The Gristmill

I don't remember where I had read that Horace, Hagar and George had a little sister named Cherry Ann.  It had to be connected to someone's ancestor tree or some narrative.  I know it was not my imagination.  I read that the Griffin children were taken away from their mother and baby sister and had assumed that it was because they were moving to Texas with WSB Owens.  Then within a small span of time, I learned that the mother and subsequently the infant was traded for a gristmill.  I began to diligently comb through internet records of gristmills and unbeknown to me, there were quite a few gristmills in the 1800s.  If i could find the gristmill WSB owned, then we could find who we traded Mrs. Griffin and Cherry Ann to.  Unfortunately, things are never as easily done as my mind would wish.  

First is the barrier of the records.  As shocking as this is, not every document is on the internet.  I find, in fact, that most court documents post an index of their records, but you have to physically go in and locate the document, make a copy of such document in order to have access to it.  Also you have to pay for the document.  If you are just talking about 10 records at one dollar per copy, then no big deal, but if you are talking about 90 documents, then it starts hitting the ole pocket book.  If you are talking about records in your county, not so bad...about records in Escambia County, 733 miles away, it becomes a little more pricey.  

Secondly, slaves don't have birth records.  This also is my naivety showing, but I didn't know that the Deeds were where the established lineage may be traced, if your ancestors traded, bought inherited or sold slaves, and if they had a name written.  I found some like this: "and to my daughter charlotte, I leave my negro Crissy and any subsequent children she may have and the negro Lundy who works with the horses, also my kitchen pots and pans, the corner hutch and key, the old white mare and the ole grey mule that kicked Aunt Gussie in the jaw last Christmas." Ridiculous.  It was glaring reality into the past that the slaves were considered cattle.  I am not so blind or guarded that I had not heard this, but until you see the audacity of it in your own ancestors wills and deeds, it is easy to imagine that it only in extreme cases with horrible evil slave masters.  Slaves were an investment and an expense. They were property.  They were documented as such. 

Third, some slaves have no names listed.  This I cannot understand.  I saw a transaction where some poor beggar drew every cattle brand out that was to be listed in the transaction.  Twenty different brands meticulously drawn on a bill of sale.  Every horse with a brand.  You cannot tell me that the slaves were nameless.  It is just pure outrageousness that they would be listed as Negro one, two, three and big arms Joseph. The names too changed.  Sometimes the last name (if they took a last name) changed with the owners.  There were many times that I wished the Owens name was attached to each slave the Owens bought.   

I also wished that Gristmills were named for the past owners so that they too could be traced.  But there was no luck.  It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I learned it was possible that WSB didn't trade for a mill but for the use of it.  He owed money to the owner of the gristmill and in order to pay for his debt, WSB may have sold the mother and Cherry Ann to settle the debt.  I don't know if this was a straight trade for service or if he sold the slaves and paid the debt with monies.  I have heard of people hitting the 1870s wall, which is a wall of lacking information.  Slaves could not track back to their families, nor families track forward to their lost loved ones.  Horace could not track to Florida, where his mother may or may not be.  His mother could not trace where her three beautiful children went.  I could not find the gristmill.  I couldn't even begin to know where to look, Florida or Texas.  I could not find Cherry Ann.  

Late that night, I finally dozed off, with my laptop open to many tabs searched.  It was well into the early hours of the new day when I finally had hit my head against the wall of lacking information. I gave up.  I wasn't thinking logically. I slept.  I dreamed of Horace, a young man confused, holding his crying mother, her one arm holding her newborn, her other holding onto Horace.  Hagar gripping her skirts, and little George clutching at her legs.  I saw a harsh man pulling them off one by one and putting them in a cart to be driven off.  Horace's mother screaming, crying, begging.  I awoke with my heart pounding.  What mother would take such a wound, such a loss?  I would not, could not give up.  I would cross the barriers.  I will find such gristmill.