Mozay of Pepperwick

By Jean Perry

IN 1853 at Pepperwick, the largest rice plantation in South Carolina, all of the slaves, field hands and house servants, are called out to watch. Storyteller Old George, whose tales remind them of their lives before captivity, is caged and buried in wood chips up to his neck.
Fifteen-year-old Mozay, the educated slave companion and servant to Clarence Little, the rice planter's son, stands with the other boys. With only a look from Old George, Mozay receives a mystical message:
YOU ARE WORTHY OF FREEDOM AND SO ARE ALL.
At that moment he makes up his mind to escape and in freedom to teach others to read and write. The cage is set on fire.
But Mozay is more daydreamer than doer. And when he does take action, he's impulsive and hasn't thought things through. The only educated black boy at Pepperwick he has no friends to share ideas with and receives no encouragement from peers to pursue a future outside the plantation. With no one to support him, egg him on to pursue his escape plan, a year passes before he acts on the emotional charge transmitted by the storyteller.
When French business woman Sarah Manét comes to visit Pepperwick he senses that she and enslaved head butler House Winslow know each other. Intrigued by this connection between a white woman and a black man he's confused and fearful when the two hint that they may help him, provided he can carry out a difficult task. Will he be able to accomplish their assignment and leave Pepperwick forever?
Accompanying the Little family on their annual trek into Charleston from the coastal town of Pepperwick, he meets Nathaniel, a freed blacksmith. Eager to befriend another black man who reads, Mozay relishes their conversations until Nathaniel challenges him to make good on his often talked about escape. Wanting to support his friend and push him towards action Nathaniel introduces Mozay to friends who may help him. With backing from Sarah Manét, House Winslow and Nathaniel's friends there's a clear possibility that his escape will succeed but only if he can overcome his analysis/paralysis behavior and go forward— without knowing all the answers in advance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098319878

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Cover design and art for MOZAY of PEPPERWICK produced by Jay Weyler for BookBaby.com

Formatting by Jay Weyler.

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Contact Author Jean Perry

Website https://www.jeanperrywrites.com

Email: [e-mail]

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Instagram: eyesonmep

This is a work of historical fiction. Some, but not all, of the names, the characters, the places, and the incidents, mentioned in the text blend real-world with fictional elements. The References Section cites real people, places, and occurrences, providing sources for further reading.

Copyright © 2020 by Jean Perry

ISBN: 978-1-09831-986-1 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-09831-987-8 (eBook)

For my parents,

and for storytellers because they capture

the past and influence the future.

Contents

Prologue

The Library

MacGonigle

Plantation Walk

Him

Ora

Territory

Escape

Master and Mistress Talk

Punishment

The Sick House

Rice

Planting Rice

Locks and Gates

Papa’s Surprise

An Unexpected Visitor

Ora’s News

Sarah’s Reception

Sarah’s First Meeting

Pots and Pans

Kitchen Help

Heywood and Henrietta Speak About Sarah

Sarah Talks to Henrietta

Follow Him

Master Heywood Talks At Mozay

Packing Up

Storm Clouds

Riding to Charleston, With Company

The City Tavern and the Wharves at Charleston

Mistress Teazell’s Errands

Second Visit to Nathaniel’s House

Theodore’s Birthday— Mistress Teazell’s Masquerade

Mozay finds Winslow’s Rooms

Fisheye’s Weather and Financial Report

Third Visit to Nathaniel’s (Snake’s Story)

Mozay Talks to House Winslow in Charleston

Mozay Hears Winslow’s Story

Life After Work

Heywood and Master Teazell at the Bank

Smiths of Charleston

Clarence and MacGonigle at the Wharf

Third Class Mail with a First Class Purpose

Mistress Teazell at the Post Office

Henrietta Shops and Ora Waits

A Birthday, A Masquerade and A Story

A Hurricane Visits Undisguised

In Confusion Things Can Happen

Walking Up the King’s Highway

New York City

Epilogue

References

Acknowledgements

Prologue

All of us are called out to watch. Men, women, and children, the young and the old surround his cage. I stand with the other boys.

Old George is a blacksmith and a teller of tales. He comes from West Africa. His mother was taken a prisoner of war, during a battle between the Ashanti Confederacy and the Fante Kingdom. The Ashanti, having pushed the Fante further inland, sold her to Portuguese slavers. He was fathered by the ship’s captain who gave him his last name Deas but did not adopt him.

They sailed from Africa to the Bahamas, where he learned his mother’s stories before she was sold away. At twelve he was sailed to the state of Georgia. From the beginning, he told us, his stories caused trouble. They made people remember their past freedom and feel their present slavery. After hearing his tales, the quiet ones began to complain, the meek rolled their eyes, the quick, began to shuffle and work, slowly. This caused their owners to fear for their lives, he told us, not to mention the headaches they suffered as they fell behind delivery schedules for the rice, cotton, tobacco, and other crops that earned them money. That’s why he’s ended up here in South Carolina, the state where rebellious slaves get sent.

We gathered at night to listen eru se omo nile iyaa-a re ri, is how the Yoruba put it," he says. In his mother’s house, a slave was a freeborn person. I thought about that. The way I understand it, a slave belongs to his master, but only under the law. If, in his mind and his heart he can hold onto his spirit, then no matter how badly he’s treated, he belongs to no one but himself.

The day after his tellings, we’d walk straighter, hold our heads higher, and carry a look in our eyes that said we’d obey our masters, but always be on the lookout for a way to escape them.

But now, he’s like this. The cage is filled with wood shavings. Old George is buried up to the neck.

He looks at me. I look back. At that moment, I know. He is caged and about to die, but not before he passes me his gift. With one look he sends me this message: you are worthy and so are all.

The flames flicker and then blaze.

Who wants to tell stories about Africa now? Lemuel the overseer calls out to us.

"I do and I will," I say in my heart.

I answer silently not because I’m a coward but because I want to stay alive. I know my life belongs to me, and now it’s my duty to own it and spread the word to others.

***

Exactly one year later . . . April 1853.

Chapter One

The Library

What is the third planet from the sun?

Why, I know that one without thinking. The answer is as plain to me as my name, Mozay, Mozay Dies. I can hardly restrain myself from calling out. So when the tutor asks that question, I recall what day it is and raise my hand, like Old George would have wanted. Despite being enslaved, have I not shown that I am capable of learning?

You are not to answer! The exclamation is quick and full of strong feeling. For a moment I don’t accept that the tutor, Captain Jeremiah MacGonigle, British Navy Retired, is speaking to me. Then, remembering what I am, I put my hand down.

I’ve served Clarence Little since he and I were seven. I held my tongue until today when, pent up with so many years of pretending to be without thought or wit during Clarence’s class, I decided to speak.

I say pretending because the truth is, I’ve trained myself to remember everything Captain MacGonigle says.

With the guidance of my father Arkeem, from the gold coast of West Africa, and my mother Sparrow, a Sioux from Santee, South Carolina, I follow a plan. Once the lessons are over and I’ve tended to Clarence, I go to a tall pine tree in back of our cabin. Kneeling underneath it, I write everything I’ve learned in the dirt. So although the Captain is Clarence’s teacher, in a way, he teaches me too.

I put my hand down today without argument because my father, a tanner, insists that I play by the plantation’s rules.

Always let that tutor-man win. Don’t show all you know. Without the lessons you just another slave, can’t read, can’t write. With the lessons you got somethin’ can’t nobody take away. Learn’n! Thas the one thing they can’t take from you.

My mother says only: Be happy for the learning time. In the future it will be the most important thing. You will see.

The sticky heat of April in South Carolina winds its way through the library. The room, already warm, becomes unbearable. My heart pounds and my mouth, so ready to speak, goes dry. The wall clock sounds its steady tick, but for me time slows. I glance around at the walls, three lined with books and the fourth with French doors, that lead out to a piazza. The doors are closed against the heat of the day but that doesn’t stop the aroma of baking bread, wafting up from the outdoor ovens. A butterfly pounds against the glass panes; if he knows what’s good for him he’ll stay outside, where he’s free. Clarence must be sweating with embarrassment for me, because he’s removing his jacket. For once, the Captain allows this exception. He’s usually very strict about our appearance. To be treated like a leader you must look like one, he says.

He’s a thickly-set, grey-haired scholar, who mops his brow and wipes his spectacles with a large, white handkerchief. This he spins round and pops at either of us, when he wants to make some point or other. More often than not his handkerchief, wet with his sweat, lands a stinging blow to our necks, which makes him chuckle and call us my two piano keys.

Clarence’s mother, impressed by how quickly I learned my prayers, picked me to be companion and valet to her only child.

Why Sparrow, I remember hearing Mistress Henrietta Little, say to my mother, Mozay will be the perfect companion for Clarence. He’s such a smart little monkey-boy. I’ve never seen another child learn their prayers as quickly as he.

Then and now Clarence and I are about the same in height and build, a little taller and thinner than average. He is tanned white to my chestnut brown.

Tall as ripe corn, my mother has a habit of saying.

Skinny as pole beans, Mistress Henrietta always adds.

But of our color differences, they say nothing.

Clarence’s father, Heywood Little—I don’t have to call him master in my thoughts—is the wealthiest rice planter in the state. He and Mistress Henrietta own nearly three hundred slaves, including my parents and me.

Wham! I jump when MacGonigle slams the Complete Webster’s Dictionary onto the floor, another of his methods of keeping us alert. I’ve been daydreaming! I come to just in time to hear the day’s assignment . . . diagram . . . with explanations of the sun and the earth’s positions . . . the reason for the seasons.

Got it.

Seeing that the lesson is over, I go over to Clarence. He’s already folding his jacket and handing it to me.

Get us some lemonade Mozay? It’s spoken as a question, but I hear it as the order that it is.

Yes, master.

And Mozay, he whispers, get the almanac and uh, take care of that diagraming for me? I want to race my pigeons.

Yes, ‘lil master, I’ll handle it.

What are you two whispering about?

I was say’n I’ll take more sugar in my lemonade, says Clarence.

I walk past MacGonigle but not quick enough to miss the pop that rings out when his handkerchief catches the back of my head. In the kitchen, I reach for Clarence’s lemonade from inside one of the iceboxes.

I take him his drink and pick up the almanac, but I have no intention of doing Clarence’s homework right away.

Today, when I return home, I don’t bother to kneel in the dirt. I tear through the forest and yell at the top of my lungs: EARTH! THE ANSWER IS EARTH, THIRD PLANET FROM THE SUN WITH A DIAMETER OVER 7,000 MILES AND AN ATMOSPHERE OF OXYGEN, NITROGEN, AND OTHER GASES; A TENDENCY TO BE DENSE AND, THOUGH IT SEEMS CALM, IS ACTIVE AND ALWAYS CHANGING!

There! It’s out! MacGonigle might hear it in the distance and whip me but I’ve done it. I’ve answered!

Old George would approve.

Chapter Two

MacGonigle

I’ve yelled out my answer for all the forest to hear, but I walk back home with a mixture of nervousness and dread.

Ora, a friend of mine who cleans in the Big House, tells me that Clarence might be leaving home, to go to boarding school. If what she says is true, there will be nothing for me to do here, except become a servant or a tradesman. Is he leaving or isn’t he? There’s only one way to know for sure. I head to MacGonigle’s cottage. I’ll do my chores, and Clarence’s homework, later.

The Captain lives to the east of the Big House, in a wooded grove out of sight of the slave quarters. His white brick cottage, green painted door, and grey stone walkway, make me wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I want to turn around but today is Old George’s anniversary, a day for taking action.

I knock at the door.

Who’s there?

Mozay, sir.

What, my wash finished already? he asks letting me in.

Usually, I only come here to return his clothes from the laundry. He seems to trust me more than the other house slaves.

No, sir. I invited myself, sir. I need a good listener.

Well, come in. His breath tells me that he’s had a drink from the silver flask that holds his whiskey. He pockets it.

I follow him into a large room, its walls papered with maps of the states and territories; of Europe, Asia, and Africa; and the islands of the sea. The kinds of maps a sailor would have.

He sits at his desk in a swivel chair.

I have a feeling, I begin, that Clarence, he is fourteen you know, will be leaving Pepperwick to study at some private academy. Am I right, sir?

Clever Mozay, he sighs. If only you’d been born . . . well, somewhere else . . . but no matter. You’re correct in your assumption, although I can give you no details. I’m sure the gossip about it will get around the Quarters and back to you, soon enough.

Well then, sir, I was wondering . . . I shift from one foot to the other.

Out with it, boy!

Well, with your permission, when Clarence leaves, where will that leave me?

Where, in deed I wonder? You would be a perfect candidate for being brought up to the trades, perhaps a carpenter, a painter, or a tanner, like your father, Arkeem.

My face betrays my thoughts.

Not attracted to any of your possibilities, is it?

That’s correct, sir.

He pulls his chair closer to me, a kindly look on his face. He lowers his voice. Mozay what would you do . . . if, if you were white? What is your fondest wish?

To continue learning first, I say, "and to teach others,

second. After that, I would like to be a writer and a storyteller . . .maybe travel."

Ah, so. He sighs. He looks past me, into the distance, and stands. I’m not able to help you anymore, boy. I’ve much to do before I leave here. And of course, if you tell anyone you’ve discussed these things with me, I’ll say you are lying.

Of course, sir, I—I understand. And I do. After all, he’s already violated a plantation rule. He talked with me, not at me.

The almanac Mozay, he pats the book gently. I believe you’ll need this?

Yes sir, I say, keeping a straight face. I believe I will.

Now that I know Clarence will be leaving Pepperwick I need to leave too. He’s not the only one who wants to get his life started. I’ll see Ora later, when I finish my chores.

Chapter Three

Plantation Walk

I return to my family’s cabin. The house is empty. My parents are still at their tasks. I put the almanac by my pallet, change clothes, and stir the lima beans simmering in a cast iron pot, atop a pile of coals in our fireplace.

In my mother’s vegetable garden, I pick tomatoes and a couple of ears of corn as she told me. Inside I cut corn off the cob, chop up tomatoes, slice onions, and add everything to the pot.

The skins my father told me to bring to the tannery lay in the corner. These I gather into a bundle, secure them with cloth, and carry them on my head.

Passing over the rise that leads to the stalls, I see the first rice field. It smells so much like clean dirt I can almost taste it. It’s April, and the seedlings are covered with water to help them sprout. Screeching parrots and cawing crows celebrate the seeds and bugs they find.

I pass horse stables, barns, and a barnyard where a rooster eyes me as I eye his chickens, and a cat lounges on a cow’s back as though it belongs there.

I feel sorry for a calf wearing a yoke, a sign that he’s tried to escape, but I can do nothing for him. His round, black eyes appear angry and sad as though he’s been shocked by something he saw or heard, maybe the screams of his mother at the butcher’s hands—and then when he’d done something about it, I definitely think he’d tried to run off, he’d been captured, and now he is stuck with his yoke and his anger, until his turn comes. I understand his feelings.

I trudge to the smithy, but before I can get inside Crazy Hasophat appears at its opening, leans over, aims his behind in my direction, and lets out a loud, smelly wind, then ducks back inside. Determined to let loose a windstorm of my own, I follow him in but Hasophat is already back working the bellows, as though he’s had nothing to do with me.

The heat of the ovens, the clanging of blacksmiths’ anvils, and the stench of hot metal make my head swim and my eyes burn. I start to back out the way I’ve come in but I stay stuck to my spot, mesmerized by the neck, wrist, and leg irons swinging overhead. My eyes, tearing from heat, hug the face iron—why am I drawn to its ugliness? A contraption of thin, bent metal strips, it’s placed over the wearer’s head. A separate collar, with bent spokes shooting out of it so that the wearer cannot lie down to sleep completes this hellish invention. The irons are used for incoming slaves, slaves being sold off, and those needing a reminder of who they are and to whom they belong.

I’ve seen field slaves work with those contraptions on, their already wearying assignments made harder by the weight of the iron.

Tell you what, says Lemuel, the overseer, when evah you see sump’n in heah you want, cum see me, yah hear?

I sneeze going past the carpentry stall with its wood dust hanging in the humid air. At the weaving stall, I smile at my mother, Sparrow. Just looking at her soothes me. She’s small, with two slender braids surrounding her reddish-brown face. I’m about to go in, but with the cloud of flies surrounding the hides, decide not to. I point at them and she nods that she understands and keeps working, her hand sending the shuttle back and forth through her loom.

Sweating and itching, bitten by flies and fleas, I arrive at the tannery. My father sits bent over a long worktable. The door and the room’s two windows are open, clearing the air of fumes from ammonia and sulphur, the chemicals used to soften animal skins and turn them into leather. In spite of the sharp odors, I take a deep breath, removing the heavy load off my head and lowering the hides onto my father’s table.

He looks them over. Everything’s heah. Good. And the lessons?

Fine, Papa, I lie. Papa, I was think’n ‘bout go’n to see . . .

Ora, he says, laughing, I can see it in your eyes. Go but be home for suppah.

Yes, Papa. I swat flies as I leave.

Chapter Four

Him

There, in front of me. He’s half-hidden behind a tree, only his head sticks out showing his face in profile. It’s said that he has the sight of an eagle and I feel he sees me fully. He walks toward me, his beady eyes taking me in, his black and gray hair sticking straight up. What is House Winslow, the most important slave at Pepperwick, doing out here in the Quarters, away from the Big House?

I know what you’re up to, he speaks in a low but confident tone. You got some nerve, rais’n your hand in that boy’s class today. He knows already? Someone must have eavesdropped on me. As the head bondsman on the place, he rules over all slaves, from field hands to house servants.

Bet you hope the Littles will send you with Clarence when he goes off to school somewhere, don’t ‘chu? Keep up with your learn’n? Read’n his books, maybe even sit’n alongside him…. thas’ what’s up your sleeve, ain’t it?

I know there’s no hope of that. The other planters and their sons wouldn’t tolerate my presence, even if Clarence would. That’s not the reason I raised my hand.

"Well why’d you do it? Why