and he’s never forgotten it!” Then he seemed ashamed at showing weakness, and slapped his thigh again, violently. “Well, one good deed don’t make a man decent. Your brother Christmas, he’s probably done a few good deeds, but they don’t make him a good man. Sure, he may be a fine hunter, an expert trapper. But that boy has broken your parents’ hearts—and Adam’s, too. Don’t deny that, do you? No, you can’t! Still, you think he’s something just because he’s big and strong—and as stubborn a sinner as he ever was.”

  “Father, you’re being too hard on Knox,” Paul finally protested.

  “Got to be hard on him, Paul. Because he’s got to be tough enough to help us if that fool boy upstairs gets a chance to live.”

  “Chance to live?” Knox straightened up with alarm. “He’s not going to die, is he?”

  “He’s doing very poorly, Knox,” Paul said. “We’ve had him here two weeks, and he’s not made much progress. Dr. Webb tells us that he needs to get into a warm climate.”

  “Why, I’m taking him home with me, aren’t I? Isn’t that why Father sent me here?”

  “Well, Adam sent you here to take the boy south, but Mr. Christmas Winslow, sick as he is, has made it abundantly clear that he’ll die before he sets foot in his father’s house. How’s that for sense and gratitude, Mr. Knox Winslow?”

  Knox bit his lip, for he had seen firsthand all the strife that had passed between his father and Christmas. Nathan Winslow was a strong Christian, a pillar of the church; when his firstborn son began to drink, it had broken his heart. He had tried to reason with the boy, but Christmas was blindly rebellious. The situation had rapidly deteriorated until Christmas had left home at the age of seventeen—vowing never to return. “You’re too holy for me!” Knox had heard his brother shout as he ran out the door.

  “I—I’ll find a place for him,” Knox finally said, with more conviction than he felt. His mind raced wildly, and he could not think of a single alternative.

  “I’ve written Adam, boy,” Charles said, and his voice was weary with strain. He leaned back and closed his eyes, his lips moving with effort. “You know my daughter Anne married Daniel Greene.”

  “Yes, sir. My folks think he’s about the best man there i
s!”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to agree—though I pitched a fit when my only daughter married a dirt-poor preacher. I don’t mind telling you now that I was wrong. Dan’s almost as good a man as your grandfather—and that’s about the most I can say of anybody, I guess—”

  “Whut’s you doin’ wit’ dat whiskey!” A large black woman framed the doorway, her eyes big as moons. She swooped down on the old man like a hawk and pulled him to his feet. “Ah kotched you, didn’t ah? And shame on you, Mistuh Paul! Letting yo’ po’ old fathah drink hisself into his grave! Fo’ shame!”

  “Guilty as charged, Cory,” Paul Winslow said ruefully. “I’ll be around to see you later, Father.”

  As the huge woman practically carried Winslow out, he turned and said, “Knox—boy, you pay heed to what my son tells you. It’ll go hard for your brother otherwise.”

  Paul waited until they were gone, then said, “I’ve been writing to your father, and we’ve come up with a plan. Chris will never go to Nathan’s house—but I think he’d go and stay with my sister and her husband.”

  “What can I do, Uncle Paul?”

  “We’ll have to trick him into it, Knox—but if you’ll do as I say, we’ll get him to agree.”

  “I’ll do anything to help Chris!”

  “All right. The first thing I’ll do is to try to get him to go home with you. He’ll fight that, as we already know. You join in with me, and we’ll really put pressure on! Then, when the time is right, we offer him an alternative. He’ll be against living with a preacher; but I believe by the time we get through with him, he’ll agree to live with anybody to stay out of his father’s house.”

  “It might work—if we let him think he’s making the choice,” Knox agreed. “You think Rev. Greene can put up with him?”