The Holy Warrior
Authors: Gilbert Morris
© 1989 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3373-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg
Cover design by Danielle White
To Johnnie, my wife
All things must have names, but no words can ever capture the essence of the best things. The word
wife,
for example, is a poor, frail substitute to describe the years of happiness, comfort, and support that the companion God gave me has brought into my life. Every year I say the same thing:
we have saved the best ’till last
—and so again, my heart, the old vows are echoing, so I must say once more—I love, honor, and cherish you as never before.
Perhaps such vows, such thoughts, and such words may be outmoded. If so, it only proves that our feelings have outlasted time and fashion, and I can only say—thank you for all you have given me.
No woman ever fulfilled the old words of the old Book better than Johnnie Morris:
Who can find a virtuous woman?
Her price is far above rubies.
The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.
Her children arise up and call her blessed.
Her husband also, and he praiseth her.
CONTENTS
3. “Let the Mountains Kill Me!”
25. “You Have Been True to Me...!”
CHAPTER ONE
THE CAPTIVE OF MERTON
Jonas Billings, the innkeeper of the Blue Swan, glanced up at the sound of the squealing hinge coming from the heavy oak door. The man who had pushed his way through the door stood there, looking over the taproom. An officer. Billings hurriedly finished serving a tall man with a pockmarked face and the highly painted woman perched on his lap, then turned to go, but he was caught by a hard grip on his wrist. “Wot’s yer ’urry, Billings? That bloke can wait. Look at ’im all dressed up in ’is nice uniform!” He threw his head back and roared with drunken laughter, and the slender man with the pale face across from him grinned wolfishly.
“Wonder if ’is underwears got frills on it, eh, Bully?” the smaller man hooted.
“Might be I ought to find out,” the other laughed. He kissed the woman lustily on the mouth, then gave Billings a rough shake. “Never mind ’im—and leave that bottle, you ’ear me?”
“Take it easy, Maitland,” the burly innkeeper warned. Pulling his arm free, Billings made his point. “You’ve had enough. You want to wind up back in your cell?”
The big man swore and shook his fist in Billings’ face. “Not likely! Not me! They’d ’ave to kill me first!” He took a huge drink from the tankard, glared around the room and bellowed, “Bully Maitland! That’s me, and I’ve got a five-year thirst—so don’t get in me way!”
Billings left the table and came to stand before the new
customer. “Yes, sir, Captain,” he said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I understand no one is admitted inside the prison walls after six. Is that so?”
The dark-haired man was of average height and wore the uniform of a Navy officer. His features were regular, even handsome, except for the large scar along his lower jaw that descended beneath his collar. His direct gaze never wavered as he spoke, and Billings knew quality when he saw it.
“I’m afraid that’s the way of it, Captain. I take it you just come in on the stage? Too bad, sir!”
“You have a room?”
“That I do, and first class, it is.” Billings smiled and moved toward the bar, saying, “Let me offer you a drink—on the house.”
“No, but I’d like some hot tea—or coffee.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll have me wife fix you up a nice supper.” He called out through a door behind the bar, “Betty, fix some of that beef and warm up some of the kidney pie. And hot coffee.”
“My name’s Winslow.” He was looking up at a pair of fencing foils that were mounted over the bar. “Those are very nice.”
“Aye, sir. Belonged to me grandfather, they did.” He reached up and pulled the weapons down, placing them on the bar for the officer’s inspection.
Winslow looked at them closely. “Do a little fencing yourself, I’d venture.”
“I’ve done a bit.”
Intrigued, he grasped the handle and stretched out his arm to examine the foil’s balance. As he did so, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head to look into the smiling face of the woman who’d been sitting on the loud customer’s lap.
“Well, now!” she said saucily. “Give me a sea-going man every time! Like to buy me a drink, sailor?”
Winslow shrugged. “Better go back to your friend,” he advised.
“Not likely!” the woman snapped angrily. “ ’E ain’t nothin’ but a jailbird!” She moved closer, running a finger down the scar on his jaw. She lowered her voice to a coaxing whisper. “Come on, Love! I knows how to show a brave man like you a real good time!”
Winslow shook his head and was about to move away when a roar of anger made him wheel quickly.
“Steal my woman, will you!” Furious, Bully Maitland rushed across the room, his fist drawn back, and swung it hard at Winslow’s head. Missing his target as the officer deftly moved to one side, the man crashed against the bar. With a stream of curses he straightened up, spying at the same time one of the foils near his hand. Snatching the weapon, he began to move toward Winslow. “Come on, Bill, we’ll carve this pretty cove up! Use yer dirk!”
“You crazy fool!” Billings shouted. “You’ll hang!”
The tall man seemed not to hear. He was joined now by his partner, who held a thin dagger in front of him in the manner of an expert knife fighter.
In a flash Winslow reached out, picked up a chair and threw it at Maitland, then stepped forward and picked up the other foil as the man fell. He stood there with a grim smile on his lips, waiting.
Maitland leaped to his feet, but paused at the sight of the foil in the officer’s hand. Still, he was both angry and drunk enough to yell, “ ’E can’t ’andle us both, Bill! Git ’im from that side.”
The two men moved apart and Billings yelled again, but they paid no heed. When they were on opposite sides of Winslow, Maitland yelled, “Stick ’im, Bill!”
The smaller man lunged with his knife. Winslow feinted to the side as his rapier flickered in the light. With a movement too fast to follow, the tip of the blade struck Bill’s hand,
sending the knife flying, and then flicked across his face, leaving a thin red line welling up with blood.
“Wot...!” Maitland gasped. It had all happened so fast, the bully seemed frozen to the spot. Recovering quickly, he started to back across the room, trying desperately to stave off Winslow’s advance. It was useless, as Billings saw, for the officer was toying with the man. Time after time Winslow could have killed Maitland but did not drive his blade home. Finally, when the man’s back was against the wall, his face white with fear, Winslow’s blade caught the other’s at the guard and sent it flying through the air. Just as quickly, Bully Maitland felt a cold steel tip tight against his throat.
“Nooooo!” he moaned with fear. “Don’t! Don’t kill me—please!”
Winslow dropped his blade. “Get out of here,” he commanded his attackers coldly, then walked back to the bar, his face as calm as if he’d been reading the newspaper. At a word from Billings, the two men scurried out, followed closely by the woman.
“Sorry about that, Captain! The two of ’em just got out this morning. I reckon they over-celebrated.”
Winslow looked at the door. “If I’d known that, I might have had a question for them.”
“Something about the prison, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Well now, you see that chap with the white beard? He’s one of the guards—was, I should say. He’s leaving on the morning stage.” Billings hesitated, lowering his voice. “I know he’s not got a dime. If you’d buy him a bit of supper, Captain, he could tell you ’most anything about Merton Prison.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bradley—that’s all I know.”
“Have your wife cook up another piece of meat—and do you have a room we could use?”
“Yes, sir. Shall I get Bradley?”
“Yes.”
Half an hour later Bradley was stuffing food down his throat and washing it down with draughts of beer. Winslow let him finish, eating almost nothing himself. Finally he said, “If you’re finished, I have a few questions for you.”
“Yes, sir! Anything I can do!”
“Do you know a prisoner named Christmas Winslow?”
“Why, ’course I do, Cap’n!” Bradley took another drink of beer, then stared at his host. “Be you a friend of his?”
“A relative.”
“Ah! I’m sorry for the lad!”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Been sick for months now.” Bradley shook his head. “He’s been gettin’ worse for some time now, sir. He’s not likely to make it—and it’s sorry I am to have to tell you.”
“I’ve come to get him out.”
Bradley stared at him. “But—his sentence!”
“I have a presidential pardon signed by President Adams—and a personal letter from President Washington.”
Bradley stared at him in awe. “Well... that oughter do it—though Hindleman will argue.”
“Hindleman? He’s the warden?”
“No, he’s the Devil!” Bradley said, with a glint of anger in his eyes. “Thinks he’s a little god in there, Cap’n! It’s him has made the boy work out in the cold when he was so sick he couldn’t walk. I tried to give the poor boy a break—but it was little I could do!”