They would have reached Mount Vernon by now, thought Hercules as he gazed at the rafters—but not so long as to have sent a letter that would have reached Philadelphia. No, Washington must have made this plan with Kitt before he left. The old fox was cunning.
New Jersey was a slave state and to carry Hercules there for but a minute would serve to reset his tenure in the capital, keeping him that much further from freedom. Hercules was not of a mind to oblige, especially since he had already effected his overstay in the capital back in ’91. Technically he was free—a card he’d hold until he was ready to play it, so he had begged off, claiming pain in his shoulder. Margaret, bless her sorry little soul, had piped up then from where she stood polishing the silverware at the table.
“It’s been ever so difficult for him, Mr. Kitt,” she said earnestly. “Why, it’s all he can do to reach upwards some of the time.”
They both stared at her, Kitt’s face twisting in annoyance and Hercules moving from anger that she should make him seem so weak to amusement at her bravery. Now he was grateful, pure and simple, because Kitt had retreated.
“I see,” he had said, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I imagine I can hire a man.” Hercules wondered what Kitt was up to—or, perhaps, whether the president had not drawn him into confidence. Although the steward gave up, the air between them crackled with his unspoken threat. Had he known the real reason for the trip, surely he would have had another pretense at the ready and insisted.
And he might still do, thought Hercules grimly on his pallet where he had repaired to “rest the shoulder for a short while.”
He rubbed at it now, fury rising. The blasted pain would always be there, reminding him of that day. He’d run through the scene over and again in his mind. Why hadn’t he been quick enough to break his walking stick down on their heads? Even as he imagined it with grim satisfaction, he knew that beating down a white man was impossible. His fury grew with each throb of his shoulder. The house was quiet. These few weeks before the family returned from Virginia offered perfect opportunities to slip away for hours at a time while Kitt spent more time out of the house than in it. He was allegedly organizing the move to Germantown, but Hercules had his doubts. The man was cagey.
Hercules sighed. Imagine lying down just so in the middle of the day! It was a luxury to be sure, but not one he particularly cared for. He’d rather be on his feet, out in the streets and dead tired, than spare a single free moment lying about in a hot garret—or even in one of the elegantly appointed bedchambers downstairs, come to that.
He’d get up in a little while when he was sure he’d heard the clatter of the carriage in the yard. Once Kitt was on his way, Hercules would be too.
The rain was beating on the roof in waves now, like an off-kilter drumroll. So far it had not been much of a summer with its cool, wet days. He wondered if the weather were any better at Mount Vernon and what Richmond might be doing. The ache for his son was almost as great as the ache in his shoulder.
Richmond had been angry when Hercules told him he was to go to Virginia with the others and remain there. The boy’s eyes had narrowed with fury and Hercules had clapped him around the neck and shuffled him far out to the corner of the yard, behind the necessary, where they could talk undetected.
“I have no choice in this, you know that,” he had hissed, trying not to breathe through his nose and get a lungful of the foul vapors that hovered around the outhouse.
“And Nate? What of him? Must he remain in Virginia too?” his son had asked angrily.
“I have no idea,” said Hercules smoothly.
Richmond had grunted and turned away, quickly wiping his eyes.
“Son,” Hercules said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sometimes it’s better to be out of sight and mind for a while.”
“What does that mean?” Richmond had asked, gulping angrily.
“It means that the General has taken notice of you—and not in a good way,” said Hercules matter-of-factly. “That bodes no well. You—we—must choose our actions carefully.”
Richmond looked at his father furiously, uncomprehending. He waved his hand in front of his tear-stained face to shoo the flies trying to settle there. Hercules watched him and was reminded of him as a tiny boy, struggling to walk, reaching his little hands in frustration at those who passed by. He’d cry and scream by turns, trapped in that place between anger and desperation. If only he’d learn the lesson of the middle road. Anger was a dangerous draught, though it could keep you alive in just the right dose. But it was Richmond’s nature to drink too long and deep from that cup.
Hercules put his hand on his boy’s shoulder, fighting the urge to grab him and run as fast as he could away from this place—toward certain disaster for them both.
“Trust me, son,” he said instead, and the boy nodded sullenly before Hercules had sent him off to get ready for the journey.
Hercules drew another deep breath and sat up. He thought of Waggoner Jack, who the president had sold to the West Indies for being churlish and disobedient. Jack had kept a dog after Washington said no slave could have one, its bark serving as a warning for the overseers’ nighttime raids on the cabins.
Jack had drunk his rum and cursed the General’s name and those of the men who came searching for stolen goods, keeping his dog long after the time they had all set theirs free or given them away. The General had hung the dog and put Jack on the next ship leaving Alexandria for Jamaica, his legs in shackles. They never did find anything stolen in his cabin.
Hercules wiped his hand over his face and prayed that Richmond was holding his tongue at Mount Vernon. He tapped his fingers restlessly on his knee, then reached over the side of his pallet, felt along for the place the seams were loose, and worked his hand inside. He felt around until his fingers touched the palm-sized leather book Mrs. Harris had given him. Drawing it out, he opened it to the middle and stared at the drawing of a mug with a big letter M above it. Silently he made the sound of the letter, then the whole word, and stumbled through the rhyme written below. He went on to N, then O, and had gotten clear to T before he heard a door slam.
He crawled quickly over to the window and crouched down so he would not be seen. A carriage was waiting in front of the house, the driver hunkered down in his oilskin cloak, rainwater falling in streams off the brim of the hat jammed far down his head. The horses shook their heads, sending a spray of water toward a woman trudging by. She lifted her skirts with one hand and balanced a market basket in the other, her cloak and hood soaked through.
Improbably, and without regard to the actual weather, Kitt emerged attired in a light summer suit holding a ridiculously large umbrella aloft as he approached the carriage. The horses startled a little as the huge moving canopy came near.
Hercules snorted but quickly sobered. Kitt was an extremely odd and unpredictable fellow. That made him dangerous.
He watched as the steward negotiated closing his large contraption and getting into the carriage, then waited until the carriage had moved away from the house and was far down High Street before he returned his little book to its hiding place and made his way downstairs.
In the kitchen, Margaret still sat polishing the silver, her face red and her hair limp from sweat.
“Why do you not prop open the door?” he asked.
Margaret started.
“I—I didn’t think of it,” she stammered. She looked at him closely. “Do you want for anything? Shall I make you some tea?”
“No,” said Hercules, waving his hand at her to sit back down. He walked over to his table and looked idly around.
“How is the packing coming?” he asked.
“Almost done now,” she said, taking up a pitcher and beginning to rub at it vigorously.
“Hmmm,” Hercules said and tapped his fingers on the table. He felt ill at ease and unable to focus. The close call with Kitt had unsettled his mind. He opened the door wide so a cool, wet breeze swept into the room, then stood and obse
rved the yard with its mud puddles forming in front of the stables and the sodden vegetable patch. A thought was coming to him.
Humming a little, he turned away from the door, grabbed a wooden bowl from the dresser, then went into the larder where he tied on his apron. Rooting around in the basket of remaining potatoes, he grabbed six good-sized ones and placed them in his bowl, then took a stale half-loaf of bread from under a dishtowel and pulled a few springs of parsley, thyme, and sage from the dried herbs hanging from a string along the far wall. Hercules scrubbed the potatoes in the sink and brought them back to his table. When he reached down to lift a small Dutch oven, he winced in pain and stepped back, breathing hard. Margaret was suddenly at his side. “Let me, sir,” she said, quickly snatching up the iron pot. She glanced at his ingredients at the table. “Water for boiling?”
Hercules nodded once and leaned on a stool pulled up to the table. He closed his eyes and rubbed the shoulder. He was grateful for the girl’s help but a little put off at how closely she seemed to observe him now that Nate was gone. Margaret stoked the fire and set the pot to hang above it. She took the salt from the spice shelf and dropped a few good pinches into the water as Hercules watched. Once she glanced nervously over her shoulder at him. He nodded curtly, which made her pale cheeks burn red. After she placed the potatoes gently in the pot, she stood watching him expectantly.
“Cut a good slice from that bread and then rasp it into crumbs,” he said. Margaret eagerly set about her task.
“Well done,” Hercules said when she finished. Margaret half curtsied, then hurried over to her bench and the silverware. They worked for the next half hour or so in companionable silence, Margaret polishing and Hercules putting together a simple supper. He couldn’t be sure if Kitt would be present for the evening meal, but he’d cobble something together in case.
As he peeled the boiled potatoes and smashed them with a fork, he glanced out the door. The rain was letting up to a fine mist. He cracked two eggs into the potato mash and added salt and pepper before crumbling up the dried parsley, thyme, and sage into it. He formed the potato mash into balls and rolled them around in the breadcrumbs, then brought them to the larder for frying later.
Coming out of the larder, he stood by Margaret’s table.
“I have a hankering for some oysters,” he said.
Margaret looked up at him curiously, then smiled.
“Come along then,” he said.
Margaret was taken aback and stared at him, surprised, before looking nervously at the door.
“Kitt is away for the day,” said Hercules, following her gaze. “He won’t know that you are gone.”
He watched as she considered this, the battling emotions written all over her plain, pale face. Perhaps she was even considering why he might want her company, though he doubted she was bright enough for that. In truth, he wasn’t quite sure himself why he wanted her along, except that a small idea was beginning to itch at the edges of his mind.
Finally, Margaret stood and set her plate aside. She untied her apron and set it down.
Hercules gave one of his curt nods before striding out the door, leaving her to follow and close it behind her.
Even though the sun was hazy and weak-looking, it heated up the wet pavement and sent wisps of rising steam into the already thick air. The rain, which had smelled so cool and fresh as it fell, now mixed with the muck of the roads into a stinking, filthy soup.
Hercules strode easily down the pavement without a hat upon his kerchiefed head. Even as he moved purposefully through puddles and muck, Margaret hopped along beside him, striving to avoid them.
It seemed the whole of the town had waited for the rain to pass so they could flood out into the streets. Hercules sensed that Margaret was just barely able to keep herself from grasping at his sleeve as she did Nate’s. He kept his stride two steps ahead and occasionally nodded politely at some passerby who called him by name or raised their hand.
When they got to the docks, Hercules headed to where Benjamin Johnson was using his hand to sluice the pools of water from his makeshift table. The waterfront was packed with stevedores and sailors making their ships ready now the squall had passed.
“The ones what have been floating aren’t good just now, Master Hercules,” the oysterman said pleasantly after he returned Hercules’s greeting. His Quaker accent seemed at odds with his brown skin. “They don’t like the rain water falling upon them. Changes the taste it does.” Johnson had rigged an ingenious system of cages that floated in the dock behind him, holding the oysters in the briny sea.
“And these?” Hercules said, gesturing to the large barrel by the oysterman’s side.
“I pulled out these and covered them before the rain set upon us this morn,” he said. “Thou shalt like them, I wager.” He plucked a large oyster out of the barrel and quickly pried it open with his special knife before cutting the muscle from the shell and handing it back to Hercules.
The chef held it up to his lips and paused. “One too for the young lady, if you please, Mr. Johnson.”
The oysterman selected another oyster and shucked it for Margaret, who eagerly plucked it from his hands and, watching to be sure that Hercules went first, quickly followed him in slurping down the briny bivalve.
“Very good, as always, sir,” said Hercules happily. Few things gave him better satisfaction than a delectable morsel of food. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his mouth.
“We’ll have a dozen more each, then.”
Beside him Margaret gasped.
“Oh, no, sir, that’s too much!” she said quickly.
“No?” said Hercules, his eyebrows rising with amusement. “Six, then, for the girl and twelve for myself if you please, Mr. Johnson.”
Johnson went to work opening the oysters and setting them on the table. Hercules picked one up and indicated that Margaret should do the same. Soon enough they were slurping them down as fast as Johnson could open them.
“I think you right well could put down twelve, my girl!” Hercules laughed, widely and broadly. Margaret grinned back at him.
“That’s right, fill her belly with them oysters to get her randy enough to fill it with something else, eh?” a voice cackled behind them.
Hercules’s face contorted with rage and Margaret shrank back in fear. He whirled around to face a ruddy-faced woman with wild orange hair and few teeth. Her bodice barely covered her meager breasts and the bottom of her cloak was crusted with the mud and filth of the road.
But when he set eyes upon the creature, his face changed. Here was the opportunity he had just realized he’d been seeking.
“Ah, Mistress Bolger,” he said, his face curling into a terrible smile. “Rain ruin your trade for the afternoon?”
The woman’s glared past Hercules toward Margaret.
“So that’s why my services ain’t good enough for you, eh? Got yourself some fresh flesh?” she hissed. Hercules stepped into her line of sight and Margaret moved closer to Johnson.
“Why no, Mrs. Bolger, not at all. This girl, unlike you, is not a whore,” he said as pleasantly as if he were chatting about the weather. “She too is in the General’s employ.”
“Employ, is it?” she cackled. “That’s what you call it now?” Her face hardened.
“And you, Quaker? Still too godly for a good time?” she said to Johnson.
The oysterman pursed his lips and looked down. Margaret’s cheeks were as red as if she had been slapped.
With a snort, the woman finally moved on. Hercules reached into his purse to pull out the coins for Johnson’s payment.
“Do not pay her mind, Master Hercules,” said the oysterman in a low voice. “Thou knowest she is a wretched creature.”
Hercules, his face stony, handed the money to Johnson. “I do. Come along, Margaret,” he said gently and guided her by the elbow down the wharf.
“Who was that?” the girl finally managed to whisper once they got to Front Street.
Hercules paused and faced her. He considered her a moment before speaking. This was the time.
“That woman is Mrs. Bolger, the wife of a free Negro chandler,” he said, pausing a moment for his words to sink in. “Her people abandoned her when she married him and he lost work in every quarter when he married her. The good women of this town will not even let her wash their stairs.”
He turned and began walking again, slowly enough this time for Margaret to keep up.
Hercules stopped and looked out to the farthest end of the harbor, where shipwrights were working furiously on new vessels. He went on, his voice becoming dreamy.
“She was pretty and young and fresh when she met Ward Bolger in her father’s tavern. She fell in love but although her father was happy to take Negro money, he didn’t want a Negro son-in-law. I’m sure you ken,” he continued. “I suppose she thought love would carry them through.”
“But how—how did she get like that?” asked Margaret, her voice quavering.
“They had to live somehow so he began to let other men have her favors—for money.” He watched Margaret, whose face had now gone even whiter. She looked as if she were about to be sick. “Other black men who wanted to lie with a white woman because the whites wouldn’t touch her after she had been ‘soiled’ by Bolger.”
Margaret breathed in short, ragged bursts.
“I don’t want you to think he’s callous, my dear,” Hercules went on sweetly. “No, he loves her very well. They have four or five half-breed children and of course Bolger can’t know they are all his—still he keeps them all as his own.”
Margaret stood stunned. Hercules turned and began walking again.
“Come along then, Margaret,” he said. “A pity our jolly afternoon had to end such, but no need to concern ourselves about it anymore.”
Margaret swallowed and trailed after him. He glanced over at her, walking quickly, head down as if she were being watched. For a moment he felt badly about the shock he had given her, but providence had offered an opportunity and he had to take it—for Nate’s sake more than hers.
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