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