The Holy Warrior (25 page)

She hurried to meet him, and one look at his square face told her that he was hopping mad. “What’s the matter?” she demanded.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, his face flushed with anger, and it was obvious to Missy that he was keeping his wrath bottled up by sheer willpower. Finally through clamped teeth he said, “Bunch of hypocrites! Generation of vipers! God could do no better than to open the earth and swallow their miserable carcasses—the whole lot of ’em.”

“Stop that!” Missy cried. “Tell me what happened.”

He shook his shoulders and passed a trembling hand over his forehead. When he spoke it was with a controlled tone. “The church was full. Lots of people there that never show their faces except on Christmas and Easter. Just came to see the show, I guess!” Agitated, he clenched his hands again and continued. “It was a terrible thing. Chris came in a little late, and he had Dove and Sky with him. They were both all dressed up in new clothes—looked real nice, but Dove was scared to death. Never felt so sorry for anyone in my life.”

“Then what? Why was Dove so frightened?”

“Well, Chris asked me to preach, and I did, but nobody listened. They were all like buzzards on a roost—staring at Dove and Sky like they were some sort of animals. You could almost feel the hate, Missy! Well, when I finished, I made a little speech. Told them how God had been gracious enough to restore their pastor’s family—but they weren’t listening. After I announced that there’d be a little reception at the parsonage to welcome White Dove and Sky, I gave the benediction, and then it happened.”

“What?”

“Why, Missy, not ten people came by to welcome them! We sat there, waiting. Soon Martha Shipton and Dr. Miller came, and he’s not even a Christian. Some more welcomed
them, but it was mighty embarrassing, sitting there with all the cake and punch—and so few came.”

“Do you think Dove understood?” Missy whispered.

“Of course she understood!” Dan bellowed. “She sat there all dressed up with Sky beside her, and she held her head high, I tell you! But she knew she was being rejected. So did the boy.”

“How dare they treat her so!” Missy cried angrily. “How... did Christmas take it?”

“How do you expect?” Dan snapped. “He looked like a volcano—looking for someone to strike out at. Instead, he just stood there with a smile on his face and an empty light in his eyes. God help us!”

“What will happen now?” Missy asked quietly.

Dan shook his head, sorrow lining his face. “God knows, Missy—but I’m writing to Bishop Asbury tomorrow. Chris is in big trouble—and sooner or later, there’ll be pressure put on the bishop to have him removed.” Still fuming, he snapped the reins and drove off to the barn, and she could hear him muttering as he went: “Generation of vipers!—Generation of vipers!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“TAKE THEM WITH THEE!”

“Peter Cartwright to see you, sir.”

Bishop Francis Asbury was a serious man, but a smile touched his thin lips as he said, “Better stay by the door, Roberts—in case Brother Cartwright gets out of order.”

The small-built secretary replied, “I’d not be surprised. Two weeks ago over in Delaplane two rowdies tried to break up the service. Cartwright jumped off the platform, laid one of them flat on his back, and offered to do the same to the other one unless he behaved.” Roberts laughed aloud, adding, “I don’t know if either of them got saved, but they got a good dose of Methodist hellfire-and-damnation preaching.”

Asbury shook his head in mock-despair, but could not hide the glint of humor in his gray eyes. “Well, well, Cartwright is what he is. Send him in.”

Cartwright entered, and Asbury motioned the preacher to a chair.
He breaks every rule in the clergy code book,
the bishop thought,
but he preaches the gospel to the poor.
Cartwright’s commitment to an anti-elitist form of ministry compelled the feisty preacher to serve—tirelessly and at any cost—the widely scattered and highly mobile population of the United States. The dynamic of the church, Asbury knew, was contained in the simple and straightforward message Cartwright proclaimed: People are free to accept or reject God’s grace. Men such as he stream-lined the gospel, avoiding theological and ecclesiastical wrangling. This message
was proclaimed unstintingly—indoors and out, seven days a week, and under the most adverse conditions.

“Well, Brother Asbury, I suppose you received my letter,” Cartwright began as soon as he was seated. His chin jutted out pugnaciously, and he thumped the arm of his chair with a hard hand.

Asbury nodded and picked up the letter from among the papers on his cluttered desk, his eye falling on a paragraph he had marked:

He writes much as he preaches; the style suits him,
Asbury thought as he looked up.
Blunt, caustic, and bold. Peter is right in many ways—and the rest of us are wrong.
But he could not afford to act on this knowledge, to threaten the structure. There were not enough men like Cartwright to carry on the work. Aloud, he said, “I am praying over your proposal, Brother Cartwright—but surely you see that as much as we need men in the field, they need to be trained first!”

Cartwright’s gaze clouded over, as though he was forming his answer and was struggling with a thought. At last he spoke. “Of course, Bishop. Many of our church problems now have their roots in untrained ministers, but—”

Agitated, Cartwright jumped to his feet, strode to the window and gazed outside. When he began to speak again, it was in a subdued voice, quite unlike his own robust tones. “Remember in the early days, Bishop? When God called a man to be a Methodist preacher, instead of hunting up a college, he hunted up a hardy pony of a horse, and packed up his library: a Bible, a hymn book and the Discipline. He started out with a text that never wore out or grew stale: ‘Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world.’ Through storms of wind, hail, snow and rain; over hills and mountains, through swamps, and around swollen streams he went. He would lie out all night—wet, weary, and hungry, holding his horse by the bridle all night so it wouldn’t bolt. He had his saddle blanket for a bed, his saddlebags for a pillow, and his coat for a covering.” He closed his eyes, remembering. “We slept in dirty cabins on an earth floor, ate roasting ears of corn for bread, drank buttermilk for coffee. But the message was always the same: ‘Behold the Lamb of God.’ ” Opening his eyes, he fixed his gaze on the bishop, who had stood wordlessly nearby. There were tears in the old circuit-preacher’s eyes as he whispered, “Under such circumstances, who in these days would say, ‘Here am I, Lord, send me’?”

Asbury felt his own heart cry out at the words, and he rose from his desk and went to put his arm around Cartwright’s shoulders. “We will pray. There are still men—and God is still calling them.”

They prayed and then the two spoke for an hour about plans for the future. Finally Asbury said, “I must leave for Boston on the afternoon stage. If there’s nothing else...?”

Cartwright squared his shoulders, and there was a light of battle in his eyes. “You must do something about Pineville, Bishop!”

Asbury frowned, trying to remember, and Cartwright prompted him. “You’ve had correspondence from the leaders of the church—and I wrote you a letter last month.”

“Yes, yes! I remember now. That’s the case of Brother Winslow. He married an Indian woman.”

“Yes, and now the church won’t accept her and wants to be rid of him.” Cartwright’s face was flushed, and he put up one thick hand in a squeezing motion. “I’d like to pinch their heads off!”

“We can’t do that with every congregation that disapproves of their pastor, I’m afraid.” Asbury shook his head. “He’ll have to be relocated. You know better than I the strong feelings against Indians in the West.”

“And do you think it will be better for the man and his family in the East?” Cartwright demanded angrily.

“Well, in all honesty,” Asbury spoke sadly, “I fear not. But the church will be destroyed if he stays.”

“Good riddance!”

Asbury regarded him thoughtfully. “We are all frail human beings, Peter. Perhaps the day will come when an Indian wife will be acceptable—as we grow more into the stature of the Lord Jesus. But we must deal with our people as they are—not as we would like them to be.”

Asbury bowed his head in deep thought. Cartwright stood silently until the bishop looked up and noticed a determined look on Peter’s face. “I have been much in prayer over a matter for some time—and I feel that this situation is part of an answer from the Lord. You know of the meetings at Williams College?”

Cartwright brightened. “Of course! The American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions! They’re beginning to send out missionaries.”

“Send Winslow and his wife overseas?”

“No—send them to her people.” The novelty of the idea excited Asbury, and he spoke rapidly. “Why, it’s ideal! The man is already accepted in one of the tribes—he speaks the language—he’s been a trapper, so he’s hardy and can take the hardships.”

Cartwright was smiling broadly. “Wesley didn’t make you
bishop for nothing, sir! It’ll be a pioneer work—and it’ll open up the far west to the gospel of Jesus!”

“Sit down, Brother,” Asbury said. “We have work to do. Roberts! Roberts! Get yourself in here with plenty of paper!”

Dr. Miller did not like the looks of it at all, but he kept his fears to himself as he settled back in a chair by the bed and said, “Well, Rev. Greene, this isn’t the first bellyache you’ve had—and it won’t be the last.”

Dan’s face was pale and covered with a fine sheen of perspiration as he lay looking at the burly doctor. He had lost weight since the pain in his stomach had forced him to stay home, and it showed in his hollow cheeks and eyes that had sunken into his wide face. Ignoring the pain, he had gone to a camp meeting twenty miles away, but was forced to come back when the pain grew more severe. Caroline and Missy had put him to bed immediately and, ignoring his protests, sent for Dr. Miller.

Dan grinned with an effort and his voice was raspy as he replied, “That’s all you doctors are good for. To think you’ve come all the way over here to tell me I have a bellyache—and I already knew that!” A spasm of pain made him catch his breath and grab at his middle.

Dr. Miller’s sharp eyes watched him; then he shook his head. “I don’t know what it is, Dan. If I did, I’d tell you. We doctors don’t know much. We can set a broken leg or do some bleeding. Things like this, you just can’t always tell. Whatever it is, it’ll probably go away. Most things do.” He rose to his feet, saying, “I’ll leave some laudanum for the pain.”

“Thanks, Doctor,” Dan said. “Don’t forget to go by and see Mrs. Landers, will you? And it would be nice if you could stop by the Bakers. I know there’s nothing you can do for Will, but it would make Erma feel better if you’d leave some pills or something.”

“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?”