His decision was made. He hitched up his tight-legged trousers, knotted a black tie at his throat, and threw the Sunday-best coat over his slight shoulders. Impatiently he jammed a few odd pieces into a battered suitcase for the overnight trip. He dashed a brush over his dark brown hair and in the mirror made a final inspection of his thin sensitive features.

Carefully he closed the door to his room and with long strides entered the street. A cold wind tossed snow flurries over his boots, and he tucked the heavy muffler snugly under his chin. The coach was waiting. He found a seat and surveyed the weary travelers who shifted uneasily and then braced themselves against the lurches and bumps of the stage. While the other passengers rubbed their chilled fingers and stamped the circulation back into their feet, the slim youth relaxed quietly and settled himself for the journey to Edinburgh.

As the horses clipped off the miles, he turned over in his mind the consequences of his step. He knew he was no martyr like the saints of old. Yet he felt that sacrifices were likely. He thought of his prospering bakery in Earlston, of his growing prestige in the community. He recalled with pleasure his close ties with The Relief Presbyterian Church and his Sunday School class. There was a girl too. He could have her. She was willing to follow him to the ends of the earth, but he felt that she could never fully accept his new faith nor adjust to the trials ahead. She had pleaded with him to change his mind.

The landscape of Scotland rolled by him. The neat farms, the snow blanketed pastures, lazy cows and sheep steaming in frozen barnyards, the stone-filled moors, and an occasional Scotch peasant were all part of the picture. There were small, rugged homes built of rock with tiled roofs, homes that were as sturdy as their occupants.

Richard Ballantyne was making a decision that would change the course of his life. He had already experienced much adversity in his twenty-three years and was no stranger to hard work or to the source where he might turn for help. His father, David Ballantyne, was "a serious man who stayed close to home. . . . He feared the Lord and loved the Scriptures. He was fond of repeating from memory whole chapters of the Bible to his children. . . . . He never failed to give thanks whenever he sat down to eat, and he would not as much as take a sip of water without first lifting his hat and saying grace."

David Ballantyne was big, sober, and pious. He was a striking man, towering six feet and weighing over two hundred pounds. Even beyond his graying years he was amazingly vigorous and powerful. Long sweating hours in the fields and a shrewd Scotch instinct for thrift had rewarded him with "considerable property in houses and lands" near the village of Earlston Scotland. Born in 1743, the son of William and Margaret Ballantyne, David was not one of the "titled gentry." He was brought up close to the soil and learned all the tricks a good farmer must know in working with his hands. He was, nevertheless, an influence in his community and respected for his success and integrity.

David's first wife, Cecilia Wallace, died at the dawn of the nineteenth century leaving him with three children . . . [who] had grown up . . . and David grew more and more lonely. He needed . . . a good wife and companion; and so despite his sixty years . . . [he won] the heart of a 'bonnie lass' of nineteen who came from the Highlands and spoke Gaelic. She was Ann, daughter of Peter and Ann Bannerman.

[To this union] children were born: Ann, Peter, Jane, and Robert, who died in infancy. Then at the sterling age of seventy-four David proudly announced . . . the birth of a fifth child, a son, who was duly christened Richard. It was August 26, 1817. Richard was born at Whitridgebog, in Roxburgshire County. It was a small place with scarcely a dozen families, located in the southeastern corner of Scotland.

Shortly after Richard was born, tragedy struck the Ballantynes. David had been asked by a friend to be a surety for his debts. The friend defaulted, and overnight trusting David lost the accumulated wealth of a lifetime. His property, which included about a hundred acres of good farm land . . . and five two-storied stone houses . . ., was sold at public auction; and he and his family "were turned out of doors with only a cow and a few articles of furniture." The man of wealth and position was reduced to a field hand in almost a twinkling of an eye: destitute, homeless, and penniless.

In this distressing situation he hired a small cot on a neighboring farm from the proprietor of which he received employment at common labor." The man of wealth and position was reduced to a field hand in almost a twinkling of an eye: destitute, homeless, and penniless. "But he bore his afflictions with great fortitude and patience, and his religion was a great solace to his feelings."

David lived eleven more years, working as a laborer as long as his strength remained. Two more children, Annie and James, were born to him . . . . At the age of eighty-six, [he] died in Springhall, near Kelso Scotland. . The night before his death, it is said a voice three times called to him, "David, David, come away."

After the death of her husband, Ann moved the family to Lightfield. Richard had attended school in Kelso for only a few years, but it soon became obvious he must earn his own way. At the age of seven he was herding his father's cows along Scotch paths and lanes. At ten he was a gardener to a wealthy Scotsman. At eleven he worked ten hours daily as a farm laborer for the munificent wage of ten cents a day. His sister Jane entered domestic service . . .; but the family burden was thrust largely upon Peter, the eldest son, who left home to work on a farm and send his entire earnings to his mother. He labored long hours, weakening himself by worry and overwork, until finally his health broke. He became a permanent invalid and was taken to Dumfries for medical care. His mother Ann then had to carry on alone with such help as her smaller children could give.

Ann was independent. She would rather starve than be an object of charity. Resourceful and shrewd, she squeezed out a fairly respectable existence for her children. For years she toiled, never once accepting public relief. She fought poverty with the grim determination of her Highland nature, filling the mouths of her children, patching and remaking their clothing, and sending them to church dressed "like little princes." . . . .

At the age of fourteen Richard was apprenticed to an Earlston baker, a Mr. Gray. For three years he learned to bake bread and cakes and rolls. During the third year of his service Gray promoted him to foreman of the establishment, and soon the sole management of the business was in his hands. Then with experience came opportunity. A baker by the name of Riddle from Kelso became interested in the rapid progress of the youngster. When Richard was released from his bond at the end of three years, Riddle offered him the foremanship of his large and prospering bakery; and so the graduate apprentice moved his mother and the children to Kelso. Two years he worked for Riddle, and then his former employer, Mr. Gray, died. Believing he could do better in a business of his own, Richard purchased the bakery from the widow for only $25. And so back to Earlston he took his family, and as he was not married, his sister Jane came to keep house for him and help in managing the new enterprise. For the first time in his life Richard felt the jingle of coins in his pocket and began to plan toward accumulating enough to free himself and his mother from the bands of poverty.

But strange things were beginning to happen to the young Scot. He had always been religious, having been baptized by sprinkling into the Relief Presbyterian Church in infancy, but more and more he felt a fire being kindled within him. At the age of eighteen his growing religious passion reached a crisis. He had been walking long before sunrise, as was his habit when meditating and searching his feelings about religion. [He said:]

I had a vision . . . of the glorious countenance of the Lord Jesus Christ. When this was given to me I was not praying for nor expecting any such gracious favor from God. But suddenly my eyes were open to see and my heart to feel that ineffable bliss which can only be given by the power of the Holy Ghost. I received no special instruction, only it seemed that the whole world was opened to my gaze, and I saw that all men from the highest to the beggar that sweeps the streets were all after their money from their quarter. The power of this vision made me so inexpressibly happy that I dreaded to come in contact with even my best friends, and for three days thereafter I sought communion with God in prayer, and sought earnestly for a continuance of the power of that blessed spirit whose favor seemed more to be desired and precious than all earthly things. But, notwithstanding my prayers, the effect of the vision gradually departed from me and I began to associate with my companions.

After this experience Richard redoubled his religious activity. When he was twenty-one, he became an elder in the Relief Presbyterian Church. Within a few years he was elected "Ruling Elder." . . .

In helping the pastor shepherd his flock, the ruling elder soon discovered that all was not well in the parish. He was disturbed at the appalling ignorance concerning the principles of Christ. He was even more disturbed when he observed the neglect of boys and girls who were growing up without being taught the things men had lived and died to preserve. When he brought this to the attention of the minister, he was encouraged to organize a Sunday School in a small farm village a few miles from Earlston where religious instruction had been particularly lacking. Overcoming a timidity springing from his inexperienced youth and slight formal education, he started the school and enrolled upwards of seventy-five boys and girls.

It was not long after the Sunday School was gaining momentum that two daughters of a wealthy farmer offered their teaching services. While he had hoped to carry the responsibility alone, he bowed before the superior education and accomplishments of the young ladies and resolved to improve his own learning. He worked hard to prepare himself more thoroughly for the instruction he wished to give. He spent a portion of each day in careful study of the Scriptures and in "humble and devout prayer to God." Soon questions began to annoy his thinking. When he felt that he could no longer ignore these embarrassing mental queries, he discussed with his pastor what appeared to him to be deviations from the original doctrine and ordinances of Christ. His ministerial friend admitted certain inadequacies and soberly proclaimed, "Well, Sir, we need a new organization." Richard's ripening criticism and spiritual uneasiness opened the door to his mind for the answers he was seeking.

While Richard was busily engaged in making a living from his cakes and rolls, there were persistent rumors of a new prophet raised up in America. These rumors aroused varying degrees of curiosity, disbelief, and hostility among the people of Scotland. At first Richard paid little attention to the stories that reached his ears; but as the questions concerning religion perplexed his soul, he became more alert to any enlightenment on the subject. Then the rumors became reality with the appearance in Edinburgh of an apostle of the new prophet. He was Elder Orson Pratt, and it was the year 1841.

Word of the activities of this missionary came to the young Scot in a letter from his sister. Other missionaries were soon traveling the country, and the inquiring Presbyterian searched for the answers his mind craved. For a full year he investigated the new Church. He laid the things he had heard before his pastor, but he found this man of the cloth had "no relish for them, but bitterly opposed them, saying they were all of the devil."

Finally Richard was converted . . . . "I was so convinced that Joseph Smith was a prophet," he testified, "and the Book of Mormon the word of God, and that if I did not accept it I would be damned."

[The decision to be baptized was made and now he was on his way to where] the North Sea juts into the waist of Scotland about 30 miles from Earlston.

Darkness had fallen when he drew up to a handful of people collected on the shore of the Firth of Forth near the town of Leigh. It was a beautiful moonlight night in December, 1842. A figure dressed in a long flowing cloak and a somber hat approached him.

Are you ready, Richard?"
Yes, Elder McCune."

Quickly changing his clothing he accompanied Elder Henry McCune and his companion to the water. A circle was formed by the group on the edge. A prayer, a hymn, and a brief service set the scene. From the shore the spectators witnessed a simple but ancient rite. Another hymn was sung as the shivering trio struggled to the stony beach. Handshaking and embraces followed. . . . "All nature seemed to be at peace," he later wrote. "To look at the broad expanse of waters, and to contemplate the mysteries of the unknown future that now lay before me, and if a picture thereof had been unfolded to me, what would I have seen?"

If a panorama of his life from this moment had passed before his eyes, he would have seen many strange and even terrifying things. He would have seen a life changed beyond his wildest dreams, a life that was to be filled with adventure and hazard at every turn, and a life that was to begin with this immersion in the sea beyond Edinburgh.

There comes a time for every man when a supreme decision must be made, and upon that decision he must be prepared to stand or fall. Such was Richard's baptism. It was the turning point in his life, and from that day his odyssey began. It was to take him to America and on to Nauvoo, from Nauvoo across the prairies to Utah, from Utah across the deserts to California, across the vast wastes of the Pacific to the mysterious land of India, back to England, and then over the plains a second time to the Great Salt Lake. Nor were his footsteps to halt there. He was to be hounded in the territory he helped civilize from one county to another before he could find peace.

He was yet to suffer kidnapping, mobbing, crop failures, the rigors of extreme climates, storms at sea, debility and disease, hunger, ostracism, and destitution of all kinds. These things were to be the price of conversion. Yet he would have done it again and again, for he was one of those rare souls who devote themselves to a cause so completely that doubt or fear would never rule the mind.

And so the young Scot turned his back on the sheltered recesses of convention and chose to pilot a course in a sea of uncertainty. It was a fearless choice, and he let his conscience like a compass direct him.

On the Sunday following his baptism he was confirmed a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by Elder Charles Miller and ordained a Priest. On his way home from the service he floated in clouds of peace and happiness. "The Holy Ghost came upon me while I was riding in the stage coach, and my soul was satisfied of the goodness of God and with the confirmation I had received of the truth of the gospel."

Like Saul of Tarsus and the early Christian converts, Richard found himself at odds with his community. He had to separate himself from his former sect and the intimate association with its minister, divorce himself from the Sunday School he had organized in the village of Fawns, and endure the cold shoulders of once warm friends. Shortly after his own conversion his mother and his brothers and sisters joined the Church, and this one family stood alone in Earlston among people who hated this new religion. He wrote in his autobiography:

It seemed for awhile that my business would be broken up, and that we would be reduced to want. But I had counted the cost and was prepared for the changes that might come. I had no guarantee against poverty, and indeed, I expected nothing else. I had read of the cruel persecutions of the Saints in America and had prepared to suffer with them. The sequel will show, however, that the Lord was very gracious to us and that instead of losing all we had, my means increased and the next August I was enabled to settle up my business and find that I had enough to pay all my debts and emigrate my father's house to the land of Zion.

He was reluctant, however, to leave without making one more effort to bring his home town to a knowledge of the restored church . . . . [Though] many were interested there were no baptisms. [The villagers] said he was deluded.

Clothes, books, and household goods were packed in boxes and trunks. Richard roped the trunks with queer feelings of regret in leaving old faces and places and of excitement at the prospect of living in a new and strange land. He was going to the raw frontiers of America where the rejected and persecuted had found refuge. . . .

The converts took a stage to Lauder where Richard's older brother, William, lived with his family. William, like all of David's children, had become a Latter-day Saint, but nothing could induce him to leave his beloved land to come to America. From Lauder Richard sent his mother, Jane, and Annie on to Glasgow where they booked passage by boat to Liverpool, and he remained behind to do one more task.

He rode thoughtfully to Dumfries, where his invalid brother was hospitalized. He knew the constant care Peter would need, and facing the unknown future ahead Richard realized the going would not be smooth. But still he wanted to take Peter to America. Permission was granted, and Richard took his brother into a new life of sunlight and freedom. He accepted the responsibility of nursing Peter which was to extend over fifty years.

In Liverpool the family was reunited, and it was a happier reunion with Peter showing improvement. In a few days the Ballantynes boarded a ship with a large company of Latter-day Saints and set sail for New Orleans, and a new world.

The river boat churned up the Mississippi impatiently tooting its whistle at every scow and barge that crossed its course. It nosed its prow through tricky currents, around shifting sandbars and shoals, and between scattered islands. Up the winding river it crept under the watchful eye and expert hand of its pilot. Aboard this boat were immigrant Latter-day Saints eagerly awaiting the end of a long journey. These converts from the old World had lived on the water over two months, and now within a few hours would finally land at Nauvoo.

* * * *

The thoughts of each member of the Ballantyne family were colored by excitement and anxiety. There was much serious reflection. Unexpressed fears crowded into their minds. Yet it was understandable. They had traveled several thousand miles to a new country for a new religion. They had pulled up their roots, and in so doing had relied entirely upon their faith. They believed what they had been told about a prophet and a gathering. Now they were to find out for themselves.

Richard slipped his arm around the sloping shoulders of his mother and murmured, "We're here, Mother. We must thank God for a safe voyage."

Yes, my dear lad," replied Ann, whose Gaelic and Scottish accents quivered strangely with suppressed emotion. "Bid your last fareweel to the old country. This is a bonnie place. I dearly like the monie trees and the green fields, but I miss m' Scotland. Oh, how I wish your father . . . . Go fetch m'shawl, Richard." She turned quickly away.

The river boat pulled into the Nauvoo dock. On the bank a large crowd of cheering men, women, and children greeted the travelers. They surged forward clasping hands and embracing with genuine affection. Richard's eye singled out a striking, powerful man who was undoubtedly the leader. He was the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the founder of the new faith welcomed the newcomers into his fold. Here at last was the man they had come from the other side of the ocean to see and follow. There was no disappointment. The Prophet was all and more than they had expected. Joseph Smith looked like a prophet. He spoke like a prophet. He had the assurance and confidence of a prophet. In every word and action he bore the stamp of a prophet. Had there been any questions and apprehensions in Richard's mind, they now melted away.

On November 11, 1843, when this company of Latter-day Saints arrived, Nauvoo was an overgrown infant among the cities of America. In the short span of four years it had grown from a swamp to the largest city in Illinois with a population estimated as high as twenty thousand, dwarfing even Chicago and Springfield. It was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful spots in the nation, located on a sweeping bend of the Mississippi and fringed by the greenest of foliage. This monument to the industry and spirit of the Saints had been the toast of the country, but instead it became a kind of witch's cauldron of persecution and perfidy. Within two years it was to fall, never to rise again, another sinking star in the night of history.

Richard was amazed at the development and activity in Nauvoo. It was like an ant hill where order and bustle everywhere prevailed. From a prominent table overlooking the city rose the nearly-completed Nauvoo Temple. It stood like a silent guardian overseeing the settlement. Richard was struck by the well-planned farms, neat homes, and flourishing businesses. . . . These people are builders, he decided.

The first counsel I received after arriving at Nauvoo, was from Elder John Taylor in relation to my tithing and the business I should engage in; but not realizing the importance of being obedient in temporal matters, I took my own course and engaged in the milling business with a Brother Peter Slater at Lamoine, thirty miles east from Nauvoo. I moved my mother, sister Jane, and my brother Peter out here, and learned in less than twelve moths that it is a grievous thing to disregard the counsels of the servants of the Lord. I learned the treachery of men, to my sorrow, for it seemed as though every one was bent upon stripping us of all we had. However, we managed through the aid of an old gentleman to get back to Nauvoo among the Saints, and I have never since had a desire to mingle in other society.

In Nauvoo Richard Ballantyne was appointed manager of the Coach and Carriage Manufacturing Company. He directed the building of many of the conveyances which were to carry the pioneers across the plains to Utah. . . .

During this time he had been faithful and active in the Church. . . . [He was ordained an elder, then a seventy, and a then a high priest. He received his priesthood ordinances in the Nauvoo Temple.]

There had been a rash of rumors in the past year or two that some of the Church leaders were practicing a strange doctrine of "celestial marriage." While the rumors were persistent, Richard and most of the loyal Latter-day Saints were undisturbed. But incidents began to boil into one crisis after another. . . . In his journal he describes the reactions of a devoutly religious . . . Latter-day Saint of his time . . . . [and his usual response to distress:]

In the spring of 1844 Apostle John Taylor had invited me to dine with him and his family. After dinner he invited me to go to the printing office. When there, we went upstairs, and it seemed he had something to communicate, but did not know how to approach it, as he walked up and down the room several minutes before saying anything. At length, he came to my side and said, "Do you know that the Church allows a man to have more than one wife?" Being horrified at the mention of such a thing, I promptly answered, "No, I do not." "Well," said he, "it is so." At this confirmation of the fact, I was so shocked and appalled that I felt I could have dropped through the floor, in utter disgust. I thought such a practice savored of such abominable lewdness that it could not be possible that God would countenance it.

After answering me that "it was so" he said no more, neither said I anything to him; but he saw, no doubt, that I was greatly agitated and troubled.

I said nothing to any one regarding the matter; but next day being still greatly distressed, I repaired to the woods, on the high bluffs just below Nauvoo, and there I knelt before the Lord and asked him in the name of Jesus to show me whether this doctrine was true or false. My prayer was at once answered, and while still on my knees an open book was presented to the vision of my mind, and I read these words, contained in the prophecies of Isaiah:

In that day seven women shall take hold of one man, saying, We will eat our own bread and wear our own apparel, only let us be called by thy name, to take away our reproach. In that day shall the branch of the Lord be beautiful and glorious, and the fruit of the earth shall be excellent and comely for them that are escaped of Israel. And it shall come to pass that he that is left in Zion, and he that remaineth in Jerusalem shall be called holy, even every one that is written among the living in Jerusalem.

After reading thus far the book disappeared from my sight and I was satisfied. What especially impressed me was the declaration that all in Zion and Jerusalem should be "called holy." This was just the reverse of what I had supposed, and ever after I was more deeply concerned about myself, and how I could be accounted worthy to mingle in the society of such people as the prophet here describes.

Within a short time his two sisters, Jane and Annie, became the plural wives of John Taylor.

A few moths before Hyrum Smith was murdered, Richard paid a visit to the Patriarch's home. The conversation turned to the future course of the Saints and where they might find refuge from their enemies. Hyrum stepped suddenly across the room and pointed to a place on a map hanging from the wall. "There beside that lake the Saints will build a city," he said firmly. He had pointed to the exact spot where Salt Lake City is now located.

In the weeks that followed, the persecution and hostility against the Latter-day Saints rose to fever pitch. Then came the stunning assassination of the Prophet and his brother. Shortly after the tragedy, Richard visited Carthage. He said of this trip,

It was while we were living at Doyle's Mill 36 miles east of Nauvoo that the Prophet and his brother, the Patriarch of the Church, were massacred in Carthage jail. A few days after the murder I went to Carthage to see Apostle John Taylor who was lying then in great distress. He and Willard Richards were in jail when the Prophet and Patriarch were murdered and four bullets were shot into John Taylor's body. I saw him in the Hamilton Hotel. The mob had not all left Carthage. In the room of the Wilson Hotel where I stayed there were about 300 stand of arms, rifles, and shot guns. The mob were going out and in all night, and if I slept I was not aware of it.

John Taylor's condition was at this time too critical to admit of his being moved; but in a few days thereafter he was taken to Nauvoo. The whole country around Carthage and Nauvoo was in a state of feverish excitement and fear. Scattering families huddled together for mutual protection in one house. The powers of evil darkened the atmosphere and a feeling of mingled horror and fear filled the hearts of the enemies of the Saints. They look for retaliation and revenge, but the counsel of the priesthood was for resignation and peace.

The Twelve Apostles hurried home from their missions abroad. There was a special conference of the Church at Nauvoo. Sidney Rigdon returned from his self-imposed retreat to Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and asserted his claim to preside over the Church. Other factions sprang up scrambling for power and gain. It seemed to Richard that the Church would fall to pieces, for there was serious dissension among its membership. With anxiety he attended the historic gathering, but his fears soon evaporated. He saw Brigham Young electrify the congregation with an amazing transfiguration. Richard could scarcely believe his own eyes and ears. It was not Brigham's voice he heard. It was the voice of the Prophet Joseph Smith, and nothing could shake his testimony that Joseph's likeness shone forth in Brigham's face.

Under the leadership of Brigham Young, the Church began intensive preparations for the journey to the Rocky Mountains. As manager of the Coach and Carriage Manufacturing Company, Richard found himself very busy. Vehicles had to be built as quickly as possible, and his factory turned out wagons and carriages by the dozens for the desperate emigrants. On February 18, 1846, the first company crossed the Mississippi on the ice. Richard's sister Jane, who was now the wife of John Taylor, was in this group. Soon the main body of the Church had departed for Winter Quarters. Richard stayed behind to build more wagons and to wind up the printing business for John Taylor. His mother, his sister Annie, and Peter remained with him.

As soon as the Saints began their withdrawal, the mob laid siege to Nauvoo. The last devastating battle was on. The Saints could only fight a delaying action and save what property and household belongings they could cart off with them. During the heat of the bombardment, Richard climbed to the top of the blacksmith shop to obtain a better view of the enemy. His heart sank as he observed their merciless advances. Scarcely had he dropped again to the ground when a cannon ball tore out the top of the roof where he had been standing seconds before. With James Standing he once again narrowly escaped death when some mobocrats, concealed in a house, opened fire. Bullets spat around them, and a cannon ball passed overhead.

And so during the next few months Nauvoo was a dying city. Confusion and terror reigned. Most of the Latter-day Saints who remained behind were defenseless, disorganized, and scattered. Farmers who tried to harvest their crops before leaving were attacked by mobs and unmercifully beaten or worse. The outrages became so brutal that even non-Mormons tried to prevent further bloodshed. A few offenders were brought to trial, but the trials were a mockery. The wave of crime and plunder continued in full swing. In the midst of this seething period, Richard was swept into one of the most thrilling adventures of his life.

It was a hot and sultry morning in July. He was driving his wagon toward Nauvoo. With him were Phineas Young and his son, Brigham H., and James Standing. They had been to McQueen's Mill, twelve miles up the Mississippi north of Nauvoo. As Richard's health had been poor, he thought the ride with the Youngs to the mill would do him good. The Youngs needed the flour for the trip West and so Richard offered to take them in his wagon.

They had traveled about two miles below the mill and were entering the town of Pontoosuc. Suddenly they sensed that something was wrong. Their eyes fell on an unusual number of horses tied to the fence around the town square. Their suspicions aroused, the four men drove quietly through the town. At the outskirts their worst fears were confirmed. A woman standing on the porch of her home shrieked, "For God's sake, be off for the mobs in town."

Richard flicked the whip over the backs of his horses and drove swiftly for two more miles. Then he pulled to an abrupt halt. He unhitched and led the team to the Mississippi for a drink. As the four again harnessed the horses, they heard the pounding of hoofs. The sound rose like thunder upon them.

Richard's hand closed over the gun he always carried in the wagon. Phineas quick-wittedly snatched it from him and tossed it into the bushes, an act which perhaps saved their lives. About twenty horsemen descended upon the unarmed travelers. Leveling their cocked revolvers, the mob ordered surrender.

By what authority do you order us to surrender?" Richard angrily demanded.

With a vile oath a bearded ruffian thrust the muzzle of a pistol in Richard's face and snarled, "This is my authority."

The leader of the gang was a rough, foul-mouthed backwoodsman whose name was "Old Wimp." When Richard showed indignation at the capture, this vicious mobster drew his bowie knife and would have cut the Scotsman's throat had he not been restrained by several of the raiders.

After recovering Richard's rifle the mobbers hauled the captives back to the public square at Pontoosuc and exhibited them for some two hours to the jeering and cursing rabble. On the fringe of the crowd were women, and some of them mocked as heartlessly as the men. A few whisked their skirts about their ankles and fled more out of squeamishness than sympathy. Children watched with parents, and town officials were surprisingly indifferent.

Someone started a raucous chant that rose in a crescendo, "Mor-mons, Mor-mons, Mor-mons!" Soon a boisterous and savage glee seemed to possess the mob. It spread like a fever until men worked themselves into a frenzy of hatred. The derisive chant became a roar, and the mob became more and more irresponsible as bottles passed freely from mouth to mouth.

Finally before violence broke out the prisoners were taken to the wharf and lodged in a warehouse with another captive, James Herring, until dark. Here they learned that they were being held as hostages until two mobbers named McAuley and Brattle, who were awaiting trial in Nauvoo for lynching, were released. Word was sent to Nauvoo that unless the two men were freed the lives of the five Saints would be sacrificed. After sundown a dozen guards prodded them along a thicketed path into a lonely clearing in a forest, where the prisoners spent a sleepless and miserably cold night.

At dawn, shots and shouting were heard from the direction of Pontoosuc. The camp sprang to life. An order was given, and the kidnappers formed a small circle around their victims.

Hold on 'till I go see what causes this uproar," commanded "Old Wimp."In a half hour the mob chief returned with the report, "The Mormons are here." He said that bout two hundred Nauvoo legionnaires were in pursuit. It was afterwards learned that a well-armed company from Nauvoo in search of the missing men had taken the town by surprise before the inhabitants were awake.

Phineas Young, fearing the mob would become panic-stricken and massacre their prisoners, ran forward and caught "Old Wimp" by the arm. He pleaded for their lives.

If you'll follow me, I'll save you," growled the mob leader, unloosing a torrent of curses.

Again the party stumbled through the woods. During this time Richard was so ill and exhausted that he felt he could not take another step. Yet whenever he lagged behind, he was viciously jabbed with a bayonet.

The group hid in the daytime and marched at night over rough and trackless country. Once, after denying the prisoners water all day, the mob tried to force them to drink poisoned whiskey. Only Brigham H. Young tasted it, hoping to quench his thirst, and he became violently ill and temporarily blind. On another occasion the guards loaded and primed their weapons and prepared to shoot their captives but had to postpone their plan when a messenger brought news that the Mormons were only a half mile away. The mob also plotted to strangle them in their sleep, but the prisoners stayed awake all night and forestalled the design. One night was spent in a farmhouse of a man who gave his name as Logan, and Richard and his companions were imprisoned in a room which "was literally filled with wool." Another night was spent on a small island in the Mississippi among the nettles and mosquitoes.

In the meantime the pursuers from Nauvoo had discovered Richard's wagon and team with the flour. The game of hide and seek went on with the five men suffering severely from exposure and hunger.

Finally the prisoners were led into a secluded clearing and backed against a large tree. Their captors measured off fifty feet, stamped down an overgrowth of weeds between themselves and the condemned men, and grimly loaded their weapons. The captured Saints knew that at last they were to be shot in cold-blood.

Phineas Young again stepped forward. He begged "Old Wimp" to take his life and let the others go free, but his pleas brought nothing but curses.

Richard's thoughts flashed back to his mother, his sisters, and his afflicted brother. How would they make their way out West without him? Who would take care of them? These thoughts almost overcame him, but he steeled himself against any show of fear. He prayed.

The prisoners were placed in position. The rifles were ready. And then every head turned at the sound of a galloping horse. A lone rider broke through the forest on a foaming animal.

The Mormons are coming," he shouted.

Guilty faces stiffened with fear. Panic gripped the kidnappers. "Old Wimp" dashed forward and untied the hands of the five Mormons.

If you will save us, we will save you," he bargained.

Again the flight continued. Then "Old Wimp" and his men were relieved by new guards and returned to Carthage to make arrangements with the "killing company" to dispose of the prisoners.

Now was the chance to escape. The new guards were more friendly and less brutal than the other men. Phineas Young approached the leader and told him it was time for a showdown. He described the two-week captivity. He explained that McAuley and Brattle had been released, but the mob had failed to free their hostages as they had agreed. It was evident that "Old Wimp" had no intention of letting them leave alive. Now they were going home. Shoot if he wished, but they were going home. The guard captain, after verifying the things he had been told, suddenly sickened of the whole business. He told them they were free to go.

There was a remarkable change in the attitude of the mobbers. They immediately became kind and solicitous of the welfare of their prisoners. Several of the guards arranged for a wagon and drove them to Warsaw. Then they provided boats and rowed their former captives five miles up the Mississippi to a point near Nauvoo.

When "Old Wimp" heard if the escape, he collected his mob and in a rage set out in hot pursuit determined to kill the Mormons once and for all. He followed the escaped men up the Mississippi and almost recaptured them, but they managed to keep the sloughs between them and the mob until "Old Wimp" gave up the chase.

Ann met her son as he approached the house. She looked old and haggard and could think of nothing but that Richard was again safe. His broken-hearted mother and sister Annie fell upon him, laughing through their tears almost hysterically. They had given him up for dead. There had been rumors of torture and death, and after two weeks all hope had gone. The city turned out in rejoicing and thanksgiving for the return of the five men.

This terrible experience left its mark on Richard Ballantyne. How can a man remain unchanged after facing stark murder time and again at the hands of a half-crazed mob, after witnessing the blood-thirsty hatred and vicious savagery of supposedly civilized men, and after escaping almost miraculously when death seemed inevitable?

Persecution fails because it generally does the opposite it is intended to do. While it is true that, in some cases, it exposes moral cowards, defeats the timid and irresolute, and crushes the spiritless, it more often cements allegiance to the cause, adds fuel to an already burning faith, and unifies into a militant front those whom it would oppress.

There were Latter-day Saints who became frightened, embittered, and eventually apostatized. But there were many more who reacted with new fervor, redoubled energies, and greater loyalty to their principles. In Richard Ballantyne the fighting spirit was aroused. After his return that day, when his body was exhausted and his mind confused, he took time to think and to clarify the issues. He decided that the threat to his religion made it that much more priceless, more vital in his life. He could see no room for compromise with the enemies of the Church. They had tried to kill him; and when he thought about it, he became angry and indignant. But his enemies had an effect. Where he once had faith, he now had zeal. Where he might once have weakened, he would now be strong. His devotion to his Church had almost become a passion. He was now alert, on guard against anything which might undermine his faith. Like Daniel, he felt that God had rescued him from a fiery furnace, that he had been put through a supreme test, and that he would prove his faith by his obedience and service to the Gospel.

By September, 1846, Richard had settled all of the affairs of John Taylor's printing shop and had built the last carriage. He lost no time in packing what household goods they could take with them and then crossed the Mississippi. Again he was adrift. As he looked back for the last time, there was heaviness in his chest. He could see a silent and deserted city being ravished by hordes of savage men, its magnificent temple profaned and scarred. And he knew that Nauvoo was dead.

Richard Ballantyne, sunburned, wiry, turned in the wagon seat and thoughtfully watched the billows of dust rising from the prairie. Stretched far behind him a caravan slowly threaded its way across Iowa toward Winter Quarters. It was a strange procession. There were white-topped prairie schooners yoked to oxen. There were carts and carriages drawn by single horses and teams. Chairs, tables, buckets, dressers, and a grotesque assortment of household utensils were lashed to the wagons. Cows and sheep were herded along the winding column. It was readily apparent that the movers had snatched whatever they could lay their hands on and carried what they could. There were men and women afoot with bundles on their backs and babies in their arms.

It was not a happy procession. Richard could see haggard faces; some were hard and bitter faces. He could see eyes that burned with fierce anger and humiliation. He could read despair and weariness printed on many features. Yet he recognized under the smoldering surface a curious determination and strength that radiated from this people. There seemed to be a fresh resurgence of hope as the days passed.

At night as he lay under the stars and listened to the howling of the prairie wolf, he wondered at the events that had brought him to this wild country. He had come in the name of religion, and his religion satisfied his reason and heart. Still he yearned for things he did not have. He wanted to settle down and find security. He wanted to enjoy some of the comforts of civilized living. He wanted to read good books, build a home, and bring up a family. While he knew that his ultimate destination was the Great Salt Lake Valley, he faced grimly the prospect of grubbing out an existence in a sterile desert. What he had heard about the Great Basin was not encouraging. It was not rich and green like Nauvoo. But Nauvoo was gone, and he had no choice. Long ago in the waters at Leith he had decided that his destiny lay with the Church.

As an officer in the company he had charge of a group of wagons and carriages, and every evening he made the rounds to see that all was well. He visited each family and rendered what service and advice he could as an elder of the Church. He inquired about Sister Jensen's new baby, gave suggestions to Brother Homer on the nursing of his lame ox, helped repair the wheel of Brother Hackett's covered wagon, and settled disputes that flared up occasionally between tired and aching men and women.

One night as he walked through the camp, he saw a dark-haired girl struggling with a team of oxen. She was tugging at the yoke while one of the animals pawed impatiently to break free. She screwed her lips tightly and jerked with a slim young body at the tossing head of the ox. Richard stepped quickly to her side.

Let me help you with that yoke," he said quietly.

She raised a pair of flashing eyes and a compressed mouth and firmly replied, "No, thank you. I'll do it myself."

There was a note of finality and polite coolness in her voice that rattled him and kept him from saying more. He turned reluctantly away.

The following evening in making his way among the wagons he saw the same girl seated on a vinegar keg sewing a patch on her father's jacket. He tipped his hat and nervously grinned. She lifted her eyes slightly and, sensing his shyness, gave him a quick reassuring smile. He caught himself staring at her and swung briskly away in confusion.

How different she is, he thought. He liked the way her wavy black hair was stretched back from a rather high forehead into a knot on her neck. It was modest and neat. Her eyes were deep-set and brown, almost black; and while her mouth was not especially beautiful, it was provocatively large and curved. She was thin and slight. Her skin was clear and softly olive. He was startled at the way he carefully noted everything about her.

Richard lost no time in learning her name. She was Huldah Meriah Clark. Her parents, Gardenar and Delecta Farrar Clark, had been converted in New York and had moved across the country one step ahead of the mobs. Huldah was one of six vivacious daughters, and these young women were born managers. They pampered their father with such success that the happy man never quite realized he was head of his family in name only and that many a plan so masterfully executed by him had actually been born in the nimble minds of his girls. And so he floated serenely through life on the masculine notion that he was the guiding spirit of the family, and no one would ever have it otherwise.

All of the young ladies had their eyes on Richard, for he was considered handsome and a very eligible bachelor. Each of the girls boldly confessed a desire to snare the tall Scotsman, but Huldah admonished her hopeful sisters that her campaign was already launched and for them to direct their hearts elsewhere. "I'm going to marry him," she reminded them move than once.

Richard now had another reason for making his evening tour through the camp. His eyes searched for Huldah whenever he passed her wagon; and when he saw her, he found some pretext to linger awhile with the Clarks. Soon it became obvious to everyone that his visits went beyond the call of duty. One night he mustered enough courage to invite her for a walk with him on the prairie. The stars were bright, and the moon cast its glow over the couple. In the stillness of the plains they talked of love.

After their arrival in Winter Quarters, Richard and Huldah were married by Heber C. Kimball on February 18, 1847. He was twenty-nine, she twenty-one. It was a simple but solemn ceremony, and after the wedding there was "sumptuous entertainment" and dancing.

The newlyweds began housekeeping in a rude shack built on the east bank of the Missouri River opposite Winter Quarters. The structure was something of a luxury when one considered that there were people still living in covered wagons and dugouts. Yet it had its problems. Its roof groaned at every gust of wind and leaked in the most inconvenient places when it rained. There was no need for a welcome mat, for through the rustic door came not only bishops and patriarchs but also beetles, squirrels, and an occasional snake. The floor was overlaid with a very durable material, terra firma. Neither could one complain about a lack of fresh air which so mysteriously found its entrance through the log chinks, and the fireplace not only gave out warmth and cheer but also much too frequently a quantity of smoke when the wind blew in just the right direction. But all in all the Richard Ballantynes were happy in their first home.

As the weeks and months dragged by and the dreaded winter once again set in, the bride grew accustomed to the dubious comforts of her house. She also learned the little ways of her husband. She was devoted to him. There was pride in her heart when they walked to church together on the Sabbath, when she wore her long muslin dress and blue bonnet. He would struggle into his homespun suit and brush his worn hat before leading out for the meeting house. He had a peculiar preference for white shirts, even when laboring in the fields.

Huldah recalled how Richard, after he had arrived in Winter Quarters, had given one-half of all his supplies to suffering Latter-day Saints when Bishop Joseph Knight called upon them for aid. It was more than a generous act. It was his obedience to the will of the Church leaders, for he believed that his duty to his religion came before everything else.

She approved of his habit of neither eating nor drinking without saying grace, no matter where he was. Even if he drank from a brook, he first lifted his hat and murmured a thanks. Morning and evening he insisted upon family prayer. It became the means of drawing them closer together, for the talked over their daily trials with God. Nothing interfered with this humble ritual, and they felt the Lord protected their union. She was also impressed by his manner of praying at church services. His voice was strong and clear, full of sincerity and reverence, and he extended both arms heavenward at right angles. Then, too, he enjoyed public speaking, but he was more of a story-teller than an orator.

She knew Richard was kind and considerate; but sometimes, like most husbands, he was thoughtless about doing the little things which women like and expect. Occasionally in his meditative moments she had to remind him to kiss her when he left in the morning, and he could not always remember such as anniversaries and birthdays. He was not one to make little speeches of love.

While he was serious and conscientious by nature, he still liked a good joke. He would laugh but never boisterously. It was a noiseless chuckle, with which he shook all over from his head to his toe with suppressed mirth. He frowned upon loud laughter, for it was "displeasing in the sight of God."

In these days beards were the rule rather than the exception, and Richard did not wish to be an exception. And so he grew an elegant underchin beard with whiskers extending up to his ears, and as it gained in length he tucked it proudly under his collar and shirt. His upper lip and cheeks remained bare. This beard became his trademark, and it stayed with him most of his life.

He would tolerate no trifling with things he considered sacred. He believed implicitly and tried to live faithfully the principles of his religion. Shortly after he arrived in Winter Quarters, he became counselor to Bishop Joseph Knight for a time, and later served in the same position under Bishop Matthew Peck. Richard leaned heavily on revelation and inspiration and recorded carefully his spiritual experiences in his journals. When problems troubled him he always sought divine guidance in fasting and prayer. He fought many of his battles on his knees.

He also believed strongly in dreams. The night before he was kidnapped he dreamed of rowing a boat up the Mississippi River with a group of people. He saw a tidal wave rolling toward him. He rowed frantically to shore, expecting every minute to be engulfed by the water. Suddenly he found himself and his companions walking safely along the river bank. He interpreted this dream to mean that he would be exposed to serious danger but would escape miraculously.

Before his marriage he dreamed he was fishing in the Missouri River and "threw out a large fish." He was puzzled. He related it to his mother, who suggested with a twinkle in her eye that it meant he would acquire a wife. For the time being he discreetly made no mention of this dream to Huldah. He felt instinctively that his bride would not accept philosophically this piscatorial allusion to herself.

Late in the spring of 1848, when the Ballantynes started for Salt Lake Valley in President Brigham Young's company, Huldah was expecting a child. At the Elkhorn River, in Nebraska, thirty miles from Winter Quarters, a temporary camp was established. There was delay while final preparations were being made and the details of company organization were being completed.

Then on June 1, before dawn, Richard Ballantyne jumped swiftly from the wagon, anxiously woke a neighbor, and asked him to tell the "Relief Society sisters" that Huldah needed help. Throughout the dusty day he heard the moans of his wife and the low talk of the women. Finally, in the stifling heat of the covered wagon, a son was born to Richard and Huldah. He was named Richard Alando Ballantyne.

For many days the life of the infant hung in the balance. He suffered from a severe case of canker, and the heart and hardships of the camp did not make it easier for him. One night the worried father lifted him from the rough crib, wrapped a blanket around him, and placed him on a pillow. Then he carried the baby into the woods, where Richard kneeled and prayed over his son with all the fervency of his soul. He pleaded with the Lord to save the child's life. He made a covenant that if the life were spared, the boy would be brought up in the service of the Church. The prayer was answered, and the baby lived to fulfill that promise.

With two wagons and four yoke of oxen, two cows, eight sheep, and provisions to last almost a year, the Ballantynes continued their journey to the Great Salt Lake Valley. For a hundred days this large company of Latter-day Saints battled the dust, wind, and sun. They were threatened by Indians. Babies were born and some died. Old men and women faltered and fell by the way. The smooth young faces of girls became wind-bitten and sun-scorched. City-soft men became hard and rough. Oxen grew lame, were shot, and eaten. Food was rationed. Water was scarce. The trek changed the people even more than previous flights. Yet under all of these conditions the camp danced at night and sang on the way.

In September, 1848, the wagon train descended from the mountains to the Great Salt Lake Valley. It was a forbidding land. There were only about 1800 inhabitants in the settlement at that time, and few permanent structures had been built. It was dry, hot, and sterile. The Ballantynes and the rest of the company settled in the Old Fort and once again grimly set about to build their futures.

It's going to storm, Huldah," said Richard Ballantyne, as he pushed himself away from the dinner table. "Look at those clouds over the mountains."

Now don't worry, Richard," his wife answered, picking up a handful of dirty dished and depositing them in a battered dishpan. Yet she stole an anxious look at the darkening skies and ran a tired hand over her aching forehead.

Yes, I know, but everything we have is in that wheat field, and it's just beginning to ripen. I'd better get the animals under the shed."

As he walked across the corral, he glanced fearfully at the clouds rolling in from the northwest. No sooner had he sheltered the team and the cow than he saw that the heavens were black with heaving thunder billows, and the wind blew. Then suddenly hard pellets of hail began beating the ground, and over the waving sea of grain burst the hailstorm.

Richard sprinted to a small shack. Pulling the door shut behind him he stared out the window at the merciless sweep of the storm. He was sick with despair and heartbreak. Never before had he felt so inclined to shake his fist at the elements and curse his own helplessness. His hopes for a lush harvest were shattered, and the labor of months destroyed. It was a staggering defeat in his battle for survival, but just another victory for this forsaken country.

As the hail drummed down on his crops, his mind brooded over the coming winter. He knew what it meant. Last year he had arrived too late to harvest and had to fight the spectre of starvation through the long and bitter months on short rations. He thought of those months and marveled how people could live on so little. He remembered how soon their hunger overcame dainty tastes and fastidious habits. Already he had learned that sego roots could be made into a respectable meal and thistles and weeds were not to be spurned as greens. He knew what it was to work long hours in the fields, his body weakened by lack of nourishment, and then drop at night exhausted and discouraged into a fitful sleep. And now this disaster meant another lean and hungry winter, and again he set his jaw and tightened his belt and faced the prospect of feeding his family without a crop.

As the summer passed, he nurtured what little remained of his grain field. Then strangely enough in the shadows of catastrophe he was inspired with an idea, an idea so remote from his present calamity that he was at a loss to explain it. Yet the seed had been planted years before in Scotland. Even now as he lost his first battle with the desert, it crowded into his mind with such persistence that his other problems seemed to fade into insignificance. It almost seemed as if ruin and failure had brought it into sharp focus. Less idealistic men might have believed other things should come first, such as the feeding of people and the building of cities, but Richard Ballantyne felt that there were some important things which could not wait for the conquest of the arid wastelands.

His memory carried him back to the little village of Fawns in Scotland where smudge-faced boys and girls played in the streets on Sundays. He again relived the thrill of pleasure that came to him when he succeeded in bringing these neglected youngsters into the Sunday School of his parish. He knew that God did not intend that children should be forgotten, no matter what the conditions were. Here on the desert he became worried about their teaching, and often when he was alone he would kneel in prayer seeking guidance. Finally he asked his bishop for permission to carry out his plan. He received approval and encouragement not only from his bishop but also from many of the General Authorities as well.

It was then he made up his mind. Already he had loaded his belongings into the wagons and with Huldah and the baby had driven out of the Old Fort. He located on a lot about a half mile south and west of the proposed temple site. Here he built one small room to be used as a summer kitchen. He and his family lived in the two covered wagons, sleeping in one and storing supplies in the other.

Then he began building the structure which meant so much to him. During the warm summer days he slipped away to Mill Creek Canyon where he cut down some trees. The logs he hauled out of the mountains to the mill, where they were sawed into shares. He staked his share of the lumber in the yard of his homestead. He next drove his team to Red Butte Canyon and filled his wagon with rocks from the quarry. From the old yard west of the city he obtained adobe bricks.

While he worked, children scampered through the lot playing "Indian." One bedraggled boy of nine looked up at Richard and mischievously asked, "Whatcha buildin'?"

The lean Scotsman paused in his hammering and smiled tenderly at the freckled face, "I'm building something for you and your playmates, a place where you can learn about God."

What kinda place, did you say?"

You just wait and see."

Richard was happy as he worked. He excitedly made his plans. He only chafed because he could not spend his full time in building this addition; but when he was not struggling for clothing and food for his family, every spare minute went into that house. Many times the quietness of the night was broken by the sound of his hammer and saw, and many times he felt the closeness of God and his heart warmed with the sense of right.

Soon the red sandstone foundation was laid. Then the four walls took shape. For the window sashes and doors he exchanged work with a skilled carpenter. He set the adobes on the outside, plastered the inside, built rafters from the dressed logs over which he nailed boards, and then covered the roof with several inches of dirt.

When the house was completed, he surveyed the work of his own hands. It was a squat sturdy cottage. Perhaps it appeared rough to the trained eye of a carpenter, but it was solid and simple. From the outside it was the slate gray color of adobe. The plain room was twenty feet long and eighteen feet wide and about ten feet from the foundation to the square of the walls, and it adjoined the summer kitchen. It was lighted by two windows in the front and a window and a door, the upper part of which was glass, on the south side. The floor was made of dressed planking. The woodwork was painted white on the inside, except for the door which was painted brown.

There was now only one remaining deficiency. To remedy it he took some slabs of timber, in which he drilled holes at regular intervals. In these holes he fastened legs at an angle of forty-five degrees. Here were the benches to complete the schoolroom, and he placed them alongside the open fireplace at the south end of the house.

But it would take more than wood and stone to make this home attractive, and so he dug up cottonwood trees from City Creek Canyon, which he planted about the grounds for beauty and shade. He also transplanted shrubs and vines and built a pole fence around the house. He did his best to make it an appropriate place to worship God.

And after his final touches, it was ready. With a broad grin and a light-hearted enthusiasm he rounded up the children of the neighborhood. He told them of his plan. He invited them to come to Sunday School in his new home. While there might have been some gentle prodding on the part of parents, most of the youngsters eagerly anticipated this new adventure.

On Sunday morning at eight o'clock about thirty children between the ages of eight and thirteen trooped into the classroom that Richard had built. They stamped their feet on the threshold, shook the snow off their coats and hats, and took their places on the simple benches. They waited expectantly for the class to begin. It was a cold snowy day outside, but the fireplace gave out a warm, friendly glow. It was December 9, 1849.

Richard Ballantyne's eyes shone as he called the Sunday School to order. He led the boys and girls in singing, and then with arms upraised he gave a quiet but fervent prayer dedicating this room to teaching children the Gospel of Jesus Christ. His voice was rich, and the words rolled forth as words so under the spell of reverence and emotion.

At the close of the prayer he glanced over the young congregation. Yes, there were John Taylor's children, and Parley P. Pratt's, and Franklin D. Richards', and Wilford Woodruff's. There in his wife's arms was his own son, oblivious to his surroundings. He noticed, almost for the first time, Huldah's worn and thin face and realized with a little pang that she had borne all of the disappointments and hardships without a murmur of complaint or discouragement. She had even worked at his side by candlelight after the baby was in bed. She had selected the music for the school, offered suggestions on the teaching program, and added her feminine touch to the room which gave it that cozy and homey atmosphere. She had always been at his side when he needed her. Her enthusiasm heartened him more than once when he was discouraged.

The freckled face that was so inquisitive a few weeks ago as he worked on the house was on the front row with the same mischievous, almost impish, expression. A tiny girl with a blue bow in her blonde hair sat with folded hands, shy perhaps frightened. Little Angus Cannon twisted in his seat and glared at his boy neighbor who jabbed him from behind. There were lively pairs of legs and arms that dangled and wiggled on the benches, legs and arms that yet had to be disciplined. He could see in the boys the suppressed energy that would burst forth whenever he turned his head.Richard opened the New Testament, read a short scripture, and spoke to his young audience, "This morning I want to tell you a story. It is the story of a baby boy, who was born in a far away land, in a little village called Bethlehem. This baby was the Lord Jesus Christ . . . ."

The class listened breathlessly as the tall, bearded Scotsman unfolded the story of Jesus. His voice rose with feeling. Deep in his eyes were reflected the love and passion he held for the Church, and every word had been molded in a heart full of affection for children. Here was his element, the thing he had been born to do. Of all the vocations he had followed, and was yet to follow, none brought him joy comparable to that of teaching young minds the faith which he prized beyond measurement.

Years later he was to say,

I was early called to this work by the voice of the spirit, and I have felt many times that I have been ordained to this work before I was born, for even before I joined the Church I was moved upon to work for the young. Surely no more joyful nor profitable labor can be performed by an elder. There is growth in the young. The seed sown in their hearts is more likely to bring forth fruit than when sown in the hearts of those who are more advanced in years. Furthermore, I had passed through much, and had been sorely tried by friends and foes, and in it all the Gospel had proved such a solace to me that I was very desirous of seeing that all the children of the Saints should learn to prize it as I valued it. And more, I saw that the children, from the very nature and circumstances of the people, were being neglected; and I wanted to gather them into the school where they could learn not to read and write, but the goodness of God, and the true gospel of salvation given by Jesus Christ.

Here was the motive. It was the dazzling vision of the Gospel which centered around an idea taught by the Prophet Joseph Smith. This idea had a singular grip on Richard Ballantyne and thousands of others, for it held that man is divine and capable of infinite and God-like development. There was more to it than pleasant-sounding and impressive words. It was the hub of the entire Plan of Salvation, which included a belief in pre-existence as well as hereafter. If there is a spark of Deity flickering in man, can it not be kindled into a bright flame under proper instruction? If man is the offspring of God, does it not follow that as God is man may become?

Richard was absorbed with these questions. He had heard them answered many times by the Prophet. He could remember one night in Nauvoo, shortly after he had arrived from Scotland, when he listened to the tall, handsome Joseph addressing an evening meeting. There was something about the Prophet that had mystified and yet attracted him. Joseph Smith spoke of eternity in such a way that Richard almost felt that a curtain had been pulled aside and that he had been given a privileged glimpse of the celestial and timeless. That the Prophet made a profound impression on Richard Ballantyne there can be no doubt. Whenever the Scotsman listened to the sermons of his leader, he would return to his home thrilled with the realization that the Gospel can transform men into gods. He was often filled with a sense of urgency to spread this thing he had heard through the earth. While he had never been one of the Prophet's inner circle, he was nevertheless so devoted to this man who had dispelled his darkness that he was ready and willing, if necessary, to take up arms to defend him and the Church.

And so Richard Ballantyne became a man of an ideal, an ideal so important and vital to him that he could not postpone the teaching of it any longer. Like the teacher he was, Richard had to teach; and he wanted to teach the knowledge that was more precious to him than rubies and gold. When was the best time to teach that ideal? Now, when the younger generation was springing up. In the minds of the youth ideas can best be planted. The children„growing up in a wild desert, exposed to the rough, cruel, and hazardous conditions of a refugee people„needed the strongest of spiritual supports; and Richard Ballantyne was determined to supply them.

For a year Sunday School was held every week in the Ballantyne home. The enrollment rose to fifty, and the small room became very crowded. Most of the lessons came directly from the scriptures, for books were scarce. The pupils were required to bring their own texts, which they did: Bibles, Books of Mormon, and Doctrine and Covenants.

During this time Richard was serving as second counselor to Bishop John Murdock of the Fourteenth Ward, who was enthusiastic with the efforts of his co-worker to educate the youth in the Gospel. In the fall of 1850 the Fourteenth Ward chapel was completed, and the rapidly growing Sunday School was moved from the Ballantyne home to the new meetinghouse. Here Richard continued as superintendent, assisted by Joseph Horne and Phineas Richards. The expanding Sunday School class was now divided into a number of small classes, and several other teachers were called into service.

Richard was surprised at the early success of his plan. As time went on, other bishoprics began talking of organizing Sunday Schools in their wards. Generally the plan was popular, although there were a few who opposed it as being "sectarian" and imported from the outside But these few were definitely in the minority, and the movement gained a foothold.

And so a gleam of inspiration in the discouraged mind of a man who had suffered disaster his first year in the Rocky Mountains grew like the mustard seed until it spread over the Church, and this man was to say, "I felt that the Gospel was too precious to myself to be withheld from the children. They ought to have the privilege of Gospel teaching, and that was the main purpose„to teach them the Gospel„because I felt it was very precious to me and I thought it would be precious to them; and it was my duty to do that."

For four years he had planted his crops, and for four years his crops had failed. If hailstorms did not bring ruin, the crickets did. It was a vicious cycle, but the tall Scot hung on grimly. Yet it seemed as if all the madness of creation conspired against Richard Ballantyne. Life had been hard in Nauvoo and on the plains, but never like it had been in Utah. The Ballantynes had been hungry for four years. They were poorly clothed. There was no money. Every day it was a hand-to-mouth struggle. As a farmer Richard early learned that no disappointment is more bitter than crop failure, but four crop failures in succession are enough to crush the zeal and break the heart of the stoutest.

But there was one certainty: no one knew what tomorrow would bring. After seeing his carefully laid plans crumble one after another, he was prepared for almost anything„that is, anything except what happened at the special conference of the Church held in Salt Lake City on August 28 and 29, 1852.

There were two features of this conference. The first was the public announcement of the revelation on celestial marriage, and the either was the calling of one hundred six elders for foreign missions.

If a cannonball had been shot from the pulpit, he could not have been more surprised. For his call came without warning. The name of Richard Ballantyne was listed among those who were to preach the Gospel in Hindostan. For a moment he was so stunned that he could hardly believe what he had heard. He glanced quickly at Huldah. Her set jaw, pale face, and clenched white knuckles proved he had heard correctly. Turning back to face the speakers stand, listening vaguely to the last of the names read by the conference clerk, Thomas Bullock, he began to realize the meaning of the words he doubted as being real.

His call had come at the lowest ebb of his fortunes. It meant a mission to the other side of the globe when he was already destitute and his future anything but bright. How could his family survive without him during these critical times? And what kind of a place was Hindostan anyway?

If the missionary call came as a shock to Richard, it was even a greater shock to Huldah. On the way home from the meeting she fought back the tears that welled up in her eyes, but she could not keep the quiver from her lips. The icy hand of fear seemed to claw at her heart, and she numbly and silently began to plan.

In the days that followed she resolutely set to work to outfit her husband for the journey. With an ache in her breast she darned his socks, mended and scrubbed his frayed shirts and underwear. She picked up his threadbare coat, which had been discarded in favor of buckskin, and saw that it was ventilated at each elbow and at the shoulder. Even the thread holding the seams was breaking down, and it certainly could not withstand the rigors of a long trip. Not only were the trousers precariously worn, but also on the vest and coat there were loose strings where buttons had been. She breathed a deep sigh, but there was no time to waste in vain regret and self-pity. She had too much to do.With the swift resourcefulness of her sex, Huldah went into action. She lifted her best homespun skirt out of the trunk, the skirt she had woven and dyed herself. As she pressed the cloth between her fingers, she briefly recalled the many hours she had put into the weaving of this material and how she had looked forward to wearing it during the winter. Drawing upon her youthful experience as a tailor, she ripped out the seams, took the measurements of her impatient model, and began to sew. From this black homespun skirt she skillfully tailored a complete suit for her husband, and this suit was to last him through his mission.

On the sixteenth of October, Richard was set apart for this mission by Wilford Woodruff, Joseph Young, and Jedediah M. Grant. In his blessing the latter promised him: "You shall be a light that is set on an hill. . . You shall bless and your blessings shall be upon those you bless. . . Prisons shall not hold you, neither shall you be bound with bonds strong enough to retain you. Neither can the wicked have power to crush you. . . ."

Four days later, as the first streaks of dawn broke in the east, Richard Ballantyne threw the last bundle into his wagon, adjusted the harnesses on the team, and then walked to the side of his wife. He hooked long into her eyes and wordlessly embraced her. His three children were awake. The baby was crying. Richard, the eldest, stood in the doorstep and repeated again:

Papa, I want to go too."

No, Richard, you are the man of the house now and will have to take care of your mother and Delecta and David. I'll not be gone too long."

The Scotsman again turned to his wife, took her trembling hand in his, and wiped a tear from her cheek.

Now, Huldah, teach the children. Richard will soon be ready for school. See that they all learn the Gospel. Help them grown in faith. Teach them to pray, and all of you pray for me. If you need anything, go to the brethren. Remember that Brother Brigham said he will look after you if things get too bad. Seek the counsel of Brother John Taylor when he is in the city. Trust in the Lord, and never doubt his love and watchcare for us. All will be well. You'll hear from me before many weeks have passed. Address your letters to Brother Kimball in San Francisco."

He wanted to say more, but his throat choked. He took Huldah in his arms and held her for a long time. He kissed each child once again. Then he climbed quickly into the wagon and started the mules down the road. He glanced behind him and waved at the lonely figure of his wife. As he rode on he heard his boy screaming, "Papa, Papa, come back, come back!"

And so the missionary turned his team south on the first leg of his journey to India. He had left his family with two horses and a cow, a small farm productive only in crop failures, fifty pounds of flour, and a benediction.

[A more complete history of his missionary journey is given in the book. I shall only give samples here.]

Richard's journal became his most intimate companion. In it he confided his innermost thoughts, observations, travel notes, and adventures. It was a habit he cultivated for the next several years. He wrote in rich flowing prose. He had an inbred literary instinct, and he could handle a sentence with power and grace.

At Nephi City, where the elders were hospitably entertained by Church members and featured at a special meeting in the schoolhouse [and twenty-five missionaries spoke], he made a typical entry:

The Brethren traveling to their various missions were requested to speak their feelings, and it was glorious to listen to the power of the Spirit of the Lord that was in them. They bore testimony, and it was mighty. They felt weak but they were strong in the Lord. They felt ignorant but the light of the Gospel was luminous within them. They felt that they had forsaken all things for the gospel's sake, but they were not forsaken of God.

As they were nearing Indian territory, they organized themselves into an orderly company by electing a "Captain, Sergeant of the Guard and Chaplain." Their brief stopover in Nephi was brightened by the warmest of receptions, and Richard noted in his diary, "The brethren and sisters here vie with each other who shall minister to our wants as if we were angels of God."

After passing through Round Valley and crossing a range of the Sevier Mountains, the missionaries descended into Pauvan Valley, where the Sevier River empties into Sevier Lake. They met with heavy rainstorms for two days. They slept on the ground during the deluge and awoke in the mornings with an inch of ice frozen on the water surrounding their bunks. . . .

At Fillmore the travelers were provided with grain for their animals. . . . The company passed through Dog Valley, a name derived from the existence of a veritable 'prairie dog city." Richard wrote, "Here I am informed that Brother Brigham said the 'Gadianton Robbers' had their stronghold."

After driving through Beaver Valley and Red Creek, they arrived at Parowan Fort on Nov- ember 1. Here Apostle George A. Smith directed personally the outfitting of the company for the trek across the desert to California. He also advised them to "refresh yourselves in dancing and preaching."

A dance was held that night in honor of the missionaries. The dancing was interspersed with songs, recitations, and addresses. Elder George A. Smith, in the opening talk, cautioned the elders of the dangers they might expect from women and evil spirits and the great deep. He said that since it would be known they were advocates of the new doctrine of plurality of wives they would be considered licentious men, subject to suspicion unless their lives were very circumspect. A meeting was later held at Coal Creek, a small settlement where an effort was being made to manufacture iron. Again the apostle repeated his advice.

Amply supplied with grain and food, the company resumed its journey. As the travelers pulled away from the Fort, the American flag was unfurled, and cheers rang in their ears. The next stop was Cedar Fort, where the men were again welcomed warmly. Of the kindness of the inhabitants, Richard noted in his diary,

The parting scene with the Saints of Cedar Fort was very affecting. Many were the tears that flowed down the cheeks. Men of the hardest feeling were melted down while many of the brethren and sisters were so deeply affected, and their hearts so full, that while they gave the parting hand they were unable to utter a tender farewell. They came out and watched our departure as far as we could be seen. . . . May the Lord bless this people an hundred fold for their kindness to us."

[They crossed the desert and over rocky and hilly roads to Mountain Meadow, then over a rough broken mountainous road to the Santa Clara River.]

On November 11, after a particularly hard day on the trail, the camp was visited by guests who were anything but welcome. They were a small band of Piute Indians who stalked into the camp and made themselves comfortable. The redskins were dirty, puny, and shifty-eyed. With only a few grunts and signs they made it plain they expected some food and the warmth of the fire. After partaking liberally of the company rations the savages calmly rolled themselves into their blankets and slumbered until morning. There is no doubt that if there was a missionary there who had never before slept with one eye open he learned to do so that night.

[Over mountains and rivers and through country infested with wolves and Indians and on to the barren flats of sand and mesquite, the company arrived at Las Vegas with no mishap. Their next goal was San Bernardino where they arrived on December 2, 1852.]

There were many things to do in San Bernardino. The elders disposed of their traveling outfits, collected means to carry them further on their journey, visited, studied, and wrote letters to their families. . . .

Before he left, Richard received a gift of $60.75 from the people of San Bernardino. He also sold a mule and harness, which was his part of the team which carried them to California, and sent the money to his wife in Salt Lake City as he had been instructed by Brigham Young. He was now literally "without purse or scrip."

On December 17, 1852, the missionaries resumed their journey to Los Angeles, arriving there two days later in a drenching rain. The rented a house and ate supper at the Star Hotel. Then they returned to their quarters and sat up reading and talking until midnight. Suddenly the elders were startled by a singular noise, went the door, and heard the yells, groans, and oaths of a drunken crowd a few rods from us. This sounds like the music of hell, and entirely different from the song of joy, thanksgiving and melody we have long been accustomed to hear emanating from the habitations of the Saints in the stakes of Zion.

After a few days in Los Angeles the company went on to San Pedro, where the missionaries parted from the San Bernardino Saints who, [refusing pay for their services] had brought them [in wagons] from the Luego Ranche [which had been purchased by the Church as a supply depot for Saints emigrating to Utah.]

At San Pedro the missionaries bargained with the captain of a brig to carry them to San Francisco for $17.60 each for cabin fair, which was $37.50 less per head than the usual fare on steam packets. Preparations were completed for the voyage, and Richard wrote, "We sold everything we had to dispose of at very high liberal prices; and most everything we have needed, we have had furnished us below the usual price. This is an evidence that the Lord is working with us."

The departure of the vessel was delayed because of the heavy rains and rough seas. The day after Christmas the skies cleared and the work of cleaning the ship began. Wood was put on board. Provisions were loaded below decks, and on December 28th the missionaries carried their luggage over the side. They took up quarters in the cabin, as they had understood they were to have cabin passage. But when the captain came aboard, it was a different story. He flew into a terrible rage, cursing and swearing in the best seadog fashion. It was evident there was either a serious misunderstanding or the captain intended to take advantage of the absence of a written contract.

After a lengthy discussion a compromise was reached. The officer offered the elders eight cabin berths and invited them to eat by turns at the cabin table. He informed them they could take it or leave it. There was not much choice, since the next ship leaving for San Francisco was weeks away. And so the proposition was accepted, and they drew for berths.

Richard Ballantyne was one who drew a cabin berth. He was thankful for his good fortune, because his health had been poor lately. He was almost immediately stricken with recurrent malaria which he had contracted in Nauvoo, and for the duration of the voyage he shivered under heavy blankets racked with a high fever. He was in misery not only from his illness but also the living conditions on board the ship. "The stench of the vessel from bilge water and other causes was very offensive; and this coupled with the rocking of the vessel and the want of such diet as I could eat made the ten days of the voyage one of the most disagreeable of my existence. Yet in the midst of it, my soul has been comforted in midnight reflections and in prayer to my God."

[I'll leave out the description of San Francisco in 1853 except for this:] It is no wonder that the high-spirited elder early found reason to frown on the sin of this amazing city. And sin there was, whooping sin of all kinds, and even the most casual observer could perceive it at first glance. . . .

What a city for missionaries!" Richard exclaimed aloud. "Here I am, going to India to preach to heathens, and if any place ever needed good Gospel preaching it is in San Francisco."

[Their biggest problem was in obtaining funds for the journey.] The amount needed to send the elders to their fields was $6,250 of which $1,800 would be necessary for the nine missionaries to India alone. [After trying to raise the money from the general public for missions] it was obvious that financial assistance would not be forthcoming from the Gentiles. [The saints rallied, one even supplying some $4000;] and so the needed cash was produced.

It was a triumph, and Richard thankfully noted in his journal; "We see clearly that the Lord is able to do his own work, and notwithstanding its magnitude, or the amount of means required, our faith is continually increased in the power of his wonder-working hand."

Now that the money was collected there remained the difficulty of finding suitable transportation to the various destinations. After many inquiries among the vessels the missionaries finally arranged cabin passage with Captain Zenas Windsor of the clipper Monsoon, which had left Boston the same day the elders were appointed to their missions. The ship was almost ready to sail for India.

It was an era of clipper ships, and the Monsoon was one of these queens of the seas. She was as slender and graceful as a gull. Like a knife her sharp bow cut through the buffeting waters. Sloping backwards and carrying full square-rigged sails the three masts added to that streamlined silhouette which was so familiar during the gold rush. With such a large spread of canvas on her timbers, she was obviously built for speed. The hull was picturesquely painted in bands of white and black. About the craft there was an exciting air of romance and adventure.

When Captain Windsor sailed his queen through the Golden Gate on the following day, the passengers "took the last view of San Francisco and the American continent for a few years." As soon as the land disappeared, the elders decided to elect officers for the duration of the long voyage. Although Richard Ballantyne moved that some one be chosen weekly to preside, he was overruled and duly elected president. [A total of thirteen elders were aboard.]

In the evening of the second day Richard was overcome with seasickness. Then violent pains in the head and chest and a severe backache and nausea confined him to his berth. With the appearance of a skin eruption it was apparent that he had smallpox. Such a disease on board a ship which had no physician almost caused panic, and the newly-elected president no longer found himself popular.

Smallpox also afflicted Levi Savage, who had administered to an infected child in San Francisco. His face was covered with almost solid blotches. The two missionaries were isolated in their cabin. During their illness the other elders nursed them,

especially Brother Robert Skelton who has waited on us with unwearied car and kindness, all the time of my sickness, and exposing himself to the contagion. But he is a man of great faith and good works. If ever he, oh, Father, shall be like situated, may he never lack a friend or brother to soothe his feelings, to dry his tears, to relieve his pains and distress; and may an abundance of thy Spirit ever comfort him in sorrow and affliction, and in all the meanderings of his life.

It was the beginning of a close friendship between Richard Ballantyne and Robert Skelton.

Now that the two missionaries were virtual prisoners on their cabin, they spent their time reading and studying. The captain loaned them a volume on India . . . [and] they poured over the book avidly seeking information about the strange land where they were to preach. They were not surprised to learn that the climate is extremely hot and oppressive, particularly in the Bengal province where they were planning to center their activities. A peculiar feature of this country is the rainy season beginning in June and continuing until September. At this time the rain descends in sheets for two or three days, followed by several days of cool and pleasant weather. For a breadth of a hundred miles the valleys of the Ganges are flooded by the overflowing river, sometimes causing widespread destruction and havoc. This season is particularly unhealthy; and epidemics of Asiatic cholera, smallpox, and fever frequently sweep over populated areas. The book pointed out that India is not a white man's country. It cautioned foreigners against exposure to the burning sun, the damp night air, the dangers of dysentery from the "too free use of fruits and vegetables," and recommended exercise in the cool of the morning and evening, especially horseback riding. Instead of dampening the enthusiasm of the two patients these hard facts stimulated their curiosity and eagerness to meet the conditions as they found them.

* * * *

It was not until February 20 that the two elders were released from their cabin and once again mingled freely with the other missionaries. They washed themselves, three away the clothing worn during their illness, filled their lungs with the tangy sea air, and settled down to the tedium of ocean travel.

* * * *

Conditions on board the Monsoon were pleasant.

A good cheerful spirit also seems to prevail on the vessel from Captain to crew, and scarce a profane word has been heard since we came on board. The Captain allows us every privilege that we can desire, is sociable, and furnishes excellent, healthy diet three times a day. We have fresh bread morning and evening with potatoes, meat, butter, cheese, etc. And at noon have soup, plum or rice pudding, potatoes, meat, etc., with tea and coffee morning to those who drink it. Many of the brethren don't use it, preferring to observe the Word of Wisdom."

* * * *

The winds remained strong, much to the surprise of Captain Windsor who had been expecting a calm for over a week. He told the elders that never before had he such good sailing and had never traveled such a distance in so short a time. The Monsoon was averaging 166 miles a day, and the missionaries were certain that their prayers for favorable winds had something to do with it.

Captain Windsor was not a religious man. He was a tough-minded professional seaman who combined interesting qualities of education with sternness on deck and geniality over the dinner table. Yet he suspected that the hand of the Lord might be shaping the destiny of his vessel, and to show his goodwill he said that if the missionaries were able to abstain from tobacco he would threw his tobacco pouch overboard forthwith. And overboard went the tobacco pouch.

Although the skipper was anything but captivated by the religious services, he did not discourage his sailors from listening to the sermons of the elders. Frequently members of the crew stood on the outer circle of the meetings and were interested.

* * * * In his moments of meditation Richard sometimes composed maxims, such as:

Those who read much and feed their minds with truth, need the spirit of the Lord intermixed therewith to have it digest, and thus the spirit of man is nourished and his mind strengthened. Those who read much and reflect little, are like the man who receives so much food into his stomach that it cannot digest so as to nourish his body. Read, and reflect.

When Richard poured his heart into his journal, his prose became almost poetry.

Time rushes on in its rapid course carrying us along to the end of our days; and oh, that we might well improve the short period allotted to us here, upon which hangs such mighty and eternal consequences. "As the tree falls so it lies" is an ancient saying, and according to the manner and diligence of our lives in laying a good foundation for the time to come, so will be the glory and honor and exaltation and enlargement of our future state, and the superstructure we shall build. O that we might redeem the time that has been unprofitably spent in applying our lives with double diligence in the improvement of that which is to come! So may we lie down in peace and rise in honor. So may we secure for ourselves and our posterity and families a kingdom that shall never end. Behold! he shall go forth as the morning and his light shall not be dimmed. His posterity shall arise and call him blessed, and to his dominion and government there shall be no end.