When Two Families Collide

 

It was at a local genealogical society meeting when, just for fun, several of those in attendance pulled out their phones, logged in to the FamilySearch app, and fired up "Relatives Around Me." The goal was to see whether—at least, according to the universal tree at FamilySearch.org—anyone in the meeting room that day was sitting near a distant cousin. You never know when, generations past, two families' ancestral lines might have collided.

It turned out that one woman in the meeting just happened to get a result indicating that she and I were distant cousins. Her ancestor? Someone surnamed Hardee. Mine? My brick wall fourth great-grandfather, Job Tyson. Supposed shared origin for those two? Pitt County, North Carolina.

Now, I know that sometimes the universal tree at FamilySearch.org can contain mistakes. I didn't get too excited about that discovery back then—and even now, I'm struggling to find documentation to cement the connection. But I didn't ignore it, either. My newfound cousin and I have been collaborating, as time permits, to seek out the explanation for how those two lines are related.

But Hardee. And Pitt County. While I'm stuck with that designation of Pitt County, North Carolina, for the origin of my Tyson ancestors, I did remember that Relatives Around Me readout pointed to that other surname, Hardee or Hardy. I kept looking for an explanation that might make sense. This weekend's discovery of a Hardee family history manuscript, a copy of which I found posted at Ancestry.com, reminds me that this is a worthwhile route to re-examine.

Sure enough, pushing the line back far enough—starting from Job Tyson's son William Tison, to William's wife Mary Ellis Hardee—I then continued the Hardee line, according to what was written in the David Hardy manuscript. Mary's father, Thomas Ellis Hardee, was said to have been son of John Hardee and Sarah Ellis.

Following the family line upwards from there two additional generations, the Tyson surname once again popped up in this Hardee manuscript. This time, the manuscript contained a mention of the wife of another John Hardee: he had married someone named Susannah Tyson. The line entry for this couple noted they were in Pitt County, North Carolina.

With that brief outline, I now had another possible connection between the two families. More importantly, the line brought the Hardee family from Camden County in Georgia—not far from where Job Tyson lived in Glynn County, and the same county where the witness to Job's will, another ancestor named Charles McClellan, also lived at that time.

With connections seemingly pointing in the right direction, it was time to check out this assertion with actual documentation, a task on my to-do list for this week. 

When Friends Become Family

 

While conducting a search for the friends, associates, and neighbors of a brick wall ancestor may seem rigorous, the effort doesn't seem so daunting when you realize some members of a "F.A.N. Club" eventually become family. As we explore the Georgia men behind the names appearing in Job Tyson's will—and then in the will of West Sheffield—we'll find additional intermingling with that one surname appearing in the Tyson legal documents: McClellan.

Two McClellan men in 1824 witnessed Job Tyson's will. One, whose identity I don't yet know, was named Joseph McClellan—the same name, albeit not the same middle initial, as the McClellan mentioned in West Sheffield's own will. Later in that same year of 1824, Joseph personally appeared in court in Glynn County, Georgia, to confirm that the document in question was indeed the last will of Job Tyson.

The other McClellan man whose signature was affixed to the Tyson will was Charles McClellan, who eventually became father-in-law of Job's daughter Sidnah. Charles thus was my fourth great-grandfather, whose McClellan line has been a focus of my research for years. Researching the extended McClellan family line meant discovering that Charles had a brother, Andrew, who also seemed to move in tandem with Charles over the years, helping to track them back to their supposed origin.

While it is frankly possible to be misled by reporting parties of centuries long gone, all we can do is work to corroborate the reports we find. In the McClellan case, any hopes of finding the brothers in the same pre-Georgia locations as Job Tyson were dashed. When we fast-forward to the 1850 census for the first chance to view such information, Sidnah's husband George McClellan reported his birthplace to be in South Carolina, not the North Carolina location attributed by reports to Job Tyson.

In fact, I was able to find entries in the 1800 census for two households—one for George's father Charles, the other for Charles' brother Andrew—in the Orangeburg District of South Carolina. It took a lot of exploring to find anyone related to this F.A.N. club who was connected to a North Carolina origin. That family was headed by Jacob Highsmith, who was father-in-law of Andrew McClellan. Andrew's wife Sarah was said to have been born in Pitt County, North Carolina. Indeed, turning to the 1800 census for Pitt County, there was Sarah's father Jacob Highsmith heading the top of this page in the record.

Since we're now in the neighborhood, I couldn't help but take a look at the Tison entries there. Sure enough, there were plenty of Tisons in Pitt County in 1800, including that one I had previously mentioned, for "Joab" Tison. Same as our Job? Hard to tell at this point. I'd still like to find more details on Job's origin before presuming we have found our answer.

Friends, Associates, and Matchmakers

 

What better way to determine an ancestor's origin than to discover where he met his future spouse? If puzzling over just how Job Tyson first met the good friends who witnessed his will didn't provide us any guidance, there are others in the Tyson "F.A.N. Club"—friends, associates, and neighbors—who could still help point the way for us. Perhaps they even played the role of matchmakers.

One of those other F.A.N. Club possibilities was a man named West Sheffield, father of Sidnah Sheffield, who eventually became Job Tyson's wife. Fortunately for us in this exploration, unlike Sidnah who, like most women of the early 1800s, was virtually invisible, her father West Sheffield left a paper trail of useful documents.

Since West Sheffield served in the American Revolution, there are some records concerning key points of his life. He was, for instance, recipient of both land grants for his service in the war, as well as headrights for land in Camden County, Georgia as early as 1812. While Camden County was near Job Tyson's Georgia residence in Glynn County, Job's marriage to West Sheffield's daughter about 1790 may have indicated that the two families met elsewhere, as so far, I have found no records of residence in Georgia before that early 1800s date.

Job Tyson's wife outlived him by over twenty years. Fortunately for us, Sidnah lived until 1855, leaving us a trace of her reported earlier whereabouts through her entry in the 1850 census. To find that, though, means learning that after Job's death, Sidnah quickly remarried. Thus in 1850, by then twice-widowed, Sidnah, now surnamed Peck, was living in her own household next door to her son John Tison. She reported for herself her birthplace in—wait for it—North Carolina.

The question, of course, would be whether Sidnah met her intended, Job Tyson, back in her native state, or somewhere else. Keeping in mind that her father West Sheffield was a Patriot, I checked for his record through the D.A.R. website. There, his record stated that while he served from Georgia, he was born in North Carolina in 1747. Indeed, looking at a published biographical sketch of West Sheffield, obtained from volume 3 of Folks Huxford's Pioneers of Wiregrass Georgia, the writer gave Sidnah's year of birth as 1776. Was the Sheffield family living in North Carolina then, if her father served in Georgia?

By the time of Sidnah's wedding, it's unclear where her family was located. I have so far been unable to locate a marriage record. Still, if we fast-forward to the 1850 census for each of her oldest three daughters, they were reported to have been born in the earliest years of the 1800s in Georgia, not in North Carolina.

With that possibility exhausted of finding any link to tie Job Tyson back to his parents' home in any location other than Georgia, there is one more lead to explore for this examination of the Tyson F.A.N. Club. When I reviewed West Sheffield's own will, I noticed a familiar name pop up among the witnesses: McClellan. That, as I had mentioned yesterday, was a surname appearing twice in Job Tyson's own will—first for witness Charles McClellan, and then another entry for someone listed originally as "J. H." McClellan, and then spelled out as Joseph H. McClellan.

Looking now at West Sheffield's own will from 1830, someone listed as "J. A." McClellan, then signed as Joseph McClellan, once again made an appearance. Could this Joseph be the same as the witness in the Tyson will? If so, we need to see what we can find about the origin of those McClellans. 

With a Little Help From his Friends

 

If we can't pinpoint the origin of a distant ancestor through the information usually provided in more modern times, perhaps we can get a little help from his friends in determining the family's history. When it comes to my fourth great-grandfather Job Tison—a.k.a. Job Tyson—I've heard stories, but I haven't been able to verify them as facts. It's time to reach out to examine a second point of view: the clues we can find through the friends, associates, and neighbors of our mystery ancestor.

In Job Tison's case, it seems he spent most of his adult life in Glynn County, Georgia. Certainly by 1820, his name appeared—as Job "Tyson"—in the Glynn County census, but that was only a few years before he drew up his will.

His will, as it turns out, provided us with two names of trusted associates: Charles McClellan and J. H. McClellan, whose name later in the document was rendered as Joseph H. McClellan. These two McClellan men became the witnesses of Job Tyson's will, with Joseph appearing in court on September 21, 1824, to testify concerning the decedent's last testament.

Conveniently for us as we research the extended family of Job Tyson, at least Charles McClellan figures in the future history of Job's descendants. Charles, it turns out, was father of George McClellan, who a few years later became husband of Job's daughter Sidnah. 

Charles McClellan, it turns out, lived one county to the south of Job Tyson's wayside inn in Glynn County.  By 1817, his name appeared in headright and bounty documents in Camden County, a Georgia county which at that time formed the southernmost international border between the United States and the Spanish claim to a territory which eventually became the state of Florida. No surprise, then, to see Charles and his family eventually migrate farther south, once that Florida territory became the possession of the United States.

How Charles McClellan became a close enough associate with Job Tyson to be asked to witness his will, I can't say. For our purposes today, though, I was curious to determine just where Charles McClellan might have originated, in case he and Job were associates from a time before their residence in Georgia.

Constructing a family tree for Charles' children—mainly to advance their story to records of a later date to reveal their own places of birth—it was easy to spot the change in the family's location. For the five McClellan children born before Charles received the 1817 authorization to survey his newly-acquired property in Georgia, each child was said to have been born in South Carolina. Even the child born after that point—son Charles in 1819—was a South Carolina native. Only with the birth in 1822 of his next son, Samuel, did the census listings of births switch to Georgia.

Granted, from that 1822 date until Job Tyson's will was drawn up in early 1824 was not much time to develop a new friendship, or even a working relationship. That might suggest that Job Tyson and Charles McClellan knew each other prior to their respective relocations to Georgia. But South Carolina? I've seen people state that Job Tyson's family came from North Carolina. This didn't seem to confirm such a F.A.N. Club notion.

There was, however, another person to turn to in seeking Job's origin. The one pointing the way might have been Job Tyson's own father-in-law, West Sheffield, a Revolutionary War Patriot we'll consider tomorrow.

Family History is All About Connections

 

Family history can sometimes seem like a solitary pursuit: the lone researcher, sequestered in her office or musty archive, poring over documents long forgotten in search of that elusive brick wall ancestor. That certainly is how it feels, at times. This week, though, one instance of a person reaching out to send a message set in motion a chain of events connecting several people who had never before met each other.

It all started with a message received on my Ancestry account. A genealogist was reaching out from a family association, in hopes I could connect her to a woman I had listed in my family tree. The genealogist wanted to find this woman in order to access photographs the woman had, years ago, written the genealogist to say she'd be willing to share, if ever the genealogist got around to writing the promised book on the woman's own family line.

Well, now was the time to write that book, but obviously, if the genealogist could find that woman's name in my family tree, it meant only one thing: the woman was no longer alive.

Despite her passing years ago, I clearly remember speaking with that woman when she was still alive, because she herself had published a book on my own family's McClellan line. It was a well-researched book, and I was so excited when I had found it that I purchased not only one copy for myself, but several more to give to family members.

Apparently, I gave away one too many copies of that book. Years later, looking for my copy, I couldn't find it. Nor could my sister find her copy—who knows what happened to the other copies. Trying to purchase another copy was unsuccessful; it was long out of print. Besides, by then, the author had passed away.

But then came that message at Ancestry from this other book-writing genealogist looking for the author of my family's story. And here I was, having moved on from my Florida-based research project last month, yet still looking for the descendants of those Townsend and Charles lines—one of which happened to marry a McClellan.

This month, I was still inputting Townsend, Charles, and McClellan descendants into my tree at Ancestry.com when up popped one of those ubiquitous hints: someone else also had that McClellan ancestor in their family tree. Usually, I don't use that hint option, choosing instead to rely on my own document-based research. But hey, wait a minute: the tree's owner was someone with that same surname. I think I found a cousin!

Looking closely at that tree, I realized the Ancestry subscriber happened to descend from that same specific branch as the McClellan author. Taking a chance, I reached out to that tree owner and told my story about the genealogist from the family association wanting to get copies of those pictures for a soon-to-be-published book. Could this person help? And, oh, by the way, any idea how I could get a copy of that book I lost from the tree owner's immediate family contacts?

There is something magical about posting a message online at night, then waking up the next morning with the answer I'd never expect to receive. I usually give my email address in notes I send via Ancestry's messaging service. What had just happened overnight was that that McClellan contact sent me a digitized version of the book I had long since lost—and promised to work on gathering those family photographs for the genealogist back at the family association, the one whose initial message had gotten this whole search rolling in the first place.

Each one of us sits on a treasure trove of our own family's history: the photos, the keepsakes and memorabilia, the stories. Those details are not just ours, though; they belong to all our cousins, close as well as distant. The blank spot in our tree might be the labeled photograph in someone else's pedigree; the letter passed down to us that was saved by our great-grandparents might have come from another cousin's great-grandmother.

Just as our families intertwined in those past generations of our greats and great-greats, so we can do once again in our interconnected world now. From fun family tree apps like FamilySearch's "Relatives Around Me" or the recent "Relatives at RootsTech," we have quick and easy tools at our fingertips to reach out and touch someone else's life—or at least their family history progress. Connections with cousins can make it possible for us to know the rest of our family's story.  

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.

Capturing Connections

 

There is a lot which can be learned about genealogical research by reading about marketing techniques. I already realized that, but I don't think I really felt it, deep down in the core of my being, until I stepped through this impromptu research goal for the last week of November.

I stood a lot to be gained by this McClellan cousin connection unfolding over the past few days. Information on ancestors, yes. But more than that, I gained some insight on just what these McClellan ancestors were really like. I got to hear the stories captured in the memories of their now-aging descendants. And I realized something: the way to inspire others to fall in love with their ancestors is really through their stories—but not just any stories. The stories which captivate, which trigger an emotional response, which draw others in, rather than away, are the ones we need to highlight.

The marketing advice is this: when you write or talk, focus on key words which trigger an emotion. Let that key word or phrase be the theme of the vignette you are sharing. What resonates with your relatives? How can your ancestor's story harmonize with that?

Of course, to accomplish that, you need far more than just the dates and places where your ancestors were born, married, or died. It may require you to become familiar with local history, or to read between the lines on key events in an ancestor's timeline. To say, for instance, the family moved first to Oklahoma, then after a while moved to California is far less interesting than to say your destitute ancestral couple and their ten children had just plunked down their last few dollars on their mortgaged farm in Cimarron County, farthest west portion of the Oklahoma panhandle, when the Dust Bowl conditions caused them to lose all. Names and dates we have trouble relating to, but losing everything in the face of a natural disaster is a story evoking memories of our own tragic experiences. When we hear stories full of emotional experiences, then we can relate.

It has been an eye-opening experience for me, getting my older cousins to talk about their childhood memories of the grandparents, grand-aunts and -uncles whom they knew personally in their younger years. Of course, I am interested in gathering such stories of relatives I never met, but that is because I am interested in family history—I assumed. But I have come to realize that it is stories of this sort which we can use to get others in the family interested in our heritage, as well. We need to focus on those words, those stories which trigger emotions—memories of exceptional challenges, near-misses, deep feelings. Very few people can relate to names and dates, but we all have had experiences we'll never forget. Those are the keys to introducing vignettes of our heritage to the rest of our family, of providing the link to connect us with the strangers who were once our ancestors.

Partnering With Cousins to Tell our Story

 

With a smile—and perhaps a twinkle of the eye—some researchers talk about "cousin bait" when they discuss strategy for working on brick wall ancestors. It all seems so far-fetched, this hope that a total stranger who happens to be a relative might know more about an ancestor than we do. After all, we are the diligent researchers, doing everything possible to find that elusive answer to our research question. But think about it: even if your immediate family wasn't the one to inherit great-grandmother's treasure trove of family photographs, surely somebody did.

That is the cousin we all want to find.

Face it: our family story would not be complete without the addition of all the voices in that family. Even those cousins for whom a two minute talk about genealogy would sent them into spasms of "MEGO" (My Eyes Glaze Over). The challenge is not only to find those cousins, but to inspire them to become part of the family history conversation.

Some cousins may want only to share a picture, then back out of the research project. That's fine. Every little step is still a step forward. One clue can lead to another. That old sales question—"if you're not interested in buying, could you refer me to someone who would like this?"—could apply here. Never leave one participating cousin without securing a referral to another cousin who might know more.

Others, though, may offer up one gem, then another, and pretty soon you realize you have been bestowed with a wealth of family information.

Those contacts may arrive after a well-planned "cousin bait" campaign, or they may come at you unbidden, at the least expected time. The other day, I mentioned meeting up unexpectedly with a distant McClellan cousin while touring a local genealogical society's library holdings on a visit to my great-grandfather Rupert McClellan's birthplace in Wellborn, Florida. While I descend from Rupert McClellan's grandfather George, this cousin claims George's brother Henry Young McClellan, also a Florida pioneer. She was quite willing to give me a printout of her McClellan line from her desktop genealogy program. Since I set aside this last week of November to work on my McClellan roots, I've revisited that document and am slowly working my way through it, confirming details as I add the information to my tree at Ancestry.com.

As I work through this gift from a cousin I never knew, I'm reminded of all the other times I've benefitted from collaborating with cousins. Some cousins have turned out to be longstanding research partners, each of us working on parallel projects, then sharing our results with each other. It makes for a more enjoyable exchange.

But how do you find such willing cousin collaborators? Years ago, when I first moved my research online, I relied on those genealogy forums—remember RootsWeb and GenForum?—where people could post their research queries in hopes of connecting with The Cousin Who Has All The Answers. Many times, those efforts gained me nothing. But other times, the results were like striking gold in the mother lode.

That was then, but this is now, you might be thinking. True, genealogy forums have morphed and migrated to social media sites, with results not quite as spectacular. There is, however, another way to find cousins, something many of us have accessed for a quite different reason: DNA testing. After all, what do you hope to get lots of when you send in your DNA test kit? Lots of cousins. Yes, many of them only wanted to see if they could exchange their lederhosen for a kilt and will never reply to messages from matches. But there are many other DNA testers who are quite interested in connecting with their DNA cousins. 

These can be our best potential collaborators if we can approach them tactfully and interest them in at least beginning to compare notes. Those who are truly interested—and able to equally share in the research process—will make themselves obvious in the process. Though some will not follow through, it is so worth the investment in time to find cousins who are willing to enter into an ongoing research conversation to discover all we can about our missing—or misunderstood—ancestors. 

Stalking the Missing Sibling

 

Collaboration is an important ingredient in piecing together a family's history. Think of your ancestral story like the parable of the blind men encountering an elephant. Each man envisioned a different reality, based on his own experience. The problem was that each one's vantage point allowed for a very limited segment of the entire truth of the matter.

I've heard people tell how they were not able to discover what happened to a brick wall ancestor until meeting up with a distant cousin who knew the rest of the story. Then, together, they each were able to piece together the entire story, gathering the missing details connecting their two versions of what really happened. In one example shared with me by a local society member, she couldn't figure out where her ancestor came from—until she ran across a story online, thanks to newly-discovered DNA matches. Her matches thought a missing sibling of their ancestor had died young, when she knew he had run away from home.

I had to laugh when a McClellan DNA cousin sent me some photographs to identify recently. He was trying to find a family picture which included my great-grandfather, Rupert McClellan. His explanation for why Rupert didn't seem to be in any of the photos: that sibling had left home early, bound for Tennessee. Perhaps, my DNA cousin mused, starting his own family was why Rupert didn't seem to visit his childhood residence in Florida as frequently as his siblings had.

Well, true, Rupert did go to Tennessee—for a short while. He also went to Georgia to attend Emory University before he ever headed to Tennessee, and after that, briefly to Virginia. But I also know that Rupert was back in Florida in time for the 1910 census. By then, he was working as a dentist in Fort Meade. While Fort Meade wasn't exactly in the neighborhood of his native Wellborn, Florida, Rupert was at least back in the same state.

This exchange over family photographs with my DNA cousin gave me the experience of being the one on the other side of the story—the one with the answer to resolve the family mystery. How much easier our research would be for us if we could all find that missing cousin who knows the rest of the story. 

What's Your Question About Your Ancestor?

 

As you work through your family tree, does your mind bombard you with questions? Mine does. Perhaps all those mental detours are what make for an ever-expanding tree. Every time I add a fact to my family tree database, more questions pop into my head. Searching for ancestors, in my opinion, has always required a curious mind.

Perhaps that's why I was so excited to read a recent post on Legacy News from one of our local genealogical society's favorite speakers, Gena Philibert-Ortega. In her November 4 article, Gena asks, "Does Curiosity Drive Your Genealogy Research?" First on her list of must-have tools to effectively develop that curiosity: Ask questions.

As I work with classes of beginning genealogists, I want to ask them: What's your question about your ancestor? Obviously, if we are researching our family's history, we must be wondering about those family members. What, exactly, is it we are pursuing?

Right now—at least for the few remaining days of this month—my question is about all the details my mother's maternal McClellan grandparents knew about their siblings. If I were sitting around the McClellan Thanksgiving dinner table one hundred years ago—or once the dishes were done and that lazy lull overcame everyone as they relaxed in the holiday afterglow—what would be the gist of the chit-chat about the family members who didn't come to dinner?

Those are the types of details you won't find in government records—or, for the most part, even in the local newspaper—but I still do have some fleeting moments to garner a few of those recollections. That's the value of collaborating with cousins, especially cousins met thanks to DNA testing, who also happen to share family photographs.

While I'm working on that project, of course I'm noting everything I find in my family history database. In the past two weeks, I've added 178 names as I comb through my McClellan files and update records. My tree is slowly but steadily growing, and has now reached 30,877 individuals. In the remainder of this month, I'll likely add a few more records and details on that McClellan line before moving on to December's research project, all driven by that need to ask questions about my ancestors to get to know them better.

Of course, focusing on my maternal line at the close of November, and my paternal line earlier this month helped to boost those numbers. On the flip side, the tree for my in-laws stood absolutely still, not budging one bit from the 30,270 I've had for most of November. However, come next spring and my Twelve Most Wanted for 2023, I'll return to asking questions on my mother-in-law's side of the family.

In fact, as I prepare to draw up my Twelve Most Wanted once again, it would help if that list were driven by specific questions for each selected ancestor. Taking a cue from our natural curiosity and phrasing our research projects as questions helps to focus our efforts.   

When You Realize You Already Knew That

 

Researching the McClellan family of Wellborn, Florida, has been a decades-long, stop-and-go process for me. My childhood was filled with stories told by "Aunt Fannie" to all her nieces and nephews (and subsequently to their children and grandchildren), but the real research didn't begin until I had access to digitized records accessible online.

Since I didn't even set foot in the state of Florida until only a few years ago myself, this had not been a destination for any research journeys. The only way to learn about my great-grandfather Rupert McClellan or his many siblings had to be by other means. Of course, like anyone else, I was able to pick him out of such general records as census enumerations, thanks at first to FamilySearch.org, and then through Ancestry.com. It wasn't until this past decade when I learned about alternate resources.

In the meantime, the State Archives of Florida had procured grant funding to digitize and make available online several of their collections. Out of this process grew the website known as Florida Memory.

When I first discovered the site, I explored the holdings simply because of the many Florida relatives I've had, over the decades, who were at least tangentially involved in state politics or administration. Rather, I should say, I found the website—it was an accidental but Eureka! moment—and then promptly forgot about it.

Late this past week, I was reminded of what I had forgotten about. Once again researching my McClellan roots, I stumbled upon several references to records at Florida Memory concerning Rupert McClellan's father, William. Apparently, living in the state when he was of an age to serve in the military during the Civil War, William had later applied for a pension for his service—and after his death, apparently his widow did, also.

In this case, I was fortunate that William apparently had some difficulties with his application, for even pages of his correspondence on the matter were preserved in a file at Florida Memory. Not that there were monumental discoveries unearthed in the many pages I was able to access, but this small cache of records enabled me to take a peek into a few days of the life of my second great-grandfather in a way I could not otherwise have done.

That, however, wasn't something I discovered that time, several years ago, when I first stumbled upon the website. This discovery happened just this week. Yes, I forgot about that resource. It felt like a new discovery, until I realized I had been this way before.

The antidote to such a research mishap, of course, is to keep a research log of where you've been already, and what you found when you were there. That is a fine concept in theory, but I find it increasingly difficult to cope with multiple streams of paper in the face of an increasingly digitized research world. To write such information on paper means not only to somehow remember I wrote that down, but to also recall a summary of what, exactly, I had written. If I can remember that, why bother recording it?! Jumping back and forth from digital to paper means seems awkward.

I'm developing habits of recording such information exactly where I'm working at the time, which for now is mainly online. Most people using Ancestry.com to build their family tree probably realize that the left column of an ancestor's profile page represents the person's timeline—the column labeled "Facts"—while the middle column, which Ancestry labels as "Sources," serves as what I call the footnote column. These entries are editable, and I am starting to add my own information to the columns as my way to incorporate a research log right into my ancestor's own profile page.

By clicking the plus sign to the right of the "Facts" column label, I can enter a wide variety of life event labels to that timeline—everything from A.K.A.s and Bar Mitzvahs to dates of retirement or details of a will. Likewise, the same plus sign button to the right of the "Sources" column header allows me to add website addresses or other information sources outside of those offered in Ancestry's own vast collection. In addition, I can customize any notes to timeline entities I've already entered simply by hovering over the tile for that specific timeline entry and clicking on the "edit" button that pops up to add a note about what I've found—or to make a note of what I still need to find.

Using those simple tools, I now can add the digital equivalent of a sticky note right onto the ancestor's page where I've made a great discovery—or made the discovery that I still need to follow up with more sleuth work. Like the time this week when I discovered a resource that I...oops...already knew about. 

Back to that McClellan Brick Wall—Tomorrow

 

Sometimes, when we promise ourselves that we'll work on that brick wall ancestor—the one we can't find, no matter how thoroughly we search for details—we can't find answers, no matter how hard we try. Other times? Well, for this final week's attempt in November to organize my McClellan family records, it seems something new pops up every time I take another look.

The remaining few days of this month I had set aside to pursue as many details as I could glean on the McClellans of Florida, especially the siblings of my great-grandfather, Rupert McClellan. My inspiration was the posting on Ancestry of several recently scanned family photographs by a distant DNA cousin. I'm grateful to the one cousin for being willing to publicly share those pictures, and I'm also grateful for my own mother's cousin, who has been willing to fill in the blanks on several family details. Some of these stories you just can't find by reading the newspaper—and they certainly can't be found by sticking strictly to government documents. These are the coveted details that bring our ancestors to life again.

While I was working on this project—and, truth be told, sorting through old genealogy paperwork to clear out space before Thanksgiving—what should pop up to remind me I had more records than I thought, but the notes from yet another distant McClellan cousin?! This was a cousin too distant to meet through a DNA match, but close enough to be on our radar as genealogists. This was a cousin I met face to face—and unexpectedly—when my mother's cousin toured me through the little town where the McClellans settled almost two hundred years ago.

We met—no surprise here—at a local genealogy society's private library and office. It just so happened that among the few members manning the society's office the day I visited was someone who also descended from that same McClellan line. She was able to print up a copy of her family tree information to share with me. I had taken that pages-long record home to peruse in more detail, but after cross-checking the information on the first several pages, I had set the folder aside to work on at a later date.

I guess that "later date" is this week. However, we'll need to pick up on the McClellan discoveries tomorrow, as our family's Thanksgiving celebration yesterday lasted farther into the wee hours of this morning than I had expected. It's a good thing that Thanksgiving holiday custom has morphed into a two-day hiatus from work, with "Black Friday" events replacing the spectacle of weary employees dragging back into work after one day of celebrating. I may not be much on holiday shopping the day after Thanksgiving, but I'm always game to do more genealogy research—after taking enough time for a good night's sleep, that is.

Inspiration From Family Photos

 

It's the day before Thanksgiving—at least, here in the United States—when so many turn their thoughts and preparations to gathering with extended family. What better time than now to warm up to a week-long mini-research project based on some virtual visits with cousins over recently-shared family photos?

It was a little over a week ago when a surprise contact from a DNA cousin brought several family photographs to my attention. I had never seen them before, so I passed along the pictures to my mother's cousin for some input. That began a conversation on family memories, prompted by seeing the faces of relatives this cousin hadn't seen in years.

Needless to say, I learned a lot about my maternal grandmother's family in that exchange. It also prompted me to revisit what I had entered in my McClellan family tree about my great-grandfather, Rupert McClellan, and his eight siblings. Since I had last worked on that line—all the children of William and Emma Charles McClellan—I have expanded my genealogy subscriptions which has brought me more information on many members of that family. But not as much information as my mother's cousin was able to provide.

It's time to revisit the McClellan family now, not only because of the additional information I'm finding online on these distant aunts and uncles, but because of the photographs now coming my way.  We'll take the next week to explore what else can be found on Rupert McClellan and his siblings.

In short, while I've already enjoyed discovering life vignettes about my great-grandfather—such as his stint serving as mayor of Fort Meade, Florida—there is much more to learn on Rupert's siblings. Of the nine children of William and Emma, Rupert was second born, trailing his older brother Frank by three years. Following those two sons was another, the short-lived William Robert McClellan. His younger brother Philip was the last of the sons until the reign of McClellan daughters—Asenah, Fannie, and Emily—came to a close with the arrival of two more sons, George and Norman.

All these McClellan children were born on the family property in Wellborn, northern Florida, a tiny rural community in Suwannee County. From 1868, the year Frank was born, until Norman's arrival in 1894, the family grew through post-Civil War and Reconstruction years, and eventually most of the McClellan children dispersed to other locations farther south in Florida, or to other states nearby.

Some pursued professions, some found themselves coupled with idiosyncratic partners, and yet others led a life cut short unexpectedly. All told, there are some family details I've yet to discover. This will be our week to see what we can find on these McClellan siblings whose faces have just now reappeared in the family photographs shared by a generous cousin.

Two Choices: Tilson or Tampa

 

Is it possible to do a flurry of research projects in the last two weeks of this month? Perhaps two weeks will only allow a mere taste of these topics, but that may whet our appetite for second helpings with the new year's goal-setting task on the horizon. Here are my options, borrowed from some behind-the-scenes scouting on questions that popped up in contacts from cousin collaborators.

The first project involves my mother's Tilson line. This is a family with deep roots in colonial New England, although my branch managed to wander from the traditional family stomping grounds. Somehow, this branch of the Tilson line ended up in southwestern Virginia and then, a couple generations later, crossed over into northeastern Tennessee.

I have been chasing records on this family for years, mostly on those annual trips to Salt Lake City to attend SLIG. There are only so many tax records one can capture after a full day of classes, even after nearly a week of being within walking distance of the Family History Library.

The research question which has held me hostage for years is this: can I document this Tilson line's connection to the Murdock family? And from there, to the Bartlett family, then to the Pabodies, and ultimately to the Alden line—as in John and Priscilla of Mayflower fame?

Since the first five generations of Mayflower passengers and their descendants are already well documented, that means I "only" have to come up with paperwork for three generations. And there's the catch: those are the three generations when my Tilsons were wandering in the wilderness of southwest Virginia. Maybe some solid concentration will help me get over this research hump.

Then there's the glorious problem of sorting through the more recent history of my maternal McClellan line, the family with deep roots in northern Florida who more recently made the economic move of settling in a more urban area. That's where Tampa comes in, where my great-grandfather Rupert McClellan set up his dental practice. It seems one of my distant cousins—a DNA match—recently has been working his way through some old family photos, and asked me to help put names to nameless faces. 

I laughed. I haven't seen family photos on this branch of the family at any time in my life (with the exception of my great-grandmother, my mother's beloved grandmother who raised her for one angst-ridden year of her childhood).

My solution to the photo labeling problem? Ask another cousin! Now we have an informal collaboration in which the first cousin emails me photos, then I text them to my other cousin. She, in turn, gets inspired (and often tickled) when seeing these old faces, prompting memories which, of course, she then has to share. With me.

In the Tampa McClellan family's case, I stand to learn a lot of informal family history in this process. It isn't often that we get to access "Rumor Control" for the scoop on just what really went on between family members of prior generations. This is an opportunity I don't want to let slip through my fingers. Setting aside a week or so to chase after details like these would be well worth the detour.

With that overview, let's start tomorrow with the Tilson question. Taxes may be boring, but uncovering Virginia finding aids can be useful. And, as I'm discovering in my behind-the-scenes exploration, there were a lot of Tilsons to follow up on. Maybe one week won't be enough...

Nothing Like Seeing the Actual Records

 

It may not have been one minute too late to explore the Catholic records for Żerków, Poland, home of my Gramlewicz ancestors. But it may be close. Exploring what could be found, now that I've located the digitized records at FamilySearch, clicking through some search results led directly to the page with the scan. But others? The resultant message indicated that the picture could be seen, alright, but only if I go to a Family History Center. Something tells me I better hurry through the accessible files while they may be found.

It is certainly gratifying to view the actual records themselves. Yes, I was grateful for the transcriptions made available by volunteers at two Polish websites I've been using. But there is nothing like seeing an ancestor's name written on a nearly two hundred year old document, like that of the 1839 baptismal record of Piotr, son of my third great-grandparents Andrzej Gramlewicz and Katarzyna Nowicka.

Now that I can pull up the microfilm online, I completed a search for all Gramlewicz kin in Żerków, saving the link to that search request. Bit by bit, I'm reading my way through the records. Some documents are near impossible to read, due to hurried or sloppy handwriting, while others (thankfully!) are easily deciphered.

Because the collection's date range indicates it reaches back farther in time than what I found in the transcription websites, I'm hoping to resolve my primary research question: how do the two main lines of Gramlewicz descendants connect? After all, when I found Annie Gramlewicz in Antoni Laskowski's household in the 1915 New York State census, my great-grandfather called her his niece. I've since found that that is not exactly correct. But I suspect it might be close.

The chase for the right record will not exactly be scintillating, though. I'm torn: keep up the snail's pace as I page through records? Or turn to some other research projects I've been churning through in the background?

In the remaining two weeks left in this month, I'm opting to jump to a faster track and explore at least one of two projects I'm tackling on my maternal lines. One involves what turns out to be the many inter-related lines of my Tilson ancestors from the hills of northeastern Tennessee. The other was inspired by last weekend's unexpected flurry of family photos from some distant McClellan cousins. We'll explore those options tomorrow.

Image above: Parents' names as entered in the 1839 record for Piotr Gramlewicz, baptised in Żerków, Poland; record accessible through FamilySearch.org.

Off the Shelf: From Humble Beginnings

 

When researching family history, I'm always on the lookout for a good story. Sometimes, those stories even come to me prepackaged. A while back, while working on my mother's McClellan line—and entering all the descendants and possible DNA matches into my database—I ran across a fourth cousin to my bookish mother who happened to write his own story. 

Finding a book written by another family member, no matter how distant the relationship, is—for me, at least—an enticing sales proposition. Of course, I had to have a copy of the book. And now, at just the perfect point for sitting at an outdoor cafe for a morning of leisurely reading, I'll be opening the covers of Lamar Jolly's From Humble Beginnings: An Autobiography.

While a number of my distant relatives have enjoyed a successful career in real estate development or other business endeavors, Lamar Jolly's story is somewhat different in that he began with service in the United States Coast Guard. Most of his active duty service was spent as a staff member of the Officer Candidate School on the grounds of the U. S. Coast Guard Academy. The leadership lessons gained from that experience are peppered throughout the book, along with remembrances of key individuals he met who made an impact on the author in his younger years.

While many books by family members are self-published and have a more homespun appearance, such are often the very resources which help us peek inside the life story of relatives we might not otherwise have gotten to know. Page after page in such books, as the tales unwind, we become acquainted with these distant cousins in ways we couldn't glean simply by harvesting facts from vital records or obituaries.

Although not everyone in our family tree may have published a book—or even kept a diary to be passed down through the generations—when we do run across the chance discovery of such a volume, it's time to snatch it up. I'm always glad to make such discoveries, and even happier when I can locate a copy of the book, whether in or out of print.

 

 

Reassessing Research Goals

 

Perhaps I am unlike other family history researchers. I need to set an end date to my research goals, rather than doggedly persisting in the face of continued failure. I learned long ago that though the documents I need may not be available to answer my questions today, someday in the future, they will surface. What works best for me now is to set one research goal per month—thus, my Twelve Most Wanted for any given year—and wrap up at the end of the month with a to-do list for when I revisit the goal in future years.

In the case of my goal for March—to glean any clues I can find indicating the roots of my fourth great-grandfather, Charles McClellan—while I didn't achieve all I hoped to discover, I did make progress. I located some plausible records bolstering what I had assumed was his migration pathway from his early years in South Carolina to his final years in territorial Florida. I also identified a possible brother who may have moved with Charles from South Carolina to Camden County, Georgia—but no farther.

I missed the mark, however, in being able to document names of either of Charles' parents, or even discover a tentative location for Charles' childhood home. Furthermore, some aspects of Charles' life, passed down to me as family tradition, I was unable to confirm, though I did try. For instance, tradition has it that Charles was a Methodist minister, at least by the time he arrived in Georgia. Though I tried contacting the archivist at a repository of Methodist ministerial records, I have yet to receive a reply. That is one lead I still need to pursue.

I am also aware that there are many others whose publicly-posted family trees include my Charles McClellan. Many of them claim a name for Charles' father. Seeing those as possible trailblazers, I will certainly examine any documentation provided in such trees—if there is any listed. The problem, however, is that not all researchers agree on the identity of his parents, causing me to further doubt such resources.

For the next time I pick up the question of Charles McClellan's roots, I will need to mount that learning curve of geopolitical boundary changes in South Carolina, plus reports of likely immigration pathways for South Carolina settlers of the early and mid-1700s. This McClellan line has been reported by family tradition to be Scottish. We all know how fallible oral tradition can be, but I've also learned to pay attention to such tales; sometimes they contain an element of truth. It didn't escape my attention to learn that among other people groups, South Carolina received its fair share of travelers from Scotland in those early years of settlement.

A final addition to my research to-do list is to seek out more material providing background details on the development of colonial South Carolina and the history of its early statehood. Journal articles and other scholarly works can harbor the most useful details, even in those "boring" footnotes. Pursuing such material is one way to benefit from the findings of other researchers.

With the upcoming month—barring any lapses into Bright Shiny Object Syndrome with the release of the 1950 U. S. Census—I'll switch my research focus away from my mother's colonial roots to the lines of my mother-in-law. Tomorrow, we'll explore the focus for April's Twelve Most Wanted ancestor and the methodology to use in pursuit of yet another ancestor. 

1950? I'm Stuck in 1790!

 

In a matter of just a few hours, the contents of the 1950 U.S. Census enumeration will be revealed—well, at least the name index—for any and all to inspect. There is quite a bit of buzz crescendoing as we approach the day that record is made public. Many of us know personally some of the people whose names will appear in that census, if not our own names, as well.

Absorbing the information from a record such as this census comes with some assumptions. We know, for instance, the basic geographic outlay of the country being surveyed. We personally are acquainted with the individuals whose names we will race to find, when the bell goes off at the starting gate on April 1. We understand the function and purpose of census records, and expect to see an outlay much the same as what we observed after the 1940 census was released. We are able to skillfully use this resource because we are familiar with the underlying assumptions which went into the creation of the record set.

Government documents from, say, a previous century may not have as their underlying principles the same assumptions we rely on to navigate census records from the mid-1900s. That, I suspect, is one of the factors applying the brakes to my research progress in seeking my fourth great-grandfather, Charles McClellan. That search is not merely a matter of pulling up a specific census record and searching for a particular name. Where this McClellan family might have lived in South Carolina is a question compounded by the history of geopolitical boundaries and governmental responsibilities. Backtracking far enough, it also bridges the dividing line of newly-formed American state and British colony.

Simply put, to find an ancestor from that time period in that area—South Carolina—requires mounting the steep learning curve of discovering who was in charge and how they preferred to organize their records.

On a lark—mainly because my research goal is facing an end-of-month deadline—I decided to strike out into the nether regions of time and explore which McClellans, if any, I could find in the 1790 census. After all, I was able to find both Charles McClellan and a possible brother, Andrew, in the 1800 census. What could occur with the passing of a mere decade?

For one thing, such a search required exploration where I possessed no solid evidence. If Charles were born around 1775, as some estimates claimed, he would not be of age to be listed as head of household in 1790. Neither would Andrew, who we discover from later records was likely born a couple years before Charles. Thus, I'd be looking for a McClellan man whose name and age I didn't know.

That obstacle hardly compares with the next one: between the time of the 1800 census and the previous one in 1790, South Carolina had undergone quite a revision of their county organization. This, we began to notice when discussing the details yesterday. Even if the senior McClellan had stayed put in the same location in which we had found Charles and Andrew in 1800, the "county" in which he'd have been recorded might not possess the same label. Then, too, the family home could have been located in yet another region of the state—a detail I have no way of knowing, yet.

To examine the possibilities, I pulled up the search function at Ancestry.com, selected "Census and Voter Lists" and entered only the surname, McClellan. I narrowed the results to show only South Carolina and the 1790 census, and up came ten possibilities, including some of the spelling variations I had previously encountered in other searches: McClelland, McLellan, even variations omitting the prefix "Mc."

Of those ten search results, the counties in which they were located spread across the state: Newberry, Union, or York. And then, there was the one outlier, for an Archibald McLellan, located in Saint James Santee, under the jurisdiction of Charleston.

I checked back to the geographic details I had researched yesterday, remembering I had seen a "Santee" something mentioned then...but no, it was Saint Matthew parish. And yet, looking up the reference at the FamilySearch.org wiki, I found this entry within the details for Saint James Santee, concerning another parish carved from Saint James Santee parish:

...created in 1721 from the northwest part of St. James Santee Parish, a part of Craven County.

Craven County? That was a new reference for me. I wanted to find the location for this county, but discovered it is no longer in existence. Absorbed by various counties around Charleston by the late 1800s, the original Craven County, one of three original counties established in 1682, had a long history of being reshaped before its demise.

I mention Craven County only because of another discovery in this foray into early McClellan records in South Carolina. Thanks to the South Carolina Archives website shared by reader Charles Purvis, I had explored spelling variations for the surname, and discovered documents ranging from 1736 through 1769 for one Andrew McClelland. As you might have guessed, his land was situated in Craven County. And yet, by 1790, there was no listing for an Andrew McClelland in the census. Could there have been a connection between the later Archibald McClellan and this earlier Andrew? Could Andrew have died before the 1790 census was taken?

These are all questions I intend to explore. In addition, you can be sure I will search for the wills of each of these McClellan men listed in the 1790 census, in case any of them mention a son named either Charles or Andrew. But before I can adequately progress further, it is obvious that I'll need to get a grip on the ever-changing parish, county, and district boundaries in South Carolina.

With the end of the month now approaching, I'll need to draw up a research plan for future work on the generation preceding my fourth great-grandfather, Charles McClellan. We'll draw up that plan tomorrow, then move on to April's research goal—if, that is, I can resist the temptation of that April 1 rabbit hole, the release of the 1950 census.

 

When the Borders Keep Shifting

 

When reaching far back through time to trace our ancestors through generations, it sometimes dawns on the researcher that we have begun to chase them in circles. That, at least, is how I'm feeling now while in pursuit of my fourth great-grandfather's roots.

We've managed to push our way back, in mostly a straight line of migration, from territorial Florida in the late 1820s to Camden County, Georgia, and then to South Carolina. But then, the questions begin. Where to find these McClellans in South Carolina: was it Orangeburgh District? Or Barnwell District? And even if we could find documents showing the presence of a Charles McClellan—and his possible brother Andrew—in the 1800 census, where were any other documents?

Worse, chasing in pursuit of those subsequent questions tied me in even further knots when I found the following note at the website called Carolana.com, regarding Barnwell District:

Originally called Winton County, formed in 1785 as one of the four counties created from the old overarching Orangeburgh District. Within the Barnwell County Court House archives are the original court records of Winton County, dated to 1786.

Winton County? What was this? Could McClellan documents be buried in those old Winton County records within the Barnwell County courthouse? As it turned out, Winton County was in existence from 1785 though 1791. That would be good to know, since I'm now trying to locate Charles and Andrew McClellan—or at least their parents' family—in the 1790 census.

Not so fast, it turns out. Almost as quickly as I discovered the existence of Winton County, its place in my research to-do list vanished: more info from the Carolana website revealed that the first United States census in 1790 contained "no reference" to Winton County. Scratch that lead.

Whether my McClellans ever lived there or not, it seems Winton County as a geopolitical entity was a mess. It was never surveyed. Further, records during that time period were not kept at the county level, but within parishes. And those parishes referred to subdivisions of England's Anglican Church.

Judging from an old map of South Carolina parishes, the parish which should be of most interest would be that of Saint Matthew, which was created in Orangeburgh District in 1768. What records are still available from that location seem minimal.

While running in circles, trying to chase the geopolitical boundary changes in late 1700s South Carolina may seem exhausting, it is still important to understand the underlying basis for how and where records are kept, if we seek to find evidence of our ancestors' presence in that specific location. As one section of the South Carolina government website once noted, 

Because records are arranged under the county of origin or the county inheriting the record, understanding the development of counties is important.

That became quite evident when I attempted one other approach to locating my McClellan ancestors: a leap into the unknown by pulling up the name of every McClellan head of household reported in the country's first census in 1790. At first glance, it seemed there was nothing helpful—but let's take some time tomorrow to investigate that a bit closer. I warn you, though: once again, we'll confront a dizzying litany of jurisdictional changes.

 

 

"My Trusty Friend Charles McClellan"

 

Charles McClellan may have been my fourth great-grandfather, but in his time he was apparently trusted friend to many in the communities in which he lived. As I trace signs of his whereabouts from his final home in territorial Florida through his 1820s residence in Camden County, Georgia, I now find records that point to him—possibly—in South Carolina.

We've already watched Charles and his relative Andrew McClellan arrive in southeastern Georgia from South Carolina, and have spotted what might have been the two McClellans in the 1800 census in Orangeburgh District in South Carolina. But here is where the going gets tangled: at that very juncture in 1800s South Carolina. The reason: geopolitical changes in that very region of the state.

According to some genealogical guides, Orangeburgh District—the place where I found Charles and Andrew in the 1800 census—in that same year had given up some of its territory for the formation of a new district, called Barnwell District. One report noted that Barnwell District was actually carved from Orangeburgh District in 1797, but the change didn't become effective until 1800. Yet another source indicated that all South Carolina districts' establishment became effective on New Year's day of 1800. 

If that is so, was Charles McClellan living in Orangeburgh District while he was in South Carolina? Or Barnwell District?

To add to the confusion—after all, there could possibly have been two men by the same name in neighboring counties—there was mention of a Charles McClellan in legal documents filed in Barnwell District. Take, for example, this 1810 will drawn up by Peleg Wood Chase of Barnwell District, naming one Charles McClellan as executor:

Thirdly, I do hereby constitute and appoint my Dear Wife as Executrix, and my trusty friend Charles McClellan as Executor to this my last will + Testament.

In another will—this time for James Erwin, also of Barnwell District—Charles McClellan served as witness to the 1815 document.

Thanks to a tip from reader Charles Purvis, who directed me to the website of the South Carolina Department of Archives and History, I was able to quickly locate three documents in Barnwell District which included Charles McClellan's name. I was particularly delighted to spot the third document, a "plat" for thirty seven acres in Barnwell District, surveyed by one James Dougharty, and dated January 23 of 1809. So, he was in Barnwell District, after all!

But if Charles McClellan was in Barnwell District in 1810, I couldn't find any sign of him in the 1810 census. Nor could I locate any clues from the 1800 census to help answer my underlying question: who might have been Charles' relatives—especially a potential father—in that South Carolina home? Other than Charles and Andrew, there were no other McClellans showing in the 1800 census in either Orangeburgh District or Barnwell District. Not even by wildly concocted spelling variations.

This certainly gave me pause to ponder just where the McClellan duo might have emerged from, prior to their arrival in Orangeburgh District. Were they previous residents of yet another state? There not only didn't seem to be a parent living nearby, there wasn't even a sign of another brother. Even that cliched immigrant scenario—"There were three brothers"—didn't seem to fit the narrative. What now?

Image above: Excerpt from the 1810 will of Peleg Wood Chase of Barnwell District, South Carolina, designating Charles McClellan as executor; image courtesy Ancestry.com.