In the last part Ben lost his trial and was convicted of murder and sentenced to hang. Henry promised to file an appeal, but Ben was content, satisfied that he was following God’s call.

^^^^^^^

“Oh, I’m guilty as they come. I am, I’ll tell ye. Straight out. Ol’ Buzzard bartender. Wouldn’t credit me another drink. He done it before, an’ I paid ‘im, too.” The speaker was Ben’s cell mate. He hadn’t stopped talking since Ben was thrown in with him. “So I tuck that bottle he’d just emptied fer the one next ta me.”

The ol’ timer took a break to cough up some phlegm. Ben thought he reminded him of the old geezer he’d partnered with in the Colorado mining country. Abe Lamont was this one’s name.

“I smacked him right across the nose with it. Hit ‘im hard, I did. Broke ‘is nose, blinded ‘im, an’ made ‘im madder’n snot. He came over that bar at me an’ I run. He missed me an’ crashed through the plate glass winder. Opened up ‘is neck an’ bled out. Right there on the walk. I sat down an’ waited ta be arrested. It was down in San Jose, twas. Capitol then. My cell was on a ship. The Waban. Parked it right out there in the bay whal we prisoners built this prison. Don’t seem right, ‘bout that, buildin’ our own jailhouse.”

Ben asked whether there were any church services in the prison.

“Oh, sometimes. Depends on if a preacher wants ta come. You know, visit the sick and them in prison?”

Ben nodded. Close enough.

“I been forgive a’ my killin’ that bartender. Not the first time I asked, mind ye. Not even the second. No sir. But the third time, right here in this room I asked. And I meant it, too. I was sorry I done it. An’ not ‘cause I got throwed in here, either. I was sorry through an’ through. He forgive me, too. I know he did.”

“I know he did, too, Abe. I know he did.” Ben stretched as best he could on a narrow and too-short cot, thanking God for Abe as a cellmate and for putting him in a mission field.

“Kitchen duty for you,” a guard said as he walked by. “They’ll be coming to get you at four every morning. And if you wonder about a day off, you can wonder about a day off of eating for the whole prison because you want a day off.”

Ben figured he gave the same speech to everyone first assigned kitchen duty.

As Ben cleaned dried beans from the inside of a large pot the second day of work, a fellow prisoner came up to him. “Heard you was a preacher killed a man.”

Ben didn’t look at him, but continued scrubbing.

“I’m here fer doin’ what a man does. Wife wasn’t home when I come back from a long haul. I was a teamster. Then I tried my hand in the gold fields, know what I mean? Wife wadn’t home, but her daughter was. Not mine, mind ya. Wouldn’t do that. Anyway, I seen she was a woman now. So I did what a man does. I mean she… Anyway, reason I come to ya. I want forgiveness. See, some in here, they don’t take ta what I done, and well, when I see Ol’ Saint Pete, I want in, know what I mean?”

Ben stopped what he was doing and straightened to his full stature, glaring into the man’s eyes. “Forgiveness is not mine to give. Not me, not any preacher or priest. And the door to heaven is not Saint Peter, it is Jesus Christ. Mister, God looks for a broken spirit and a contrite heart. And he lifts up the humble. I’ll pray for you as I do everyone else, that they experience the love of Jesus Christ before it’s too late.”

Ben turned away with a renewed vigor in his scrubbing.

+++

That very afternoon when he returned to the kitchen to begin work for the evening meal, another man approached. “Names Ed. You remember Gil, the one come to ya earlier t’day?”

Ben introduced himself, affirming that he remembered the man, though he didn’t know his name.

“He was the one killed in the yard while ago. Got his neck broke.”

Ed turned to go about his own business, as Ben’s eyes flooded with tears that refused to staunch. That night in his bed was the worst night of his life.

+++

“Noticed you sticking to yourself. Greenies either do that, or try to wedge their way in with men that look like themselves. Your way is better… up to a point.” They were in the yard, the enclosed area between the cell block buildings. “My name’s Olsen.”

“Up to a point?” Ben asked after telling Olsen his name.

“Yeah. At some point you have to learn the rules. How to get along. See, you’re … every greenie is at a disadvantage. Your story, at least what’s on paper, was all over the prison the first day. But you, you greenies, until you plug in, are outside the news circle. Everybody knows you, but you don’t know anybody. Who to trust, who to watch, who to avoid altogether.”

“Makes sense,” Ben agreed.

“But here’s the thing. There’s a cost to everything in here. In any prison. You could call it an initiation.”

“I guess that’s about the same as the workplace, school, the bunkhouse, or anywhere if a man wants to fit in,” Ben said.

“So you want to fit in, or …”

“Due to swing in a couple weeks,” Ben said, moving his gaze from the ground to Olsen’s eyes.

“And your Governor friend died.” Olsen grimaced and shook his head. “Well, we haven’t had church here for a few months. What’s the worst that could happen were you to preach a little bit in the yard? You’re already a dead man.” Olsen grinned at him as he walked away.

Ben decided to bloom. Not wanting to directly disobey the warden’s order not to street preach in the yard, it came to him to aggressively testify. He began walking the perimeter, slowing as he neared groups of men. Ben thought to himself, “There’s street preaching from a soap box, and then there’s mobile preaching, on the move among people.” Loud enough to be heard by all nearby, with as much confidence as the Spirit empowered him, Ben began. “Jesus loves you. He can forgive you. Jesus can make you whole. Jesus can bless you right here in this prison. You can be as saved here as in any temple or fancy tabernacle in the whole world. Jesus will guide your steps, he loves you. Jesus gave his life for you.” The second time around Ben began softly singing a chorus to a Christmas hymn, occasionally interrupting it for Bible verse. “Oh, come let us adore Him. Oh come let us adore him. Oh come let us adore hi-im, Chri-ist, the Lord. For he alone is worthy. For he alone is worthy. For he alone is worthy-y, Chri-ist, the Lord. I give Him all the glory. I give Him all the glory. I give Him all the Glo-ory, Chri-ist, the Lord.” After a few rounds around the perimeter of praising God and declaring Jesus to his fellow inmates, Ben saw Olsen smile at him and then walk directly through the prison wall. He never saw him again.

Presently Ben’s path was obstructed by a man a few inches taller than himself, and considerably heavier. “Hey. Preacher,” the man said, bringing his right hand from behind his back. “I think I broke this finger. Can you, I don’t know… pray for it?”

Ben smiled, remembering the wagoneer in Colorado with a broken finger.

“I can.” First Ben reached and ripped the bottom cuff from right leg of his ratty striped prison suit. He tied the indicated finger, the middle finger to the ring finger and then prayed, holding the man’s hand. “In the precious name of Jesus, heal this broken bone. Jesus, we love you and we believe you. Thank you.”

“Oh, I think it’s healed!”

“Leave it tied at least until your next shower,” Ben said. “I’m Ben Persons.”

“I know. I’m Tom Thumb. Funny huh? It’s really Jason Thumb. Don’t know why everybody calls me Tom. Funny ‘bout the finger, though, huh? Being Tom Thumb.”

“I’m happy to meet you, Tom Thumb.”