Authors: Gilbert Morris
The Holy Warrior (32 page)
He caught sight of the snake again—it was the largest he’d ever seen. The sight of the massive head and the memory of the enormouse fangs caused his chest to constrict with fear. His breathing grew short and a feeling of lightheaded nausea seized him; he walked away from the snake and sat down with his back to the bank, fighting to stay in control.
It’s not the poison working—it’s just shock and fear,
he forced himself to think.
Sky had followed him, trembling so badly he staggered and almost fell. His face was washed pale. “I’ll go for the doctor,” he managed in a shaky whisper.
“No time for that,” Chris said. Even if a doctor stood before him, there would be little he could do, and Chris knew it. Taking a deep breath, he forced his mind to stop racing by a mighty act of will. Closing his eyes, Chris concentrated.
“Sky, you know about snakebites?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then you know I may die?”
The boy squeezed his lips together and did not answer for a moment. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, Father.”
Chris looked up quickly. “It’s good to hear you call me that, son. It means a lot to me.” Then he said, “If I die, you tell your mother that I love her.”
Sky lifted his head and for the first time Chris saw tears in his son’s eyes. “I have watched you. I didn’t think you would love her now that she is sick. They told me the white man would use the Indian woman and throw her away—but you did not.”
“No. I would have come for both of you long ago—but I thought you were dead.” Chris felt a strange sensation creep along his arm and knew that the poison was working. “I wish I could be around to see you grow up, son. But God will watch over you and your mother.”
Sky hesitated; then he moved closer to Chris. “I have listened to you talk. You say that Jesus loves the Christian.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Then—why do you not ask Him to help you now, my father?”
Chris blinked his eyes at the boy’s simple question. Sky’s face pleaded for an answer, but Chris hesitated. “Well, son...” he faltered, “God can do anything, but—”
“You told a story once about a man who got bit by a snake, and you said he shook it off in a fire—and he did not die. Can’t your Jesus do this for you?”
The story of Paul being bitten by a viper returned to Chris in a flash, and he winced at the unspoken rebuke.
Ye have not because ye ask not.
Feeling death creep through his bloodstream, he thought of all the reasons why he could not pray for life. It was too late, now!
Ye have not because ye ask not.
And then, a second passage he had not thought of for years:
And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues;
they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.
He had studied that passage at Yale. It had been an intellectual exercise at the time, something to write a paper on, perhaps. Now as he sat there with his veins full of venom, it was no longer a bookish matter. While Chris was not a man given to mysticism—he had seen some go off into error on passages much like this one—the sight of his son’s face and the simplicity of his question went straight to Chris’s heart. Pushing aside his misgivings, he said grimly, “Son, God is able. There is nothing that He cannot do.”
Sky stared at him. “You believe your God will save you?”
Chris said as much to himself as to the boy, “Yes, I do believe!” Then he bowed his head and prayed quietly, “Oh, Lord, there is nothing you cannot do. In the name of Jesus Christ, I ask that you deliver me from this poison.”
Sky waited for more, but his father sat quietly, his eyes closed and his lips moving. The silence grew thicker and a cloud moved across the sun, throwing a shadow over the scorched land. From somewhere afar off came the single cry of a bird, thin and reedy.
When Chris finally opened his eyes Sky saw tears brimming there, but confidence as well. “God has heard my prayer, Sky,” he told him. “I won’t die.” He looked down and saw that the wounds from the knife had almost stopped bleeding. “I’m cut pretty deep and I’ll always have scars on this arm—but they’ll just remind me of what happened today. And that Jesus Christ is the only true God.”
“You won’t die?” Sky asked cautiously.
“I may get sick,” Chris answered. “Don’t know about that. But God has assured me that I’ll live.”
Sky’s eyes traveled from his father’s face to the wounds on his arm. “Your God is strong, my father!” he whispered.
“Come here, son. Sit down by me.” Sky sat down, and Chris put his arm around the boy’s sturdy shoulders. Neither of
them spoke for a long time. After several hours, they heard the sound of the wagons approaching.
“Don’t tell them about the snake,” he warned Sky. He had vomited twice, and once he had a spasm of trembling in his body; but through it all he had simply praised God for sparing his life. “This time was for you and me, Sky,” he said.
“I won’t tell,” Sky promised. “I—I am glad you will be all right. And I’m glad you are my father!”
Chris reached out and took the boy in his arms, and he felt Sky’s arms slip around his neck. “I missed out on your babyhood,” Chris said huskily. “You’re growing up, son—soon you’ll be a man. So I’ll tell you this now, and if I never say it again, you remember it: I love you very much!”
The boy’s face was pressed against his chest, but Chris could just make out the muffled response.
“I love you, my father!”
Everyone soon knew about the cuts in his arm, but Chris passed it off lightly. “Just cut myself with my knife.”
Dr. Spencer took one look at the twin lacerations on the arm and looked up in alarm. “Snakebite? Was it bad, Chris?”
“God healed the snakebite, Doc,” Chris replied. “Just put something on the cut—and forget what you saw.” He noted the puzzled look on Spencer’s face, and added, “It was something just for me and my son, John. Just for us!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TWO PROPOSALS
“Nathan!” Julie ran down the road, waving an envelope in her hand, her face beaming with excitement. “A letter from Christmas!”
“Is he all right?” Nathan dismounted his horse in a swift movement and took the envelope. “You haven’t opened it?”
“I wanted us to read it together. It’s cold outside—let’s sit at the table where we can both see it.”
Fall had held fast to Virginia that year, but now the hint of snow was in the November sky, and the wind had sharp teeth that bit at the face. Nathan followed her inside and they sat down at the table, both of them anxious as he broke the seal and pulled out two letters. “One from Chris and one from Missy!” Julie exclaimed, peering at the handwriting. “Thank God they’re both all right!”
“Which one should we read first?”
“You choose.”
Nathan picked up the thinner of the two, smiling nervously as he did. “Just like always—a woman talks more than a man.” She noticed that his hands were not as steady as usual and her own heart was beating fast. They had heard nothing since the exodus of Chris and the Greenes, and both of them were well aware of the high mortality rate of westward movers. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, laid it flat on the table, and Julie put her arm around him, moving closer and peering at the writing.
13 September, 1811
Knox Mission
My dear Parents,
I know you will rejoice to hear that we made the journey safely. It was a difficult trip, but our God is good! There were many hardships, but the Lord protected us, and by His grace none of us were lost. Blessed be His name!
We arrived at the Yellowstone on the last day of August, but after prayer, we concluded that a better place for the mission would be on the banks of the upper Missouri. I submitted to Brother Small, the head of the work, that the fort Knox and I had built there on our first trapping expedition would be more central to various tribes, and he agreed to my suggestion. We moved on to the old fort, and I asked that it be named Knox Mission, in Knox’s memory, and that was acceptable also.
The large central building was gone, but the walls were still in place. We put new gates on and worked like madmen to get winter quarters up. As I write this, the shakes are going on what will one day be our church and school. This winter it will be our living quarters as well, for bad weather is on its way. We have partitioned it off into two sections—one for living quarters, the other to serve as school, church, and a hospital for Dr. Spencer. Come spring, we will build cabins for the families, and I think we should build another structure for trade. As I have told you, the Indians are robbed blind by traders, and I want to start a place where they can get a fair price for their furs.
I am well, though a bit thinner than when I started out. Missy, Caroline, and Asa did well on the journey, and seem to be very happy.
You will be pleased to hear that Sky has come out of his shell! We are inseparable now, and I thank God every day that I have my son back once more—in the truest sense!
I regret to say that Dove is very ill again. The trip overland
was too hard for her, and she has been confined to her bed since we arrived. Dr. Spencer offers little hope, but I know that God is our healer, so I ask both of you to continue to pray for her—as I know you do.
Frenchie Doucett came by yesterday with a load of furs. He will take this letter to St. Louis, and see that it gets to you as quickly as possible.
Missy has added her own letter, which I enclose. She has been a constant nurse and companion to Dove; I do not think Dove could have lived if it had not been for Missy’s care.
Your loving son,
Christmas Winslow
Nathan stared at the letter for a long moment, taking it all in. Finally he said, “Thank God they made it!” He opened the other letter and handed it to Julie. “Writing’s too small—you read it out loud.” Julie took the small sheaf of papers and began to read:
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Winslow,
“I know that Chris has not told you much about our trip. He is not one to speak a lot of himself, but I want you to know that without him, we all would have died on the trail. He was the only one of us who knew how terrible it would be, but when the decision was made, he chose to go along. Let me tell you how he saved the wagon train....”
Julie read steadily, and Nathan leaned forward, absorbed, as the terrible ordeal came to life. Missy was a gifted writer, and the stark hardships of the last days of the harrowing journey seemed to leap before his eyes: hunger... thirst... dying cattle... the courage of some and the fears of most were all recounted. By the letter’s end it was clear to his parents that
Chris had been the single driving force that got the wagon train started in the mornings. Finally Missy ended her letter:
“... As much as Chris did to save us from death on the trail, I must tell you that his faith bolstered our sagging spirits even more. We have had services for the Indians since we reached the Yellowstone, and he is a wonderful preacher. I cannot understand the language, of course, but the Indians never take their eyes off him! He is well known among all the tribes, and they cannot believe that a mighty warrior would preach of a gentle God of love. Many have trusted in Jesus under his ministry.
“He is willing to interpret for the others, and I suspect (you must never repeat this!) that many of the sermons he interprets into the Indian language are ‘improved on’ greatly from the original!
“I close with a plea that you pray for White Dove. We have become sisters since she accepted Christ. I had learned to love her even before this happened, but now it is doubly hard to see her going down with this dreadful sickness! Pray much!”
Julie smoothed the sheets out carefully. She knew Nathan, too, had been touched deeply. Without looking at him directly, she leaned her head over to rest on his shoulder. “I’m so proud of him!”
Nathan put his arm around her and drew her close. “So much has happened since I held that little morsel of humanity in my arms for the first time!” She nodded, and he mused, “Been a long road since Valley Forge, Julie. Lots of times I’ve doubted—but you never did. You always said that God would make a preacher out of our boy.”
She pulled away, brushing a few tears from her eyes. “We must pray for Dove,” Julie said slowly, “and we must also pray for Missy. She’s done a brave thing, Nathan.”
He sighed heavily. “Never heard of a woman doing what
Missy’s done, the way she loves Dove. Giving up her man to another woman—then loving her like a sister.”
“Let’s pray—I don’t know what to ask, but the Bible says that ‘the king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord.’ If He can move the heart of a king, He can bring good out of this, too!”
Snow was falling as Missy made her way down the path from the mission to the river. The skies had been steel gray all day, and now the flakes fell gently to earth as if a giant had dumped a mammoth basket of tiny white feathers from somewhere high in the heavens. The chilling blasts of wind kicked up, taking Missy’s breath away and sending the flakes swirling like miniature tornadoes of white dust, embalming the dead land in a thin coat of white. By the time she reached the river, the snow was coming down hard. Flakes as big as the tip of her forefinger fell heavily on her face, biting her skin with hot-cold sensations, and she was glad to see Chris standing beside a big tree, staring out at the river.