Stole This From a Reliable Source

Just the other day—and just to make sure—someone checked in to say, “You know how to pronounce that, don’t you?” It was fellow blogger Wendy, who stops by to compare D.A.R. notes occasionally. We share an ancestral Virginia in our databases. The main difference between us is that she is still there, while my family left the plantation, oh, say, two hundred years ago.

The pronunciation Wendy was concerned about had to do with a family surname: Taliaferro. Admittedly, when I first heard my mother mention that name during my childhood attempts at drilling her for genealogical contraband (you know, all those family secrets), I remembered the spelling, not the phonetics. That was probably a good thing; it was the surname Taliaferro that I first researched as a newbie who got that early chance to go to one of those big league genealogy libraries. If I had gone by what I would have heard, I never would have found that book with my grandmother’s genealogy printed in it.

As it turns out—and I can thank my Genealogy Angel regarding the education on this matter—what your eyes perceive as “Taliaferro,” your colonial Virginian ears would have received as “Tolliver.”

Go figure.

Believe me, I certainly doubted it the first time I heard it.

Perhaps it was all in the plan of some Genealogical Big Picture for this to happen on my behalf, but shortly after I was educated by The Educated Genealogist, this gospel truth was confirmed by an online messenger. Of course, to which online resource the credit is owed, I cannot say at this point, thanks to an (ahem) overtaxed memory system.

However, in penance for my lack of giving credit where credit is due, I yesterday undertook to retrace my digital steps, and discovered that there was not just one resource to which I owe credit, but two. I have come to the conclusion that, since the race to the finish line for these two online resources was so close, and since I cannot remember which one I stumbled upon first, I need to doubly give credit to whom credit is due.

Sometime during that first cup of coffee on the morning of October first, I noticed a mention about the pronunciation of colonial Virginian names—and then another mention. Both were on Facebook pages—the one belonging to someone we mostly know as Ancestry Anne, the other the domain of the person behind DearMYRTLE. (Now that I look back on the history, the Finding Forgotten Stories Facebook page credited the discovery to DearMYRTLE's Facebook entry. See, I still needed more coffee.)

What each of these genealogy bloggers was referring to was a post on the FamilySearch.org blog. Quite timely for my case, the title sure caught my eye: “How Did They Say That Name in Colonial Virginia?”

Yeah. That’s what I wanted to know.

In that blog, Nathan Murphy posted a short explanation on September 27 about a piece he had found in an 1895 issue of The William and Mary Quarterly explaining the difference between the spelling and the saying of over one hundred thirty surnames, Virginia style. Handily, to illustrate the point, Mr. Murphy included a chart detailing the variances. He wryly added, “No wonder clerks had problems spelling people’s names!”

No wonder, indeed.

Above right: Adelaide Labille-Guiard, "Portrait of a Woman," oil on canvas, circa 1787; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.

The Smoking Gun

Arriving at the right generation, with the right Zachariah Taliaferro, it looks like I’ve connected the dots between my mother’s maternal line and the patriot that entitles me to D.A.R. membership. With such a long line of ancestors, and such a tedious paper trail, it is nearly breathtaking when I realize how tenuous the connection to this lineage society membership actually is.

My claim to that small part of the glory days of the American Revolution is actually based on one piece of evidence that I, myself, would have considered of a secondary nature. But there it is, accepted and published for all to see within the database of the National Society of the Daughters of the American Revolution: two page numbers in one single, solitary book.

If you are thinking that the book is an index of death records, or some other compendium of vital statistics, think again. This book is not even published by any government entity. And yet, pages two and seventy five hold the very facts that bestow upon me the qualifications for membership.

This smoking gun—the corollary record of my fifth great grandfather’s service on behalf of the fledgling country—was the evidence uncovered by a researcher specializing in Virginia documents. Her name was Lenora Higgenbotham Sweeny. The book in question, known as Amherst County, Virginia in the Revolution, was originally published by the J. P. Bell Company in Lynchburg, Virginia, in 1951. A review of the book appeared in The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography, volume 60, number 2, in April of the following year. The review, for those subscribing to JSTOR, can still be read here. According to Google™ Books, a reprint of the volume was issued by Southern Historical Press in 1998. However, Genealogical.com indicates that even the second version of the book is now out of print—although Amazon breathlessly insists that, if you hurry, you may purchase one of the last two copies available here.

For the saner among us who hold the purse strings tightly, this coveted book can be found elsewhere. Thankful as I am for my local public library—and especially for the excellent collection of material compiled there steadily through the years by our county’s genealogical society—our local system does not own a copy of the book. However, for the cost of an hour’s drive to a nearby city’s college library, I may obtain a copy on loan. Or I may simply inquire as to obtaining it through inter-library loan. I suspect I’ll take that route.

Actually, I needn’t take any such route at all. It’s simply curiosity that drives me to seek the volume. For, if you’ve noticed by clicking all the links I’ve provided, each stop along the way in this search has provided editorial notes of the historical import of the book. Evidently, Mrs. Sweeny stumbled upon something quite remarkable in her quest through all those dusty back rooms and courthouse records: long lists of rosters and payrolls from militia and rifle companies, claims for property taken, and pension applications. All for the very county in which my ancestor lived. And I’d like to take a look for myself. There are, after all, two hundred and twelve pages of potential bunny trails to be explored.

Try This Again

Since I’ve discovered I have one more generation to research before achieving my goal of completing D.A.R. paperwork to link with an established patriot, let’s take a look at this senior Zachariah Taliaferro.

For one thing, I already know his namesake and second son is in my direct line.

So what about that father Zachariah? He was a Virginia native, born 1730. Marrying young, he took as his wife Mary Braxton Boutwell in 1749. Together, they raised five sons and three daughters (including, incidentally, one named Sarah, possibly the one for which the younger Zachariah named his own daughter, the future Mrs. Sarah Ann Broyles).

The elder Zachariah, the patriot, removed from his parents’ Williamsburg residence to what in 1761 became Amherst County, Virginia. There, he eventually served as Justice of the Peace. An interesting—albeit unsourced—anecdote provides a sketch of Zachariah Taliaferro's resilient and possibly pugnacious character in his role of public servant. He apparently was not one to back down in the face of what had to be done, no matter what the circumstances.

Zachariah Taliaferro is now duly recorded as a Revolutionary War patriot by virtue of his service in Amherst County, Virginia, as Justice of the Peace, and Member of the Committee of Safety, for which he furnished supplies on behalf of the cause. The categories D.A.R. places his service under are those labeled as Civil Service and Patriotic Service.

Zachariah Taliaferro lived a full eighty years. Though I have yet to ferret out all the legacy that he passed along to his children, I know that he came from a line whose genealogy has been pursued and documented both in printed publications and online in several sources. Son of Captain Richard and Rose Berryman Taliaferro, Zachariah’s ancestors emigrated from the area around London, England. You may hardly expect a name like Taliaferro to have originated there, though—and you are right. If the reports I’ve read are correct, the family name originated in the area of Venice in what is now the country of Italy.

All of which represents a genealogical journey of which, in such (to us) early dates as the 1770s, we pick up on a family history already long in the making. For the current project’s purposes, in seeking to document a connection with a Revolutionary War era ancestor, I’ll need to set aside that temptation to peruse those other tempting family history details and focus on the task at hand: get the rest of the required documentation and complete the D.A.R. application.


Above left: Map, "Campaigns of the American Revolution, 1775-1781" in William Robert Shepherd, Historical Atlas. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1911. Courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.

Spoke Too Soon

While it is true that my qualification to become a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution lies with the history of one man named Zachariah Taliaferro, I had stopped just one generation shy of my proper target. Yes, Zachariah Taliaferro—the one born in Virginia about 1759—was himself son of Zachariah Taliaferro. That Zachariah—the father, born in Virginia about 1730—was indeed the man I’ve been searching for.

Thanks to my Genealogy Angel, I already know the D.A.R. Ancestor Number of the right Zachariah Taliaferro. Thanks to the D.A.R. Genealogical Research System—open online for anyone wishing to explore it—the ancestor search index to their extensive set of patriot names (as well as descendants having already stated their genealogical claims) served to set me straight on just who I needed to honor with my application.

In defense of my hasty assumption, young Zachariah was of an age to have served, himself—barely. I’ve read many a history of the time including vignettes in which boys attempted to join themselves to the fighting ranks. But for sake of expediency, it will suffice to stick with the established records and proceed with my application linked to the proper Patriot. The senior Zachariah it will be.

May it also be noted (as I am rather miffed at myself for such a hasty conclusion, and in need of self-justification here) that there are innumerable Taliaferros of an age to be part of the action, winding their way through the Virginia territory. One may find, online, quite a few details on their genealogy—of which I, predictably, take much interest.

The younger Zachariah, it turns out, was the second son of the elder Zachariah. Thankfully, I’ve long since drilled into my mind a tactic to keep the identity of the namesake separate from that of his father: remembering the name of each one’s wife. Father Zachariah claimed as his bride Mary Braxton Boutwell. Son Zachariah was eventually wed to the former Margaret Chew Carter, related somewhat closely (her paternal grandfather’s first cousin) to the Virginia land baron known as “King” Carter—but that’s a bunny trail for another day.

And yet, somehow I missed that generational step. Not good for a discipline so detail oriented. Which makes me quite grateful for that D.A.R. index. It’s always handy to have an authoritative resource for double checking that work.


Above right: Watercolor, circa 1910-1920, by Charles M. Lefferts depicting various Continental Army uniforms; from the Anne S. K. Brown Collection at Brown University, courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain. 

The Last Link

This whole pursuit of the Broyles family was started with the purpose of completing an application for the Daughters of the American Revolution. While I have some details to attend to with each generation, looking over the broad picture, the scene took us from my maternal grandmother in Florida, through her own mother, Sarah Ann Broyles McClellan, to the same Thomas Taliaferro Broyles of Civil War times we’ve been discussing. Though there is a lot more information I’d like to retrieve on the lives of each of these ancestors—particularly my great-great-grandfather, with both his war experiences and his medical training and experience—the time has come to move on and connect with my goal. That goal is to find a link to an already-established patriot record.

With the life of T. T. Broyles, I’m actually one step away from that goal. That is because Thomas was the son of a doctor in the county of Anderson, South Carolina, named Ozey Robert Broyles. Dr. O. R. Broyles took as his wife Sarah AnnTaliaferro—the same “Mrs. S. A. Broyles” as was listed on the envelope we mentioned the other day. Sarah Ann, in turn, was one of the daughters of Zachariah and Margaret Chew Carter Taliaferro of Virginia.

While I still have my work cut out to obtain documentation for each of these generational steps, I’ve already discovered that Zachariah Taliaferro is my target ancestor. He is the one in my mother’s line who qualified as a patriot within the parameters established by the D.A.R.

Of course, I won’t be satisfied until I can learn more about this man—and I’ve already found interesting stories about this family in privately-published genealogies from many years past. That, however is a task I need to do only for myself. I’m a story seeker. I thrive on getting to know the person, not merely the vital statistics.

For now, though, it will suffice to complete the application and submit it to the proper address—and then wait to receive the results.

Above right: The well-known oil on canvas by A. M. Willard, originally entitled "Yankee Doodle," but now generally called "The Spirit of '76," circa 1875; courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain. 

He Really Was There

Truth be told, as a high school student, I could not boast that the highlight of my academic day was the subject of history. There might have been an infinitesimal edge to my preference for European history over American history, but all told, neither rated much above the bottom of the stack for my class preferences. The Civil War, in my mind, was a hazy blur of dates, innumerable unrecognizable names and titles, and military minutiae beyond my grasp.

History fared not one bit worse in my college years—nor one whit better.

And here I am now, trying to fathom the names of battles, dates of campaigns, and geographic descriptions of a region of the country I’ve rarely visited—all for the sake of uncovering any trace of ancestor involvement.

It took my husband—the war history enthusiast—to point out the obvious to me. Here I’ve been posting links to listings of military companies, being sure to scour the long readout of names for that one that makes all the difference—the name of my great-great-grandfather, Thomas Taliaferro Broyles. I’ve found records of his enlistment close to the beginning of the conflict. I’ve found listings including his name toward the end of the hostilities.

And yet, I didn’t get it. It didn’t dawn on me exactly what to be present at Appomattox actually meant. The statement, “Paroles signed by Col. A. C. Haskell, 7^th S. C. Cav.” didn’t translate in my mind into what had actually taken place under the guise of those words. I just didn’t get it.

“He was there,” my husband incredulously explained to me, not sure why I couldn’t comprehend, “He was there!”

“So he was there when they had to admit they lost?” I can be dense about such things, but perhaps it’s because I really hate losing.

My husband assured me it was a big deal—a really, really big deal. Those in attendance actually made arrangements to buy—or swipe—furniture from the site of the actual formalities, I’ve read, because of the historical significance of the day.

While my Thomas T. Broyles wasn’t at the actual meeting between Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee at Wilmer McLean’s front parlor on April 9, 1865, according to records, he was present at the surrender at the Battle of Appomattox Court House. For this, he and his comrades were spared the disgrace of imprisonment or prosecution for treason. Allowed to keep their horses, their side-arms and their personal baggage—though surrendering their government-issued arms—the men were provided with food rations with which to begin their journey homeward.

While in my mind, this would not be seen as a notable time for those who were defeated, I guess I can admit that this was, no matter which side a man fought on, a moment of great, historic import.

No matter how my ancestor might have felt that day, knowing that I can trace my roots back to someone who stood in that very location at that precise time is an eye-opener to me. If nothing else, it does bring me to the point where I can see history—especially military history—in a much different light than before.


Above right: Lithograph, 1867, "The Room in the McLean House, at Appomattox C. H., in which Gen. Lee Surrendered to Gen. Grant." Print commissioned by Wilmer McLean; at Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, D. C.; courtesy Wikipedia, which includes a listing of identification of each subject present; in the public domain.

A Beautiful Find

While casting about for more substantiation regarding which colonel my great-great-grandfather served under during the War Between the States, I received one of those emails that simply and elegantly changes everything. Somehow, I’ve always needed my history to become tangible—something that receiving items like the photographs and letters to Agnes Tully did to my appreciation of my husband’s family history.

This email provided me with my “touchable” piece of history. The email itself was simple. The subject line bore the first hint with three exclamation points leading the header. The body of the message was as straightforward: “I found a website selling an envelope…”

One of the readers of A Family Tapestry—known here as “Iggy” for the title of his own blog, Intense Guy—enclosed with that email a couple clickable links. The links were to an online business selling historic stamps and other philatelic collectibles. The business specializes in Confederate Postal History.

There on the first link—you can see it here up until the point at which the item is sold and removed from the listings—is a description for item number 5929:

Soldier’s (due) 10 marking from Army of Northern Virginia, neat encircled rate mark on homemade cover to “Mrs. S. A. Broyles, Anderson C. H., So. Carolina” with mandated soldier docketing of “T. T. Broyles 7^th S. C. Cavalry” with further received docketing up the left side “Recd while at Pendleton by the hand of Dr. Mullen Harness Thursday 17^th Nov 1864 at Mr. Taylors.” Military records show him as in “B” company, enlisted as a private, but no other details. Regiment was in numerous famous battles including New Market and Appomattox. Bit of black flaps missing, otherwise Fine.

Just as the entry explained, the envelope was indeed from a T. T. Broyles to a Mrs. S. A. Broyles. It aligned so perfectly with the information stored on my family history database: Thomas Taliaferro Broyles, son of Sarah Ann Broyles who lived in Anderson, South Carolina.

Furthermore, I’ve already uncovered records showing this T.T. Broyles to have served in what became the Seventh South Carolina Cavalry. Everything was matching up perfectly to what I’ve already documented.

“So?” you might be thinking, “What’s there to get excited about? There is no new information. We already know this.”

True. Or, I should say, in my mind I know this. But getting to see a token of that reality, transported for me through all the time since the date of that letter in 1864—that’s one hundred forty seven years of time travel—is a totally different type of knowing. Perhaps that’s why some of us thrive on going to museums: it transforms our head knowledge of history into reality. Not that, before this point, the event didn’t happen. It’s just that, once seen, once (in a docent-permitted environment) even possibly touched, it takes on a new kind of realness. That’s a touchable reality, one that holds me in awe of where we’ve all been because of how we connect with our past.

I’ve never taken a fancy to “stamp collecting,” and I don’t suppose I’ll change my ways, even now. But I’m so grateful for the opportunity to have at least laid my eyes on a photograph of this little bit of history—my history—and made a personal connection with the past.

Photograph and item description courtesy of Patricia A. Kaufmann, Professional Philatelist; permission to reprint given in private correspondence October 16, 2012.