Chapter 1. Barn To Run #3
Tyler wore chunky black glasses along with a pair of khakis and a basic white button-down shirt.
Though his pants and shirt weren’t wrinkled per se, the soft edges said they’d been simply removed from the dryer and promptly hung up rather than being ironed and starched.
His hiking boots appeared to have traversed hundreds of miles, probably in search of breaking stories.
The straps of a gray backpack hung over his shoulders.
A black camera hung from his neck alongside a lanyard bearing his press credentials.
He, too, offered both a hand and an explanation of his presence. “I’m a journalist. I’m doing a story on the barn.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it,” I said. “Who do you write for?”
“Myself, mostly,” he said, “though I take an occasional freelance gig. I spent fifteen years as an investigative reporter for the Cumberland County Chronicle, but I got tired of the corporate nonsense and not having full control over my projects. These days, I choose what I want to write about and then look for an outlet to sell my stories to. I have a podcast, too. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Yee Spills the Tea?”
Buck raised his palms. “Only things I listen to are country music and my baby girl babbling.”
I wasn’t familiar with Tyler’s podcast, either. “I usually listen to audiobooks.”
Tyler shrugged, nonplussed. “If you find time, check it out. You’re bound to come across an episode that strikes your interest. I’ve covered a lot of topics, everything from sleazy politicians to a brawl at a book club that landed five women in jail.”
My jaw dropped. “A brawl at a book club? I definitely have to hear that one.”
Tyler returned his attention to Gail. “Ready to get started?” When she gave him a nod, he slid his backpack off his shoulders, unzipped it, and reached inside to retrieve a small digital tape recorder and a cheap spiral notebook with a ballpoint pen tucked into the coil.
Tyler was just old enough to be old school, the last generation to make it through high school before everyone had their own personal laptop computer and cell phone.
He activated the device and held it up with the microphone facing outward, then removed the pen from the coil, flipped to the first blank page in the spiral, and rested the notebook atop the device to take notes.
The reporter’s tools now ready, Gail held out a hand to indicate the livery stable. “This barn was built by my ancestors, who were enslaved here.”
My gaze traveled over the exterior. A typical wooden barn would last only around forty to sixty years, so none of the particular pieces of wood currently in place was old enough to have been installed during the era of slavery.
Still, the current pieces were the most recent in a long line of replacement boards that had maintained the original barn’s design, serving as a link between the past and the present.
What’s more, the barn had a dry-stack stone foundation, a common design in antebellum barns.
Like the walls marking the presumed boundary of the property, the barn’s stone foundation had been in place since the early to mid-1800s.
The foundation served as both a testament to the quality of the work performed by enslaved persons and evidence of the hard labor they’d been forced to perform.
Gail spread her arms to indicate the property surrounding us. “All of this land was once in my family. Just before the Civil War, my great-great-great-grandparents owned a hundred and eighty-six acres and ran the livery stable here.”
Wait … My brow furrowed in confusion. “Sorry, I’m not following. You said your ancestors were enslaved here and built the barn, but they also owned the land and stable? How was it possible for them to own the property?”
“Some of my ancestors were enslaved,” Gail replied. “Others were their enslavers.”
My mind took a moment to process the information before a horrifying thought formed in my mind. Had a slaveholder forced himself on her female ancestor?
My feelings must have been written on my face because Gail raised a hand to put a stop to that notion.
“My female forebear was fortunate. The man who enslaved her thought she was too beneath him to put her beneath him. He would sooner beat her than violate her. Many women back then were not so ‘lucky.’” She put the term in air quotes before going on to tell me, Buck, and the reporter her family’s intriguing saga, which was full of violence and heartbreak, but also courage and triumph.
Tyler scribbled in his notebook as Gail weaved her story.
Martha, Gail’s great-great-great-grandmother on her mother’s side, had been born and raised in slave quarters on this property, which was owned at the time by Wilfred Womble.
Wilfred was commonly called “Wobbling Womble” for his propensity to overindulge in the moonshine he produced at a still in the woods on his acreage.
Despite the silly nickname, Wobbling Womble was a mean drunk who took out his frustrations not only on the people he enslaved, but also on his wife Cornelia and their three sons.
Gail’s maternal great-great-great grandfather Virgil was enslaved on a property nearby.
Virgil was a skilled blacksmith and lorimer, a maker of spurs, stirrups, bits, and other small metal pieces for saddles and bridles.
He met Martha when he came to the livery to deliver shoes and other items for the horses.
The two had a decades-long romantic relationship that resulted in five children.
While marriages between enslaved people were not legally recognized, many slaveholders allowed relationships that would produce offspring, or even forced reproduction, thus increasing their workforce at no cost. No doubt Wobbling Womble was one of these self-serving slaveholders.
The man who enslaved Virgil probably considered the relationship a good thing, too, because it generated goodwill with Womble and ensured him a steady customer for his wares.
Gail pointed to the shopping center in the distance.
“There used to be a hotel just past where that shopping center is now. The hotel guests could board their horses here, or they could rent a horse from the livery to ride into Franklin, Nashville, Thompson’s Station, or one of the other nearby towns. ”
Buck cocked his head. “So the livery was like an early Enterprise Rent-A-Car?”
Gail chuckled. “Exactly.”
Tyler eyed Buck. “May I use that line about Enterprise for my article? I’ll be sure to attribute it to you.”
Buck gave the reporter a nod. “Be my guest.”
Gail went on to tell us that, due to Wobbling Womble’s drinking problem and abrasive personality, the livery business suffered.
“He failed to pay the property taxes, and the government threatened to seize several acres to satisfy the delinquency. Slaves were one of Tennessee’s primary exports at that time, and Nashville had several slave markets.
To prevent the authorities from taking his land, Wobbling Womble decided to sell several enslaved children who were yet too small to be of much help with the horse operation.
Three of those children were Martha’s, including my great-great-grandmother. ”
My left hand reflexively went to my mouth in dismay while my right hand instinctively covered my belly, protecting my child. Martha must have been terrified!
“Fortunately,” Gail said, “Martha worked in the family’s house and had a close relationship with Cornelia.
Cornelia begged Wilfred not to sell the children, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.
By that point, Wilfred and Cornelia’s sons were fourteen, thirteen, and eleven.
The eldest was practically an adult by eighteen-hundreds standards.
He would sometimes drive passengers and their baggage into Nashville in a carriage or wagon. ”
“Like a taxi,” Buck mused aloud. “An early Uber or Lyft.” He pointed at Tyler’s spiral. “Feel free to use that quote, too.”
Gail continued to tell us her family’s suspenseful saga.
“The night before Wilfred planned to take the children to be sold at the slave market in Nashville, Cornelia got down on her knees and begged one last time for him to change his mind. He beat her black and blue, broke several bones. He beat their boys, too, when they tried to defend their mother. Rather than make Cornelia back down, however, the beating only strengthened the woman’s resolve. ”
Go, Cornelia! “What happened next?”
A Cheshire-cat smile curled Gail’s lips. “The official story was that Wilfred had set off to see about selling a couple of his horses, but that he never returned.”
My curiosity was beyond piqued, and I reflexively leaned toward her, eager for more details. “What’s the unofficial story?”