The Holy Warrior (4 page)

“Yes, but I’m not stupid, boy—that’s the big difference between you and me.”

“You wouldn’t live in that house for ten minutes yourself,” Chris grinned. “Father wouldn’t let you have your whiskey.”

Charles Winslow grinned back at the young man, rubbed his chin with his thin hand, then nodded. “In that, you’re probably right—but if it were life or death, I guess I’d put
up with it. At least long enough to get well. You’re going to die if you don’t get some sunshine.”

“Who cares?”

“Why, I expect you do, boy,” Charles shrugged. “You ain’t as tough as you want people to think. Man will do a lot to stay alive.”

“Maybe. But not that.”

Charles stared at him. “Boy, I think it’s rotten the way you hate your father. That’s something you’ll have to take care of yourself. But I have an idea that might help.”

“What idea?”

“Go stay with my daughter Anne. She’s a good nurse, and that Kentucky sunshine will get you well, I’d guess. That’s what the doctor says, anyway.”

“The Greenes?” Chris’s brow wrinkled and he said in disdain, “He’s a Methodist preacher, ain’t he? It’d be like being home.”

“No, it wouldn’t. It’s your father you hate, and you wouldn’t be staying with him. The preaching might be pesky—but you’d not be at home. I reckon you’re mean enough to make life miserable for Anne and Dan. Go on, boy, take what you want. Then walk off and leave them without a word of thanks. That’s what a real tough man would do.”

Chris turned his head to stare out the window. The snow was gone, and the landscape was brown and dead, like a carcass. No sign of life anywhere. He thought of the green hills of Virginia, and yearned to see flowers and grass, to feel the warmth of the summer sun. He had dreamed of it for two years in the tomb at Merton, and had not expected to see it again.

The three men waited, knowing that no words would move the man. Finally he said, “I’ll go if they’ll have me.”

Charles snorted, “Sink me! I’m disappointed! I thought you’d be mean enough to stay here and die and put us to all the trouble and expense of burying you! Well, I’ll go write
Dan and tell him to double up on his praying. He’ll need it with a heathen like you in his house!”

“Seems like his prayers don’t amount to much, Mr. Winslow,” Chris snapped as the old man turned to leave. “He’s been praying for you for years, hasn’t he? It don’t appear to me he’s made much headway.”

Charles Winslow stopped, and all three men were surprised to see his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He stood quietly, trying to compose himself. “Well, Christmas Winslow,” he said in a husky voice, “in that you may not be right. I’ve been a sorry man for most of my life—maybe not as wild as you, but bad enough. And now that the play’s about over, I’ve been thinking how I’d do it differently. But there’s no way to turn the page back...”

For a moment there was a tragic air about the old man; then he smiled and went on, a touch of irony in his voice. “I’ve had some powerful men of God praying for me—and women, too. Adam—and Molly, before she died. Your own people—even Paul here, who was about as bad as his father. But I’ve seen something in these Christians. Now that I’ve come to the end, I think all their prayers are catching up with me.”

He turned to leave, and as he walked out the door, Paul hurried after him. Christmas remained silent, watching the retreating figures. Then closing his eyes, he said wearily, “Take me me to Kentucky, Knox. I want to feel the sun.”

“Sure, Christmas. We’ll be there in no time.”

Actually it was three weeks before Knox pulled the carriage up and pointed down at the small village nestling in a valley between two low-lying ranges. “That’s the place, I reckon. Think you can make it, Chris? Won’t take more than a couple of hours to get to the house.”

“If I don’t make it, bury me!”

“All right.”

The trip had been slow, for the unexpected thaw made muddy rivers out of the roads, and time after time the wheels had mired down. The men stayed at inns, but those were few and far between on this route. Chris had done well for the first few days until he had come down with a fever that rose so high it frightened Knox. The doctor he had found at a little town called Brantly advised putting the sick man in the hospital, but Chris adamantly insisted, “Knox, don’t stop! If I go into a coma, haul me on, you hear?”

Knox had lost the argument, and for many days he traveled only a few miles, spending most of the time trying to get food down Chris. But then, as quickly as it had come, the fever left, and Chris was sitting up to eat—pale as death and thin as a stick, but alive.

It was three o’clock when they pulled into the village and asked directions to the Greenes’ place. The little house had a high pitched roof, and sat back off the road in a big meadow at the edge of the village. Cows grazed in the warm sun, and chickens clucked and scattered as Knox got down and went to the door. At his knock, the voices he heard inside stopped, the door opened, and a small woman with reddish hair, flanked by two small children, framed the doorway. “Knox Winslow?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Anne Greene. Is Christmas able to walk?”

“Just barely. He’s been real bad, Aunt Anne.”

“Bring him in. We’ve made a place in the small bedroom. When he gets stronger you two can sleep in the loft.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get him.”

He went back to find that Chris had gotten out of the buggy and fallen flat in the mud.

“You fool!” Knox cried. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” He was struggling to get the man to his feet when a voice came from behind him.

“Let me help you.” A big hand reached across, and Chris’s body seemed to rise into the air. Knox turned to see a muscular
man with a brown face and very white teeth. He was dressed in brown knee britches and a white linen shirt. “I’m Brother Greene, Knox. I remember you well.”

Knox got on the other side of Chris, saying, “I don’t remember you, Brother Greene, but my mother’s told me all about you.”

“Well, I tried hard enough to marry her, Knox—but she favored your father, and that was that. Come now, Christmas, let’s get you inside.” The strength of the preacher was tremendous, for he practically carried the tall man inside and put him on the bed in the small room.

“Thanks... Parson.” Chris’s face was wet with perspiration, and it was difficult for him to speak. “Try—not to be a bother—too long.”

“God is a great healer, Christmas.”

There was a moment of silence; then Chris answered painfully, “Got to be honest—don’t believe in God.”

Greene seemed not to have heard the words, for he simply looked down and said, “I remember well the night you were born, son. I hadn’t eaten a bite except for a piece of mule meat for two days. And cold! Never was a place as cold as Valley Forge in ’77!” His eyes seemed to glow and he clapped his thick hands together. “Then your pa came running up to some of us and hollered, ‘I’ve got me a boy!’ Somehow General Washington heard of it—through Adam, I expect—and I’ll be dashed if he didn’t send enough deer for a whole meal!” He studied the sick man’s face, saying quietly, “Not many men got ushered into this old world by His Excellency, Christmas.”

“Did that really happen?” Knox asked in awe.

“Sure did. This boy here met just about all the great ones—though he doesn’t remember it—Lafayette, Von Steuben, Mad Anthony Wayne. They all came calling on Christmas Winslow that winter.”

Chris lay there, staring up at the square face of Dan Greene.
Finally he shook his head. “I don’t seem to have been worth the bother, Reverend.”

Dan Greene leaned down and patted the thin shoulder with a thick hand. “You’re not finished yet, Christmas,” he replied gently.

“Can I nurse him, Pa?”

Knox turned to see the small girl standing in the doorway, an awkward looking child—all legs, arms, blond hair, and huge brown eyes.

The minister reached out and pulled her close, saying with a laugh, “Be good practice for both of you. This is my daughter, Melissa.”

“No, I’m Missy,” the girl insisted. She left her father’s side and came over and with one small hand pushed Christmas’s hair out of his eyes. “You won’t be sick long, Mr. Christmas. I’ll get you all well!”

Christmas Winslow smiled at the child through feverish eyes. “Are you old enough to be a nurse?”

“I’m eight,” Missy answered. “That’s old enough.” She looked up and said, “I’ll take care of him. You two can go now.”

Greene laughed and led Knox out of the room. “She’s a prudent one, isn’t she now? Eight years old and runs the house!”

“I—I don’t know how to thank you, sir!”

Greene put a friendly hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “God’s not going to waste a man like that, Knox!”

CHAPTER THREE

“LET THE MOUNTAINS KILL ME!”

“Never saw a March this mild.” Dan Greene got to his feet, stretched, then glanced at Knox, who was sitting with his head back against the mud-chinked logs, eyes shut and mouth open.

“What—what’d you say, Dan?” he mumbled. His eyes were red around the edges and his stomach grumbled loudly—so loudly that he flushed with embarrassment at the smile on Greene’s face. “Guess something I ate didn’t agree with me.”

“You and Christmas both,” Greene answered idly, but there was a note in his voice that made Knox look up quickly. The younger man had learned over the past two months that the bulky minister might move slowly, but there was nothing slow about his mind. Knox realized guiltily that the minister knew that the raw whiskey he and Chris had downed at the tavern in the neighboring town of Little Fork was his problem—not anything he might have eaten. Yet there was no condemnation in Greene’s tone or manner.

A streak of rebellion ran through Knox; he wanted the preacher to accuse him so that he could defend himself. “Chris and me, we got drunk last night,” he said defiantly.

“Did you, Knox?”

The mild answer only irritated the boy more, and he got to his feet, the sudden move sending a blinding pain through his head. It was so severe that he involuntarily grabbed his head with both hands and uttered, “Oh, Lord!” His stomach
heaved, and he stood there, struggling to keep from throwing up.

“Does Christmas feel as bad as you do?”

The question sent another surge of guilt through Knox, for he knew that his brother’s health was such that he had no business drinking at all. The two months the brothers had spent with the Greenes had been good for Knox, but Chris had mended hardly at all. The fever that had nearly killed him kept coming back, and despite the good home cooking, he could not eat as he should. Better to say, he would not, for as soon as he was able to get about, he had taken to visiting the tavern on the south edge of town. It was a rough place, little more than a large shed with a dirt floor and only one small window. Knox had gone with him—reluctantly, at first. “Chris,” he had protested, “this is a putrid place! Looks like every no-account in Kentucky comes here to get drunk and raise the Devil!”

“My kind of place,” Chris had muttered. “You get out of here, Knox. I don’t want to drag you down.”

Knox had been determined to get Chris off whiskey; unfortunately, it didn’t work that way. Knox had not been a drinking man, but the small tankard of ale soon grew to two; and before long he was reeling as drunkenly as his brother when they made their way home. Knox had vowed time after time to quit, and Chris urged him to stay away. But somehow, Knox always went back.

Now he was sick and miserable. “Chris is going to kill himself one day, with all this drinking.”

“I think that’s what he’s got on his mind. Seen a few like that, just so miserable and unhappy they don’t want to go on.” Greene turned to face Knox, and there was pain in his brown eyes as he added, “The thing that scares me is—sooner or later Christmas is going to realize that it’s a lot easier to put a gun to his head than to kill himself by slow degrees drinking whiskey.”

“He wouldn’t do that!”

“Why wouldn’t he, Knox? What’s he got to live for?” Greene started to say something else, but at that moment Caroline, his sixteen-year-old daughter, came to the door.

“Breakfast is ready.” She was a slight girl, not over five four, and her thin face was usually sober. She was not a beauty, but there was a quiet dignity in her face that would have been attractive if she had not chosen to wear her brown hair pulled back in an ugly roll. She wore dark and shapeless dresses, with little or no ornamentation; Knox guessed that was her idea of what a Christian girl should look like. She never missed a service, and after the first time she had tried to talk to Knox about his spiritual condition, he had shied away from her.

Missy was a different sort, as full of life and color as her older sister was deficient in those qualities. Knox smiled despite his splitting headache as the long legs of the girl came down the ladder that led to the loft. As usual, her soft voice dominated the small house. From the time she got up to the time she went to bed, she was either talking, singing or laughing. He had been shocked the first time he had heard her humming some tunes that he knew had bawdy lyrics—drinking songs, actually. Missy was blissfully unaware of what she was doing, for like a mocking bird she merely copied whatever she heard.