All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator. Henry Scott Harris
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.
CHAPTER 4: THE JOURNEY CONTINUES - THE GYPSY CAMP
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