All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator. Henry Scott Harris
time, when finished, passed my cap around. Ah, the Scots, don’t tell me that they are cheap. They threw everything from pennies to pounds at me. Once coins were thrown wrapped in a boy’s sweater and pants “Be warm boyo.” I looked up and saw that it was an elderly woman’s face in the window. We exchanged smiles, I bowed and mouthed “thank you.”
H: But Gene, that was no way to live, seeking a handout.
E: You are right. It was hard, dancing, singing and whistling on street corners. Thought I was entertaining, but I knew and resented being a beggar.
H: Come on Gene, there is more to your activities in Glasgow.
E: I was tired, weary and needed some luck, some Big Ox luck. Strange, my whistling proved the charm. Did the job you are hinting about. One afternoon, after a performance, a man, very attractively dressed in a chic, expensive, dark suit, obviously a well-to-do jocko passed by and said, “Hey, you boy, hey you Sparky, I’m talking to you. Come over here. Come on, move yourself. Interested in making some easy money?” Of course I was interested but I was also curious, angry, insulted. Had enough orders aboard the ship. Perhaps just tired and frustrated so my voice flared out, “I am not your boy! I am a man. Don’t call me Sparky or Darkie. My name is Eugene, Eugene Jacques Bullard. My friends call me Sparrow.”
He was shocked as I said, “You want to talk, talk here. Want me to perform at a party?“ Grinning, he replied, “ Ha, no! Calm down my bucko. Didn’t mean anything my Mr.Bullard. If you want to work Mr. Bullard, then I have an easy job for ye. Nothing dangerous, we do some street gambling and need a lookout. Need a clever young man like you Mr. Bullard. All you have to do is stand in front of a building and if you see a bobby coming our way, loudly whistle the song ‘Loch Lomond’.”
H: Loch Lomond?
E: Henri, you know the words, “You take the High Road and I’ll take the Low Road.” If the police came, I would whistle it and the gamblers would quickly close up the dice and card table and disappear. If the coast was clear I would whistle “My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean.” Made more money in a couple of hours than I did in a week on the street. He had a sense of humor, always calling me Mr.Bullard. Was able to afford a room at a boarding house and put a little aside. Ate the first honest dinner I could afford. The main course was haggis. Wouldn’t have eaten it if I knew what it was.
It’s the windpipe, lungs, heart and liver of a sheep mixed with oatmeal and sewn back into the stomach of the animal and cooked. Sounds awful but it was delicious and washed it down with a hot toddy. I felt alive.
H: How long did you work as the lookout?
E: Not long; a couple of months. Saved as much as I could. Well, this particular evening, the friendly bobby who had passed by and gave a friendly wave each time, walked over. As he did, I whistled “Loch Lomond.” He laughed, then smiled, winked knowingly and said, “Laddie, I love the song but you may soon hate it. You shouldn’t be doing this. You’ve been doing it too long. Keep on and there is woe trouble in store for ye. Anymore complaints and we’ll have to run your buddies and you in. Truly enough of this, best ye move on.” Of course he was right. Realized that if arrested, would be jailed, not having proper identification, could be sent to a workhouse or worse, deported. His moment of kindness did it. Couldn’t take the chance, dashed back to my room, gathered my few clothes, packed my duffle and pocketed my savings, decided to move on to the seaport of Liverpool. My decision was unchanged: I must, I will get to France.
CHAPTER 7: LIVERPOOL – BOXING
E: That old sailor was right. Liverpool was a big seaport and any seaport brought me closer to France.
H: Well Gene, you are what 15-16 years old, in another strange city?
How did you survive or shouldn’t I ask?
E: Henri, you are right. Wondered if my father’s luck would hold out. I headed for the docks, sure there would be work and ships. Perhaps one destined for France? Unfortunately it wasn’t to be.
H: What did you do?
E: To work, I had to join the union. They weren’t interested in my age, just my membership dollars. Became a loader and dockhand carrying large, sometimes almost too heavy, crates. Didn’t make too much money. Barely paid my room and board, but did make me stronger. Though I grew, couldn’t keep up with the loads. Took odd jobs. One of the strangest was “Dunk the Darkie”.
H: Dunk the Darkie?
E: That’s right. There was an amusement park on the outskirts of Liverpool. I was hired, paid a couple of pounds each weekend to sit on a wooden platform. Reminded me of my bunk aboard ship. There I was, holding a bull’s-eye target on my chest. The sign over my head read, “Hit the target and Dunk the Darkie, three tries to sink him.” People paid to throw balls at me and if they hit the target right, I was dumped into a tub of water. I sang, laughed at their misses and whistled to attract more customers. The more customers, the more I got paid. Wasn’t the greatest job; but better than begging on street corners, and it paid for my room. Henri, I was very clean, taking so many baths each day! The people enjoyed the fun and someone always yelled, and the crowd laughed at, “Darkie, take another dump and your color will wash off.”
Then on this Monday, I was tired and weary of the weekend at the amusement park and decided to walk. Turned down a street I had never been on before. Saw a sign, “Baldwin’s Gymnasium.” Being curious, I opened the door and was hit by the musk aroma of male sweat and the sights and sounds of men lifting weights, punching bags, and some punching each other. All this activity was to various rhythms…crack, crack, whack, leather gloves thudding against hanging stuffed bags, skip-ropes smacking the floor and boxers’ dancing feet.
H: This is where your boxing career started?
E: Right. I felt strangely at home and looked around. Lots of noise and movement. There was a ring in the center of the room where boxers were trading punches. A big, gruff, bald-headed man was screaming orders to the fighters, “Ryan, hit with your left. Hey Davey, work on the big bag. Frankie, carry your right higher, jab, jab!” The gym became silent, the activity stopped. All heads turned and faced me. The big guy, wondering why, turned and looked at me. He wasn’t happy and demanded, “Hey, you little bastard, what the hell do you want? What are you doing here? Get your black ass out of here before I boot you out.” I answered, “Hold on mister, I need a job. I’ll work cheap if you let me. I think, looking at the boxers, I can do what they are doing ‘cause I can dance. “Kid, are you crazy? First you want a job, now you want to be a prize fighter. This is one tough racket. You would get killed. Go home. Go to school. Git out now! Go home, that’s best for you.” “Mister, I got no real home, no folks over here. So how about us making a deal?”
He appeared stumped and then surprisingly, with an immense laugh that shook the building, shouted, “Hey boys, this black wants to work here and learn to fight. What do you say?” The fighters had stopped, watched and listened to our conversation. Like a chorus they yelled back, “Come on Chris, give the kid a break,” They agreed and so did he. “Okay kid, as a starter, everyday you’ll clean up, dump the buckets, wash and sweep down the floors and the ring. You’ll fill the water bottles and wash the towels. Now, what do we call you?” “You can call me Sparrow.” I looked him in the eye and asked, “Okay then, what do I call you?” “You shit-head, you got guts. The name is Mister Baldwin. Got it? Not Chris! Mister Baldwin!” He was Chris Baldwin, the owner.
I cleaned and carried and when my chores were done, used the equipment and listened to Mr. Baldwin’s instructions to each fighter. I was learning and working everyday except the weekends. For months, worked and trained in my off hours, lifting weights, punching the bag, becoming stronger. Now and then Mr. Baldwin would put me in the ring with the professionals. He and they were impressed with my agile dancing footwork to duck their punches. “Okay Sparrow, I taught you the moves, now I’ll train you to hit. Feet spread, shoulders squared, when you punch, lean in.”
Every day, high society men, in their long day coats, came to select fighters for their private club bouts. They weren’t alone. Gamblers came to see if they could get an edge by seeing