Читать книгу All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator - Henry Scott Harris - Страница 8

E: It was the fight that put me on the road. My father worked on the warehouse docks unloading cargo from the river cruisers. The white dock boss, named Stevenson, a cracker bigot, hated Dad because Dad was black, educated and had conversations with the warehouse owner, Mr. W.C. Bradley. He was a genial man, didn’t care about color, just wanted work done quickly and without problems. Stevenson, on the other hand, was fat, squat, a foot shorter than the Big Ox and small in mind.

He was an uneducated, brutish, ugly, sadistic bully who ruled the dock and warehouse as if it was his private plantation. He wore a rumpled dirty white shirt, stained with tobacco ashes from his ever-present cigar. His jodhpurs were tucked into highly polished, glistening black boots. A straw, river-boat gambler’s wide brimmed fedora adorned his round head. He was never without a long, thick, hand-carved cane with a silver wolf’s head as its handle. He cradled it lovingly as he verbally and physically abused the black workers. He would curse them and when the thought pleased him, and that was often, he would lash out with that silver handled cane. Each day, he searched for reasons real or not, to use it. “You boys see this hungry wolf? It hates lazy black bodies. It knows its way around your backs. So shut up and do as I say, and do it my way or I’ll let him bite you, hard!”

At home we sensed there were problems, but felt that Dad was able to deal with them. But what we didn’t know was how deep they ran. Each night, my sisters, brothers and I huddled together around the wood table, anxiously waiting and watching for Daddy to come home safe. When he was late, I was frightened, and felt my pounding heart would jump out from my chest. We knew there were men who hated my father because he was black. Many times Daddy would try to explain to us, but it just didn’t make sense. Didn’t make sense then and doesn’t make sense now. I was just a child with fears that only vanished when he opened the door and smiled. It was then I felt safe, but never knew exactly what was going on, only that it was bad.

It was an exceptionally hot day, sweltering hot. Flumes of steam rose from the wood planks at the warehouse wharf. River steamers’ holds were opened to deliver their goods for storage and distribution. The black dockhands, drenched with sweat, grumbled as they climbed non-stop, up and down the gangplanks, burdened with goods from the ships, their muscles and bodies straining as they turned to each other, complaining about the heat, the lack of water, and the favored treatment of the white hands. Boss Stevenson had a favored white crew who had water when they thirsted and relaxed in the shade until the heavy work was done. Blacks, with tongues dried and lips cracked, could only speak in whispers. ”Shit on that man, Stevenson. It’s so fuckin’ hot and we gotta beg for water? We ain’t dogs. That man ain’t human. He cares for no one and no one cares ‘bout him.”

They had to be careful, for if Stevenson overheard or had a suspicion of a complaint from a colored hand, he would happily rush over and apply a mean stroke of the cane. The Big Ox avoided the group and the growing and gnawing discontent. Dad worked in silence. Stevenson hated the Big Ox and singled him out for “special duty,” the hardest work. On this particular day, perhaps it was because of the extreme heat and the burning Sun from a cloudless sky, the friction became more apparent. You could feel it, taste it. The boss man, loud, and coarse, ordered, “You, Mr. Big Nigga, pick up that bundle! Don’t bother to look for help, do it by yourself! Do it now or you’ll enjoy a loving pat from my cane.”

As Dad bent to heft a large bale, Stevenson, using the cane, tripped him. He shoved Ox to the ground scrapping the big man’s arms and legs, and wood splinters dug into his flesh. “Ha, got you good. Git your ass up,” Stevenson laughed. Angered, Dad rose, his fingers tightly clenched into fists. He heard shouts of, “Get him, Big Ox. Crush him!” He looked into Stevenson’s face, braced himself, pulled his arm back as if to hit out. The Boss held up his hands, covered his face, protecting himself from the anticipated blow, flinching, cringing, closing his eyes and backed away. The Ox stopped, waited ‘til Stevenson opened his eyes, then again pretended to prepare to hit him again. Instead he controlled his temper, calmly smiled, gave a short victorious chuckle, took a deep breath, turned, ignored the dock boss, lifted the bale, and walked away.

At that moment, everyone knew that Stevenson had become afraid, a trembling coward. No one had ever dared to look him in the eye or threaten him. Big Ox strode up the gangplank near the storage hold of the ship. Stevenson, enraged, composed himself, followed him, loudly cursing, “You black son of a bitch, you Indian lover. Got your own tribe of little bastard half-breeds. I’ll get you. The wolf will taste you!” No reaction from the giant black man, knowing it would cost him his job or he’d be sent to prison or strung up. The Ox was silent. The fat man was defied. His shouting became screams, almost a girlish whine. “You hear me Ox. Turn around, you shit ass,” Stevenson yelled. The Big Ox gave no sign he heard. He would not be goaded, and continued working. His orders being ignored, Stevenson became more incensed. He paused and carefully looked. The Big Ox had turned away, his back to Stevenson, who saw he had an easy target. He grabbed a pole, lifted it, and swung it down hard on the Big Ox’s head yelling, “That will teach you. Won’t listen to me, eh boy! You’re a dead man.”

The Big Ox went crashing down. A river of blood spouted from his head as he lay there. Stevenson, not content, laughing, screaming, raised the pole and struck the Ox’s back again and again. Dad lay there, still. Stevenson snickered, “Got you good, didn’t I boy! Come on, don’t be a nigga’ baby, git up.” The dock was deathly quiet. Minutes went by. No movement. No one rushed to help the Ox. Was he dead? The Ox moved, slightly at first. Though dazed and bloodied, he slowly rose, staggered to his full height, summoned his strength, tore off the red-blood-stained remnants of his shirt, wiped the blood from his face, and threw it to the ground and roared, “Damn you, damn you to hell you miserable little shit!”

Standing tall and defiant, he grabbed the amazed Stevenson, held him firm, dodging his flaying punches, and slowly wrapped his giant arms about the squealing dockmaster, squeezing him. As Stevenson screamed, “Help me, please dear God help me, I can’t breathe,” Ox raised him high over his head. The crews watched, transfixed and fascinated as Stevenson pleaded, almost crying, and begging, ”Save me. Please. Put me down. You boys get him!” No one moved. “Put me down, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.” He was squealing like a pig. No one, black or white, came to his aid. The Ox roared, “Damn, you’ll never whip me or anyone again. Look, you bastard, my blood is just as red as yours!” Then he threw the overseer down deep into the hold of the ship they were working. Hearing the commotion, the owner rushed over to see what was happening. Mr. Bradley shouted, “My God in heaven, Big Ox, what have you done? He probably deserved it, but that don’t matter none, you can’t hit a white man! You may have killed him. Don’t say anything, just get the hell out of here, and go home. Don’t matter none if he lives or dies, either way you better get ready to run now. And I mean run, hide, and I mean now! The whole town will be after you. Run, damn you, run. I’ll see to the children. Go. Get out of here! Get the hell out of here. Save yourself! You men go down in the hold and find Stevenson.”

The black crew found him and saw that he was badly hurt but alive. As they turned him over, saw the blood, they suddenly realized the trouble they could be facing. “My gawd, we best get outta here before they take after us,” and they took off for the safety of their homes. Mr. Bradley ordered the remaining white laborers, “Listen to me! Each and every man jack of you, remember, if you value your jobs, this was an accident. He tripped and fell into the hold.”

The attempt to make it an accident failed. A group of white trash, malcontents, loitering near the docks, gathered yelling, “Ain’t no accident. That black bastard tried to kill a white man who done nuthin’…let’s get him. We got to do sumthin’ about that black stud sum of a bitch. Let’s string him up. Let’s get ‘em all.”

The shouts, the racial insults announcing the crime of a black man daring to hit a white man, stimulated others’ smoldering hatred and a crowd gathered. Within minutes it became an enraged mob. “Get wagons! Get your horses. Get a rope!” Ropes were quickly produced. After more vitriolic discussion, the mob leaders decided, “We’ll wait ‘til nightfall. It’ll be safer and we’ll have the cover of darkness.” They went to the nearest bar and drank some courage and laid out the plan to find, whip and then hang the Big Ox.

H: Eugene, then what happened?

E: Dad had raced home. The door flew open, rattling the hinges. Why was he home, it was only afternoon? I saw, for the first time, panic on his face that was covered with drying blood. Mon dieu, I remember blood everywhere, on his head, face, chest and ripped pants. Ugly, bright red gashes marred his back and chest. “All the children, in here right now! No questions, just listen,” he commanded.

We gathered, sat quietly, trembling. I reached out to Pauline, my older sister, seeking some comfort by holding her hands. She hugged me softly, trying to soothe my fears. This was the second worst day of my childhood.

I had lost my mother and I was terrified of what was about to happen.

“Listen to me carefully. There was a fight at the docks. I hit Stevenson, the white boss I told you about. God in heaven, I wasn’t looking for a fight. I tried to back away. Damn, he wouldn’t give up. Followed like a hound on a hunt and beat me with a pole. I fought back. Now, just listen. Do as I say.

I believe there will be men coming fer me. They’ll be mad as hell. As soon as it gets dark, I’ll make a break and make my way through the woods.

Don’t know when I’ll be back, but I will be back. Tell no one where I went.”

I watched as he loaded his rifle and filled a knapsack with food. I grabbed his leg, my tears overwhelming my senses. “Please Daddy, don’t leave us, please,” I begged him. “If’n you gotta go, take me wit’ you.” “Now listen,” he said. “Don’t show candlelight. Lay on the floor. Crawl under the bed. Do not open the door. No matter, don’t open the door!”

In Columbus, the few had become many. Wagons full of men, mostly drinking to give them courage, rolled to the meeting ground. Men on horses dragging ropes, were already there. As darkness fell their bravado rose. “It’s midnight. Let’s get that black bastard and string him up.” Another voice from the mob, laughing, “It is so dark we won’t be able to see the Ox…get torches.” It was growing late. Dad, dressed in dark clothing, was prepared to make his move. “I’ll be in touch with Mr. Bradley. If you need anything ask him. He is a good white man. Remember me. I’ll be back.” He paused, bent down, kissed each of us and then he was gone.

I crawled under the bed and lay next to my older brother Hector and my sisters. Our sobbing had stopped. Nothing but silence. It wasn’t long until we heard the rumbling of horses’ hooves and the rattling of wagon wheels on the road. Then the laughing and shouting at our front door. Oh God, they are coming for us. My thought? Will they beat us and kill us?

Voices from the mob, “Ox, you black bastard, if you got any guts come out from behind the kids. Better do it before we burn you and them out. We’ll put your little black bastards on the grill.” This incited more laughter from the rabble.

I was terrified. Could not move. The mob was at our door. Suddenly, there was fierce pounding and I heard loud voices, “Git the fuckin’ door open. Kick it in!” The solid door did not give way to their boots. “Git a couple of axes. Hit it! Crack it open!” I heard the whack of the swings and hits of the axes. The door splintered and shattered. Then a frantic rush and crush of men carrying torches that lit up the cabin. “Where are you Big Ox? We come fer you,” they yelled. “Come out or we take your kids and light em up.” They knocked over the table and chairs, ripped the blankets from the bed and slammed the bed against the wall. We huddled on the floor. They laughed as we clung to each other. “Ought to burn the place,” one of the mob suggested. Would they burn us? I thought they would. The fear was overwhelming. I could not move. Heard one of the leaders yell, “Told ya, he wouldn’t come home. He’s too damn scared. The Ox may be black but he is yella! He ain’t so strong. He’s on the run. Leave the kids. They’re almost scared white.” They roared with laughter. “Okay, come on, back to town. Sooner or later he’ll show and we’ll git him then.” On this day, I knew I was in hell.