The Holy Warrior (2 page)

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, packed 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.

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!”