The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  “The aroma is good, Excellency,” he said after inhaling deeply. “I believe they’ll make a crisp cider with a good nose.”

  Washington closed his eyes and leaned forward to gently sniff the apple Hercules held out. “I have no doubt you are right, Hercules,” he said, opening his eyes. “What of your shoulder?” Washington asked suddenly. “It pains you, I see—and this is not the first I’ve noticed.”

  Hercules was startled. “I pulled it somehow, sir,” he said quickly. “It is of no consequence.”

  “Oh, but it rather is,” said Washington, looking up at the tree canopy again. “Kitt tells me you were unable to accompany him to New Jersey because of your pains.”

  “That is true, sir,” said Hercules slowly. What was the old fox up to? And that bastard Kitt … “But I am better now.”

  “I see,” said Washington, turning to walk the length of the orchard. Hercules followed.

  “We are two of a kind, you and I,” said the president, walking with hands clasped behind his back. Hercules raised his eyebrows at this ludicrousness but remained silent. Washington paused and turned to look at the smaller man, his eyes narrowed.

  “My back, your shoulder—two old warhorses hobbled by our injuries.” He looked inquisitively at Hercules.

  “Made stronger by them, sir,” Hercules said. “At least, Your Excellency is made stronger by them.” Hercules smiled. “My labors are not in comparison to yours.” He bowed.

  Washington observed him a moment before turning to walk again.

  “I note you were carrying a basket,” he said after a bit. “More blackberries to glean?”

  “Ah, no, sir, the others have done a good job at that,” said Hercules. “I am for the market.”

  “Are you?” Washington raised his eyebrows slightly. “Is not Kitt laying in the supplies adequately?”

  Hercules hesitated. The truth was Kitt did nearly nothing adequately except hover and observe Hercules like a skulking rat. Still, it was always a tricky business to speak against a man that the General had placed in service himself.

  “He is—adequate, sir,” said Hercules. “I simply like to see what is on offer. I am”—he paused, looking for the appropriate word—“particular about what is sent to your table.”

  Again, Washington stopped walking and turned to look at him.

  “Yes, Hercules, I believe you are,” he said. “Well, I’ll not delay you further.”

  Bowing again, Hercules turned to take up his basket when the president called.

  “Cook, I have a taste for those hoecakes you make for tomorrow’s breakfast,” he said.

  Hercules looked back at the tall man, now stooped, standing under the canopy of branches. He seemed far older and feebler than Hercules had ever seen him. Putting his hand to his chest, Hercules bowed again, more deeply this time, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE MARKET WAS WINDING DOWN ITS business for the day and there was little left for Hercules and Nate to choose from.

  “It’s fish that I’m wanting,” said Hercules to his assistant. “But we won’t buy it here, not after it’s been sitting out all day like this. We’ll find the seller with the cleanest stall and the best variety. We’ll ask him where he fishes and how often and then strike a bargain to bring his wares direct to the house.”

  They walked on through the rows, pausing at the stall of a butter vendor in the cool of the market house.

  “Ask her what cows have given the cream for the butter,” Hercules said to Nate as they faced the Quaker woman behind the table.

  “What cows do you keep, mistress?” Nate asked politely.

  “Jerseys,” she said, looking from one to the other. Hercules asked to look inside the crock.

  She opened one of the clay crocks nearest her and moved it forward at an angle for him to look inside.

  “Good,” he said. “Please give us five pounds.” Her eyes widened.

  “I have only four left,” she said. “Thou can have that.”

  “Fine, four then,” he said, counting the money from the small bag at his waist.

  “Next week I shall have five, however, and I’ll not collect it here,” he said. “Please deliver it before you come to market to the gray house fronting the market square—the house where president and Lady Washington are living at present. Do you know it? Good.” Now the woman busied herself drawing the lumps of butter from the small barrel of buttermilk behind her and pressing them into a fresh crock that she held out to Nate.

  ‘Take that back to the house, son,” said Hercules, nodding at the woman. “It’s too hot to walk with butter in hand. Madam,” he said, bowing slightly to her.

  Hercules walked on after Nate had left, looking idly at what was on offer. He passed by a table of nice-looking honey but the house was overloaded with the stuff, brought by admirers to the president, who was partial to it. Finally, he came upon a fish vendor he liked and spent some time questioning the man and bargaining with him for a delivery of fish twice a week.

  “Make sure to send your absolute best,” he said sternly. “President Washington is extremely fond of fish.”

  His business done, Hercules walked through the rest of the stalls, stopping to purchase the last of a fruiterer’s apricots and figs. When he turned, his basket laden, he caught his breath. Thelma was walking toward him, a chattering white girl holding fast to her arm. This must be Harriet Chew. He had not seen Thelma once since they’d been in Germantown, though he was ever aware that she was nearby.

  The surprise halted him and he stood observing her. She was looking down and appeared to be listening to her companion, but Hercules knew her too well. Her mind was elsewhere.

  She was ravishing in a pink silk dress with gauzy ruffles at her breast and sleeves. Her small waist was deliciously wrapped in a wide fuchsia ribbon. Hercules felt his loins rise as he thought about untying that ribbon. He held the basket lower in front of his pants. Making a swift decision, he walked toward them.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said in his deepest voice when he was within a few feet of them. He bowed grandly.

  Thelma startled and drew her breath. She looked at him wildly. Beside her, the chattering girl stopped mid-sentence and gasped.

  “Don’t be afraid, Thelma!” she said quickly, pulling Thelma along with her. “I know him—he is General Washington’s cook.” Hercules straightened and watched them hurry away. He could still hear Harriet Chew’s chatter.

  “I know the General sets quite a store on him, but he is impertinent,” she twittered. “I can’t imagine why the General lets his people go about as he does. What with all the free blacks influencing them. I mean, even Attorney General Randolph lost his slaves to that terrible abolition law. And now all the French planters from the West Indies fighting to keep their people, as if it weren’t bad enough they had to flee their country …”

  Harriet stopped talking when she heard Thelma gasp.

  “Oh! Forgive me, my dear, I did not mean to frighten you,” she said earnestly. She studied Thelma a moment. “You—you did not lose anyone to the abolition law, did you? How thoughtless of me not to ask! I just assumed given your circumstance …”

  “Non, my dear, I did not,” Thelma answered. “It is just that I am as shocked as you.”

  Satisfied, Harriet began to pull Thelma farther away, her voice fading as they exited the other side of the market.

  When he reached the other edge of the square, Hercules paused and considered what to do. The prospect of a reunion with Thelma seemed more remote than ever. There was no question of going after her, but he needed to know where she was staying. Maybe he could follow without being seen. But what if he could contrive to meet her only to find that Harriet had set her against him? Nonetheless, he began to turn back the way he had come.

  “Mon taureau …” said a breathless voice from behind him. He swung around to face her, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. She was breathing hard, her bosoms
heaving above her bodice as if she had run back the whole way.

  “The Chews have taken that house, across there.” She flicked her head in its direction. “If you come tonight, after they are abed, I will come out. Oui? You can manage this?” She searched his eyes. “I can,” he said under his breath. “Go now before someone takes note.”

  Although they were in the center of the village, Germantown was such a small burgh that even on a market day, there weren’t enough crowds for Hercules to blend in. He had to wait until the family was properly abed and the town quiet before he made his way to the Chews’. He only hoped that Thelma would not have retired as well.

  Nate and Austin had long gone up to their attic room, which was far less commodious than their quarters at the presidential mansion. Here the roof sloped so low that they had to crawl to their pallets to sleep and crawl out again. It wasn’t so much an issue for Hercules, who was short, but Austin had banged his head on the rafters more than once when he sat up too quickly upon waking.

  Hercules made good use of the time he had to wait, studying the letters in his small book by the light of the dying fire. He had prepared two pies for the next day and had them cooling on the table should anyone come down to the kitchen at the late hour, and he had mixed the batter for the president’s corn cakes, which sat in the larder covered with a cloth.

  When he could finally sense no more movement in the rooms overhead, Hercules stood and slipped the small book into his boot before going out the garden gate. He paused a moment, adjusting his eyes to the moonless night. The town watch was clear at the end of the main road—he could see his lantern bobbing far in the distance. Glancing up, he saw no lights in the windows of the house.

  Hercules crossed the square, keeping well to the edges where there were trees and shrubs for cover. When he reached the wide stone gambrel-roofed house where the Chews were staying, he slipped around the back and stood across the street, stepping into a small shed there and peering out from the shadows.

  He couldn’t be sure if it was the right side of the house for Thelma’s room, but he guessed that, her being a paid companion, it would be nearer the back stairs. He stood for almost a half hour before he saw a side door open and a cloaked figure move toward him.

  Hercules stepped backward into the open doorway of the shed. It was hard to make out whether the approaching figure was a man or woman. It could easily be one of the footmen who would wonder why a Negro was lingering across the way.

  The figure stepped into the shed and pulled back the hood.

  “Mon taureau,” Thelma breathed, moving to cover his mouth with her own. She pressed up against him and he reached under the cloak to pull her close.

  “What are you wearing?” he said, surprised.

  “My nightdress, what else?” she said simply, running her tongue down his neck. “How I’ve longed for you,” she groaned. He felt himself stiffen.

  “You might be missed,” he said, holding her away from him.

  Thelma stepped toward him again. “Do you not want me?” she said coquettishly.

  Hercules glanced out the door of the shed and shut it with a soft click before lunging toward her and backing her up against the wall. In a flash, he was inside her and she wrapped her legs around his back.

  “Have you got your answer?” he said into her neck.

  Once he was done, she smiled impishly, she pulled down the nightdress and tied the cloak tighter. Outside the sentry called the two o’clock hour.

  “We cannot meet here again,” he said, taking her hand. “It’s not safe.”

  Thelma was now no longer smiling.

  “But—” she began.

  He held up his hand. “You’re at risk,” he said. He opened the door and glanced out. “There’s no one in the street now, you can go back quickly.”

  Thelma caught at his sleeve and pulled him back into the shadows. She put her hand on his face. “Mon taureau …”

  Hercules caught her wrist and kissed her palm.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, leaning up to kiss her mouth. “I will find another way.”

  They kissed and nuzzled for a few seconds more before he held her away again.

  “Which one is your window?” he said, nodding toward the house. Thelma pointed to a small window on the top floor near the rear of the building.

  “Good,” he said. “Look out your window every day at the noon hour. If you see me that means I have news and will be here, in this spot, that night when I can get away.”

  “I can do this,” she said, moving toward him again.

  “Beautiful Thelma,” he said, grabbing her arms and looking at her before kissing her hard. “I want you a thousand ways but you must go while it’s safe.”

  Nodding, she kissed him one last time before dashing across the street, her pale skin a flash in the inky night.

  Hercules gently closed the door when he slipped back into the kitchen. Margaret would be sleeping on her pallet in the larder. He moved quietly toward the stairs when he heard a sickly groan. Standing, he waited. The sound was something between a whimper and a gag. It was coming from the larder where Margaret slept.

  Hercules moved to the larder door and eased it open. Margaret lay there on the pallet in her shift. She had kicked off the light blanket and sweat coated her absurdly pale arms and legs, which were splayed out like those of a broken doll.

  Squinting at him, she rose up on one elbow but then flopped down again and collapsed on the pallet.

  Hercules uttered a curse and moved closer into the room. What the devil was wrong with her? Kneeling, he felt her face. It was burning hot.

  “Father?” she muttered and tried to reach for him, but then her eyes fluttered up in her head.

  Alarmed now, Hercules made his way quickly up the stairs to the hall where Oney slept outside the Washingtons’ room. He would need her help. Shaking her awake, he told her what was wrong and to alert her mistress.

  Oney scowled, furious at being awoken, but eventually she nodded. Hercules returned downstairs and waited, unsure what to do. Finally, he went to the well and drew a bowl of cold water and wet down some clean kitchen rags.

  A long time passed while he patted down Margaret’s head and legs, feeling peculiar the whole time. He could see that she was somewhere between a child and a woman and it felt wrong to be doing this, but worse to let her lie and suffer. Finally, to his relief, he heard Oney come into the kitchen, calling softly. She reached him in the larder and her mouth fell open.

  “Well?” said Hercules gruffly, ignoring her shock.

  “Uh, Lady Washington says to lay her out in the box room upstairs. There’s an extra cot there …” Her voice trailed off as she stared at Margaret’s thin white arm in Hercules’s hand.

  “Fine,” said Hercules, scooping the girl up and standing. His injured shoulder screamed in pain. In his arms, Margaret tried to say something but the words were just a gurgle.

  Once he lay her down on the small cot, he went up to his room. Lady Washington had sent for the doctor and he lay awake a long time listening until he heard the sound of voices at the front door and then footsteps on the stairs.

  Loud voices and heavy footsteps sounded overhead, then a high-pitched scream followed by total silence. In the kitchen, Nate bolted up from his bench where he sat shelling peas.

  “Sit down,” said Hercules from where he stirred the pot over the fire.

  “They’re hurting her!” Nate said angrily. He did not sit down.

  “They’re not hurting her,” said Hercules calmly. “The doctor is bleeding her. She is getting the best of care. Same as Lady Washington’s granddaughter would.”

  Nate balled his hand into a fist before sitting heavily down.

  “Besides,” Hercules went on as he buttered a tart pan, “what is it to you?”

  Nate shrugged. “She is my friend,” he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

  “Friends, is it?” Hercules rumbled. He could see he was going to have to
use harsher tactics to make the boy face the truth. He opened his mouth to say something more when there was the noise of many feet in the hall. Oney bustled in, carrying a bowl of bloodied water that she flung outside the kitchen door.

  She turned toward them, her hand on her hip, looking ready for a fight.

  “Now, I’m to be nursemaid to a servant?” she began. Voices entered the kitchen from the hall through the door that Oney had left ajar.

  “Do you think it’s the yellow fever?” they heard Lady Washington ask in shrill tones.

  “That girl isn’t worth her keep—” Oney was going on.

  “Hush!” hissed Nate, straining to hear what was being said in the hall.

  Oney closed her mouth with a snap and gave him an evil look.

  “I doubt it,” the doctor was saying. His voice sounded tired. “It is an ague of some kind. Others in the village have had it but it passes within a day or so. Just keep her still and see if someone can get some willow bark tea down her—that should help with the pain and fever. Some broth too if you can manage it.”

  “So there is no concern for the others in the house?” Lady Washington asked nervously. “My grandchildren—”

  “No, Mrs. Washington, I don’t think so,” he said. “Does she spend much time with them?”

  “Heavens, no!” she answered. “She’s a scullery maid, an orphan girl. She’s only with the other servants.”

  “Ah, I see,” they heard the doctor say. Their voices were getting farther away as Mrs. Washington showed the doctor to the door. “She has no people then. You are doing her a great kindness.”

  He murmured something else that they could not make out before they heard the door shutting firmly and her heavy footsteps coming back down the hall.

  They all busied themselves with something by the time her ample frame filled the doorway.

  “Hercules?” she said, looking toward him.

  “Madam?” he answered politely, stepping around his table and wiping his hands on a cloth. “How may I help?”