In the last part Ben overheard the mayor of San Francisco ask the state governor if he would send troops to squelch another Committee of Vigilance uprising. The governor indicated no. Ben confronted the mayor. Sam Clemens entertained the partiers with a tale ridiculing the mayor.

“A storm is coming. Make ready. Make ready your hearts. Clean your own houses, and then the house of your overlords, those who have say over you. Left unbridled, or unyoked, the creature will control the man. Clean yourselves, accept Christ’s righteousness, then control the beast that would control you!” Ben preached his message with little deviation.

One-on-one, Ben was all about saving people’s souls, but on his soapbox, he preached purity of motives, motives clearly being of a political nature, and heard as such by the masses. Ben didn’t hesitate to take the message into every section, every district.

In his travels, as he did in Chicago, Ben met with pastors of the various churches. His common theme was unity.

“Pastor Smith, the people of San Francisco should have one goal – to make themselves and their families ready to meet the Lord. A storm is coming to this town. I can feel it. And you can feel it. Nothing is more important than saving souls, and keeping them saved from the wiles of the world. Second, biting on the heels of being saved into the kingdom, is safety, safety for themselves, their families, and their neighbors. Before taking up arms, men ought to take up their voices in prayer for their leaders … and in their voices at the ballot box.

“Preachers and pastors and priests the city over should join ranks, form an alliance, a ministerial alliance. Sweep the city clean as you would your homes.”

Many clergymen in the city heard the message, though some were less than enthusiastic in the social concerns. Contrarily, some failed to understand the pre-eminence of evangelism, believing that close adherence to doctrine was the penultimate and primary focus of spiritual leadership. Undeterred, Ben continued preaching spiritual preparation and social consciousness.

As Ben finished sharing God's word on one street corner, three men approached him. The fog had not yet burned off and with the sun at their backs Ben could not discern their intentions. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, he stepped aside, toward another corner of the intersection. They not only angled toward him, but separated somewhat in the doing. Ben was fairly certain he could handle one easily enough, and maybe convince two to give it up, whatever they had in mind. But the third man told him he was in for a beating.

Suddenly the one in the center called his name, “Ben, Ben Persons?” It was Clyde Simpkins.

“Let’s walk,” Clyde said. “Jim and Walter will meet us after they get rid of your follower.”

“Follower?”

“Later. Here. Down this alley.” Clyde and Ben stepped it up, nearly running until Clyde was sure they were not followed.

“Jim and Walter will meet us at the fisherman’s wharf,” Clyde said.

“So what’s going on?” Ben began to stop, but was tugged on by Clyde.

“We can talk later. But we got wind that you were being followed. This was the soonest we found you and had the three of us to get you loose. Figured you wouldn’t go with anyone else.”

“Likely not,” Ben agreed.

“Had supper?” Clyde asked as they waited. “Not a proper meal, but a half a loaf o’ this an’ yer stomach will be happy, anyway.” Clyde purchased a medium size loaf of sourdough bread from a vendor and broke it in half.

“What’s that taste?” Ben asked. “Can’t say I’ve ever had that before.”

“49ers brought the starter over by boat. They call it sourdough.”

“Sour?”

“Yeah. Warmed up with butter … hmmm-hmm.” Clyde took another large bite.

Ben smelled it and nibbled a few bites until he gained a taste for it.

“Here they come,” Clyde said, watching his friends’ approach.

First, they told Ben about his being watched and followed for the past few days.

Then they got to the brunt of their issue.

“Ben, your pressure for a ministerial alliance is working. More than half of the pastors are on-board, and more will join. But the praying for better times and wait for the next election …”

“That ain’t workin’ so good,” Walter finished for Clyde.

“Uh-huh. Let me ask,” Ben said. “Have you prayed? Got on your knees for even five or ten minutes asking God what he would have you do? Or have you already made up your minds? Look, don’t think I’m not grateful for what you did. But when you ask God to do something, you have to give him a chance to do it.” Ben paused for effect. “I’m not saying to abandon all of your plans. Personally, I kind’ve like the one I heard where three or four civilians shadow policemen, at least those known to be crooked. And some blocks in this city could use strong, righteous men on patrol. There’s probably a lot more that could be done to help people be more safe. But it has to begin with prayer if you expect God’s hand of protection.”

Ben thought better than to hint that a protective hand would be on civilian guardians, knowing that some might very well be hurt, or even killed. But those were the words that came to him, so those were the words he spoke.

The grumbles from the three were barely intelligible. Finally, Clyde spoke. “We know you’re stayin’ under a tarp in the Presidio. There’ll be a man nearby. He’ll be wearin’ a white hat with a yellow band. Then he’ll be replaced with another. Call to them if need be. And don’t let no police take you anywhere.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Ben replied. “And again, thank you. Don’t forget what I said, a storm is coming and you want to be under God’s umbrella.”

The men separated; Ben bound for wherever God led him – followed by a man with a white hat banded with yellow.

+++

Ben found himself in the red-light district. He didn’t deliberately lose his white hat escort, but didn’t see him anywhere around. What he did see was a man with a familiar look. Ben strode across the street toward the man who appeared to be on his way to inebriation. “Whoa, Buddy. Watch yer step. You just about tripped.

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

The nearly drunk man looked at Ben and said that he needed to get to the Golden Cup Saloon. Ben understood him well enough.

“Why do you need to go there, Friend, You’re already half sauced.”

“They give me credit,” he managed to say without too much slurring.

“Looks like when you run out of money is a pretty good time to stop drinking.”

The man looked at Ben blinking as if he didn’t understand Ben’s words. “Huh?”

“Why is it that you want to get so drunk?” Ben asked.

“Caush ‘at what ‘appens when I drink.”

“Let me help you,” Ben said as he draped the man’s arm over his shoulder, Ben’s shoulder supporting him. “I’ll help you like we’re old pals.”

“Pals.”

“You’re one of the two we kept from being shanghaied! Remember me? I’m Ben Persons.”

“Shang-tied. Yeah. Shang-tied. Ish thish the Golden Cup?” he asked as they passed a saloon.

“No, that was, I don’t know what it was, but not the Golden Cup. Let’s turn here. Downhill will be a bit easier.”

“I don’t think thish is the way.” The man looked around, finally settling on Ben. “Hey! You’re the one didn’t let he get shanghaied.”

“That’s right. And maybe I’m doing it again. You never know. Come on, pick ‘em up. We’ll maybe get something to eat. You have a family, Joshua? It’s Joshua, isn’t it?”

“Josh Smalley. Where we goin’, anyway?”

“Guess I didn’t know where the Golden Cup was? Maybe this way.”

Ben kept walking with Josh until Josh begged to sit somewhere, he was too tired to go on. He told Ben his address, but Ben didn’t recognize the street name and didn’t think he had enough money to pay a cab. At any rate, most cabbies had quit for the day, as had the trolleys.

Seeing a church steeple just a couple blocks further, Ben coaxed Josh to tough it out for just a few more minutes. Around the side was a door that had a small overhang, offering a little protection against the settling fog. Josh was asleep almost instantly. All Ben had on was an overshirt, but he took it off and covered Josh as best he could.

Ben stomped his feet and jogged in place as he prayed.