Stewart County, Georgia
In 1863, Eugene’s father, William Octave Bullard, was born to a slave family on a Georgia cotton plantation. The tiny black infant was named after Wiley Bullard, the owner and master of that plantation on the Chattahoochee River about 40 miles south of Columbus, Georgia. After slaves were freed when the Civil War ended in 1865, Octave and his parents had nowhere to go, so they kept working for Wiley Bullard. Octave grew to six-feet, four-inches tall and 250 pounds of solid muscle—which made him an incredibly strong and useful field hand.
When Octave reached 19 in 1882, he decided to marry a 17-year-old Creek Indian girl named Josephine and strike out on his own. Soon afterward, Octave and Josephine Bullard moved to Columbus and rented a cabin. W. C. Bradley, a white businessman, appreciated Bullard’s obvious strength and hired him as a stevedore unloading boats at his cotton warehouse. Bullard was a hard worker and almost everyone liked him, especially Mr. Bradley. He nicknamed Bullard “Big Chief Ox” partly because of his name, partly because of his strength, and partly because of his marriage to an Indian.
Over the next 12 years, the Bullard family grew to 10 children. On October 9, 1895, Eugene James Bullard, Octave and Josephine’s seventh child, was born.
When Eugene was growing up, he loved everyone. He enjoyed playing with the neighborhood children. And he loved riding around the nearby streets in his goat-drawn cart. But for some reason, his mother wouldn’t let him play with white children. After his mother died when he was almost seven years old, he found out why. He tried playing with the white neighbors, but they would taunt him and call him names.
Eugene would forget about the name-calling, though, when his father told his family wonderful stories about the Bullard family and distant lands. Eugene’s favorite stories were about France, a place far, far away—across the Atlantic Ocean.
“In France,” Mr. Bullard told them, “slavery was abolished many years ago. And blacks are treated as well as whites. Someday I’ll take you there so you can see for yourself.”
One evening, Mr. Bullard told the older children about some problems he was having on the job. A man named Stevens, who supervised Mr. Bradley’s warehouse, didn’t like blacks. He cursed at blacks and hit and kicked them. “And he’s jealous of me because Mr. Bradley likes me so much.”
A few weeks later, Bullard was working in the cotton warehouse and standing near a loading hole in the floor. Stevens came up behind him and started cursing him. Bullard didn’t say anything, which made Stevens more angry. He cursed even louder. Bullard still didn’t say anything.
“I’ll kill you!” the red-faced Stevens shouted. He grabbed an iron loading hook, swung around and smashed Bullard on the side of his head.
The blow almost knocked him over. But despite the blood pouring from the terrible gash on his head, Bullard remained on his feet. He felt his head and stared at his hands, covered in blood. Then he looked up at Stevens, who looked shocked that Eugene’s father was still standing.
The enraged Bullard grabbed Stevens by both arms, lifted him overhead and threw him headfirst through the floor hole into the storage hold below. Stevens landed with a sickening thud. Not even a moan came out of the hold.
Still bleeding and holding his head, Bullard ran to Mr. Bradley’s office. After hearing the story, Bradley knew that Bullard might be lynched for what he had done to a white man—particularly if Stevens died. Bradley bandaged Bullard’s head, and they both walked back to the warehouse to find Stevens.
Luckily, they discovered that Stevens was badly injured but still alive. Bradley advised Bullard to hide until nightfall for his own safety. It wasn’t long before an angry crowd appeared at the warehouse. Bradley tried to convince them that Stevens had tripped and fallen into the hold, but the crowd’s grumblings showed they didn’t believe it.
Bullard sneaked home after dark, locked the door and told his frightened children to go to bed and to keep quiet. At midnight, sudden pounding on the front door and loud cursing from outside broke the family’s tense silence. Bullard peeked out a window and saw a white, drunken mob, some of whom were passing around bottles of liquor.
“Are you in there, Ox?” voices yelled. “Come on out.” The pounding continued. Someone yelled for an axe to break down the door. “Ah, he’s probably not here,” someone else said. “He’d be crazy to come home.”
After more arguing and drinking and pounding on the door, the mob decided Bullard wasn’t home and finally left.
“Children,” Mr. Bullard finally said. “Promise you won’t mention a word of this to anyone, no matter what.” He kissed his shaken children. “I’m going to leave for a while.”
With that, he quietly slipped out the door into the darkness.
Leaving Home
For two days, the Bullard children wondered where their father was hiding—or if he were even alive. They were also afraid the mob that pounded on their door two nights ago might have lynched their father for fighting with his white supervisor.
On the second evening after their father had left, the children heard a wagon pull up to their front door. The oldest girl, Pauline, peeked out. Albert, a black man, was driving a wagon owned by Mr. Bradley. Pauline swung open the door for him.
“Good evening, Miss Bullard,” Albert said, handing her an envelope. “I have a letter from Mr. Bradley.”
Pauline tore open the envelope and read the contents to the other children:
Your father is all right, and he is in no danger. Keep going to school as if nothing has happened. And if you need any money or food or anything else, just let Albert know, and I’ll get it to you. — W. C. Bradley
Every night they prayed and sang hymns before bedtime, hoping it would help bring their father back, but days and weeks passed with no news. Almost two months later on a Saturday night, the children heard Mr. Bradley’s wagon pull up to their house again. Albert had another envelope.
Pauline’s hands shook as she read the letter aloud:
Pull down the curtains tonight, leave a lamp burning very low, and leave the front door unlocked. I’m coming to see you at 10 o’clock when it’s very dark. — W. C. Bradley
The children jumped up and down and laughed and cried. They didn’t know whether to be happy or afraid.
“Hurry, dress up for Mr. Bradley in your Sunday clothes,” Pauline said. “I’m sure it will be good news.” She turned down the lamp.
In no time, the children were dressed and sitting on the floor, waiting impatiently for 10 o’clock to arrive, but not sure what to expect. The door latch suddenly lifted with a clunk. A figure stepped inside.
It was Mr. Bradley. The children got to their feet and stood at attention.
Mr. Bradley cleared his throat. “I have some good news for you. Your father is all healed up.”
The children sighed in collective relief.
“He’s coming home tomorrow morning on the train.” Mr. Bradley wagged his finger at the children. “But don’t say a word to anyone. And, whatever you do, don’t go meet him at the depot.”
Mr. Bradley turned to leave. “Unfortunately, your father can’t work for me anymore. It’s too dangerous. But I’ve gotten him a job working for the railroad.” He carefully shut the door behind him.
The children could hardly sleep that night. Early the next morning, the door swung open, and their father stepped in. Eugene and the other children whooped with delight and hugged their father as tightly as they could.
“How did Mr. Bradley treat you while I was gone?” Mr. Bullard asked.
Eugene answered first. “Mr. Bradley was real good to us. He’s the only good white person there is.”
Mr. Bullard got down on his knee and cupped Eugene’s chin in his huge hand. “People have different color skins, and some are good and some are bad.” He brushed his hand on Eugene’s hair. “Respect and treat everyone right—no matter what color—or they won’t respect you.”
“Well, I only know one nice white person,” Eugene retorted.
“Hmm,” Mr. Bullard said. “There are probably millions of nice white people around the world. I know that in France, white people are nice and polite to black folks.” He stood up. “Someday I’ll take you there so you can see for yourself.”
June arrived and school closed for the summer. Eugene would be 11 years old in a few months. At night he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned, unable to get France out of his mind and dreaming about a place where everyone treated everyone else with respect .
Maybe I could leave and look for France, he thought one night. But what would I do for money?
The next morning, Eugene had a plan: he would sell his goat and find France. At sunset, he led his goat across a nearby field to a lumberyard and sold it to the owner’s son for $1.50.
Eugene remembered a gypsy camp across the railroad tracks and figured it would be a good hideout from his father until the next morning. He headed for their campfire .
“Who are you?” the gypsies asked when Eugene appeared.
“Oh, I been visitin’ some relatives, and I’m goin’ back home.” Eugene replied.
An old gypsy lady handed Eugene a bucket. “Fetch some water for our horses.”
When Eugene came back from the creek, the old lady handed him a plate of food. After Eugene finished his meal, he saw his angry father heading toward the camp. He quickly hid underneath one of the painted gypsy wagons.
“Did you see a boy with a goat?” Mr. Bullard gruffly asked the gypsies.
The gypsies looked at each other. “No such boy around here.”
At sunrise, Eugene awoke and walked through some woods to a railroad track. He was on his way to France.