grabbed the amazed Stevenson, held him firm, dodging his flaying punches, and slowly wrapped his giant arms about the squealing dockmaster, squeezing him. As Stevenson screamed, “Help me, please dear God help me, I can’t breathe,” Ox raised him high over his head. The crews watched, transfixed and fascinated as Stevenson pleaded, almost crying, and begging, ”Save me. Please. Put me down. You boys get him!” No one moved. “Put me down, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.” He was squealing like a pig. No one, black or white, came to his aid. The Ox roared, “Damn, you’ll never whip me or anyone again. Look, you bastard, my blood is just as red as yours!” Then he threw the overseer down deep into the hold of the ship they were working. Hearing the commotion, the owner rushed over to see what was happening. Mr. Bradley shouted, “My God in heaven, Big Ox, what have you done? He probably deserved it, but that don’t matter none, you can’t hit a white man! You may have killed him. Don’t say anything, just get the hell out of here, and go home. Don’t matter none if he lives or dies, either way you better get ready to run now. And I mean run, hide, and I mean now! The whole town will be after you. Run, damn you, run. I’ll see to the children. Go. Get out of here! Get the hell out of here. Save yourself! You men go down in the hold and find Stevenson.”
The black crew found him and saw that he was badly hurt but alive. As they turned him over, saw the blood, they suddenly realized the trouble they could be facing. “My gawd, we best get outta here before they take after us,” and they took off for the safety of their homes. Mr. Bradley ordered the remaining white laborers, “Listen to me! Each and every man jack of you, remember, if you value your jobs, this 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
