Dead Air and the Empty Space Fiend

 

Back in another lifetime, I was an on-air personality when there only were record-spinning DJs at top-forty radio stations. Forget all the FCC licensure requirements, inputs of broadcast readings, or other technical duties, the greatest fear, I think, was that of having "dead air"—silence when there should have been sound waves emanating from our radio tower. That was the kind of technological nightmare which could awaken me in a cold sweat even years later—until I'd realize it was only a bad dream. Radio meant constant sound, whether talk or music. There was no room for silence.

Now that I recall those experiences, years later, I've realized one thing. Perhaps I was built for that: avoiding dead air. I'm learning to see patterns repeated in other areas of life. There was a time, for instance, when I took up painting floral designs. I'd put those designs on walls, furniture, book covers, coffee mugs—anywhere I found an empty space. I became the empty space fiend: have blank wall, will cover it.

Since I've turned to genealogical pursuits, I see that same drive to cover all bases reappearing as I build out a very bushy family tree. Not willing to let go of last month's research goal—finding those Townsend siblings for my third great-grandmother Delaney—I've continued building out those tentative Townsend lines of my DNA matches, even though I've moved on to another month's research goal. And Delaney's husband's Charles line? Same thing goes for that family, every time I realized I hadn't completely brought those lines of descent down to the present generation.

Small wonder, then, that in the past two weeks, I've added another 193 of those ancestral collateral lines—stragglers, mostly, from last month's research project. My project for this month—finding Alexander Boothe's parents—has slowed down that process considerably, so the next two weeks won't seem so robust, although I will, once again, look for DNA matches to augment speculation and theories. Sometimes the call to fill in the blanks brings us face to face with roadblocks, but eventually that drive to conquer empty space will overcome.

Time for a Timeline

 

When the detail on a family's situation becomes too messy, perhaps it is time to outline it all in a timeline.  Based on the suggestion—and even that only from a letter written long afterwards by Aunt Fannie—that Light Townsend had traveled down to Florida to help his orphaned nieces, I wanted to see whether I could find any possibility of pinpointing that connection.

In the process—warning: a messy one!—I came to the conclusion that just looking at each individual's circumstances wasn't enough. I needed to blend eight people's timelines into one, so that I could spot any gaps which might be a reasonable time for Light Townsend to travel from his home in Marlboro County, South Carolina, to Madison County in northern Florida.

The brief answer: I don't see how. But let's first look at the particulars. To begin with, here are the players:

Light Townsend, born in South Carolina about 1798, who was the supposed brother of my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend. Delaney, in turn, while born in South Carolina much later than Light—about 1816—traveled to territorial Florida to marry Andrew Charles in 1841. After the couple's unexpected demise, Andrew's sister, Drucilla Charles, took up the responsibility of serving as guardian for the three orphaned children of Delaney and Andrew, before her marriage to, first, Thomas Hughs Hines, and then Melburn Odum—with each of whom she bore children. It was the two daughters, Frances Charles and Emily (or Emma) Charles, who supposedly traveled back to South Carolina with Light Townsend.

Now, how does all this fit in a timeline? Answer: it's a squeeze.

Let's start off with the 1850 census. Andrew and Delaney were shown in their household with their son and their two daughters, four year old Fanny and one year old Emma. What's interesting about this enumeration is that it was taken on October 16, after Andrew's death, but he was still listed as if alive, on account of the instructions to list the households as they would have appeared on June first of that same year.

In 1850, Light Townsend was at home in Marlboro County, South Carolina, with his wife, four children, and his mother. Drucilla Charles was still living with her mother and siblings in Florida, this being two years before her mother's tragic death, and before her own marriage.

The cascade of events begins with Andrew Charles' apparently unexpected illness and death in July of 1850. Sometime between that point and February of 1852, Delaney herself dies (although I have yet to find any record of that date).

In 1852, Frances, older of the two Charles daughters, would have been about six years of age. Her younger sister Emma, my second great-grandmother, would have been three, having lost her father while still an infant. On February 28 of that year, Andrew's sister Drucilla Charles was appointed guardian of the three orphans, Fanny, Emma, and their brother Rupert Charles. On May 22 of that same year, Drucilla became the wife of Thomas H. Hines, and eventually had two daughters, while presumably continuing to serve as guardian for the Charles orphans.

Sometime between 1857 and 1859, Drucilla's husband Thomas Hines died. This might have been a reasonable time to call in help from the other side of the orphans' family, but in 1858, Light Townsend was having his own woes: his wife died, leaving him with two young daughters of his own. While before this point, it might have made sense for Light to blend the two families—Emma Charles was the same age as Light's daughter Mary Ann, and Light's daughter Amelia was two years older than Fanny Charles—after his wife's death was no time to go traveling long distances through remote regions to help another family. 

Thus, by the 1860 census, it was no surprise to find Light still in South Carolina with his dwindling family, and the Charles orphans with Drucilla, who, widowed, had by then married Melburn Odum and welcomed in their baby daughter Maybelle. 

The years following the 1860 census might seem like the ideal opportunity for Light to travel to Florida, particularly considering the more appropriate ages of his nieces for such an adventure back to South Carolina with him. In 1860, Fanny would have turned fourteen and Emma eleven. But even then, the timeline shoved roadblocks in the way of such a plan—not to mention, a ravaging war.

After the death of her mother, Light's daughter Amelia married in 1863. Light's younger daughter Mary Ann married William Kinney in 1867, becoming the progenitor of the DAR applicant whose mention of Aunt Fannie's letter got me wondering about all this in the first place. And Mary Ann's cousin Emma Charles was herself married by 1867.

Sandwiched in between these joyful moments in the family's timeline were other disruptions. While I have yet to find Drucilla's second husband's date of death, by March of 1866, it was clear that both Melburn Odum and his wife Drucilla had passed. Drucilla, following the path of her intestant brother before her, died leaving no will. Another Charles sister, widow Mary Ann McLeran, was appointed as administratrix of Drucilla's property in March of 1866 and eventually—by 1872—that sad task finally drew to an official close.

Following Drucilla's passing by 1866, the final player in this drama was Light Townsend himself, who died in South Carolina in March of 1870.

While there were a few celebratory moments in this whirlwind of less happy events, the time it would have taken to make such a round trip—in that time period and with the constraints of their current forms of transportation—make it doubtful that an aging Light Townsend would have made such a trip. Possibly in the earliest years after the loss of Delaney and her husband, Light might have come to lend a financial or organizational hand—but it would have been unlikely that he'd return home with two very young nieces at that point.

That, however, still leaves me with a predicament: I've yet to find any verifiable written documentation to tie my third great-grandmother to her parents, or even to her siblings. But that is written documentation. As we leave this month's focus to move toward the next of my Twelve Most Wanted research goals for 2025, let's use the weekend to determine what we gained, what we still need, and what other verification has now become available to researchers in situations like this.

Just a Blip on the (Genealogical) Radar

 

One look at the calendar tells me this month is almost over, but I've yet quite a bit more work to do before I attain my goal of documenting the parents of my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend Charles. While this Townsend-Charles search deserves far more time and attention, I did find one tiny speck of interest. Let's just call it a blip on the genealogical radar screen.

Searching through millions of pages of digitized records can be, on the one hand, a breeze compared to the research drudgery endured pre-computers. On the other hand, the sheer volume of searchable material sometimes yields a hit or miss experience. I have run across so many documents in one sitting and, having made a mental note to go back to one or two key pieces while working on multiple others, I've subsequently been unable to replicate the online search result—even when using the same search terms. Frustrating, to say the least. This has been a month that has seen more than one time I could have kicked myself.

One such time was when I ran across a court record cataloguing some detail about the estate of Delaney Charles. Like her husband before her, apparently Delaney passed without having drawn up any legal document to protect the interests of her three minor children—but when was the question. On one marathon day of searching, I found several documents on this whole Charles family question—but apparently didn't save each of the links to trace my way back to those sources. And could I replicate those searches? No.

Until now, that is—at least for a couple of them. It may be possible that Delaney and her husband Andrew died within a time frame in which the probate judge appointed an administrator to handle the two cases as one. In one court record on the sale of inventory, Andrew Charles' listing is entered directly across the page from Delaney's—and both possibly entered into the record on the same date (Andrew's entry gives the date as "on the first Monday in April, 1852, while Delaney's entry is dated as "Monday the fifth day of April").

In that record of numbered vouchers, showing cash paid for specific items of the estate, Andrew's inventory mentioned someone named B. I. Townsend—likely Benjamin Townsend. Allen Townsend was also included in that list. Under the entry for Delaney's personal estate, Allen Townsend's name appeared again, as well as the name Temperance Townsend. (The only Temperance I have found so far was Allen's granddaughter. The only problem with that identity is that Allen's granddaughter was not born until 1855.)

Granted, there were several other names also mentioned in that list provided by Theo Hartridge, administrator of the Charles estate. I'm not meaning to imply that by virtue of being included in the list, these people were family—but they knew enough to come by and acquire some of the property being sold from the estate.

Another court record gave more detail as to what was being sold. "A. Townsend"—presumably Allen—purchased one "lot crockery," an oven pot and kettle, and a side saddle. Another Townsend—first initial "W"?—bought a chicken. The whole of Delaney's person estate netted less than one hundred dollars, not much when you consider the court's observation that her three minor children were about to inherit a "considerable estate."

While we can't outright assert that any of the Townsend customers at the Charles estate sale were kin to Delaney, one thing is obvious by this exploration: there was absolutely no mention of Light Townsend, the knight in shining armor who supposedly swooped down from his estate in South Carolina to rescue his poor orphaned nieces in Florida.

There is still one additional way we can explore that assertion about Delaney's possible brother Light. We'll consider that as we wrap up this second of my Twelve Most Wanted ancestors for this year.

Taking a Different Approach

 

The beauty of an ancestral search comes when we realize there are more ways than one to find answers to our questions. When one research plan doesn't yield results, it's time to take a different approach.

In the case of my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend Charles, I knew she had died young, as a widow, leaving three orphans. While my overarching goal is to determine who her parents were, a clue from a DAR application implied that after Delaney's death, a brother by the name of Light Townsend had come down to Florida to bring his nieces back home to South Carolina with him. Right now, I'm chasing after any record that could confirm that relationship. After all, the father of Light Townsend would also be the father of Delaney. Thus, the search is now on to verify exactly who was appointed guardian of the three Charles children in Madison County, Florida, just in case I can find any mention of Light Townsend's involvement with the Charles family.

Prior searches for these details had not been successful—but when I realized that guardianship proceedings should mention the names of the children, I switched tactics to search by the name of the children rather than the name of the deceased parents. However, looking for my second great-grandmother Emma, or even her sister Frances, left me searching for very common names, but when I switched to look for their older brother's name—Rupert Charles, for whom my great-grandfather was named—the search engines were more rewarding.

Because we had found a death notice for Delaney's husband, Andrew Charles, in the July 27, 1850, Floridian and Journal, I knew my earliest search parameter would be that same year: 1850. Unsure of his wife Delaney's year of death, I expanded my search parameters to 1860, just in case—though some probate information, which we'll view tomorrow, narrowed that date range considerably.

Taking my new research query to the FamilySearch Labs website, I had my answer in no time, thanks to the Full Text search option. And it surprised me. While I didn't expect to see Light Townsend named—after all, the three Charles children were living with their paternal aunt in the 1860 census—I was surprised about the details given in the letter appointing the guardian.

Dated February 28 of 1852, the communication from the probate court of Madison County to "Drusilla" was actually addressed to her maiden name, Charles, rather than her married name. Naming the three orphans and explaining that they were "possessed in their own right of a Considerable Estate," the court designated Drucilla as guardian to secure the estate and oversee the maintenance and education of the three Charles children.

That prompted one question: where was Drucilla's husband, Thomas Hughes Hines? A quick check revealed that while the couple married in that same year—1852—the event was not official until May 22, 1852. So when the guardianship papers were drawn up, Drucilla was indeed still known by her maiden name.

While I was surprised, considering that time period, to see a woman named as guardian, it was quite obvious that she was not in the legal process alone. Posting bond for six thousand dollars, two additional men were named. Thanks to the abysmal handwriting of the clerk noting the transaction, these guesses at their names may not be accurately deciphered, but best I can tell, they were Michael McLeary and Charles Rupell—neither of whom were familiar names from family connections.

One point, though, was clear: none of those names listed was Townsend. Despite that discovery, though, there are other court records to peruse for any sign of Townsends. We'll linger a bit longer tomorrow to see whether anything else might be found.

Finding the Guardian

 

Sometimes, we have to come to the conclusion that stories about our family's history may not necessarily be the way things really were. Regarding the mention last week of Aunt Fannie's story about her orphaned mother, it is fairly easy to look through documents to piece together the actual situation. Family stories passed down through the generations can sometimes be just that: stories.

On the other hand, the possibility that my third great-grandmother's brother traveled from South Carolina to attend to the needs of his orphaned nieces—and nephew, one would presume—could be a reasonable expectation. Judging from some reports of Light Townsend's land holdings in Marlboro County, South Carolina, he might have been the most logical relative to extend a helping hand. (Not to mention, if that were so, surely there would be some documentation drawn up that would help confirm the family relationship.)

What happened to the children of Delaney Townsend and her husband Andrew J. Charles after their unexpected passing can be easily seen through census records in the following decade. Rupert Charles and his sisters Fanny and Emma were listed in the 1860 household of Melburn L. Odum in New River County, Florida.

That, however, only begins to provide the explanation. To see the family connection requires a bit more digging. Melburn's wife Drucilla was actually Andrew Charles' sister. As can be deduced by the surname of two other children in the Odum household, Drucilla had been previously married to a man named Hines. Indeed, we can now see the marriage license for Thomas Hughes Hines and Drucilla Charles was returned dated May 11, 1852, in Madison County.

It was apparently Thomas Hughes Hines who was originally appointed guardian for the orphaned children of his brother-in-law Andrew Charles. Thanks to a comment from reader Kathy Duncan of Porch Swings, Fireflies, and Jelly Jars, we can see the slightest mentions in the probate records for the Charles estate, dated October 19 of 1854 and again in early January 1855, referring to payments to "T. H. Hines, guardian."

So why the letter from Aunt Fannie, stating that Light Townsend traveled from South Carolina to Florida to take care of his orphaned nieces? Let's see if we can find any record from Light Townsend's side of the story that would mention a connection to Delaney Townsend Charles' family.

According to Aunt Fannie

 

Somehow, genealogical verification beginning with the words, "according to Aunt Fannie," just doesn't have the academic ring of a traditional footnote. The truth of the matter, though, is that the Townsend lineage of my third great-grandmother may well be resting on the testimony of a woman named Fannie McClellan Rowell.

I was surprised to see, right there in the midst of a 1948 DAR application, attribution for some facts on the Townsend family credited to a letter written by Fannie Rowell. Yes, the Townsend family Bible was also mentioned in that application, but a DAR file like that is usually chock full of references to vital records, census records, and other governmental documents. Letters from Aunt Fannie? Well, that's different.

I've written about Aunt Fannie before, as early as 2015, when I was trying to piece together her own relationship to my maternal grandmother's McClellan family. She had always been referred to—at least in my family—as Fannie Rowell, not McClellan, and I naturally needed to chart the genealogical connection.

Since then, I've had to refer back to Aunt Fannie's stories in 2019, and again in 2021, while researching the connection between that same McClellan family and the published stories told by a man named King Stockton, who grew up in the McClellan household as the son of an enslaved woman.

Here she was again, this Aunt Fannie, mentioned in an application for membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution. While Aunt Fannie may have been old—she was not my aunt, nor my mother's aunt, but my grandmother's aunt—she certainly wasn't old enough to be providing testimony of such family matters as if she had personally witnessed them in her own lifetime. She did, however, provide details about her mother who, in turn, was Delaney Townsend Charles' daughter Emma.

Thanks to details in a letter from Aunt Fannie, cited in that DAR application, the applicant explained that, after the widowed Delaney's death, her orphaned daughters were taken to live for a while in South Carolina by a man named Light Townsend. The applicant also explained that Aunt Fannie, the granddaughter of Delaney Townsend Charles, had sent letters with names and dates of family members to John R. Townsend, grandson of Light Townsend, and thus that information had been preserved by the Townsend branch of that family.

Preserved, that is, as long as it was correctly noted, correctly transcribed, and adequately protected from the ravages of time. Where those original letters are now, I can't say, but at least some semblance of those reports has been preserved through that 1948 DAR application.

In the meantime, the question becomes: who was Light Townsend of South Carolina? Why was he so concerned about the orphaned children of Delaney Townsend Charles in Florida? If he did, indeed, travel to Florida to bring those daughters back to live with him in South Carolina, I'd like to find any records to indicate such an arrangement. But first, let's take the time to examine just who Light Townsend actually was.

Time to Cut to the Chase

 

Sometimes, research plans don't work as hoped. In attempting to uncover documentation to confirm the identity of my third great-grandmother's parents, I had hoped to discover the relationship of other Townsends in the territorial Florida county where Delaney Townsend went to marry Andrew Charles in 1841. If luck was on my side and Benjamin Townsend or Allen Townsend did turn out to be Delaney's brothers, then (I reasoned) I would be one step closer to identifying the parents of any of the three of them.

That plan hasn't been working out too well for me. I did find a will for Allen Townsend, but it mentioned absolutely nothing about relatives other than his own children. With Benjamin, as we saw last Friday, I was even less fortunate, for the man died intestate—even some of his children listed in his household for the 1870 census only a couple years before his death weren't mentioned in the distribution of his estate, let alone Benjamin's siblings.

While it occurred to me that the probate judge mentioned so many times in the administration of Benjamin's estate—David Townsend—might be another sibling who moved to town from their native South Carolina, I am concerned that examining his own final documents would be an exercise that reveals little (though I am willing to try that next step). However, when the search trail grows cold and researchers find themselves meandering in circles, it's time to reach out in multiple directions. And I did—and received some helpful information.

With that, it's time to cut to the chase. I had mentioned earlier this month that there are some books written about this tentative Townsend family line from South Carolina. One of those books, now out of print, is accessible through a website online, as well as digitized on the FamilySearch website. I noticed that the first website, hosted by Joe Burval, the book's author, had been updated as recently as last October. Since it included an email address, I reached out to the author to see whether he had any additional documentation besides what he had included in his book.

Joe Burval graciously responded to my inquiry, though the news was disappointing: he has not been able to locate a will for Delaney Townsend's supposed father, John Townsend of Marlboro County, South Carolina. With that lack of evidence, we are left to assemble supporting details in a sound proof argument, if such can be found. Mr. Burval recommended I review his book to see how he approached this problem—not from the generation beginning with John Townsend, Delaney's supposed father, but from two generations preceding that—using multiple records to piece together a cogent explanation of the line of descent.

In a second email, the author added information more pertinent to my own research question. Apparently, as I had seen from other sources, there was an application for membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution which contained references to certain privately held records which had been the basis for that Townsend descendant's DAR application and successful bid for membership. Indeed, looking at the NSDAR website, it is easy to see that John Townsend of South Carolina is entered as a Patriot—and easy to find the application in question with the references I needed. Anyone could easily apply to receive a copy of that application, should they need to reference it in their own membership or supplemental application.

What was contained in that DAR application was a "certified" report of entries viewed in the Townsend family Bible, listing an incredible thirteen children of John Townsend and Kesiah Hayes. At the time of this 1948 DAR application, that Townsend family Bible was owned by a Dr. P. Kinney of Bennettsville, South Carolina. And yes, my Delaney Townsend, wife of Andrew Charles, was among those listed.

Granted, I'd feel a lot better about this being the only documentation that can be found to connect Delaney to her parents if I could see it myself with my own two eyes. Who knows where that family Bible is today? But I also am incredulous that there wasn't any further paper trail mentioning any connection between those Townsend settlers in Florida and their elders back home in Marlboro County, South Carolina.

With that in mind, you know I will keep searching. There are a few mentions about family connections in that DAR application that I'd like to follow up on, and there are some stories which will need to be verified—one of which goes back to my own family's Aunt Fannie, the celebrated teller of our family's stories. Perhaps tomorrow would be a good time to review her version of the story about what became of Delaney's children after their mother's death. 

If at First You Cannot Find, Search, Search Again

 

The farther back in time we go to trace our ancestors, the more likely it is that we'll encounter snags when the pen-and-ink handwriting of past centuries encounters the digitization process more agreeable to today's computers. I learned that this week while unraveling the family history trail of my third great-grandmother Delaney Townsend and her husband Andrew Charles in 1850s Florida.

Turning to local newspapers can be a handy secondary resource when our ancestors fail to appear in the usual documents of the era. As I mentioned yesterday, I was elated to discover a brief insert in The Floridian and Journal pinpointing the date of Delaney's husband's 1850 death. I had searched for the family's names in the collection at GenealogyBank, and that one article had been my sole result.

I was grateful for what I could find there—if it weren't for that newspaper entry, I wouldn't have found anything—but I still wondered what had become of the rest of the extended Charles family in Madison County, Florida. I spent the evening pulling up links to legal documents regarding the administration of the various Charles estates.

Early this morning, in my ongoing email conversation with fellow genea-blogger Charles Purvis, I discovered a friend of his had passed along a news clip from GenealogyBank concerning another Charles obituary: for Andrew Charles' mother, Rebecca.

"That's funny," I thought. "Why didn't that show up in my search results?"

I went back to my GenealogyBank account, logged in, and tried my search for Rebecca Charles once again. Nothing. I returned to Charlie's email, took a look at the newspaper source and date—The Floridian and Journal for April 3 of 1852—and honed my search terms until there was no wiggle room left for the search engine. It had to find the article.

Perhaps there were grunts and groans out in the ether as the search engine complied with my query, but there it was, just as Charlie's friend had sent it.

Died at her residence at Charles' Ferry, Suwannee River, on the 25th January, Mrs. Rebecca Charles, in the 58th year of her age. The subject of this notice was raised in Buncombe County, N. C., and emigrated to Florida with her late husband before the change of Flags—having lived where she died upwards of thirty years, rendering efficient aid and comfort to many a weary traveller now living to testify to the hospitality of her house—Mrs. Charles connected herself with the Methodist Episcopal Church some years ago, and although she never made high pretensions to piety, her friends and relations have abundant reason to believe they mourn their loss not as those who mourn without hope.

Having found the insertion only after several tries, I wondered why the article hadn't shown up on my first search attempt. Looking at the faded newsprint, I figured it might have been possible that the optical character recognition could have run afoul of the faded letters in the name Rebecca. For that reason, I toyed with using different search terms to persuade the search process to come up with the desired result. The winning combination was to use only the surname, plus select the specific newspaper name—fortunately, there weren't too many options in that part of Florida in the early 1850s—and the specific year.

That experience, of course, prompted one of those "notes to self" moments. When using a search engine to find records in documents with variable imprints—either newsprint or faded handwriting—don't be discouraged when the search brings up zero results. Try, try again. Vary the search terms. Experiment with spelling variations. Check out whether "less is more" is the motto for that website's operation. Despite ink blots, faded print, torn pages, whatever you do, just keep searching. 

Image above: Clipping of "Obituary" for Rebecca Charles from page three of The Floridian and Journal, published April 3, 1852, in Tallahassee, Florida; courtesy of GenealogyBank.com

Found — While Looking for Something Else

 

Isn't it always the case that, after searching high and low—and unsuccessfully, I might add—for a specific document about an ancestor, the very record shows up while I'm looking for something else? Here I am this month, focused on finding the parents of Delaney Townsend, a quest which has languished in my to-do pile for years, and what should pop up but the missing record confirming another family history detail that's been nagging me for years.

Truth be told, I wasn't exactly on task when I stumbled upon that discovery. In fact, I had just been at a local genealogical society gathering when someone in the group pulled out his phone and reminded us to all check our FamilySearch family tree app for "Relatives Around Me." The minute I reached for my phone and pulled up the app, a window popped up announcing that "Relatives at RootsTech" was now available to access in preparation for this year's conference in March.

I am so susceptible to details rabbit trails. Sure enough, there was the familiar Relatives at RootsTech app, back again on my phone for another year. When I got back home, I had to pull it up on the much larger screen on my laptop and see what else I could find.

That's when I noticed the link to the article, "Meet the Sponsors of RootsTech 2025." I already can guess the major sponsors, but I was curious who might have been included in the "also ran" section, so I scrolled through to the bottom of the list. There, I found the Bronze Sponsors, including a company called  GenealogyBank. Although I have been a long-time subscriber to their services, their description in the RootsTech article caught my eye: "Ninety five percent of our huge newspaper collection is exclusive to our site. What we have you can't find anywhere else."

I wasn't sure about the "anywhere else" claim, but since I couldn't find any death information for Delaney Townsend and her husband Andrew Charles, I decided to give GenealogyBank's claim a try. And voilà! While it didn't name any relatives or include much more in the way of details, I did find a newspaper insertion for Andrew Charles' death.

Died on the 11th inst., at his residence in Madison County, of inflammatory sore throat, after an illness of 2[4] hours, ANDREW J. CHARLES, aged 35 years.

At least that's a start. Found in The Floridian and Journal, published in Tallahassee on July 27, 1850, that tiny insertion on page three at least revealed that Andrew J. Charles died in the county of his residence, Madison County, and that he was thirty five years of age at the time of his death. Both those details agree with what I've already gleaned, and provide me with the missing date for Andrew's seeming disappearance after the 1850 census. Since at the time of the previous census in 1850, the entire county claimed only 5,490 residents, I feel fairly confident this could be our Andrew Charles.

Since my Twelve Most Wanted ancestor for this month is Andrew's wife Delaney, one would think that would be my focus. And it is—but I didn't expect to see any mention of a married woman in a newspaper in territorial Florida during that era, even a dead woman. (But I tried looking, anyhow.) There are, however, other ways to find an answer to the question of what became of Delaney after the death of her husband.

Above: Clipping of "Obituary" for Andrew J. Charles from page three of The Floridian and Journal, published July 27, 1850, in Tallahassee, Florida; courtesy of GenealogyBank.com. 

When They All Say it's So

 

What do you say when information on the brick wall ancestor you are researching shows up in several places—all without documentation? Those assertions may sound reasonable, even convincing, but without a paper trail to support such entries, in my mind they are still worth...nothing. Nothing better, that is, than a possible lead.

That's the situation I'm facing as I work on the second of my Twelve Most Wanted ancestors for this year. When I decided this was the month to work on my third great-grandmother Delaney Townsend, I already knew there were others out there who had posted details about her supposed parents. And yet, no will can I find for her supposed father, and any hope of finding Delaney named in his household for any census enumeration is nil, considering she was already married to Andrew Charles in Madison County, Florida, by 1841, long before each name in a household was entered in the census record.

I've certainly been putting the FamilySearch Labs' Full Text search capability through its paces in looking for possible records that might divulge a connection between Delaney and her father, whoever he was. And in genealogy's true spirit of collaboration, I've been party to a spirited conversation with fellow blogger Charles Purvis of Carolina Family Roots, who has sent me several links worth consideration. I now have a stack of reading to catch up on, as well as new avenues of inquiry to explore.

In the process, I've already unearthed one tiny confirmation which led me to more clues on Delaney, herself, as well as her husband, Andrew Charles, which I'll share soon. But it is clear that, to piece together Delaney's story, we'll need to take a detour away from the usual paper trail towards some less-traveled research terrain.

From the flurry of details Charlie sent my way yesterday, I can see a bit of light shining on a possible way forward, which is encouraging. Perhaps, at the end, I'll discover that when "they" all say the story is just so for the Townsend family, that's truly the way it was—or, perhaps, the trail will lead me to details about a real answer. One I can verify through documentation, not hearsay.

Revisiting Delaney

 

No sooner had I packed away the to-do list for my unfinished pursuit of January's featured ancestor from this year's Twelve Most Wanted than I confronted the need to pull out a past year's to-do list for February's research goal. This month, we'll be focusing on my third great-grandmother Delaney Townsend. The problem is: the last time I worked on her story, I closed out the month without the answer I was seeking.

It was almost four years ago when I tried to find documentation confirming Delaney's parents and origin. While I learned a lot about this ancestor during that month's search, I still hadn't achieved my goal.

Part of the reason Delaney has been so hard to track is owing to the timeframe of her life. Born about 1816, possibly in South Carolina, as a single woman, she was inexplicably standing before an officiant in the Territory of Florida by 1841, about to be married to a local resident by the name of Andrew Jackson Charles in Madison County. If she was from South Carolina, what was a single woman doing, traveling to the then-frontier regions of the country, so far from her parents' home? There is obviously something missing in this story.

That is not the only detail which is missing in Delaney's story. After making a cameo appearance nine year later in the 1850 census with her husband and their three children, the couple disappeared by the time of the next enumeration. Strangely, their minor children were left behind, living with a relative, suggesting something ominous for Delaney and Andrew Charles. Yet again, no record of what might have happened.

The positive note in all this is that, making Delaney one of my Twelve Most Wanted in 2021 resulted in nearly thirty blog posts with links to the documents I was able to find on the family. That gives me a jump start on the process for this month's effort, thankfully. I already have found some strong hints of the identity of her parents and some siblings, too. What I don't yet have is any record specifically indicating the relationship between Delaney and those presumed parents and siblings. I want to see the records.

As happens so many times when we are stuck on what we call our "brick wall" ancestors, I foresee some days this month taking us on a detour to examine the records about Delaney's supposed siblings, all in the hope of finding some mention of the connection between family members. It may turn out that we learn a lot about a family which doesn't, in the end, relate to our Delaney. That is the risk we take when we explore documents pertaining to possible family members. If nothing else, we gain the satisfaction of attaining negative evidence—or perhaps merely the nagging feeling that we still need to look further.  

Ancestor #2: A Search for Parents — Again

 

The list for this year's Twelve Most Wanted will see some repeat appearances. That is a good thing. Recent developments in online search tools may help all of us push beyond what we were once able to accomplish. Just as I hold high hopes for January's goal—seeking the parents of my second great-grandmother Sarah Catherine Laws—I hope to find documents linking the focus of my February goal with her ancestors, as well.

February's goal, the second person featured on this year's Twelve Most Wanted, will focus on another ancestor on my maternal line. This woman's mystery ancestors have been said to be the connecting agents linking me to over one hundred DNA cousins—supposedly. I have yet to find documentation to verify those assertions. I last focused on this line for my Twelve Most Wanted list in March of 2021, but this February may be the month to find out otherwise.

The ancestor in question is my third great-grandmother Delaney Townsend. Supposedly born in South Carolina about 1816, she was resident in territorial Florida by the time she was married to Andrew Jackson Charles, son of a local trader near the Suwannee River just south of the Georgia state border. The year of their marriage—1841—was certainly no time for a young, unmarried woman to be alone in such a wilderness, which makes me wonder further about her roots. Where were her family members and how did they get to Florida from South Carolina—or wherever they originated?

Since I've tested at five different DNA companies, I've had ample notices inferring that Delaney was daughter of specific parents, but I've yet to find satisfactory documentation to make the connection sure. With this year's development of AI-assisted Full Text Search at FamilySearch.org, I have a new opportunity to find Delaney's name connected to documents drawn up by potential family members. Not only that, but I may possibly find the answer to another question which has plagued me: what eventually happened to Delaney and her husband Andrew Jackson Charles, both of whom disappeared sometime before the recording of the 1860 census?

There's plenty of motivation to resolve this issue. Here's just one example: if relying on the ThruLines tool at Ancestry.com and checking my entry for her supposed parents, I have 117 DNA matches linked to Delaney's supposed father, and 114 matches attributed to her possible mother. If either of those designated parents turns out to be true, I'll have a lot of work ahead of me to reconcile records on quite a sizable set of DNA cousin connections. That alone can take me more than the month—especially a month as brief as February.

Revisiting Those "Notes to Self"

 

The pursuit of family history, despite now being so heavily digitized, can still leave an enormous paper trail in its wake. Let's just say my second-most active pursuit is cleaning up the scraps of paper upon which I jot down reminders of research revelations as they occur to me.

When those notes have passed their prime, it's into the trash they go. Except...I can't help re-reading what I'm about to rid myself of—and then decide the note really needs just a little bit more work.

Take the scratch paper upon which I had noted several details about an upcoming meeting—a to-do list which, now two years later, is well-qualified to have become a "done" list. It would easily have landed in the recycle bin, except what should catch my eye as it wafted its way downward but a different note added in the margin. In a different color ink, it was a clear spot of paper upon which to hurriedly jot—before I forgot, no doubt—yet one more thing that I absolutely could not neglect to follow up on.

The terse note said only 

Drucilla—died March 3, 1866

Mary A. McLeran's sister

This was the family line descended from the Florida pioneer, ferryman Ruben Charles, father of that Mary-of-the-Red-Scarf legend who, at least as far as I could tell, did not die the tragic death in her youth romanticized in local lore. Here was a note reminding me that I had found mention of her—married, no less—in some of the court proceedings surrounding her husband's sudden death.

Mary's husband, as I recalled once I returned to look this up, was a northern Florida man by the name of William T. McLeran. And William's parents were a North Carolina couple of the early 1800s by the name of Nevin and Rebecca.

Oh. And Rebecca's maiden name was Tison.

That fact had never been lost on me. Let's just say I sort of forgot that little detail this year until I ran across that bit of torn paper now flitting from my fingertips into the trash can. Now, after having spent a month searching high and low for any signs of another Tison's origins in North Carolina—and watching some of his progeny leap the border to settle in territorial Florida—can anyone walk away from this other research temptation and not wonder whether there is yet another, though unseen, connection to ferret out from all this early American era's scant personal records?

Let's just say I'm not exactly walking away from it. I'll just reconstitute that shredded note and fold it in with the file containing my to-list for the next time we ponder those mystery Tisons from North Carolina. The books must remain closed on that case for now. We've got another task to tackle for our February research challenge. 

Florida Crackers

 

Depending on whom you consult, the term Florida Cracker may refer to immigrants from as early as colonial times to more recent arrivals—well, make that around Civil War times—in Florida. The point of the term is to delineate those who were pioneer settlers, generally of European heritage, in the region which eventually became Florida. Many of those immigrants were North American colonizers who moved south from the Carolinas and Georgia, some of whom were Scots-Irish, Irish, or English by ancestry, often moving along the frontier regions of each of those states before arriving in Florida.

Among Floridians, the term is sometimes used simply to denote that their family has been in Florida for many generations. Of course, genealogists—not about to lose an opportunity to chart such relationships—have come up with designations to honor such pioneer residents, and the Florida State Genealogical Society has made their database of "Florida Pioneers" publicly available on their website. Not surprisingly, some Townsend family members—such as the one I mentioned the other day, Allen Townsend, possible brother of my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend Charles—have been recognized in that category of early settlers to territorial Florida.

When the Townsends came to north Florida during its territorial years, they were among many others who had followed that same migration pattern—moving from South Carolina through Georgia, then eventually across the state line into the northern region of what eventually became Florida. Perhaps the fact that in 1860 a map maker issued a map featuring the counties of Florida, strangely juxtaposed with the state of South Carolina, is no surprise.

Though my family line which leads back through the generations to Delaney Townsend has not been confirmed to the specific identity of her parents—my third research goal for this year—this past month has clarified several possible connections to other Townsend settlers in the area around Madison County. Between my Townsend line and the Charles line she married into—plus the McClellan line of her daughter Emma's husband—I certainly have a number of eligible ancestors to document through the Florida State Genealogical Society's pioneer program. Guess that makes me a "Florida Cracker," too.

Now that the month has come to a close, we'll move on in April to another research goal for 2021. This time, we'll move from my mother's ancestors to my mother-in-law's roots and revisit a challenge from last year which also was left uncompleted. While we put the mystery of Delaney's Townsend roots on hold in Florida and South Carolina, we'll move on to another set of early settlers in the south: the Carrolls in colonial Virginia.

Stops Along the Way

 

It's time to check out what life was like in 1840s territorial Florida. More specifically, this is my chance to see just who my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend, might have been living with in Florida before her March 8, 1841, marriage to Andrew Jackson Charles. After all, a single woman didn't typically travel alone from her home—in Delaney's case, well over four hundred miles away in Marlboro County, South Carolina. Surely by the time of her marriage, she was already resident in the early years of what was then the United States territory of Florida.

As it turned out, by 1840, there were several other Townsends living in Madison County, the same place in territorial Florida where Delaney ended up marrying Andrew Charles. Whether they were her brothers, I can't yet tell. Remember, I'm still holding out for actual documentation to support the oft-repeated assertion that Delaney was daughter of John and Keziah Townsend of Marlboro County, South Carolina. However, keep in mind that some of these Madison County Townsends had descendants who have shown up in my DNA match list.

Others have reported that several sons of John and Keziah Townsend did migrate to Florida during its territorial years—Allen Townsend, for one. With that possibility, I looked page by page through the 1840 territorial census to see if somehow, I could tease out the numbers to spot Delaney hidden away in any of the Madison County Townsend households.

Remember that, unlike the more recent census records in which every resident would be listed by name, the 1840 census, as well as those of earlier decades, listed only the head of household by name. The rest of the home's residents were delineated by marks under brackets divided by gender and age groupings.

Relying on Delaney's sole entry in the 1850 census, I extrapolated an estimate for her year of birth—circa 1816. I also banked on Delaney's arrival in Florida by the time of the 1840 census, since her marriage in 1841 was early in the year. With that thought, I began paging through the territorial census for 1840, looking at each Townsend household to see if I could find any eligible females entered under the age of thirty, but at least twenty years old.

There were several Townsend men listed in that 1840 census. Page six included Allen, David, and James. Page twelve displayed John. Page sixteen was Benjamin's entry, and page eighteen featured "Capt. J." Townsend—surely Jesse.

Despite the several choices, keeping in mind that some of those Townsend men were already married to women who fit Delaney's same age category, I could not find any household which included room for a visiting, soon-to-be married Delaney. Where was she?

That is when I took a closer look at the history of the Florida territory during those years prior to statehood, and the narratives written up on the family histories of some of the sons of John and Keziah Townsend who migrated to Florida.

Turns out, there were stops along the way before these brothers settled in Madison County, Florida. Allen Townsend, for instance, moved in the mid 1820s with his young family plus three of his brothers to a place then called Irwin County, Georgia. Not long after that point, a new county was carved out of Irwin County and dubbed Lowndes County. The Townsend brothers and their families, after leaving their home in South Carolina, first settled in that south Georgia county.

It so happened that, as the Florida territory began opening up to settlers, it was a matter of a little more than forty miles to travel from the county seat of Lowndes County, Georgia, to the county seat of Madison County, Florida—closer even than that, if one were simply crossing the state line from the one county to the other.

While tracing those Townsend migrations, I still couldn't find any sign of Delaney in their households, but I did discover some other helpful information. Among other details, by reading through several documents on the Townsend collateral lines, I gleaned some hints as to just why so many of the Townsend men—including John Townsend's oldest son—chose to leave their home state to settle near the uncertainties of territorial Florida.   

Brainy Idea Meets Bright Shiny Object

 

It has been twenty six days of serious searching, and I am still no more enlightened than when I started my latest research project. I am not any less "stuck" on the puzzle of my third great-grandmother's parents than I was at the beginning of this month. Try what may seem reasonable, I haven't been able to locate any confirming documentation demonstrating that the oft-affirmed John Townsend of Marlboro County, South Carolina, was indeed father of my Delaney Townsend Charles. On the other hand, neither have I been able to locate any records pointing to someone else as her father.

Since the earliest record I have found which specifically named Delaney Townsend is her 1841 marriage record in Madison County, Florida, the thought has struck me that it seemed odd, given the time period and the territorial status of the land at that time, for a single woman from South Carolina to be on her own, hunting for a husband well over four hundred miles from her (supposed) parents' home.

What if Delaney Townsend's parents weren't John and Keziah Townsend? The elder Townsends were said to have had several sons who had migrated to northern Florida to acquire land, including two—Allen and Benjamin—whose descendants are my DNA matches at Ancestry.com. Though lack of satisfactory documentation causes me to hesitate at assuming John was my ancestral root, there are plenty of resources to trace the lines forward from either Allen or Benjamin.

That, then, became my brainy idea of what to do next: to at least examine the documented lines leading from those Townsend DNA matches to the specific Madison County, Florida, Townsends. Mainly, the idea is to examine any historical references which could shed any light on why Delaney might have gone to Florida with any of these other Townsend men. Whether her parents remained back in South Carolina—or turned out to actually be one of the Townsends who settled in northern Florida—at least I could access reliable documentation to lead me back to that Townsend generation.

First step was to head to my DNA match list at Ancestry.com to look up all my matches whose tree contained the surname Townsend.

That's about as far as I got. What I saw there transfixed me. I'm a sucker for Bright Shiny Objects. And I saw one.

I had first read about this change at Ancestry.com last week, when I perused Randy Seaver's "Best of" column on his blog, Genea-Musings. There, leading off last week's list, was an article appearing in Memories in Time, the blog of New Zealand genealogist Fiona Brooker. The article detailed an update for Ancestry.com's DNA match listings.

I read the article through, but though it appeared back on March 15, the appearance of the panel announcing the change, posted on Fiona's blog, did not look familiar to me.

Not until last night, at least, when I got my Brainy Idea to pursue the other Townsend families who were Delaney's neighbors in northern Florida. First thing I did was pull up my DNA match list to search for matches with the surname Townsend in their tree.

Actually, I should say I tried to pull up that match list. Before I could get to the spot I wanted, I was confronted with a card looking much the same as the one in Fiona's blog.

 

Clicking through, I found that I did have that Ancestry update, after all. It just got to New Zealand sooner than it arrived in California.

Everything looked so different that, rather than stay focused on my current research mission, I had to take a look around. I noticed several additions besides the heralded ability to "select multiple matches to add to groups." 

For one thing, the shared genetic material is now given in two formats: centiMorgan measurement and percentage. Matches' trees, where available on Ancestry.com, are now either called "public linked tree" or "private linked tree." Most convenient of all: any notes I've made on a particular match can now be seen directly under that person's entry on the match list. No more hunting for where I parked a note to myself on a specific individual. And to the far right of that same bar is the edit pencil which, when clicked, allows the quick addition to, or removal from, the designated family groups I've already set up.

The tabs at the top of the match page seem to remain the same as before, which is fine for me. Too much re-arranging of the "furniture" on a web page causes too much down time while the weary eyes seek whatever became of favorite features. No problem with this change: the items now added to the match entries speed the process of organizing my matches, while the familiarity of the tabs in the header keep me grounded in the functionality I already have come to appreciate.

And with that bedazzled moment of oooh-ahh over the Bright Shiny Object, I'll now be back to delving into those Townsend neighbors of the single, marriageable Delaney. Now, it's back to 1840s Florida territory, wondering just what brought that single woman four hundred miles from home at a time like that.

Still Grinding Away

 

I'm still on a month-long genealogical wrestling match, er, mission to find the parents of my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend. She, living in Florida along with her husband Andrew Charles, disappeared from sight—well, at least governmental sight in census records—sometime between the 1850 census and the one taken ten years later.

Yes, in a way, I am still grinding away at this problem in the background, making genealogical sausage. The boring stuff I promised I wouldn't detail—at least, not too much—here in posts.

Turns out, even though "browsing" through microfilmed probate records may sound tedious, the process has a rhythm to it. After reading up on what's available at the FamilySearch.org wiki—and spotting (with dread) the locked icon which signifies a film which usually is only available for viewing at the Family History Library (a place inaccessible during these pandemic times), I clicked through to see what would happen with my collection of choice.

Somewhat like a very surprised Alice in Wonderland, I discovered those iron gates opened to me of their own accord. Apparently, in the midst of my searching, the lock icon had been removed. Now, all I have to do is "browse" through 654,824 images to find my guy, John Townsend, the supposed father of Delaney Townsend Charles.

That record set with the 654,824 images is held in the file called "South Carolina Probate Records, Files and Loose Papers, 1732-1964." See? Simple.

Actually, the process is not as overwhelming as it sounds. First, I select the county of interest. Since John Townsend—the name indicated by so many others who have researched this family line including my Delaney—lived in Marlboro County, South Carolina, and actually was buried there in 1843, that, obviously, was my first choice, though I may also have to search in any other county where he might have owned property.

The next step—after reading up on what to expect in the collection—was to head first for the file labeled "Index to Estate Papers." That began the hunt-and-peck method: locate the "T" section by picking a landing spot within the "tiles" in this mosaic of thumbnail sketches of digitized pages from the microfilm. Then, when I landed on the right letter of the alphabet, I realized I overshot my goal, landing well into the 1900s—the date range for this collection being 1732 through 1964—and I had to backtrack, page by page, opening up each thumbnail picture to enlarge the page.

When I finally arrived at the page containing both the right alpha character and the closest date range—the first entry on the index page began with the year 1795—I read through all the surnames entered. There were, encouragingly, several Townsends entered on that page. Unfortunately, none of them was John Townsend. In fact, the dates in the margin of the index jumped from 1835 to 1846, skipping right over the year of John Townsend's supposed death.

Remembering my search through the wills for a different branch of my family—for a man whose estate took over twenty years to settle—I made sure to page through to check on later dates, just in case John's will showed up in a later entry. No luck. 

I also recalled that sometimes, a wife might inherit property from her husband, which then might require a separate will, and looked for Keziah Townsend's name in later entries (she died in 1858). No sightings.

You know I'll be checking on this further, in case there was a filing system I've yet to gain the knack of exploring. In addition, though John and Keziah were buried in Marlboro County, if they spent their later years living in a different county, perhaps their property went through probate in a different location. There is certainly more to explore before I cry "uncle" over this genealogical wrestling match.

 

About Documentation

 

Face it: when it comes to tracing a person's lineage, that simply cannot be done convincingly without the use of solid documentation. Documentation demonstrates legal connections—not just identifying who a person was, but how that person was connected to the generation beforehand. Whether through a demonstration of rights of inheritance via a marriage record or a will, or establishment and maintenance of property rights through deeds or property tax records, legal records—those documents we seek—help us trace our lineage back through the generations.

It may seem I'm picky, hearing my rants about lack of documentation linking my third great-grandmother, Delaney Townsend Charles, to her parents' generation. Why not simply grab onto the assertions written by countless others researching this same line? Surely someone knew what they were talking about.

While in the past, lineage societies such as the Daughters of the American Revolution may have accepted as "documentation" items which no longer are considered satisfactory demonstrations of relationship, today's standards may seem much more stringent. That, actually, is a good thing. That paper trail helps others check our work, establish that the reasoning is sound, and that our research has not led us down a mistaken line through faulty conclusions.

The degree of diligence in using documents to establish lines of relationship may seem overwhelming to some, until we get used to that way of thinking. It may, for instance, seem over the top to insist on discovering the year of publication of the family Bible into which all the Townsend dates of birth, marriage, or death were entered. But if that Bible had been printed after the fact of some of those dates, it would not be demonstrating that the record was created at the time of the actual occurrence, but at a later date.

Who's to say the scribe's memory was correct? Who's to say the date was not copied into the Bible incorrectly? While such errors may be made at the time of the event itself, as well, the point is that, when done at the time of the event, the entry is made for the purpose of memorializing the event—not for drawing up a list with the ulterior motive of qualifying oneself for a coveted designation.

The trouble with documentation is that some documents from the early 1800s—or before—may simply not survive the test of time. Some paperwork poorly tended simply disintegrates, given the ravages of time, weather, the gnawing of critters—not to mention the havoc of war, courthouse fires, or outright mismanagement of records (don't even get me started on jurisdictions which decide to simply toss the records outright).

While that may turn out to be the situation for the parents of Delaney Townsend, wife of Andrew J. Charles, the beauty of documentation is that sometimes, the lack of one type of record may possibly be substituted by a collection of other records. Missing a person in a census record? A collection of tax records may demonstrate that person's continued existence in a specific county, for instance.

At this point, the key documents missing from my search for Delaney are two-fold: not only do I still need some documentation demonstrating Delaney's link to her parents back in South Carolina, but I also need to find records demonstrating what became of her husband's property and the determination of who should care for her children after her death, upon Andrew Charles' passing.

To have not one but several documents missing—and in at least two different jurisdictions, as well—seems odd. But that strange coincidence may actually be pointing out one other factor: that we have come to rely all too heavily on the recent ease of computerized search efforts using digitized documents. 

As much as systems like Ancestry.com or FamilySearch.org may make it seem, not everything is at our fingertips, and we are certainly far from having the entire world's historic documentation digitized. While we are not quite at the stage yet where it is possible to travel again to places where we can access records in person, a complete search may involve writing for records—something far more akin to what genealogical research used to look like before the convenience of computerized record retrieval.

And yet, this is the search we confront when we want to demonstrate a chain of events tying people together from different generations. Documents become a tangible way to display these connections, but they aren't the only way. There is one other demonstration we as genealogists may now use—the record sealed in the core essence of our being: DNA.

Intimations

 

When pieces are missing from the documentation of your family's story, then what? We learn to read between the lines.

I'm struggling with connecting the dots between my third great-grandmother in Florida, Delaney Townsend Charles, and her Townsend roots back in South Carolina. There are plenty of assertions that her parents were John and Keziah Hays Townsend of Marlboro County, but there are scant references to any paper trail which would confirm such statements.

Still, given what we've got—right now, I'm reading between the typewritten lines of Annie Florence Kinney's D.A.R. membership application, which inexplicably details Delaney's tangential line to her own Kinney lineage—there may be some stray comments which prove helpful.

The main research issues are lack of any death record, probate record, or other final words on the death of Delaney or her husband, Andrew J. Charles, and lack of much of the same for Delaney's supposed father. We can find Delaney and Andrew and their children in the 1850 census, living in Madison County in northern Florida. By 1860, all we can find are their children—living in someone else's household.

That household, as we've already seen, was headed by the second husband of Andrew Charles' sister Drucilla, so theoretically, there should be some documentation specifying the guardianship arrangement that surely was established. But without documentation, we are only guessing.

The assumption is easy to make that some great misfortune befell the couple, causing their death and leaving their children orphaned. Although that leaves us a wide gap of time for our conjecture—anywhere from the date the 1850 census was taken to just before any mortality schedule would be drawn up for the 1860 census—the diligent approach would be to scour any available records, not only in the location of their 1850 residence, but including the counties lying between Madison and the home of their children's guardian in 1860.

In the meantime, there are some aspects of usefulness to the quandary of re-reading and re-reading the same sorry details we've already collected. Take, for instance, this passage, gleaned first from a website featuring the Townsend genealogy and then from the source document referenced in that website, a copy of Annie Florence Kinney's D.A.R. application (note brackets indicate handwritten correction entered in the original application):

After the death of Andrew Jackson Charles, Mr. Light Townsend ([grand]father of John R. of Blenheim) went to Fla. and brought his two nieces back to Marlboro County with him and reared them in his home.

In providing this explanation, applicant Annie Florence Kinney provides us a clue as to what became of my second great-grandmother's parents. It's a small clue, of course, but it helps paint a scenario of how events unfolded.

Note the narrative states, "After the death of Andrew," not "after the death of Andrew and Delaney." The text is intimating that Delaney died before her husband—possibly from causes unrelated to Andrew's own death. Continuing this examination further, as there seems to be confusion over how many sons Delaney had, this scenario might have intimated that Delaney could have died following childbirth, possibly of that second, unexplained son mentioned in the same D.A.R. application.

Of course, nothing explains—yet—just why the death of the second parent prompted the relatives of the first parent to come claim the children. Nor does that help us understand why those relatives, living a greater distance from the Charles children, superseded the guardianship claims of the nearby relatives, who also lived in northern Florida.

Another clue to help pinpoint a timeline of these unfortunate events might be that Andrew Charles' sister—Drucilla, the one who, after her second marriage, did take in the Charles orphans—could have been otherwise occupied with her own tragedy at the time of Andrew's death. Drucilla's last daughter with her first husband was born in January of 1858, and her next child, with the second husband, was born in April of 1860, hinting at the possibility that she would not be in a position to take in three additional relatives any time around 1857 until the time of their actual arrival before June 22, 1860.

Still, dissecting the wording on a D.A.R. application only fuels our conjectures about what did actually happen. To know for sure, we'd need to see documentation—the very thing we are now lacking. Though a solidly constructed proof argument can work wonders, that only stands if we can weave a web of reasoning with enough indisputable data points to connect the dots logically. At this point, those dots are too few and far between to draw up the argument that the patriot John Townsend was Delaney's father.

Yes, She Was Listed

 

First, let's get to the punchline: yes, my third great-grandmother Delaney Townsend Charles was included in the listing of "Children of Revolutionary Ancestor" in the D.A.R. application of one descendant of patriot John Townsend. The unfortunate difficulty with that application, though, is that it might seem unclear just how Delaney's connection was verified.

The 1948 application of Annie Florence Kinney for membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution linked her, generation by generation, to John Townsend by providing various documents for the required verification. On a page in the 1948 D.A.R. application labeled "References for Lineage," the instructions stated,

Proofs for line of descent are wills, administrations, deeds, church, Bible, census and pension records, tombstones, histories, genealogies, old newspapers, etc.

For the most part, Ms. Kinney provided certified lists from two family Bibles (a Kinney family Bible and a Townsend family Bible), as well as citing the will for John Townsend's son (Light), the 1850 census, and the unfortunately vague J. A. W. Thomas' entry on the Townsend family in A History of Marlboro County. The Townsend family Bible, despite sounding like a promising source, was printed in 1839, missing the mark for being a contemporaneous record for births dating back to the earlier part of that century. Likewise, the Light Townsend will wouldn't necessarily provide us a resource for identifying his siblings. 

Nevertheless, in Ms. Kinney's D.A.R. application, on that same page, under "References for Lineage," was a second section labeled "Children of Revolutionary Ancestor." Ms. Kinney had provided the names, dates of birth, and—sometimes—name of spouse for the thirteen children of John and Keziah Hays Townsend. In order, they were:

• Jessie
• James A.
• John
• Light
• Joel Wilson
• Allen
• Arpie
• David
• Fereba
• Benjamin
• Isham
• Delaney Rosella
• Hester Ann

Underneath that typewritten list of names was the handwritten statement, "children check are from Bible + Cemetery records sent by applicant."

Delaney's name was not checked.

Enclosed with the supplemental records accompanying the D.A.R. application was a section headlined, "Proof of children of John and Keziah Townsend: with births, marriage." The beauty of having a digitized copy of that actual typewritten document is that by viewing the document on my computer (rather than as a printed form), I can enlarge it to see the sometimes difficult to decipher handwritten notes inserted between the typewritten lines.

Thus, here we have the difference between the version I previously wrote about, as it was found in another Townsend researcher's website, and the version updated with the inserted comments as they likely were intended to read.

First, the transcription:

Delaney was the Aunt of Mr. John R. Tow[n]send of Blenheim. Delaney Rosella Townsend married Andrew Jackson Charles.... The daughters of Mrs. Delaney Rosella Townsend Charles were Emma and Fanny and she also had two sons. After the death of Andrew Jackson Charles, Mr. Light Townsend (father of John R. of Blenheim) went to Fla. and brought his two nieces back to Marlboro County with him and reared them in his home.

What was added by hand to the original typed document is now added in bold:

Delaney was the great Aunt of Mr. John R. Tow[n]send of Blenheim....

That, of course, puts the relationship in clearer perspective—and causes me to wonder what other errors were not corrected.

There were more notes of interest. (This time, I'll include the handwritten corrections in the text, again indicating the additions by boldface.)

Names, births and to whom married when known were sent to Mr. John R. Townsend, Blenheim, S. C. (a direct descendant of John Townsend, Revolutionary soldier) (and grandson of Light) by the granddaughter of Delaney Rosella Townsend, Mrs. Fannie Rowell, Welbourne, Fla.

This was the same section in which the applicant explained,

After the death of Andrew Jackson Charles, Mr. Light Townsend (grandfather of John R. of Blenheim) went to Fla. and brought his two nieces back to Marlboro County with him and reared them in his home. They were Emma and Fanny.

After that point, the applicant explained that Emma and Fanny returned to Florida and were married. Emma's husband is referred to only by his surname, McClellan. The text then explains that Fannie Rowell was Emma's daughter.

Dissecting this unclear passage—let alone the reason for its inclusion—may make it seem to indicate a less than stellar source of verification. The narrative seems to indicate that the names, along with dates of birth and marriage details, were actually supplied to John R. Townsend by Fannie Rowell.

Keeping in mind that John R. Townsend was Light Townsend's grandson—and thus the patriot's great-grandson—and that Fannie Rowell was born at the end of 1882, long after her grandmother Delaney's departure, it seems less than reliable to accept the one feeding the other dates gleaned not by documentation, but by oral report. It is not the entry in a family Bible which makes the record certifiable, but the contemporaneous entry of the details—in other words, entered at the time of each occurrence—which lends it authenticity.

While I still haven't been able to locate a will for John Townsend, and now also feel shrouded in doubt over the reliability of the listing of his children in the post-1838 Townsend family Bible, the wording provides some food for thought regarding other details about Delaney and her husband, Andrew Charles. After all, there is no denying there was some connection between the two families. Let's take a deeper dive next week into what the wording on this application might have tangentially revealed to us.