Читать книгу All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator - Henry Scott Harris - Страница 11

E: The steel-colored clouds were motionless, the day gray and dark; a dismal fog touched the sea and touched me. The ugly sky was a dense canopy of bone-chilling mist that welcomed the ship as it pulled into Aberdeen Harbor and docked. I climbed down from my bunk, tossed back the pillow, folded the blankets, dressed, and glanced around knowing I would never see this room again. I carried a weary weight on my heart, having arrived in Scotland, not France. It was a foreboding and frightening sight. Stood near the gangway, cap on my head, worn jacket buttoned tight offered little protection from the cold weather. Shaking, fearful, trembling with dire thoughts and the feelings of being dumped ashore, abandoned and seul (alone).

H: Terrible, alone in a foreign country.

E: C’est la vie. I had no choice; at least I was in Europe. The bosun placed his hand on my shoulder as we leaned on the railing. I stared out at this new city wondering where to go, what to do and how would I live in this strange land? My thoughts were interrupted by the bosun, “It’s time Sparrow. Won’t be bad, you’ll see. The Scots are decent people, and your France isn’t far away.” He paused, patted my back and handed me two envelopes saying, “You turned out to be a good sailor. This envelope is your pay from the captain. You earned it. The other is a collection from the men to make it easier for you ashore.” Mon dieu, they moved my heart. I walked slowly to the top of the gangway, ready to depart when he called, “Hold Sparrow, almost forgot, this old duffle is a gift from the crew and is full of, not the newest but clean clothes, pants and a couple of sweaters to keep you warm. Maybe too big but you will grow into them.” Cookie rushed over, grabbed my hand, touched my cheek and handed me a box. ”Didn’t want to miss you. Put this in the bag. You won’t go hungry for a while. Smile, remember no more peeling potatoes.” As I made for the gangway the first mate shouted from the bridge, “Remember the stars! Sparrow, remember the stars and remember us.”

H: Obviously, the men liked you and respected you.

E: Did my job as best I could. But it was over. Prepared to take my first steps down when the captain appeared and commanded, “Sparrow, halt!” What did he want now? What is he doing here, came to see me off his ship? Dressed in his crisp, clean whites and glistening cap, he towered over me, stood at attention, saluted, bent down and said, “Aller anfang ist schwer.” The bosun quickly translated, “All beginnings are difficult. The first step is the hardest.” I looked into the captain’s eyes, understanding what he meant and replied, “Danka.”

H. Can’t imagine your emotions - fear, terror, anticipation. What happened?

E: Slowly, defiantly, stood straight, my face wet, hiding my trembling hands and eyes blurred, body shaking from the cold fog seeping into my bones, cautiously took each step down the gangplank, knowing I was leaving another “family.” As my feet touched on the drab concrete Aberdeen dock, put my duffle down, turned for a last look, smiled and danced a quick, dandy two-step and waved goodbye. The men, lining the deck were delighted and cheered, “Auf wiederschen Sparrow! Dance your way to France.” Slung the duffle over my shoulder and bravely skipped into an unknowing future, alone in Scotland.

I found that the Scots are unusually gentle people. When passing them on the street, they smiled. Of course they seldom saw a black person, much less a young one wandering, street performing and always asking the questions about France. Stopped a sailor, with a weather-beaten face drawn from years at sea, who answered my longing for France, “Matey, you would do better in Liverpool, where there are more ships.” And so tired, yearning, with his encouragement, took his advice and I journeyed on.

H: I’ve heard some stories about your adventures in Glasgow.

E: So Henri you think you know? The truth? I was hungry, hadn’t had a decent meal in days. Le deprime (depression). Sleeping in doorways and alleys, sometimes in a church. Needed a job, any job to earn money for food and a warm place to sleep. Tried following organ grinders up and down the streets of Glasgow, singing, dancing and whistling to their tunes. Each time, when finished, passed my cap around. Ah, the Scots, don’t tell me that they are cheap. They threw everything from pennies to pounds at me. Once coins were thrown wrapped in a boy’s sweater and pants “Be warm boyo.” I looked up and saw that it was an elderly woman’s face in the window. We exchanged smiles, I bowed and mouthed “thank you.”

H: But Gene, that was no way to live, seeking a handout.

E: You are right. It was hard, dancing, singing and whistling on street corners. Thought I was entertaining, but I knew and resented being a beggar.

H: Come on Gene, there is more to your activities in Glasgow.

E: I was tired, weary and needed some luck, some Big Ox luck. Strange, my whistling proved the charm. Did the job you are hinting about. One afternoon, after a performance, a man, very attractively dressed in a chic, expensive, dark suit, obviously a well-to-do jocko passed by and said, “Hey, you boy, hey you Sparky, I’m talking to you. Come over here. Come on, move yourself. Interested in making some easy money?” Of course I was interested but I was also curious, angry, insulted. Had enough orders aboard the ship. Perhaps just tired and frustrated so my voice flared out, “I am not your boy! I am a man. Don’t call me Sparky or Darkie. My name is Eugene, Eugene Jacques Bullard. My friends call me Sparrow.”

He was shocked as I said, “You want to talk, talk here. Want me to perform at a party?“ Grinning, he replied, “ Ha, no! Calm down my bucko. Didn’t mean anything my Mr.Bullard. If you want to work Mr. Bullard, then I have an easy job for ye. Nothing dangerous, we do some street gambling and need a lookout. Need a clever young man like you Mr. Bullard. All you have to do is stand in front of a building and if you see a bobby coming our way, loudly whistle the song ‘Loch Lomond’.”

H: Loch Lomond?

E: Henri, you know the words, “You take the High Road and I’ll take the Low Road.” If the police came, I would whistle it and the gamblers would quickly close up the dice and card table and disappear. If the coast was clear I would whistle “My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean.” Made more money in a couple of hours than I did in a week on the street. He had a sense of humor, always calling me Mr.Bullard. Was able to afford a room at a boarding house and put a little aside. Ate the first honest dinner I could afford. The main course was haggis. Wouldn’t have eaten it if I knew what it was.

It’s the windpipe, lungs, heart and liver of a sheep mixed with oatmeal and sewn back into the stomach of the animal and cooked. Sounds awful but it was delicious and washed it down with a hot toddy. I felt alive.

H: How long did you work as the lookout?

E: Not long; a couple of months. Saved as much as I could. Well, this particular evening, the friendly bobby who had passed by and gave a friendly wave each time, walked over. As he did, I whistled “Loch Lomond.” He laughed, then smiled, winked knowingly and said, “Laddie, I love the song but you may soon hate it. You shouldn’t be doing this. You’ve been doing it too long. Keep on and there is woe trouble in store for ye. Anymore complaints and we’ll have to run your buddies and you in. Truly enough of this, best ye move on.” Of course he was right. Realized that if arrested, would be jailed, not having proper identification, could be sent to a workhouse or worse, deported. His moment of kindness did it. Couldn’t take the chance, dashed back to my room, gathered my few clothes, packed my duffle and pocketed my savings, decided to move on to the seaport of Liverpool. My decision was unchanged: I must, I will get to France.