Family History Writing Challenge Day 2- 1812- Fort Sinquefield on the Tombigbee River

         

 

Sarah was torn from her tenuous sleep by the soft hoot of an owl. She startled awake, wide-eyed. She didn’t dare light a candle to search the inky blackness of her room for intruders. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she quickly glanced around. She was alone, only the little body of her daughter snuggled beside her, warm and innocent. Sarah put her arms around the child, hugging her close, and glanced over at her three year old son, sleeping in the little trundle bed nearby. Satisfied they were safe, she rested her head back on the pillow, listening, waiting... Sure enough, another owl call pierced the air. She held her breath. The Indians used owl calls to communicate to each other, to coordinate their savage attacks. They had mastered every bird call, sounds she used to enjoy as she wandered about the countryside. Now when she heard birds her heart stopped. Even that small joy had been stolen from her, along with her freedom. No longer could she wander the countryside, her small children at her side, gathering wild flowers and sweet berries, or digging into the warm earth as she planted seeds in her garden.

She should not, she knew, complain. Her husband, Uriah, was the commander of Fort Sinquefield, and due to his position they had the finest accommodation available- a small cabin of their own with a stone chimney and fireplace where she could keep a cooking fire. There was a simple wooden table and a few chairs. A ladder led to the sleeping loft above. She had a bed, with a feather mattress brought from home, big enough for her and her husband and children. But it felt lonely, without his big body beside her, to warm her and comfort her. He would assure her. “Hush, Sarah. I am with you. The men are on guard outside. You are safe.” And sometimes, she would believe him. But deep in her heart she knew the truth. They were only a few hundred whites, mostly helpless women and children, amidst tens of thousands of Creek Indians, most of them hostile and bent on exterminating the whites who had recently settled on their lands.

She lay awake, the events of the last few weeks pummeling her brain. As the danger of Indian unrest became apparent, as rumors flew about which terrified the  small population of settlers and then reports came of unimaginable atrocities, stockades sprang up across the very land that had once held so much promise. Hastily constructed, a barrier of pointed wood stakes with a few blockhouses was raised around an acre of land. Inside, cabins and huts were being constructed providing minimal shelter from the elements and minimal safety from any outside onslaught. Still, even before the stockade walls were completed, Sarah watched families flood through the gates. They came on wagons, on foot or by horseback, a few meager belongings hastily thrown into burlap sacks. Sarah rushed out to meet her neighbors, welcoming them, helping direct them to the few shelters that had been constructed. Some put up canvas tents, sure this would not last for long. Sarah prayed they were right.

There were far too many people, but this was their only hope. In no time the small space was terribly overcrowded. The men were quickly absorbed into the militia, or assisting with constructing the stockade and rude shelters. The women, half of them pregnant or nursing hungry infants, held onto crying toddlers or looked worriedly after youngsters who ran about in blessed ignorance, enthusiastically playing with friends they rarely saw except on Sundays at church. But the only way this enclave resembled a church was in the magnitude of prayers that were offered up to the heavens.

Family History Writing Challenge 2025- Day 1- Finding Sarah

 

Cato, Mississippi

I  traveled nearly a thousand miles to reach this place, searching for my ancestors. But the pretty headstone I found in the little country cemetery did not belong to an ancestor. It belonged to a woman who was very dear to me for another reason. 

The little country cemetery at Cato is not far from the Baptist church, a red brick building with a white steeple pointing skyward and broad double doors welcoming worshipers inside.  Down the road, tall trees surround the small plot of land, a well-kept space which is illuminated by bright Southern sunlight. A number of white and gray headstones rise from the grass, marking the resting place of about 200 souls.

 

The memorial stone I found is simple and peaceful. But it was a tribute to a woman whose life was anything but simple and peace often eluded her existence. She surely cherished those peaceful moments, among the years of strife. The fact that she survived for 98 years tells of her strength of character.

The headstone itself is cracked in half, caused by a lightning strike according to family stories. But it survived even that assault, and presents a sweet memorial with a flourish at the top, followed by a faded inscription. 

                                                       Sarah Womack

                                             Died November 30,1882, Aged 98 years.

          Not lost, blest thought, but gone before, where we shall meet to part no more.”

In death she was indeed surrounded by many of those she loved. These stone memorials tell the story of much love, but also tragedy. Sarah’s memorial is next to her son’s, who stood by her side throughout her life.

Ferdinand Hayes Claiborne Dent survived her by only two years, dying in 1884 at age 75. Next to him is a broken but pretty stone, carved with a rose and faded inscription. This  belongs to his wife, Mary A. Campbell, who lived another decade, dying in 1899 at age 82.

A grandson, too, lays close by. This memorial pulled at my heart. Thomas Beasley Dent was only 17 years old when he died in February, 1863. The year, of course, was a clue. Thomas was one of far too many young men who died during the Civil War. I learned later that he was lost defending Vicksburg, and two of his brothers who were also there, carried his body home.

One other grandchild lies in the cemetery Martha Dent Kennedy- who lived to age 84. But the others Sarah loved had scattered to the winds- some close by in other Rankin County resting places, others who followed the westward migration as far as Louisiana and Texas.

One of those she loved was the reason I was here.

Sarah was the woman who raised my great-great grandfather, Abraham James Womack, as her own child. Her remarkable life story is a part of his own, and so a part of mine as well. 

Resources:

Cato Cemetery, Rankin County, Miss- Find-a-Grave

Sarah Walker Dent Womack find-a-grave

Ferdinand Hayes Claiborne Dent Find-a-Grave

Mary Adeline Campbell Dent- Find-a-Grave

Thomas Beasley Dent- Find-a-Grave