In a small southern community,
nestled among long-leaf pines and deep green magnolia trees, a
250-year-old Mystery was buried
Five unassuming graves rest near the Cape Fear River,
marked not by greying, lichen-covered headstones,
but by simple wooden stakes.
We'd like to unearth their story.
You may be able to help.
London has its Thames, Paris its Seine,
and North Carolina its Cape Fear.
Colonial families who settled along the Cape Fear River bequeathed a legacy
that remains almost as undisturbed as its cypress dens.
One of them was the Russ family.
We had little trouble finding the 1600's English immigrant John Russ,
one of the founding fathers of the town of Andover, Massachusetts.
It helped that Andover settlers created significant paper trails during the terrifying Salem Witch Trials,
compelling some in John's congregation to migrate south.
What we struggled with was finding one of his descendants,
whose story shyly sprouted almost fifty years ago.
Her name was
Huldah Russ.
What's in YOUR attic?
For researchers of our freedom-fighting ancestors, participation in the American Revolution has become somewhat of a badge of honor. American organizations like the DAR echo Europe's Crusades when it comes to genealogical clout. But Huldah was not of Europe's aristocracy. She did not cure cancer or marry a prince. In fact, to history she never even existed. So why would we care about her?
What we have discovered through diligent research is that she connects us with a relatively unexplored part of our national history. She somehow survived intense personal, local, and international trauma. An unsung hero, if you will.
Meager evidence follows the circa-1690s collective migration of the Russ, Allen, and Singletary families as they traveled south from Massachusetts following the Salem Witch Trials. Destination: Charleston, South Carolina. Over the decades, their descendants intermarried and settled along the Pee Dee River near Marion, South Carolina. From there, over time, they continued east along the Cape Fear River to Bladen County, North Carolina. Some of them settled comfortably into anonymity.
No census or birth record vouches for Huldah, thanks in part to repeated arsen of the Bladen County courthouse (a story in and of itself). Early county records have long since perished, and even if they had survived, rural southern records didn't name women and children anyway. Furthermore, if she - let's say - somehow "eluded" the bloody dawn of her own nation, why should she be recognized for her part in its history?
The reasons are many and fascinating. She tells another story. Not with her voice, most likely silenced by her circumstances, but with the mysterious breadcrumbs she left behind, intentionally or otherwise. Hers was a trail that repeatedly deceived us. For example:
A century and a half ago, a chamber politician in Paris made world news. In due course, his story was picked up in Bladen County's print media. You see, a significant number of Bladen's settlers shared his French surname. Local interest seemed scarce until the publisher doubled down on the story, suggesting an unclaimed multi-million dollar estate and urging the family to establish a connection. Old-timers suddenly remembered that a woman named Huldah Russ had been whisked away by a mysterious French sea captain.
A half-century ago, one of Huldah's own descendants had long since fallen in love with the dilapidated old home of his great-grandparents. He and his wife painstakingly rescued the old place. As they cleaned out the attic, they found an old wooden box filled with land deeds, Civil War papers, photos and other memorabilia. He generously distributed copies of them amongst relatives and historical societies, infusing fresh curiosity about the mysterious family.
A Russ genealogist speculated that her husband might be a shipmate of Le Marquis de Lafayette, who brought aid from France to our struggling English colonies. That published speculation reached a much larger audience, producing data whose tentacles were difficult to detach. Trust me, I tried.
Then came the year 2018. September, to be exact.
Genéalogie et Histoire de la Caraibe digitized a series of archives. Among them, spelled according to the whims of 1700's French scribes, was Huldah's name. Two hundred forty-three years after Huldah left her Carolina home, these archives revealed the true identity of her mysterious French husband:
Etienne Brisson.
The survival of those record books, literally hidden away on a remote island, is a near impossibility. Fires, hurricanes, vermin, and the ravages of revolutionary soldiers destroyed nearly everything in the French Caribbean, yet providence safeguarded these books. We want to honor that blessing by enriching Huldah's story. Perhaps there are long-forgotten records in your own attic, protected by generations of family reverence. May we add them to our already fascinating puzzle? With this site, we hope to collect and share new hidden treasures, from near and far, about Huldah, Etienne, and their four children. Thank you in advance!