The Artificial Intelligence tools (like ChatGPT, Claude, CoPilot, Gemini, Grok, Meta, Grok, and Perplexity) can provide much useful and nearly instant information about subjects in a concise format, especially when they have been pre-trained on a large volume of information about the subjects.
Over twenty of my ancestors served in the Revolutionary War between 1775 and 1783. The service records of these men are documented in the military records and pension files available in books, on Ancestry.com, Fold3.com, FamilySearch.org, and other websites.
My 5th great-grandfather, Robert Seaver (1734-1787) resided in Westminster, Massachusetts in the 1770s, and served as a sergeant of his local militia company in 1775 which marched to Cambridge on the Lexington and Concord alarm on 19 April 1775. He also served two different periods in Rhode Island as part of different companies and regiments in the 1777-1779 time frame. I wondered what his military experience was like, and what was accomplished by his company and regiment in those service terms. See 52 Ancestors - Week 105: #128 Norman Seaver (1734-1787) for details of Norman's life.
I asked the free Artificial Intelligence LLMs OpenAI ChatGP T4, Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4, X Grok 3, and Google Gemini 2.5 Flash to provide information about Robert's service. That resulted in Ask AI: "Please Describe Norman Seaver's Revolutionary War Service."
Norman's Return: A Revolutionary Homecoming (May 1775)
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Westminster fields as Norman Seaver crested the familiar hill that led to his farmstead. His musket felt heavier on his shoulder than it had eleven days ago, and the dust from fifty miles of marching still clung to his worn leather boots. But the sight of smoke rising from his chimney and the sound of children's voices in the yard quickened his tired steps.
"Papa's home! Papa's home!" Four-year-old Luther was the first to spot him, his small legs carrying him as fast as they could down the dirt path. Soon the entire household poured out—Sarah wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron, twenty-year-old Eunice bouncing baby Leafy on her hip, and the boys tumbling over each other in their eagerness to reach their father.
Norman dropped his pack and swept Luther into his arms, feeling the knot in his chest that had been there since Lexington finally begin to loosen. Sarah reached him next, and he pulled her close with his free arm, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair mixed with the smell of fresh bread.
"Thank the Lord you're safe," she whispered against his chest. "We heard such terrible things—that there was fighting, that men were killed."
"Aye, there was fighting," Norman said quietly, setting Luther down and looking around at his gathered family. "But I'm here, and I'm whole."
Eighteen-year-old Benjamin stepped forward, his young face grave beyond his years. "Father, tell us what happened. The riders who came through—they said the British fired on our people at Lexington Green."
Norman nodded slowly, his sergeant's instincts making him assess his audience. His older children could handle the truth, but little Heman, only six, was already wide-eyed with worry.
"Come," he said, "let's sit on the porch, and I'll tell you what I saw."
Sarah bustled inside to fetch cider and the last of the morning's bread while the family settled on the wooden steps and benches Norman had built with his own hands. Baby Leafy gurgled contentedly in Eunice's arms, blissfully unaware that her father had just returned from witnessing the birth of a nation.
"It started before dawn on the nineteenth," Norman began, his voice taking on the measured cadence he'd used when giving orders to his men. "The alarm bells rang, and riders came through shouting that the British regulars were marching on Concord to seize our powder stores. Captain Miles called us to muster immediately."
Twelve-year-old Isaac leaned forward eagerly. "Did you march all night, Papa?"
"Near enough," Norman smiled at his son's enthusiasm. "Fifty miles we covered, with militiamen from every town joining the roads. By the time we reached Cambridge, there must have been fifteen thousand of us—farmers and blacksmiths, merchants and ministers, all carrying whatever weapons we had."
"What about the fighting?" fourteen-year-old Joseph asked. "Did you fight the British?"
Norman's expression grew more serious. "The fighting was at Lexington and Concord before we arrived. But what I saw there, Joseph..." He paused, looking at Sarah, who had returned with a tray and was listening intently. "What I saw was something that will change everything for us."
Eight-year-old Daniel tugged at his father's sleeve. "Were you scared, Papa?"
Norman considered the question carefully. "Any man who says he's not afraid when musket balls are flying is either a liar or a fool. But sometimes, Daniel, there are things more important than being afraid. Sometimes you have to stand up for what's right, even when it's dangerous."
"The British soldiers," sixteen-year-old Sally asked quietly, "were they really as fearsome as people say?"
"They're well-trained and disciplined," Norman replied. "But they're far from home, fighting people they don't understand, for reasons that don't make sense to them. And we—we were fighting for our homes, our families, our right to live as free men."
Ten-year-old Ethan, practical like his mother, asked, "What did you eat? Did you have enough food?"
Norman chuckled, grateful for the lighter question. "That's a soldier's concern, right enough. We ate what we brought and what the good people of Cambridge could spare. Salt pork and hardtack mostly, and corn mush when we were lucky. Made me appreciate your mother's cooking all the more."
Sarah smiled and handed him a cup of cider. "There's a venison stew waiting inside, and apple tarts."
"After eleven days of camp food, that sounds like a feast fit for a king," Norman said, then grew thoughtful. "Though I wonder if we'll be eating many more meals like kings. This business with the British—it's not over. What happened at Lexington and Concord, it's just the beginning."
Benjamin, always the most serious of the children, met his father's eyes. "You think you'll be called out again."
It wasn't a question, and Norman didn't treat it as one. "I do. The British still hold Boston, and they won't give up easy. Every able-bodied man in Massachusetts may be needed before this is done."
A heavy silence fell over the family. Even little Luther seemed to sense the gravity of the moment.
"But that's tomorrow's worry," Norman said, standing and extending his hand to Sarah. "Tonight, I'm home with my family, and that's all that matters. Come, let's have that stew and celebrate being together."
As they moved toward the house, Eunice fell into step beside her father. "Papa," she said quietly, "the women in town are talking about forming a committee to make cartridges and tend to wounded soldiers. They want to help however they can."
Norman looked at his eldest daughter with pride. "That's good, Eunice. This fight—if it is to be a fight—will require sacrifices from all of us, not just the men who carry muskets."
Inside the warm kitchen, surrounded by the chatter of his children and the comfort of his wife's presence, Norman tried to push away the images that had haunted him during the long march home: the British regulars' red coats bright against the spring morning, the acrid smell of gunpowder hanging in the air, the grim faces of his fellow militiamen as they realized that what had started as a local dispute had escalated into something far larger and more dangerous.
He looked around the table at his family—from twenty-year-old Eunice, so capable and steady, down to baby Leafy sleeping peacefully in her mother's arms—and felt the weight of what he might be called to sacrifice. But he also felt something else: a fierce determination to ensure that his children would grow up in a world where they could speak their minds, worship as they chose, and live free from the arbitrary rule of distant kings.
As Sarah served the stew and the children peppered him with more questions about camp life and military drill, Norman Seaver, sergeant in the Massachusetts militia, husband and father, allowed himself this one evening of peace before the storm that would reshape their world truly began.
3) The Claude Sonnet 4 response to the prompt was interesting and probably is accurate because the pre-trained resources used are well known. I asked the same question of ChatGPT4, Grok, and Gemini and received similar responses. I chose Claude for this blog post because it seemed to be the most informed and most conversational.
4) This is a historical fiction story based on an actual and significant event in the lives of Norman Seaver's family - one they recalled for the rest of their lives. They were real people in a real setting. I want to believe the above fictional account and dialogue is realistic, but it is historical fiction based on my family history research and Claude's creation of dialogue. The account is inspiring, touching and heartfelt.
5) Using AI tools to answer history and geography-related questions is like having an instant library in my computer. Using AI tools to write biographies and memories, and to tell fictional family stories, is like hiring a gifted writer to turn my genealogical research and sketches into readable blog posts, websites, or books.
==============================================
Links to my blog posts about using Artificial Intelligence are on my Randy's AI and Genealogy page. Links to AI information and articles about Artificial Intelligence in Genealogy by other genealogists are on my AI and Genealogy Compendium page.
Copyright (c) 2025, Randall J. Seaver
The URL for this post is:
Please comment on this post on the website by clicking the URL above and then the "Comments" link at the bottom of each post. Share it on X, Facebook, or Pinterest using the icons below. Or contact me by email at randy.seaver@gmail.com. Note that all comments are moderated, so they may not appear immediately.
Subscribe to receive a free daily email from Genea-Musings using www.Blogtrottr.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment