The Holy Warrior (17 page)

“Didn’t know size was a qualification for the ministry, Brother Cartwright,” Chris grinned.

“Maybe not in Boston,” Cartwright replied, “but here a minister has to handle whatever comes.”

Dan said carefully, “I’ve heard some talk about the Winston boy, Brother Cartwright. Folks are saying he’s here to make trouble.”

“God forgive the lad,” Cartwright returned steadily. “We must have order—I will pray that there is no trouble.”

He turned and walked away, and Dan laughed. “There’s nobody like Peter Cartwright!” Then, “Well, I must leave you, Chris. Watch out for Caroline and the children, will you?”

But it was Caroline who took charge of them all, settling the sleeping arrangements and getting Asa and Chris to build a cooking fire so she could prepare dinner and get them presentable to go to the meeting.

“That sister of yours, she’s a hummer!” Chris whispered to Missy as they made their way to the meeting.

“I guess church is all she cares about,” Missy shrugged. She and her brother had been to many camp meetings with their father, and they seemed unimpressed with all the excitement, but Chris was as jumpy as he had ever been in his life. The camp was well lit by fires and lanterns; ministers occupied every stage, and the immense crowd milled around them.

Caroline led them to one stage after another, briefly commenting on the speaker: “That’s Brother Satterfield—good preacher, but weak on the doctrine of sanctification....” She stopped and pointed at one platform. “Look! There’s brother James McGready!”

“Is he good?” Chris asked with interest.

“Why, he’s been used of God more than any other man at camp meetings!” Caroline said with admiration. “There’ll be some people hard hit by his message!”

Although he was of only average height, McGready’s voice was overpowering, and Chris had no trouble picking up the subject in the middle of his sermon—hellfire. The magnificent voice roared like thunder:

“... he died accursed of God, and when his soul was separated from his body, the black flaming creatures of the deep began to encircle him on every side. As the fiends of hell dragged him into the eternal gulf—roaring and screaming—the Indians, pagans, and Mohammedans stood amazed and upbraided him, falling like Lucifer from the meridian blaze
of the threshold of heaven, sinking into the liquid boiling waves of the flaming abyss...”

Suddenly a woman right in front of Chris gave a piercing scream and fell to the ground. McGready did not even pause, but the sound seemed to trigger a reaction, for all around the stage people were dropping to the ground. Some of them toppled like trees, falling stiffly where they stood, making no attempt to break their fall. Others seemed to lose their strength and melt to the earth. Alarmed, Chris glanced at Caroline and saw that her eyes were closed, a satisfied smile on her lips. Asa was watching it all with the avid curiosity of a fourteen-year-old, but Missy simply stood with her head down, showing no reaction at all.

Chris felt uncomfortable about the whole event. The preaching was much as he remembered as a boy, but the people’s reaction... it was so... unnatural. He fervently wished he had not come, but now there was no way out. What seemed like hours later, Caroline led them to another area. There a preacher named Barlow was cutting the air with his hands and running up and down the platform, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Chris did not want to be there, and was relieved when Caroline said, “Asa, you and Missy need to go to bed. Do you want to stay a while and hear some more exhortation, Christmas?”

He saw that she wanted him to do just that, but he said, “I’m pretty tired myself,” so she turned and led the way to the wagon.

Lying in his blanket that night, he thought again of Knox. His brother’s faith contrasted so sharply with the waves of emotion he had witnessed that day; he had difficulty making sense of it all. The stars did their great dance overhead, and he lay there most of the night wondering why God seemed so far away.

The next day brought more of the same. Dan preached until he was hoarse, and as Chris listened he realized he liked
Greene’s preaching best. By the end of the fourth day he would go to hear no other minister—until Dan asked him to go hear Peter Cartwright.

Chris enjoyed the way the thick-set preacher spiced up his sermons with illustrations from life. He was absorbed in one of these stories when a tall, strong-looking young man in a ruffled shirt began to heckle Cartwright loudly. “Tim Winston! Now, he’s a bad ’un!” Chris heard a man beside him mutter.

Abruptly Cartwright stopped preaching and stared boldly at the young man. “Mr. Winston, you are disrupting the service.”

The young man guffawed. “Listen, Cartwright, I’m sicka you and your preachin’. Seems to me you cain’t know all that much about hell anyway, see’n as you never been there. Maybe ya oughta jest go there yourself! Then come back and tell us about it.”

Fire in his eyes, Cartwright jumped off the platform and made his way toward young Winston as the crowd parted. The young man’s smile faded a little with every stride the preacher took; and when he stood before Winston, the young man cursed and drew back his arm. With panther-quickness the preacher’s arms shot out.

The next thing Winston knew he was sitting on the ground, his arms pinned at his sides. As the crowd looked on, Brother Cartwright made his point. “I said be quiet. I’ll not have this service disrupted again. Not by all the demons in hell—and most certainly not by you. God forbid it.”

The people standing nearby watched nervously, fully expecting the young man to leap up and thrash the preacher. But lowering his gaze, the heckler studied the ground in silence, and did not move when Cartwright released his grip and strode back to the stage, resuming his sermon as if nothing had happened. Winston left at once. Afterward Chris made his way up to shake hands with the preacher. “Brother Cartwright, I admire the way you took care of that troublemaker—I can’t
say I’ve met many preachers who would have handled it the way you did.”

Cartwright looked up at Chris with a twinkle in his eyes that disappeared when he asked, “Are you a man of God, Mr. Winslow?”

“No,” Chris swallowed.

“At least you are an honest man,” Cartwright replied gently. He put a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “I will pray that you will meet God tonight. You are a strong man, son, but that is your weakness. Your pride has kept you running from God—but I feel that He will find you soon!”

The preacher walked away, but his words echoed over and over in Chris’s mind, and he wanted to run. But there was nowhere else to go, and since this was the last night, it would not be fair to the Greenes to ask them to leave now. So he kept on the outskirts of the crowd, trying to ignore the cries of the people calling out to God all around him.

Later that night on his way to the wagon, he passed by a stage where not more than ten or twelve people were gathered. A small man was speaking very softly. Chris would have kept on walking, but one phrase of the man’s sermon drifted to his ears, and he stopped. It was one of the first verses that had burned into his brain when he had picked up Con’s New Testament the previous winter:
Ye must be born again.

Chris stared at the man, thin and seedy-looking with a receding chin. A tale of long, hard poverty and failure was etched on the man’s face, and his weak voice was evidence that he had little ability as a speaker. But Chris could not push aside the earnestness of his message:
Ye must be born again.

Chris wanted to run, but stood rooted in place looking up into that man’s face. In that moment something began to happen inside—and it frightened him. He had always been in control of his life, and now he felt that control slipping away. His knees were weak and Chris felt as he had once when he’d gone without food for five days in the Sky
Country—lightheaded, and filled with thoughts that arose from another source.

Is this you, God?
he thought wildly, his brain spinning. He thought of Knox, of his parents, and of the wild life that had brought him nothing but emptiness. As if for the first time Chris really saw himself—who he was, the things he had done—and he was horribly ashamed of what he saw. Overwhelmed, he sank to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. He was embarrassed and wanted to stop, but he could not. The other words he remembered reading began to fill his memory, “Repent... have faith... believe in me...”

Religion he had known—but this was different. Somehow he knew that God was with him in a way that made him terribly afraid. And then he seemed to hear a voice that said, “Come to me—and I will give you rest!”

Until then Chris Winslow had not known how tired he was. The years had taken their toll, and though his body was strong, inside he was worn out—exhausted. He had a great longing for just one thing: “Yes, Lord! Give me rest!”

The lights and the noise seemed to fade as the weariness slipped away, leaving him fresh and strong. He felt as though a crushing burden had been lifted. “Thank you, God! Thank you!” He raised his hands to heaven and shouted with joy.

When Chris looked up, he found Dan looking at him with a broad smile.

“Dan—you’ll never guess what happened!”

“Oh, won’t I? It’s written all over your face! Praise the Lord, brother—it looks as if after all your running, God has caught you at last!”

The three Greene children stood silently behind their father. Missy and Asa stared wide-eyed, unsure what to make of it all; Caroline, overjoyed, seemed unaware of the tears coursing down her cheeks. Peter Cartwright, walking past the group, caught sight of Chris’s face, ran up to them and pulled Chris to his feet, wrapping him in a big bear hug.

“Brother, God has done a work in your heart! Isn’t that so?”

Once Chris was able to (Brother Cartwright’s greeting had knocked the breath out of him), he tried to answer. “I... don’t know what happened... but something is gone...”

“That’s your sin!” Cartwright cried out, and he gave Chris a hearty blow. “It’s gone! You’re a free man, Chris Winslow!”

“Glory to God!” Dan said, his face beaming.

“Father in heaven,” prayed Cartwright, “we thank Thee for what Thou hast done in this man’s life. We commit him now to Thee, for Thy service, and trust Thee to lead him into the work Thou hast for him. May he serve Thee with his whole heart, and never forget what Thou hast done for him this day. In Thy Son’s most precious name, amen!” The group echoed, “Amen.”

“I don’t claim to be a prophet, Brother Winslow,” Cartwright continued. “But I’ve seen lots of men get saved, and from time to time I get a feeling—and I’ve got it right now—about you!”

“What kind of feeling?”

“I believe God is calling you to be a preacher, Chris Winslow!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

MISSY GROWS UP

The sun seemed to be stuck in the sky. Missy had changed dresses twice, then in total frustration put on the original. Ever since her father had come home with a letter and a smile on his face, saying, “Christmas is going to be on the Kentucky circuit!” she had lived for the day her friend would be there. The three years Chris had studied for the ministry at Yale under Timothy Dwight had lasted for eons, but this morning he was coming home!

She stopped pacing the floor long enough to peer in the small mirror over the washstand. Critically she studied her features: large wide-spaced brown eyes shaded by thick lashes under brown, arching brows, a generous mouth—which she thought far too wide—and blond hair that tumbled in thick masses like a crown, framing her oval face. With a disgusted sigh, she wheeled from the mirror, muttering under her breath, “You’re nothing but a fat ugly old cow!” She hated her looks (when she thought of them at all, which was seldom). She had always admired Caroline’s regular features and trim figure, and longed to be small and neat like her sister.

At five feet eleven inches, the younger of the Greene sisters was very tall for a woman, and full-figured as well; only the largest and tallest young men had given her a second glance, and she had cried herself to sleep many nights bemoaning her appearance. Actually, she was not “a fat cow” at all; a life of ceaseless outdoor activity had pared away any excess
weight, and for her height she was a beautifully shaped and healthy young woman.

Picking up a small wooden box from the table, she opened it and took out a packet of letters tied with a blue ribbon. They were all brief and showed the signs of much handling. She could have recited them by heart. She picked up the first one.

Missy thought back to that summer when Christmas had gotten converted. She’d been so happy that he was saved—but how she’d cried when he’d announced that he was going to Yale to study to be a minister. She skipped through the letters, selected another and opened it.