In the last part Ben met Ol’ Timer, his cell mate. An evil man asked Ben to forgive him of his crime against a girl so that he could get into heaven. Ben preached contrition. The man was soon afterward killed, breaking Ben’s heart. An angel speaks to Ben about his ministry. Ben prays for healing for a fellow prisoner’s broken finger.

^^^^^^^^^

In the kitchen, a senior inmate pointed to a stack of burlap bags. “Them’s dried white beans. We gotta let ‘em soak overnight.”

Ben walked over and reached to pick up one of the 50-pound bags from the floor.

“Not that one,” an inmate shouted as he walked back to the area from the lavatory. “Any other one.”

Ben shrugged and chose another.

What Ben didn’t know was that the sack didn’t contain beans, but sodium nitrate from Chile, repackaged and slipped into the prison as beans by an outside accomplice of one of the inmates.

The same inmate had been siphoning off and storing away coal oil meant for the stoves. He was almost ready.

Ben’s next opportunity to witness came quickly. The guard who rattled his cell bars the next morning to wake him for duty brought him to a cell block divider door, as soon as he had Ben beyond that wall, he cold cocked him with the handle of his club within his fist, striking him flush on the temple. The effect was jarring. Though the guard was only five foot eight, at best, he glared at Ben. Another guard was nearby, smirking, not involved, simply smirking.

Ben was over-joyed. Only once before had he been given such an opportunity. Ben blinked a couple times, shook his head, and calmly turned the other cheek, waiting for another blow.

For what seemed like eternity, Ben stood in place, maintaining his posture. Presently his guard shouted, “Well, git to your spuds!”

Ben did, thanking Jesus.

The prison didn’t trust inmates with paring knifes, of course. They first as thoroughly washed potatoes as the inmates’ commitment and dedication allowed, and then mashed them with a large, heavy mallet. One man placed a potato on a stone surface as the mallet man hefted his hammer. Once smashed, the first swept the pulp, skins and all into a large pot, replacing the mess with another spud. Boiled, inmates got potatoes one day, and potato soup the next, along with whatever else was on the menu.

Ben spoke to people as the Holy Spirit directed. He often had a word of prophecy, or simple encouragement for one or another. Occasionally he reached toward a man, called out a name that would be his wife’s name, or his child’s, and pray for them. Mixing short repentance and salvation messages with his praise, and songs of praise, he finally got the warden’s attention, called to his office.

“Persons, I told you no street preaching.”

Ben said nothing.

After a moment the warden spoke again. “But you’re not, are you?”

“No Sir.”

“Guess you’ve noticed that we have a chapel?”

Ben hadn’t, but said nothing.

“Well, all right. You are our new chaplain. Sundays at nine. You can leave the kitchen at eight, but be back there by ten fifteen. One hour sermon, no more.”

“Thank you, sir. Uh, Sir? May I have a Bible?”

“There’s one in the chapel.” He waved his hand dismissively.

Two days later, Sunday at nine o’clock, the line to get into the chapel ran more than twice as long as there were seats to sit inmates. The warden was situated to witness it. He sent a guard to Ben with a message. Hold it to 45 minutes, and he could preach it twice.

Ben was ecstatic.

+++

No one woke Ben that next Monday. He got up at the same time as every other inmate on the block, taking care of business and getting in line for chow with the rest of them. As he was leaving the chow hall, a guard told him to report to the chapel and that his hour outdoors would follow the noon meal.

Ben was overjoyed. He spent the day reading God’s word, meditating, and praying.

+++

The inmate involved with the explosive sodium nitrate and fuel oil did not know exactly where, or exactly how he would carry out the important part of his plan. He did know, however, that the chapel had an outside wall, a wall that served as wall to the prison. And outside that wall was freedom, and no other impediment. Once outside the prison, run across an empty space of a hundred yards, or so, about ten or twelve seconds, up and over a small hill, and he would be out of sight of the guards. It would be even easier in the dark.

What he needed was a method to get the materials to the chapel, a plan to be there with the materials, and several volunteers to escape with him. The bomb expert wanted other bodies escaping in case guards got lucky and began firing. Being the first out, odds were that the ones behind would get hit, and not himself. He would wait weeks, months, if necessary.

Ben being made chaplain was a godsend for the escaping inmate. He had inmates smuggle the sodium nitrate in their turned-up cuffs, their pants pulled low on their hips and wrapped in paper and hidden under their clothing. It was all inside the chapel between the wall and a piano in two services. The coal oil he didn’t even need to have stashed away with a supply provided for the heat stove. What he then wanted was a night service. He recruited a trustee.

“They want one last church meetin’, Warden. On accounta Persons gettin’ hung on Saturd’y. An’ if his appeal might get him a stay, well, they wanna church service Thursd’y night so’s they c’n pray fer it.”

The warden thought a moment. “Thirty minutes right after supper. Not a minute more. You get the word out. I’ll make arrangements with the guards.”

“Yes, Sir.”

+++

“Be all right if we were to gather ‘round you to, you know, pray?” an inmate asked. Ben recognized him from the kitchen, but didn’t sense that he was a serious believer. Nevertheless, Ben agreed to the general hum of eager inmates.

"Hey, what's that smell?" One of the guards elbowed his way through the congestion.

Not many seconds into the prayer, the guard nearly to Ben, there was an explosion lifting the piano off the floor and blowing a hole in the wall. Several people lay injured, or unconscious. Among the unconscious was Ben.

In the chaos of the second guard attempting to enter as inmates were trying to exit, several ripped their way out over the debris and through the hole. Tom Thumb dragged Ben and then picked him up fireman-fashion over his shoulder after ducking through the opening, enlarged somewhat by the earlier escapees. Tom was not among the chosen volunteers, simply a man who acted on impulse, as was his hefting of Ben.

Immediately outside the hole, Tom turned right, doing what might be called a fast-walk toward the bay to the east. In the darkness, he reached water undiscovered. Ben woke as his torso became immersed. “This way,” Tom told him. Ben complied, unaware of his whereabouts, or situation.