The winter had stripped the trees of their beauty. The freeze had pruned and disfigured these shrubs, leaving the Knob barren and dead. Through the dark, seemingly snarling branches, a small group huddled silently and secretly. They had been driven to the summit by the thundering sounds and the billowing smoke of the cannonades from the battle raging in Murfreesboro that New Year’s morning of 1863.
These folk were the property of Charles O. Abernathy. They had never known anything but the plantation. Master Abernathy was only 19 years old when he was “willed” these slaves from his father, Charles C. For the most part, he had been a decent man, treating his slaves with civility and respect.
But now rumor had spread that they were about to be “free.” Mr. Lincoln and the Emancipation Proclamation were making freedom possible. What that meant no one knew. All they knew was that they were Abernathy slaves carrying the young master’s last name. For the most part, all they had ever known was working in the fields from sunrise to sunset and life in and around the “big house.”
On a clear winter morning, bracing against the cold and an uncertain situation, this frightened bunch plodded their way to the top of Pilot’s Knob. The sun rose in a crimson and amber sky while a heavy frost lay on the slope of the hillside. In the distance, smoky purple and gray plumes towered over the prior day’s battle, spiraling like an apparition—the angel of death and destruction against a brilliant azure sky.
It was the dawn of a new year; however, the sheer terror of the raging battle had scarcely left anyone with hope, including this little band of spectators watching from a distance. Their unknown future left them fearful and hesitant. Vicious rumors had spread throughout the slave community here. It had been said that many homeless blacks escaping only with a few possessions had fled to the Union lines for protection. Most found themselves even more destitute, and dependent on the Union troops for protection. Limited resources of food and supplies left many scarcely subsisting. Although they had trusted them, countless others suffered even more injustice at the hands of these invading soldiers.
Pilot’s Knob
The canons belched their deadly contents with a deafening roar, flashing columns of flames that soared hundreds of feet into the air. As Gracie watched, she clenched the hand of her husband, Lewis. Lewis Anderson was a hardworking man and a good husband. Two years earlier, when she was only 16, Gracie married; that is, she “jumped the broom.” It was a simple ceremony. Lewis steadied a glass of water on his head. In the presence of a small group by the soft glow of a kerosene lamp, they grabbed each others’ hands and jumped over a broomstick. That was it. With that primitive maneuver, she had officially changed her name from Gracie Abernathy to Gracie Anderson. Lewis had been born an Anderson slave; however, he was now the property of the Abernathys.
Gracie was as industrious young girl. In the big house she could iron, knit, spin and weave for her master’s family better than any other house slave. Her mama had taught her to respect the whites and to do her best, as the good book says. She had never been any trouble and had never seen trouble, but somehow the fury of the sounds in the distance left her with anxiety and fear. She recalled what her mama had said: “De world is gettin’ wickeder and wickeder. Sin is bolder and bolder and religion grows colder and colder.”
At that moment, she sought refuge and strength by clutching tightly to her husband’s hand. Clearly, Gracie was comforted and consoled just by his touch. These brawny hands had been roughened by years of field work. From his youth, the master had put Lewis right in the fields pulling and shucking corn, and of course, picking cotton. Now, Lewis’s strong hands became a lifeline for this frightened young woman.
As she stood there on the ridge, she began thinking more about what her mama had told her about the lessons of life.
“De’ devil can blur out de’ truth, Gracie!” she insisted. “In ‘dis ole world there will be all kin’a trouble, but don’t ya’ fear, little gal. Trust, trust, trust! Never be afraid. The Lord will always be there. You’s always in the hands of the great Maker.”
With this calming thought, Gracie’s fearful heart was reassured. As she gazed upward through the bare branches, vulnerable and exposed, she realized that the warmth of spring would come soon. Although these branches appeared seemingly dark and unadorned, the “great Maker” would provide His life-giving spirit secretly and silently. Soon new life would burst forth, bringing buds, leaves, blossoms and fruit. This Master is far better than any earthly one. Even in the waters of affliction, Gracie knew that He would shield and comfort her, and somehow make all things brand new. Intuitively, she acknowledged that as the new life-sap of the tree reached out, there would be a more beautiful expression later. Thus a life of faith and hope emerged from this anxious young slave girl that New Year’s Day on Pilot’s Knob.
There was a moment of hesitation. Minutes passed, long minutes of strange intensity. The crowd began to mutter and moan in the shadows. The sound grew louder, more dramatic, as the slaves’ songs began to penetrate the people like an electric vibration. Even though some words were only half-audible, the atmosphere was unified as the sounds intensified, shaping each musical phrase into song. Some patted their crying babies as war was waging across the hills in Murfreesboro. Others began swaying backward and forward, moving their feet alternately in strange syncopation. Half-formed melodies and phrases were hummed and songs dramatically emerged in their midst. Even today, one would be astonished by the mass intelligence at hand as every mind there became synchronized in the molding of movement and melody. A distinct melodic figure emerged more and more prominently, shaping around a central theme that had been preached for years, “De Lord would come a shinin’ through and ‘ill take care of us!”
Gracie “Dump” Abernathy Anderson was born on the plantation of Charles C. Abernathy, near the Kittrell community, in May of 1845. For nearly 85 years, “Aunt Dump,” as she was known, had a profound impact on those who knew her. Her winning personality delighted many. Those who had the pleasure of knowing her fondly remember her friendly smile and charming disposition. Although she had no formal education, most vividly recalled her gracious, fluent vocabulary.
Recollections and oral traditions about those slaves who lived in our community have left lasting impressions. From an account that I documented nearly 10 years ago from an interview with Leffel Brown, longtime resident of the Brown’s Mill near Lascassas, Gracie and many slaves watched the Battle of Stones River from Pilot’s Knob just near Woodbury, almost 20 miles away.
These accounts and others like them accentuate the idea and make clear that spirituals and slave songs prior to and during the American Civil War were products of the communal existence of the slaves. In bits and pieces throughout the 20th century, these primitive slave songs, dances and vocal styles were snatched, soon to become the creative influences for all of modern American music, including blues, jazz, country and rock ’n’ roll.
