Читать книгу All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator - Henry Scott Harris - Страница 9

H: What an unimaginable night.

E: He was gone. We were alone filled with fear. The forlorn days and the dreary wondering drifted slowly into dismal weeks. Where was he? He promised to come back. At times my body was wracked with uncontrolled crying spasms. Where was my father? Did that rotten, white mob catch him? Is he dead? Weeks went by. No word. Nothing. I was eight years old, abandoned and lost. Everyday there was the fear, the incredible all-consuming fear that ate at my guts, remembering the mob’s threat… “Tell him we won’t stop looking and if he comes back, we’ll come back to see him dancing on a rope. Maybe you too.”

One night, I was awakened from sleep by a noise from the woods at the back of the house; branches snapped, leaves rustled, the sound of running feet. Thought the mob was back to kill us. I prayed and grabbed an axe. They would have to fight me. I waited, hunched down, ready to swing. Listening, listening, and then a sudden silence. Minutes went by, nothing. Are they getting ready to rush in, murder us and burn the house? It was too quiet, deathly still… then a whisper near the rear window. It was a wonderful, almost forgotten voice. “Blow out the candles, dowse the fire, no noise.” Daddy climbed over the sill. At first I did not recognize him. The once tall, straight giant of a man looked tired and worn. No matter, he was real and he was home. How do I describe the immense feeling of joy with the gift of a prayed for miracle? He was thinner, shoulders bent over, clothes tattered, and had grown a beard to disguise himself. He looked wonderful to me. Oh, the relief. The devils were gone and I rushed to embrace him. “Thank God you are home. Where were you Daddy? What did you do? How did you live?” The questions exploded from my young mouth. He answered, “Was on the run and hiding out. Spent time in Georgia and made my way to Florida. It was tough, wandering and wondering if they were still after me. Didn’t know if Stevenson was alive or dead. Couldn’t stay in one spot too long. Always on the move, ducking questions, never giving a straight answer or going eye-to-eye. Had nightmares worrying if they had hurt my children and burned the house. Took any job, hauling, lifting, picking oranges, anything to be able to eat. It’s been a long haul. I am tucked out. We’ll talk in the morning. Let me sleep.”

Oh, the blessed relief. The next day, the first time in months, the family sat down together at breakfast. My, he was hungry. He had good news. He would be working again, but not at the docks. Mr. Bradley had arranged for him to be employed by the Southern Railroad. He would work long hard hours laying the big heavy railroad ties. He would try to be home each evening, but there were nights he didn’t make it. Those nights, the fear ate at me, like a festering disease. Many times I worried, wracked with terrifying thoughts, cried myself to sleep, not knowing if this was the night those beasts, those searching white men, found and murdered him. Though only eight, must admit, there was no doubt I now hated white people.

During breakfast my father ordered, “No matter what, do not say I am home. Do not mention my name. Do not show things have changed. It doesn’t matter who asks, do not say anything and by God that includes Sunday church! Do y’all understand me?”

Months slowly drifted by and I sensed changes, the result of the intolerable and constant tensions. The family foundation was crumbling. Daddy agreed to let Pauline, my oldest sister, only 16, to get married and move to Alabama. He understood she could no longer stand the fear. Next, my older brother Hector, the smart one, enrolled at Morris Brown College in Atlanta. He wanted to be free to work and manage the two farms that mother had left him. I still dreamed of a peaceful land far away.

H: But Eugene, you were eight with a fourth grade education. What could you do, where would you go?

E: France. I would go to France! Being a child and having childish dreams, I knew that it wasn’t far to go. Little did that boy know what he faced. Yes, I made my decision to leave. Carefully and silently packed my two shirts and two pants in a cloth bag and in the morning, while everyone was asleep, took my first steps to France. Knew I needed money. What to do?

Shortly after midnight, while everyone was sleeping, I quietly stole away. I roped one of our goats and walked away with him. At dawn I was miles down the road and stopped at a farm where I sold him for the incredible sum of $1.50. Sure, the farmer took advantage of the stupid black boy but, voila, I was on my way. While the Sun was shining, I was unafraid and bravely and with my head held high, marched on. But, as it got dark, my friend, I was scared. There were strange sounds in the night. Didn’t know where to turn. Daddy told me, “You are the seventh son and you are the lucky one.” Would he be proven right? Each day I wandered, lost, alone, until the night when I was enveloped by the terrifying, dark shadows and sounds. Had I made a mistake? Should I find my way back home? The first few days, walked north, keeping off the road, slept in the woods, not chancing meeting anyone who might know me. Sleeping under the stars was cold. My food was gone and I was hungry. Which way? What do I do?

It was just after sunset when I stopped, confused, wasn’t sure that I heard voices, and almost drowned out by the loud thumping of my heart. Yes, there were voices, strange voices, in a language I had never heard. Bravely, I approached and saw a circle of painted wagons, colorful tents, horses and people gathered around a large yellow-red flamed cook-fire. They were dressed in bright colors. Men in baggy pants and wearing floppy hats, girls in brilliant flashing skirts and rainbow colored blouses were dancing to mandolin music. It was some sort of camp and for sure, I startled them.

H: You had never seen a gypsy before?

E: Never seen, never knew who or what a gypsy was.

I was scared and stopped dead in my tracks. Who are these strange men and women? They appeared to be as curious about me as I was about them. A hulk of a man, walked over. He towered over me, stared, his bright eyes examined me. Never saw such a big mustache. A crowd gathered and I was terrified. Who are they and what will they do to me? I heard a woman’s voice, “King, what is going on?” King, with a thunderous roar, loudly and jokingly exclaimed, “All of you look what we have here. Does anyone know what it is? Are you a boy? Where did you come from? What are you doing here? Do you have a home? What’s your name? Walk closer to the fire, get warm, let’s see you. You are so skinny, you must be hungry.”

The questions stopped. He patted my head, gently took my arm and led me to a seat near the fire. I stammered and very politely said, “Yes, thank you, I am hungry,” and proudly proclaimed that I was heading to France. They bellowed with laughter. I shouted, “What’s so funny?” King laughed, “Going to France. How and when? Think it is around the next bend? Come, while you wait to go to France, join us. You have no name. What to call you? Well, you seemed to have fluttered in like a bird in flight, so we will call you “Sparrow”, a little black sparrow. Call me King Raul. Sit by me and have some goulash.”

The name stuck. I sat with them. A lady handed me a deep dish filled with meats and vegetables. She said it was goulash. I had never heard of it. I hungrily gulped down the strange but delicious food. Learned to love goulash and each time I tasted it through the years, it brought back pleasant memories. King saw that I was getting drowsy and told me, “Tonight you sleep under a wagon. Rose will give you a blanket to keep you warm.” I slept soundly, unafraid, for the first time in months.

The next morning King said, “If you want to stay and eat our food, you must earn your keep. You will tend to the horses and share a tent.” I agreed and eagerly replied “Just show me how.”

H: Tell me more about the camp and the people.

E: For the first time in weeks I felt safe, no longer lonely. A wonderful lady, Queen Rose, washed my dirty hands and face and gave me clean clothes to wear. There were other children, all different ages. I shied away from them; didn’t want to be cursed or have rocks thrown at me. Instead, they reached out to me, gave me a hat and a bandana. It was like a family. In our free time, we played games, they taught me card tricks and best of all, to dance and sing. They cared about me and I cared for them. Rose always had a smile and kind word. I felt she adopted me. She made sure I had enough to eat and told me stories of the gypsies. Learned she was a fortune teller, could see the future. I pestered her to tell my future. She always refused saying, “You are too young now, too insecure, but soon.”

Life at the camp was comfortable until one night there was a commotion. Curious, I very cautiously lifted a corner of a tent panel and peered out. Mon dieu, it was my father, questioning each gypsy, “Did you see a small black boy with a goat? He is my son and he is missing, and I am afraid for him. He is so small.”

My Daddy had his back to my tent. King, facing him, looked past Dad’s shoulder, saw me shaking my head and mouthing a pleading “no.” He answered, “No sir, haven’t seen a child with a goat.” He didn’t lie, there was no small boy with a goat. I watched as this giant black man, disheartened, shrugged his shoulders, lowered his head. I knew that his eyes would be filled with tears as mine were. I heard his woeful sigh as he slowly turned, “If you see him, please send him home.” Then he left to continue his search. I was confused, torn with emotions. I loved him and part of me wanted to rush over, grab his hand. No, I had come this far, no turning back. By the glowing firelight, I saw him leave the camp alone, without his son. I started for him, ready to call out, “Daddy, here I am, take me home.” I stopped, with my hand over my mouth, hushing my cries, watching part of my heart go as I willed myself to stay. Didn’t know, but I would never see him again. The gypsies became my extended family.

H: So, you were safe and secure?

E: Sacre bleu! The camp was always on the move. Often a local sheriff or the police or an angry white townsfolk committee would come to the camp and demand it be moved. “Too bad you gypsies didn’t tell your own fortune. If you had, you wouldn’t have chosen to park yourselves here. Listen, your kind ain’t welcome. Don’t need dirty thieves. Move and we mean move now! Pack up and git or we’ll burn you out and put everyone in jail.” Each time, it was like reliving the mob’s attack at my house. Didn’t matter that we didn’t cause trouble. What mattered was that the gypsies were unwanted. Loading a wagon, I asked King, “Why must we move again?” His answer was very direct, “These white folk hate us because we are different. They hate you because of your color and they hate folks that look and act different or have a different religion. Their lives are not full unless they hate. You’ll find there are good and bad people, perhaps more bad.” “Not in France,” I exclaimed.

I worked and shared as an accepted member. I enjoyed their music and I would dance. Would use that dancing wherever I went. Wonderfully, King taught me to tend the horses. I gladly watered them, washed them, rubbed them, brushed them and cleaned up after them. Became very fond of these animals, truly loved them, talked to them and I knew they understood. They were like my brothers and sisters. They did not hate anyone. I had a favorite song that I sang to the big lady horse. She was black, too, so sleek and smooth to my touch. King and the others were surprised she let me tend her, because if anyone else touched her or stood near, she would whine and stomp angrily.

Weeks went by and being young and impatient, I kept pestering King, “When can I ride?” He always answered, “I must teach you more, little blackbird. It is too soon for you to ride. You are still too small.” Hells bells, I was anxious and having seen others ride, felt confident. One afternoon, after feeding the horses, I cornered him in front of the camp and boldly, loudly, stated, so that everyone heard, “I can ride.” “No,” King remarked firmly. “You are just beginning. There is more you must learn before I approve.” Defiant, full of youthful confidence, I kept insisting, “Now. Please make it now. I know I can ride!” He reluctantly agreed. “You are a foolish boy. Alright, let this be your first lesson, take the black.” Queen Rose pleaded, “Don’t let him try. Please, he will get hurt. He is just a little sparrow who hasn’t got his wings.” “Don’t worry, Mother Rose, I can do it,” I said to calm her, knowing deep inside I could.

I knew that the gypsies had named the black, la chienne (the bitch), because no one could ride her. She had shucked off others attempting to put a wool blanket or leather saddle on her. She was big and wild, fiery-eyed, her hooves always scuffing the dirt. You could hear her loud, impatient whinny to be free. I was not afraid as I bathed, brushed and talked to her each day.

The gypsies gathered around, watching, waiting and ready to laugh at my being bounced high in the air. Their chuckling changed to a stare as I threw a blanket on her glistening back. She did not move. I belted the saddle. She stood still. She did not twitch a muscle as I closed the bridle. I leaped aboard. There was no laughter, just sighs and gasps of amazement and then loud applause. The black responded gently to my touch. We galloped off, fast and faster. It was as if we were one. From that day on I rode her every morning, feeling her strength and desire to run. With the wind rushing against my face, I felt free. Years later I would have that feeling again. Being small and light, I became the gypsies’ jockey, riding the black in many races, making money for the camp and, yes, a small portion for myself. I carefully saved it for my trip. I loved the people, but knew in my heart that staying here was not the way to France.

H: Did you really feel you were ready to go?

E: Yes, I felt ready. I was grateful to the gypsies for the year and months of protection and kindness, but it was time to move on. They taught me about the world, about being confident and willing to face whatever threatens. I was a little older, a little taller and stronger. My goal had not changed. Tearfully, I stroked the black, patted and kissed her forehead. She bowed her head, nuzzled my shoulder, as if she knew it was our last time together. Reluctantly, but self-assured, said goodbye, thanking everyone, hugged King Raul, kissed la dame (Queen) Rose. She wrapped her arms about me, her tears matched mine as she said, “We will miss you little black sparrow. You asked so often so now I tell your fortune. You will go and meet your destiny. You will fly high in the face of obstacles and achieve your goals, slay your enemies, and be loved as I love you. Sparrow, my black bird, you will lead the way and then be forgotten.” She was right.

H: What was your plan? What was your next stop?

E: It is hard to recall, so many different people and places that run together. Now I am old, my mind plays tricks. I walked ‘til I ached. Hitched a ride when possible. I kept following the railroad tracks knowing it would reach a town. I’ll never forget this incident.

H: Eugene, are you laughing?

E: Just bear with me. There was the whistle, a trail of dark smoke and then I saw a freight train stop for water. Wonder of wonders, it was there for me. Silently and carefully I checked each freight car door until I found one slightly open. I did not hesitate. There was just enough room. I jumped aboard and squeezed into the darkness of the wooden boxcar. Clang! The motorman closed the door. Trapped! It was a terrible feeling.

H: Terrible? But you are laughing.

E: Guess I was paying the penalty for sneaking aboard. It was a stinking cattle and pig car. The stink! The shit! I yelled, “Stop the train! I want off.” No one heard over the clattering of the wheels. Going too fast to jump, it went on for miles and miles. I gagged and coughed, tried to hold my nose, but the smell was too powerful. There was no fresh air. I skidded on the slop and slipped to the floor that was covered by all sorts of crap. Damn! My clothes were full of it. It was in my hair, on my face and hands. “Please, stop the train! Let me off, before I die,” I pleaded to no avail. When going up a hill, the train slowed. I slid the door back and dove, no, flew out, landing, scraping my knees but gratefully away from that freight car. I walked to a little town where people shied away from me. Couldn’t blame them. Fortunately, there was a nearby stream and I flung myself, fully clothed, into it, hoping the smell and dirt would be washed off. Every time I see a freight train I smile.

H: Things didn’t come easy for that boy.

E: There are other situations I can’t forget. There was a white couple loading their wagon. She was very pretty with long yellow hair. Suddenly, the man who was with her, yelled out, “What are you gawking at nigger boy? Take your black eyes off her.” I tried to explain that I wanted to offer to work if I could get a ride, but…(Gene slammed his hands together). Hear that sound Henri? Whack! That was the sound of a horse whip whistling across my shoulders as he shouted, “Git out of here nigger.” I stood and glared at him, showing I was unafraid, then turned and walked away.

There were good and bad folks. In one town, after dancing in the street, an elderly, kind, white lady took me to her home where I had a meal. When it was time to leave she packed a bundle of food and gave me some old clothes and said, “I’ll pray for you little man.” Of course, there is more, but this was the beginning of the very tough and dangerous road to my destiny. Trying to survive, I took any job, sometimes working just for a meal and a place to sleep, usually in a barn or under a porch.

H: I know there is more.

E: Yes. Now where was I? Wanted to find the road to Atlanta and see my sister and brother. But which way was Atlanta? I had made some money picking cotton and oranges. As near as I could figure, had been in Georgia, Mississippi and Florida. Knew how my Daddy felt, never staying in one place too long. Months turned into years and I was no closer to France.

H: How did you survive?

E: Worked when I could. Sometimes I would find a popular corner in a town and dance and sing hoping for some coins. Did it until a policeman looked my way and then I scooped up the money and took off, not knowing where, but always north. I remember working in a general store packing shelves and carting goods and food. It was fine. Had a roof over my head, some food and a few dollars. Slept in the backroom on bags of potatoes. But, I did make it to Atlanta.

H: How did you manage to do it?

E: Daddy said I was lucky, he was right. I walked, following the train tracks and came to a station. Can you imagine my joy when I learned a train was scheduled to stop on its way to Atlanta? For the first time, I bought a ticket. Got aboard the passenger train, took a seat up front near a window. As the train started to move, the conductor walked down the aisle collecting tickets. He took my ticket and roughly grabbed my shirt, pulling me up and pushed me to the back of the car, to a section marked “colored only.” “Stay there or I’ll put you off,” he bellowed. I clenched my fists and showing no fear, stared right into his eyes. At that moment I knew he would not touch me again.