All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator. Henry Scott Harris
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.
CHAPTER 5: ON THE ROAD
H: It’s hard for me to believe. There you were, eight years old, little schooling and penniless and you decided to go to France, alone. How does a child make such a mature life-changing decision?
E: When I think about it, I had no choice. The family was breaking up, my mother was la morte (dead), our house was filled with tension, no longer any laughter. All I had was the dream my father told me, a dream of freedom.
H: I’ll take that glass of wine now. (As we touched our glasses, I could see Eugene’s eyes becoming watery again, as his thoughts took him back a half century earlier to his childhood.)
E: A votre sante (to your health). The wine is French imported into the United States. I was the opposite. Made in America and imported to France.
H: Merci. How am I doing with my French?
E: Very good, Henri…
The time was very hard on me - I was so sure that the trip overseas would come easy and fast. I was so wrong. I spent over a year with the gypsies, then on the road, surviving. I had two goals, Atlanta, to see my sister and brother, and France.
I remember every day, but certain incidents stand out in my mind after all these years. Atlanta was in the midst of a very cold Fall. The trees were losing their yellow-orange leaves, which were scattered by a brisk, bone-chilling wind. My clothes were tattered, offering little real warmth. Teeth chattering, I was looking for some place, any place where I might find shelter and some food. Turning a corner there was the most delightful aroma, like no other: freshly baked