52 Ancestors 2025: Written – Blasts from the Past

 

Finding something written by an ancestor is like uncovering buried treasure. Not only does it create a personal connection, but it also offers a unique window into history—a chance to see the past through the eyes of an ordinary person (unless, of course, your ancestor happened to be famous).

Some writings I've shared before, such as those of Rev. John Hale, a key figure in the Salem witch trials whose A Modest Inquiry into the Nature of Witchcraft remains a remarkable firsthand account. Another example is Jairus Abijah Bonney, who described his journey along the Oregon Trail.

A particularly rich source of ancestral writing comes from military pension records, especially from the Revolutionary War and the Civil War. These statements—often dictated to county clerks—detail hardships, illnesses, battles, and the testimonies of neighbors and comrades. Christian Fast recorded his capture and escape from the Delaware Indians during the Revolution. Civil War pension files for David Cassatt, Anthony Gilmartin, and Benjamin McWilliams also provide vivid snapshots of their lives.

But the richest writings of all belong to my 2nd-great-grandfather, Ben McWilliams. He chronicled his enlistment in the Union Army, his capture and imprisonment, his release, and his life afterward. We’ve already met Ben through his descriptions of Andersonville prison, his emotional homecoming, and even his return to everyday chores like hog butchering and barn raising. His account of the unbroken prairie is especially striking—typical of what many settlers saw when they first arrived in new territory.

Ben wrote all of this by hand. I remember my Uncle Jim typing the memoirs so they could be shared, and more recently I used ChatGPT’s OCR tools to digitize the original pages. Reading through his story, several things stand out. He describes the “Raiders” from Confederate prison camps who targeted other prisoners, such as a fellow prisoner from the early days, John McElroy. Ben wondered what became of McElroy; it turns out he survived the war and made his mark in print. He later became a journalist and wrote extensively about those same camps.

Ben’s writings also reveal what a hustler he was. In prison, he figured out ways to get extra rations and outwit illiterate guards. After the war, he worked wherever he could—as a collier, mason, fisherman, laborer—and eventually settled into farming and family life. He mentions numerous relatives whose names we can now trace on FamilySearch. He also recounts conflicts with local rascals, which may explain some of the legal records I’ve uncovered.

There is so much to learn from the written traces our ancestors left behind. It makes me wonder what kind of written legacy we should be leaving for those who come after us.

52 Ancestors 2025: Disappeared—The Children

 

It is not uncommon in family research to find relatives who seem to have dropped out of the records under mysterious circumstances. Yet, what struck this genealogist (and father) with a professional interest in public health is the recurring pattern of infant and childhood mortality throughout my family history. The evidence is everywhere: large families in the 17th and 18th centuries, the reuse of names for children who died young, and mothers who themselves died in childbirth.

For this post, I chose to focus on the 1900 and 1910 censuses and the listings of my ancestors in Barton County, Missouri. Why these censuses? Because in these years, mothers were asked not only how many children they had, but also how many were still living.

The inclusion of these questions reflects a growing national interest in public health at the turn of the century. The United States was expanding, and cities were swelling with people. Coastal and river regions, particularly in warmer climates, were plagued by yellow fever and malaria. In Kentucky—a major pathway for many of my ancestors—the rise of Lexington as a trans-Appalachian “Athens of the West” was abruptly halted by a cholera epidemic in 1833. As cities grew, the problems of waste disposal and sanitation became impossible to ignore.

By the mid-1800s, public health reforms were gaining momentum. In Massachusetts, Lemuel Shattuck (my 5th cousin, five times removed) championed sanitation measures. In London, John Snow famously linked cholera to contaminated water at the Broad Street pump. Advances in germ theory by Louis Pasteur, Robert Koch, and others, along with improvements in medical education, underscored the importance of separating water supplies from human and animal waste. Cities—especially overcrowded and impoverished neighborhoods like New York’s Lower East Side—saw the highest levels of childhood mortality, but rapid improvements followed.

What about rural Barton County, Missouri? Farms allowed for cleaner separation of wells, outhouses, and animal pens. Milk from cows on the farm was commonly boiled. Crowding was not an issue, but access to medical care was limited. Vaccines for childhood illnesses did not exist, nor were antibiotics available to treat bacterial infections.

Even so, mortality among children was a reality. Many of the older mothers among my ancestors lost between one and three children. We don’t always know how old the children were when they died, but we can imagine the grief. The mothers who had babies at the turn of the century and later may have seen some improvement, though I’d need to dig into statistics before drawing conclusions—that would be the subject of a scientific study, not a blog post.

The family photo at the top of this post, taken around 1909, shows my grandparents, Virgil and Marietta (Yount) Cassatt, with my Aunt Alta Mae. According to the 1900 census, Virgil's mother Susan lost 3 of her 6 children, and Marietta's Mary mother lost 2 of her 7 children. Together, Virgil and marietta had six children who survived infancy, but they also lost a 9-day-old baby boy, Frank, in 1907, and another newborn son in 1925. Their daughter Alta grew up, married, but died in 1942 at age 34 after a two-week illness. On my maternal side, a young uncle, Stephen Claire, died of appendicitis at age 6.

Today, we benefit from sanitation systems, vaccines, antibiotics, and hospitals equipped to care for the youngest and most vulnerable. Looking back, we can see how much progress has been made through public health, science, and medicine. Large families were the norm in those days, yet even with strong faith, supportive families, and close-knit communities, our ancestors deeply felt the pain of losing their children. Though some of these children may have lived only briefly, their memories endured.

52 Ancestors 2025: Wide Open Spaces — The Missouri Prairie

 

When my ancestors first arrived in the New World, much of the Dutch and British colonies were covered in forests. Over time, those forests were cleared for farmland—a pattern that continued as families pushed westward. Many of my lines ultimately converged in Barton County, Missouri, located on the eastern edge of the wide-open Osage Plains, part of the vast prairies of the American West. These prairies were characterized by tall grasses, with trees lining the many creeks and streams. The rich, loamy soil proved ideal for farming and attracted settlers from the Midwest and Upper South, especially in the years surrounding the Civil War.

The first of my ancestors to arrive in southwest Missouri were the Maddox and Curry families. Robert Curry (my 2nd-great-grandfather on my paternal side) married Elizabeth Ann Maddox, and by 1860 they were living in Montevallo Township, Vernon County—just north of Barton County. At that time, Vernon County’s population was only 4,850. Both families had deep roots in the East: the Maddoxes had lived in colonial Virginia, then migrated west through Tennessee; the Currys migrated through Kentucky from the east. They initially settled in Monroe County, Missouri, before 1840, then moved further west by 1850 in search of new farmland.

Unfortunately, they were caught up in the turmoil of the Civil War. The region was a hotbed of guerrilla warfare against Union forces. Being deeply Southern in sympathy, the extended Maddox family was aligned with the bushwhackers and suffered retaliation when Union troops struck back at towns that had supported the Confederacy. But that is another story.

Another transplanted Southern family on my paternal side was the Younts. Though the Younts originally arrived in Pennsylvania in the 1700s, they later established themselves in North Carolina and then in the Cape Girardeau region of Missouri in the early 1800s. Frederick Yount (my 2nd-great-grandfather) moved to Barton County with his second wife, Elizabeth, before 1870 and started a farm there. This was a blended family migration of Younts and Krimmingers—several of Elizabeth’s children also relocated and established themselves in Barton County. (Note: In the 1886 plat of Barton City shown above, nearby settlers included the Mayfields, relatives of Frederick Yount’s first wife. At least one was a 5th cousin. Even when families weren’t close, they were often distantly related and were part of the tight-knit web of early settlers.)

On my maternal side was Anthony Gilmartin, a Union Army veteran and 2nd-great-grandfather. He, his wife Jane, and their children migrated to Barton County between 1867 and 1870 from Illinois. Another Illinois transplant was John Jay Fast and his wife Hannah Robbins Day, my 3rd-great-grandparents, who arrived in 1866.

Another Union Army veteran, my great-grandfather David Cassatt, first moved to the prairies of Carroll County, Missouri, near the Missouri River. He later settled in Barton County in 1878. The Reed family also arrived during the 1870s, migrating from eastern Ohio under the leadership of S.D. Reed, my 2nd-great-grandfather.

Among the most notable of these settlers was Benjamin Cruiser McWilliams (my 2nd-great-grandfather), who not only moved to Barton County in the 1860s but also recorded his vivid impressions. As I’ve mentioned before, Ben was part Scots-Irish and part German from the Appalachian region of Pennsylvania, and the vast prairie made quite an impression on him. According to The History of Barton County, he:

...only remained here a short time, as the country was but a vast rolling prairie, with no houses or improved farms, and went to Dubuque, Iowa, thence to Cedar Rapids, and was married at Danforth, Johnson County, Iowa, to Miss Mary A. Cloud, on the 24th of December, 1867. In 1869 he returned to his farm in Missouri, at that time there being no house between his and the county seat, Lamar, sixteen miles away…

He further described his first impressions of the prairie in his own words:

I went around the next morning and [real estate agent George Walser] had his ponies hitched up to his ‘"buckboard," and we both got in and drove seventeen miles northwest of Lamar to the Round Mound in Barton City Township, where we commanded a good view of the surrounding country. The grass had all gone to seed that year and was as high as your head on all sides, resembling a vast sea.

Pointing from this point of view to a place to the southwest of where we stood, on the Round Mound, to land near the foot of the same said, "Now your land lies down there." [...]

Viewed from the top of this mound, the surrounding country was beautiful to behold and enough to captivate anyone, especially someone from the East, where mountains block the view. The broad plains stretched out on all sides and melted away into the horizon, with flocks of wild deer and antelope roaming freely. All other forms of game abounded—prairie chickens, wild turkey, and squirrels—in the timber. As far as the eye could reach, I found no settlements on this lone prairie, but the wild game held full sway. A few log cabins, however, dotted the creek banks as far to the east, near what was called Little Drywood, these were sheltered by trees.

To these east-coast migrants, the Missouri prairie truly was a land of wide-open spaces—a land of possibility. Barton County had just 1,817 residents in 1860. Though the region was a Civil War battleground, the promise of fertile land drew settlers westward, and by 1870 the population had grown to 4,285, and by 1880 to 10,332.

This post is only a summary of the settler ancestors in my family tree. As I’ve dug deeper into census records, agricultural schedules, and land deeds, more stories have come to light. Each deserves a post of its own.

These settlers formed farming and faith communities, and any map from 100+ years ago shows their farms scattered across various townships—but rarely far apart. Over time, these proximity-based relationships turned into marriages, as children who migrated or were born in Missouri grew up alongside one another.

Ben McWilliams recalled one such bond:

John Fast and family had located and settled in the north part of the city, near the present location of the waterworks tower. There were several trails which crossed his land, so he had laid rails across these trails to divert the travel from across his newly sowed wheat fields. Two sons, John and Marion, later went out and settled near Barton City, and became my lifelong neighbors and friends.

Ben’s daughter, Nellie, later married Marion’s son, Orin Taylor Fast—and together they became “Grandma and Grandpa Fast,” names that live on in many family tales.

Photo: 1886 Plat of Barton City Township; Courtesy of Cindy Cruz

52 Ancestors 2025: FAN Club - The Gilmartin Story, Part 1?

 

This week’s prompt was a new one for me. “FAN” stands for Friends, Acquaintances, and Neighbors—a term used in cluster research, which involves studying the people surrounding your ancestor. This approach can be especially helpful when records are sparse or when you are stuck with a genealogical brick wall. It is also useful if your ancestor had a common surname (like Smith or Jones) or one with many spelling variations (hello, “Cossart” family). By examining the people your ancestor interacted with, you can often uncover additional clues about their life.

One of the lines I have been researching is the Gilmartin family. My 3rd-great-grandparents, John Gilmartin (b. 1812) and Mary Gallaher, were married in Ireland. Their son Anthony, my 2nd-great-grandfather, has a well-documented Civil War service and post-war life in Missouri, but details about the family’s earlier years are harder to pin down.

According to published family history, John and Mary had some means but chafed under British rule. They decided to pursue farming in America and settled near Chicago. Tragically, John was reportedly killed in a fight on October 10, 1848, leaving Mary a widow with three young children. Based on the stories that were handed down, she was remarried to a man named Henry Hyde, but at her death, she was buried beside John.

Can we piece together this struggling family using the FAN method? The answers range from “yes and no” to “it depends.” Thanks to more online records, we’ve been able to fill in some gaps and correct a few old assumptions. While the picture is coming together, some pieces are still missing.

Census records confirm that John and Mary were born in Ireland, but we’ve yet to find a birth or marriage record for them in County Mayo or any passenger lists. The gravestone lists John’s birth year as 1812 and Mary’s as 1829, which seems questionable given that their son Anthony was born around 1840.

The 1840 U.S. Census shows a John Gilmartin living in Will County, Illinois. There are two people who match a couple in their 20s and a child under 5, but also two older males in the household, possibly boarders or extended family. By 1850, Mary appears in the St. Louis census, age 30, with children Anthony (11), Bridget (8), John (5), and Alice (1), along with a 20-year-old Ann Gallaher—possibly her sister. Interestingly, John’s will was recorded in Macoupin County, Illinois, suggesting that the family, including John, had relocated there in the 1840s, and that Mary may have moved to St. Louis for support after his death.

The early 1850s brought Henry Hyde into the picture, another Irish immigrant. Although there’s no marriage record, his children's records list their mother as Mary Gallaher. Interestingly, in 1857, “Mary Gilmartin” (not Mary Hyde) was appointed guardian of her four children, alongside Thomas Gallaher—possibly her brother. In 1858, John Davidson replaced her as guardian of the remaining three children, suggesting Mary had died. Her gravestone confirms her passing in 1858 and her continued use of the Gilmartin name. There’s no known gravestone for young John Gilmartin, who likely died around this time.

What became of the children? Anthony, around 18 when Mary died, joined the Union Army and served honorably. Bridget married a man 24 years her senior, Joseph Gerlach, who also served the Union cause, in 1860. Alice, only about 9 years old when Mary died, appears in the 1860 census living with Dr. Charles Holiday’s family in Verdin, Illinois. She eventually was married to George Wright. Henry Hyde, listed as a widower that same year, is still a mystery. We can follow him through the census and through his children, but from what we know, it is hard to disprove the possibility that his spouse had the same name as Mary’s and coincidentally died around the same time.

Much of the new information has come through tracking the Gilmartin children. I have more complete records for Bridget and Alice attached to their spouses and descendents through FamilySearch, and was able to connect them to their ancestors. The three children eventually moved with their families to Missouri, Kansas, and Oklahoma. As for the others—Ann Gallaher, Thomas Gallaher, John Davidson, and Dr. Holiday—I haven’t uncovered much yet. But with patience and a bit more digging, maybe the FAN method will reveal more, and this story will have a sequel.

Photo and historical credit: Gilmartin History, Shiela Fast McReynolds, 1999

52 Ancestors 2025: Military

 

I’ve already touched on some of my family’s military experience this year. There was the ordeal Benjamin McWilliams underwent as a prisoner of war during the Civil War, and the unusual prisoner/adoption story of Christian Fast during the American Revolution. We also explored the militia service of the Cossarts, also during the Revolutionary War.

This time, I want to focus on two more soldiers who rose to defend the Union during the Civil War: David Cossairt (Cassatt), my great-grandfather, and Anthony Gilmartin, my 2nd great-grandfather. Unlike Pvt. McWilliams, they did not leave behind personal memoirs of their time in service; however, through service records, unit histories, and pension files, we can get a feel for what their experiences were like. This is where libraries, archives, and online resources came in for me.

Both men served in the Western Theater, in battles that may not have reached the fame of Gettysburg but were crucial to the Union victory.

My first experience using ChatGPT last year involved piecing their stories together. I had copies of their service and pension records from the National Archives, collected back in the last century. By scanning these handwritten documents, I was able to generate digital transcripts, filling in words that had been misread or were previously unclear. I then entered the service details, including dates and locations, and let AI assemble a narrative. Perhaps influenced by the dramatic accounts of wartime disability, the resulting stories were a bit flowery, yet they gave new life to these old records. I also used ChatGPT to identify and verify online references to supplement the story.

David Cossairt

We’ve already met David, but here is his military story:

On May 9, 1864, at the age of 20, David volunteered for the 146th Ohio National Guard Regiment, Company G. This unit, comprised primarily of men from his community, was mustered into service during a critical phase of the war. The 146th was part of the Hundred Days Men—a strategy employed by the Union to bolster forces for a crucial summer campaign. David and his comrades were assigned to guard duty and logistical support in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and Washington, D.C. Though not on the front lines, their role was essential in maintaining the Union’s strategic foothold and ensuring that frontline soldiers had the support they needed.

After serving with the 146th, David’s unwavering commitment to the Union cause led him to re-enlist with the 183rd Ohio Infantry Regiment on September 26, 1864. This newly formed regiment was quickly thrust into the heart of the conflict, joining the Army of the Cumberland under Major General George H. Thomas. The 183rd played a significant role in the Franklin-Nashville Campaign—a series of battles that proved decisive in the Western Theater.

One of the most notable engagements David participated in was the Battle of Franklin on November 30, 1864. This brutal confrontation saw Union forces repelling repeated assaults by Confederate troops under General John Bell Hood. The 183rd held their ground with remarkable tenacity, contributing to the devastating losses suffered by the Confederate Army.

Following the victory at Franklin, David and the 183rd marched to Nashville, where they once again faced Hood’s Army in the Battle of Nashville (December 15–16, 1864). The Union’s decisive counteroffensive shattered the Confederate Army of Tennessee. The 183rd was crucial to this triumph, further cementing their place in Union military history.

As the war drew to a close, David fell ill. On April 10, 1865, he was admitted to the U.S.A. General Hospital in Troy, New York. The final months of his service were spent in recovery, far from the battlefields. He was discharged on May 18, 1865, and his military career officially ended on May 27, 1865.

Born on January 23, 1844, in Warren County, Ohio, David’s story is a poignant reminder of the sacrifices made by those who fought to preserve the Union and end the scourge of slavery in America.

Anthony Gilmartin

Anthony Gilmartin also served in the Western Theater, although he spent a considerable portion of his service on the disability list. Here is a summary of his story:

Anthony Gilmartin was born on January 10, 1840, in Cook County, Illinois, and died on January 7, 1918, in Hannon, Barton County, Missouri. He spent much of his early life in Illinois and was living in Pleasant Plains, Sangamon County when he enlisted in the Union Army.

Gilmartin enlisted at age 21 in Company A, 32nd Illinois Infantry Regiment—a volunteer unit raised in central Illinois. He was mustered into service on August 29, 1861, though one affidavit later stated he held the rank of corporal at some point. His early service was marked by hardship. While stationed at Camp Butler in November 1861, he was stricken with a severe case of rheumatism, which became so serious he was sent home.

Despite this, Gilmartin returned to duty in late December 1861 and participated in major campaigns across the Western Theater. He served at Cairo, Illinois, and then moved with Union forces to Fort Henry and Pittsburg Landing (Shiloh), participating in some of the roughest fighting of the war.

In June and July 1862, while stationed at Grand Junction, Tennessee, his health again declined—this time due to a severe eye condition later diagnosed as amaurosis, a disease causing partial or complete blindness.

On January 2, 1864, Gilmartin reenlisted as a Veteran Volunteer at Natchez, Mississippi, and was mustered in at Vicksburg on February 2, 1864. But cold, wet conditions during that winter severely worsened his eye problems. He was eventually discharged for disability on September 12, 1864, at Camp Butler. Though official documents first noted that he was discharged for reenlistment, later records clarified that his final discharge was due to near-total blindness resulting from disease and exposure during service.

In reading these records, I was struck by the ill health suffered by my Western ancestors. One possible explanation is that many of those living “out west” were from rural farms, not crowded city centers, and may not have developed resistance to common infectious diseases of the time. Once placed in crowded military camps, where sanitation was poor and exposure was constant, their immune systems were quickly overwhelmed. Add to that the harsh weather, poor nutrition, and stress of battle, and it’s easy to understand how even the strong fell ill.