Warrior's Prayer

By Oliver John Calvert

Raised in war-torn colonial America imprints fifteen-year-old Johnny who cannot avoid his compelling purposeto resist the oppression and tyranny that tortures his beloved homeland and family. Although Johnny embraces Christ as his Savior, he recognizes that he was born to ...stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free... His plan; to join the Continental Army as a courier. But destiny will not allow him to deny duty. The tragic truth comes into jarring focus when Johnny realizes that the only way to save life in wartime is to take life. Johnnys unfolding role in the American Revolutionary War delivers answers to Christian men and women everywhere presented with the challenges of their nation at war. Thanks be to God that he has answers for the most troubling questions and the grace to accept those answers for His glory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 29, 2010
• ISBN: 9781462826643

Oliver John Calvert

Serving the kingdom building ministry of Jesus for over twenty years, the author fi nds his life as an evangelist, singer and writer to be the ‘purpose’ he was searching for before he found the Lord. S-1 Intelligence work in the Marine Corps led to undercover fi eld operative work in civilian life in a private investigative house. Later, as a certifi ed bodyguard unable to resist the impulse to protect, he found that purpose continued to unfold. Finally, as a Lieutenant Staff Offi cer in crime prevention he realized that the sword he truly needed was the one “...sharper than any two-edged sword...” and that the battle he was created for was the one that rages for the souls of men. Now, sharing the Word of God through preaching, singing or writing has become the highest privilege and greatest joy he has ever known.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Va-va-tham-ptam-ptam! Va-va-tham-ptam-ptam! Here, the fifes twittered sweetly. Like birds! Johnny said to himself with a delighted laugh. Va-va-tham-ptam-ptam! Va-va-tham-ptam-ptam! They’re getting closer, he thought. I’ve got to get up higher! His eyes went up. The streetlamp! Taken. Oooooh! Then, with the energy of a frustrated, overlarge boy of sixteen, John Francis Wright, III fairly vaulted through the crowd to the edge of the cobblestone street.

They were passing in review: the Drum and Bugle Corps of the French Soissonais Infantry, that delivering force which had just landed to aid the American Colonies in standing up to the ever-increasing oppression of British rule. As Johnny’s eyes grew larger, he realized that this beautiful army served as escort for the two most-loved men in the Colonies—Commanding General of the Soissonais, Count Rochambeau, and Commander of the Continental Army, General George Washington.

Johnny’s blue-eyed gaze bounced rapidly back and forth. He couldn’t help but stare in awe at the two great generals in rich blue and gold, but at the same time, he could see the sunlight of a gorgeous day shining off of the white uniforms of the drummers as they passed and nothing of this Earth (besides Clarissa) had ever drawn him so. Silk? Satin? He didn’t know, but they were the smartest dress uniforms he had ever seen, though he could never quite visualize himself in anything but Continental blue.

The splendid parade passed and, as Johnny gawked open-mouthed, six thousand silvery infantrymen shimmered through the streets of Newport, Rhode Island. Simultaneously, his elated thoughts collided with still-frame images of the chilling events that had brought about this historic day.

The picture that still shocked him was . . . a bloody, misty morning on the Boston Common where his family used to live. Frozen in time, March 5, 1770, screamed from memory. Johnny unconsciously ran his fingers through his Irish-red hair as he saw it again in his mind. British soldiers had fired upon several American youths, killing three, for the crime of gathering into an angry crowd. Oh, Lord, . . . he remembered . . . praying as he rushed to the side of a fallen school mate,  . . . how can this be?

While it was true that Johnny had known the wounded youngster quite well . . . Samuel, the goldsmith’s son . . . eyes glazed . . . chest soaked with blood . . . and Johnny’s father had even moved his family to Rhode Island to resume his craft as a master shipwright in order to help his shattered son forget the tragedy of that grey day . . . his ivory-colored face cradled in Johnny’s arms, he’d looked hauntingly up into his best friend’s eyes, repeating, Galatians 5:1 . . . Galatians 5:1. . . . still, Johnny bore no hatred for the British Redcoats. He only hoped that soon they would realize that things had gone too far, that Americans could never again be forced to live under tyranny.

As always happened when he recalled his dying friend’s last words, the Scripture they had memorized together as small children would hammer through his thoughts like thunder from a storm-topped mountain. Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.

Va-va-tham-ptam-ptam . . . the sound was growing fainter, the drummers in front of the procession moving off into the distance, as a living wall of men and rifles continued to marshal past, their shiny bayonets flashing reflections of brilliant sunlight everywhere.

Now, Johnny whispered to himself, it will end, wondering, even as he spoke the words, how many others had clung to that same fragile hope in wars gone by.

Somehow, Johnny knew he had to talk his father into allowing him to join the Continental Army! How many times had he practiced what to say and just which Gaelic phrases to use?

In times of restlessness, as now, Johnny automatically headed for the horse barn behind the bakery where his fifteen-year-old sweetheart worked the bread ovens for her father. Strangely, he could not concentrate on Clarissa at the moment, but felt a desperate urge to work off his frustration. "That Soissonais drummer couldn’t have been more than fifteen! There has to be a way!" he fumed as he entered the stables.

Discreetly locking both doors, Johnny bypassed the groom’s quarters, keeping a sharp ear out the meantime. He headed directly for the hayloft where a precious leather case lay wedged atop a heavy oak ceiling joist. Climbing to get it, he made no sound. Quickly and carefully, Johnny opened the case and drew from its oilcloth folds the sword of his Grandfather’s grandfather.

It was the only part of Grandfather he could touch now. The sixteenth-century Scottish great sword was a work of art and, as Grandfather would say, a wee-bit long to strap on. It was, in fact, a full four feet long, three of that in razor-sharp, double-edged steel, two and a half inches wide. This, Johnny had been taught at a young age, was a warrior’s weapon. The hilt, itself, which he glimpsed only briefly today, was a work of elegance-walnut, covered by soft, tightly sewn doeskin, encircled by golden rings. The golden pommel was inset with emeralds, cleverly worked into an engraved coat-of-arms to shine from the eyes of a lion on a shield. Above the family crest and inlaid in silver was the family motto, Invictus Maneo, I remain unvanquished.

Johnny realized a great sense of relief each time he found his family heirloom safely where he’d last left it. His father was a good man, a godly man, even courageous at times, but John Francis Wright Jr. was an avowed pacifist. By forbidding weapons of any kind in his home, he thought to protect his family from the violence of the world. Hence, Johnny was forced to find various out-of-the-way places to hide the Singing Sword.

With the sword securely buckled into its sheath between his shoulder blades, Johnny descended from the rafters and passed quickly out the door to the street.

Johnny’s father had long ago given up on trying to discourage his son’s preoccupation with the ancient blade and contented himself with the knowledge that at least he was staying out of trouble, which was hard enough to do these days. As for the rabble of the wharf-front, Johnny never wondered what they thought of a youth bearing a heavy steel sword. Indeed, the more discerning among them had already guessed the reason for his well-developed young frame and refrained from challenging him at all. But, it was not Grandfather who taught me the song of the sword, he thought, smiling slightly at those he passed, it was you, Grandmother. How many hours you must have spent creating the sword quilt! Casting back in his memory, he tried to recall just when he’d finally realized what it all meant.

Grandfather had been a Master of the Sword in the old country and had taught swordsmanship for decades after his formal training in the family trade of shipbuilding was completed. His own son, Johnny’s father, had never shown much interest in the ways of an ancient warrior race, leaving Grandfather with little Johnny as his only hope of carrying on the heritage of clan ways.

But, the Grand Scot had only time enough to present his grandson with his Clan Chief’s sword before he died. At the funeral, Grandmother had handed him a large package containing the quilt, bent close to his ear and whispered one word, Finish!

By studying the squares of the quilt, each of which depicted a swordsman in a different stance, Johnny found a flow to their movements. He soon learned that, if taken in sequence, each line represented a complete and progressively more difficult technique, so that, what he held in his hands as a quilt contained the sum total of Grandfather’s teaching method and proof that his students were not the only ones watching all those years.

On the way to his favorite place on the outskirts of town, the Master-Shipbuilder’s son put all thoughts of ships aside and heard again his Grandfather’s words:

Aaah, ye wee bairn. It’s a fine lad ye arr too, an’ that’s the trrooth of it nowe. Mindt ye nowe, Sean, keep the bladte sharrpendt an’ well oildt an’ ye’rr trroost in Godt t’ guidte an’ gi’ strrength t’ ye’rr arrm. Rrememberr Joshua, laddie. Stay in Godt’s arrmy, an’ the Lordt wi’ always gi’ ye the batl’s bet’r sidte!

He was in the field now, an overgrown abandoned terrace garden cut into the side of a broad hill which, except for the encircling spruce and elm trees, would have overlooked Newport Harbor.

Due to a bountiful rainfall of late, Johnny found himself surrounded by a multitude of tall sturdy sunflower plants, ideal for his purpose. On bended knee, the young swordsman recited the warrior’s prayer with lifted head, open eyes and watchful gaze.

Oh, Lord, upon whose Earth I stand,

receiving from Thy mighty hand

the benefits Thy purpose doth bestow,

hear now and grant, I pray Thee, Lord,

Thy blessing on this humble sword

and walk Thou first, the path where I must go.

I will not fear, by Thy command,

nor fret o’er Earthly harm but stand,

relying on a power not mine own.

The battle is the Lord’s, and when

the day draws to a twilight’s end,

all glory be to God, and God alone.

Johnny found comfort in the familiar, loosing his pent-up frustrations in the leaps, whirls and lunges that had become his own personal expression. He had no one to tell him that he had mastered Grandfather’s techniques, and there was no rule to measure himself by except the quilt. He couldn’t have known it but, by watching various circus and acrobatic troupes that happened through Newport, he had added many flying gymnastic maneuvers that no other swordsman in the world would have deemed proper. On the battlefields of Earth Johnny would