One Man's Calling : One Man's Calling, ch 47 by Wayne Fowler |
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In the last part Ben met with the ministerial alliance introducing the D.L. Moody meetings to very positive reception. "I knew you’d be back ‘round here ’ventually. I’ve had people keepin’ eyes out fer ya.” The burly man from the Ram tavern had Ben backed into an entry to a shop that was boarded closed. Ben looked around for an avenue of escape, a direction to run, as well as his white hat escort. “Yer friend’s already bound up fer the sea.” The giant of a man’s laugh was like a gargling bull, a mixture of sounds you would not attribute to a human. “No sense in runnin’. Jus’ git cher knees broke ‘roun ever’ corner. Won’t need no able body wher’ yer goin’.” For the first time in his ministry, in his life, Ben prayed for physical strength. “Lord. Help me. Help my friend. Rescue him, Lord. I’m sorry that I took such a risk with his life. Forgive me my arrogance.” Ben attempted to bolt beneath the man’s raising arm but was slammed backward. Since the bull of a man warned him about broken knees, he saw the ax handle in time to leap straight up. Coming down, he snatched the ax handle from the man’s grip. Swinging as he had the baseball bat in Chicago, Ben heard the arm bone break. Ben reversed himself swinging just as hard from the other direction, breaking the man’s other arm. Another ruffian lumbered up from behind him once Ben skirted the incapacitated brute. Ben turned and squared himself as if to fight. The second man froze, backed up and ran as might a gorilla, swinging his drooping arms. Ben heard a soft wailing noise from him for as long as he watched. “What did you do, Lord? Did he see angels?” What Ben would never learn was that the man saw Ben at least ten feet tall – and fearsome. Once at the Ram, Ben calmly entered, strode to the back-room door unimpeded, and untied his hatless friend. Together, they just as calmly walked out the front door. The white hat escort waited until out of sight of the Ram before rubbing at the knot on his head, listening to Ben’s tale. +++ “Clyde,” Ben began, once Ben found him the next day. “Don’t know how you did it, but good job,” Clyde interrupted. “I’m thinking... as much as I appreciate you and your men’s help and guardianship, we need to call it off. It’s just too dangerous for them.” “And not for you?” “Oh, it’s probably dangerous for me, too. But I signed up for it. For me, it’s God’s plan. Not so much for your men. And I’m sorry I led us into the Mission District. I wasn’t following God. It was arrogance. Sometimes it gets hard to battle pride down.” Clyde finally quit nodding. “I agree with you. Now, it might take a whole squad to keep you safe. How did you manage it, anyway?” Ben smiled. “Don’t know for sure, but I expect the man saw an angel.” Clyde smiled. “But whatever, if I stay in the middle of what God wants me to do, I’ll either be safe, or I’ll be where he wants me to be. That’s what I want. And there’s no point in subjecting others to the risks.” “And the hardships. You know it’s near impossible to keep up with you sometimes… and take care of yourself, too.” “Not a very good subject, am I?” “We’ve managed, but all right. But if there’s a direct threat. I’m thinkin’ God wants us to use our heads, and for more than catchin’ ax handles.” After a pause, Clyde looked at Ben with awe. “Broke both his arms, you say?” Both men laughed. +++ The commotion at the wharf was palpable, word of the event spread faster than the wind. Ben, who was then in Chinatown, ambled unhurriedly toward the uproar. Arriving at the pier, having to slide through people edgewise, he immediately saw the trouble – 56 horses being teamed together, 28 teams, to pull one wagon. The wranglers, or handlers, were probably adept enough with a single team or even a double team. But though there were several men, they were having a great deal of difficulty getting the 56 harnessed and connected. The reins were more than a hundred feet long. A teamster would never manage, Ben thought as he backed away to watch the spectacle from a perch. He did not feel compelled, called to assist. In the more than two hours that it took to connect all 56 and then connect them to an obviously oversize wagon that had been loaded by crane on the pier, Ben learned that the load was a 31,000-foot wire cable for the trolley system. It weighed 130,000 pounds. The horses would either pull it, or not. Ben only hoped that they would not be asked to pull the wagon up the murderous San Francisco hills. A problem developed immediately. The teamster was unable to convince the very long reins to even wiggle over the rumps of the fourth rank team, let alone notify the lead horses that they were asked to begin pulling. No doubt they practiced the maneuver where ever the cable was made, but not with hundreds of spectators. The horses could not possibly hear the teamster. Beside the teamster sat a man with a whip. Ben didn’t see the whip before hearing its jarring cracking snap. Ben sprang into action, covering the distance, and separating the crowd of men as if on a mission. He knew that blistering the horses in front of the driver would accomplish nothing – nothing but abuse. The lead horses would be totally unaware, and non-responsive. Reaching the horse being whipped, Ben leaped high enough to snatch the whip out of the air, jerking it from the grip of the handler. He glared at the man, teeth clenched, his fist shaking, daring not trust himself to speech. Ben sprang onto the back of the near horse and with the smooth motion of an acrobat stood to his feet, moving one of them onto the back of the second of the team like a circus performer. Facing the teamster and the whip handler, the whip still in Ben’s hand, he roared at them as they trembled backwards, wide-eyed and terror-stricken. “Who’s in charge here!” Eventually a suited man wormed his way from the pier behind the wagon. He looked at Ben, but said nothing. Calming himself, Ben asked, “Would you like some help. I know a little.” “I, uh, er… what do you say, Chalmers?” he stammered and then asked his teamster. The teamster Chalmers didn't respond. Ben looked to the man on the ground. “Have your men cut the reins into five- or six-foot lengths. Get 20 or 25 men on both sides, beside the teams. I’ll walk in front of the lead team. You just have someone in front of me as guide. You,” Ben said, pointing to the teamster, yell out commands that I can hear.” The man-in-charge turned and called to someone named Jackson. A large, barrel-chested man approached from the sidelines. After a brief conversation between him and the man-in-charge, Jackson introduced himself to Ben after Ben jumped down. “Name’s Jackson. Heard what you said. Makes sense. Here’s what I’ll sound like.” Jackson turned to face the lead horses. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he bellowed, “Hold!” Ben smiled, extending his hand. “Ben.” Ben turned to the man-in-charge. “You want, Jackson and I will cut the reins and recruit men from the crowd, telling them what to do. Get your guide up there and by the time Jackson’s in place, we’ll be ready to roll. Oh, and you might get about fifty silver dollars to thank the recruits for helping.” Smiling at Jackson, Ben pointed to the whipper and said, “Take it outta his wages.” Jackson laughed and clapped Ben on the shoulder. It was becoming a long day. To turn a corner, they had to block the wagon, detach the teams, and move them to the proper positions on the street being turned onto. Fortunately, Ben’s recruits were up to the task. Finished, Ben left them to manage the mechanics of getting the nineteen-wire cable in place without him, leaving before the recruits had been paid.
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Wayne Fowler
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