The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  CHAPTER 7

  HERCULES CROSSED THE HIGH STREET AND pretended not to notice the man standing with his back to the trunk of a large tree. His tricorn was tilted to the side of his head as he tried to scribble in a small leather-bound book until he was knocked off-kilter by one of the crowd of jeering French-supporters that had gathered across the street. The hat was sent flying into the road and, abandoning his post, the scribbler dashed after it.

  The cook hoped the man would not notice him emerging from the president’s garden and then heading rapidly down Sixth Street. Hercules walked on, determined. Even if the man were to follow, he’d lose him soon.

  But the streets were crowded that night, making it hard for Hercules to move quickly enough to lose the scribbler, and he sensed him not far behind. As Hercules walked, the crowd seemed to part for him, nodding at each other knowingly. Here and there men wearing the French cockade upon their own hats would hail him elaborately, and though he bowed back graciously, he kept on his way.

  Hercules stopped at the corner of Cherry Street and looked left and right. Here, away from High Street, the crowd had thinned and residences lined the small road. Within these few short blocks was a trim though modest little community. Many of the city’s Jews made their homes and businesses here and their church banked the street at its eastern end. Just beyond was the border of Helltown with its vagrants, brawlers, and prostitutes living their tumbled-over, picked-over, throwaway lives.

  Finally, Hercules slowed as he approached the end of the street and stopped in front of the Jews’ house of worship. Mrs. Harris had said to look for a gray clapboard house in the alley, but so far the street had not presented any break between the buildings. Finally he saw it—where Cherry Street almost ran into Third and the gates of the Moravian church. Tucked next to the Women’s Hospital was a small alley. He scanned the road behind him to see if the scribbler was still behind but didn’t see him. He made his way down the narrow passage toward the house at the alley’s end. He scanned the road behind him to see if the scribbler was still behind but didn’t see him.

  The door opened before Hercules could reach it. Mrs. Harris stepped out and turned to lock the door with a large key she drew from her bag.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed when she turned toward the alley to find Hercules a few paces away.

  “Mrs. Harris,” he said, removing his hat and bowing deeply to hide his nervousness.

  “Master Hercules, is it not?” she said, frowning. “What brings you here this night?” Then, considering that she might have sounded rude, she smiled and said, “Of course, I am delighted to see you. It’s a welcome surprise!”

  “I thank you, madam,” he said, returning his hat to his head. “I wonder if I might have a word.”

  “Why, yes of course. Will you walk with me?” she said. “I was just heading to the harbor to see the fireworks for the president’s birthday.”

  “I’d be delighted to escort you, Mrs. Harris,” he said, smiling. “But what I’ve come to say will take but a moment and—” Hercules paused to look anxiously back down the alley and back to the teacher. “And I would prefer to speak … privately.”

  Mrs. Harris looked at him a moment, then reopened the door and stepped back in. Hercules followed her into the small, plain hallway with a stairway at the end. She opened a door on the right and held it for him to enter. The room was set up with rows of benches. Small slates sat evenly spaced upon them. A desk sat against the wall near the door, and a bookcase filled with volumes was by the window facing the alley.

  Mrs. Harris stood, patiently watching Hercules as he took in the room. Finally he turned to her.

  “I would like to make use of your services, Mrs. Harris,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “I should be delighted to welcome you to our class,” she said. “We meet every morning, but not everyone stays of a whole day. Many students like yourself may only steal away a few hours—”

  “A thousand pardons, madam, but that is not what I meant,” he said.

  Now Mrs. Harris’s eyebrows shot up near the rim of her bonnet.

  “Sir, I cannot begin to think what you mean but perhaps your needs might be better met a few streets down—”

  Hercules, realizing that the schoolteacher had mistaken him, put his hand up.

  “No, no, madam, you misunderstand—no impropriety intended,” he said quickly. “I meant that I want to learn to read from you.”

  He stopped and took a breath. Baldly stating the fact out loud was, itself, an act of physical effort. He’d run the ways to approach her over and over in his mind. Now that he’d said it out loud, he felt almost giddy-drunk with the actual doing.

  “But I cannot come here in the day—at any time,” he continued. “My circumstance, ah … my circumstance makes that quite impossible.”

  Mrs. Harris composed her features. She turned away, walked to the desk, and tapped gently upon it as she thought.

  “Then I do not see how I might help you, Master Hercules,” she said, looking at him at last.

  He took another step forward. “I am in a position to pay for your services as a private tutor,” he said. “And I’m free to come and go in the evenings as I like. Perhaps you might teach me then?”

  Mrs. Harris considered this for a moment.

  “It would make for a very long day, Master Hercules,” she said.

  “I am prepared to pay for your trouble, madam,” he said, leaning with both hands upon his cane and drawing himself up to take full advantage of what little height he had. “And,” he continued, “your discretion.”

  “That, my dear sir, goes without saying,” she said, looking at him thoughtfully.

  Hercules noticed her dark green gown. Like the one he’d seen her in the day they’d met, this one was plain but well made. Her gloves and shoes matched, as did the dainty spray of feathers on the hat perched neatly at the back of her head. The heavy cloak she wore was of sturdy gray wool, but he could see the inside was lined with the same pale gray silk as the tassel ties that held it closed.

  He could see that this was a woman who was not in need of money.

  “I will not press you for an immediate answer, mistress,” he said smoothly, realizing it was best to let the matter lie for now. “Perhaps you will give the matter some thought and we might speak of it again?”

  Mrs. Harris looked at him curiously, but before she could say anything he said, “Will you still allow me to escort you to the fireworks?” He bowed slightly and she, in turn, gave a small curtsy. He opened the door and she went through it and the small hall and front entrance.

  After she had locked the door, Hercules donned his hat and offered his arm. She took it and they made their way down the alley and Third Street to cut through Church Alley and then follow Pewter Platter Alley to the riverfront.

  As they walked, Hercules was irritated to note that the scribbler was back dogging his moves, trailing behind them down to Girard’s Wharf where a crowd had gathered to watch the pyrotechnics. When they had stopped walking he found a spot just close enough to be able to observe them, no doubt believing that Hercules had not observed him in kind. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the man drawing out his sketchbook and mechanical pencil and moving it crazily around the page.

  Hercules forced himself to ignore the scribbler and focus on the fireworks bursting above, illuminating the forms and faces around him. He said something to Mrs. Harris, who smiled and leaned down to hear better, for she was a full head taller than he was.

  There was a light bobbing in the kitchen when he entered the yard well past midnight. The light, held aloft, was stationary for some time and then seemed to wander aimlessly through the darkened room like a will-o’-the-wisp.

  Walking swiftly toward the kitchen, Hercules paused to pick up a stout log from the woodpile. Crossing quickly to the kitchen door, he flung it open, raising the log high with one hand.

  “Halt!” he boomed in a voice graveled with ra
ge that an intruder would prowl freely his kitchen.

  Instead of faltering or stepping back the light moved closer, purposefully. His pumping heart pushing him on, Hercules moved in closer too. Suddenly the General’s tall form glowed in the yellow lamplight.

  “Sir?” said Hercules, startled, dropping the log quickly over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know it was you.”

  “Nor I you, Hercules,” said Washington, breaking into a small chuckle. “We would have done for each other, I fear.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Hercules said, stepping forward, silently cursing his haste. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Nothing to apologize for, man,” said the General. “I’m gratified to see you take up arms in defense of my …” He gestured with the hand not holding the lamp and took in the scope of the kitchen. “My …” He paused, seemingly at a loss for words. “My home,” he finished.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hercules uncertainly.

  “Are you just come in, Hercules?” asked Washington, stepping back so the other man could walk properly into the room.

  “Yes, sir,” he said carefully. From his ever-mild tone it was impossible to discern whether Washington was displeased. “I was enjoying the fireworks in your honor, sir.”

  “Ah, that,” said Washington, sighing slightly. His mouth tightened into a stern line. For a moment nothing was said. Hercules suddenly wondered why the General was in his kitchen of all places.

  “Sir? Is there something you need?” he said.

  “Actually, yes,” said the president. “One of the overnight guests—a young Englishman—he seems taken with a bad cold. I thought I’d bring him a cup of tea.”

  “Did no one answer the bell, sir?” asked Hercules. “Where is Jacob?”

  “The bell?” said the president thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t ring it. It’s late—Jacob is asleep and I didn’t want to bother anyone. I was going to bring it myself.”

  Hercules studied the president, standing there in his britches and shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled nearly to the elbow. Was he joking? Was this some sort of trick to see what his slaves were up to? He didn’t seem agitated and he had always given leave for Hercules to come and go as he wished.

  “I will bring it up, sir,” he said finally. “Which room is he in?”

  “No, Hercules,” said Washington, moving toward the table and taking a seat. The lamp encircled him in a small halo of light. “I will do it. I am still capable of carrying a small bowl of tea.” He smiled more to himself now, amused by his joke.

  “As you say, sir,” said Hercules, removing his hat and coat and hanging them on the peg near the door. Sometimes the General had odd ideas, to what purpose no one knew. Rolling up his sleeves, Hercules headed out the door to the woodpile and gathered the smallest kindling and log pieces he could find.

  Hercules walked over to the hearth and squatted down, passing his hand over stone floor. Feeling that it was cold, he shook his head, then rose and walked over to the brick and plaster stove on the far wall and passed his hand over the square openings there. When he found one with still-warm coals, he added the kindling and blew on it until it lit. Next he walked over to the water pump to fill the smallest copper kettle and nestled it among the hot coals. In the chilly kitchen, Hercules was aware of Washington’s gaze following him as he worked, following him to the larder for chest of tea and a small china pot, which he opened and checked carefully before setting it next to the tea chest.

  Hard to believe it was more than twenty years since he had first seen Washington on the crest of the hill above the river that flowed through the president’s land at Mount Vernon. Nearer twenty-five, mused Hercules, remembering the day. It had been early spring and dawn only just broken. He’d been at his cook fire near the small dock, the rising sun illuminating the land in swathes around him. It was the best time to think and plan.

  The smoke from the cook fire had chased up the slope on a breeze that was still cold and raw. When it cleared, there had been Washington, cresting the hill on a large charger that whinnied just at that moment. Hercules had startled and leapt to his feet, dropping his small leather sack from which he had just pinched out some spices to sprinkle on the fish he had speared and held over his cook fire.

  Washington had jumped down from the horse and started down the slope. Behind Hercules, the sound of the corn cakes sizzling in bacon grease in his three-legged fry pan was loud in the morning quiet.

  “Are you Posey’s ferryman?” Washington had called out as he approached.

  “Yes, sir. Hercules, sir,” he had answered, watching Washington make his way down the slope. “As was. Guess I’m your ferryman now.”

  Washington had paused and looked at him curiously. Hercules knew his words were bold, but he’d done his best not to sound rude. Everyone in those parts knew that Washington couldn’t stand insolence from a slave, and in those days he’d have had Hercules horsewhipped if anything he said had the slightest whiff of sass.

  But Hercules had just said his piece simply—he was only saying truth after all: His old master Posey had lost Hercules to Washington, along with the ferry across the Potomac, as mortgage for an unpaid loan.

  The General had surprised him by smiling. “Yes, I suppose you are,” he said, heading over to the fire.

  “Breakfast?” he asked mildly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t let me keep you from it,” said Washington, gesturing for Hercules to sit down as he sat on the rock opposite and watched closely.

  As Hercules cooked that day, as now, they hadn’t spoken. Washington just watched him roasting the fish and turning the corn cakes over in the pan.

  Now, he slid a mug toward Washington. The president looked up questioningly.

  “The cocoa-shell tea you like, sir,” he said, lifting the teakettle and pouring hot water into the little teapot. He swirled the hot water in a smooth, elegant motion before turning it out and spooning in tea leaves before filling the pot with the boiling water.

  The day he’d first met Washington, the General—the Colonel back then—had watched intently as Hercules had plucked the roasted fish from the stick and laid it on a wooden camp plate. He’d speared the two hoecakes and laid them next to the fish, then held the plate out to Washington, who had hesitated.

  “Plenty here, sir,” Hercules had said, holding the plate farther toward him. Once Washington had taken it, Hercules had speared a fish for himself, then set about dropping more corn batter into the pan.

  Washington had accepted a fork from Hercules, who ate with his knife. The fish was smoky and succulent, falling away from the bone, and the hoecake had a bit of spice.

  “What did you do to this fish?” he had asked.

  Hercules had regarded his new master across the fire, the smoke intermittently marring the view between them, and he thought how odd it was that Washington would be so interested in how Hercules prepared the fish. But then folks said he wasn’t like other men.

  “I stuff it with wild herbs I gather in these parts, sir,” he said, hoping the question was not a trick of some kind. “Learned it from some of the Indian folk.”

  “And the hoecake?”

  “Black pepper, sir.”

  “How’d you come by the hominy?” Washington asked casually, but Hercules could see his eyes harden with suspicion. He wanted to know if Hercules was a thief. If he were, Hercules knew that Washington would sell him quick as he could rather than have trouble on his hands.

  “Traded, sir,” he said, busying himself with his pan. He made himself speak easily and without hesitation. It was important not to let Washington know that Hercules had read his thoughts.

  “Widow Farley on the ridge, she trades me corn and suchlike for whatever game and fish I can bring her,” he said. “She can’t do for herself and all.”

  Hercules looked up at Washington, steady and clear-eyed. Farley, the barrel maker, had been crushed on the docks at Alexandria when a dray cart collapsed on him. His widow
was lame and had three small children to feed.

  Washington had gone back to eating. When he was finished he stood up.

  “Thank you kindly, Hercules,” he said. Hercules also stood quickly.

  “Sir,” said Hercules, nodding. He wouldn’t stare at the ground when Washington spoke to him, but he wasn’t insolent either.

  When Washington had mounted his horse, he turned back and called down the slope of the hill, “Do you like to cook, Hercules?”

  Hercules had been surprised. Another odd question. He gave it a moment of thought.

  “Well yes, I suppose I do, sir,” he finally answered.

  Washington had nodded to him then and turned his mount on his way.

  A few weeks later he had sent for Hercules to be apprenticed in the kitchen. Washington ate simply and didn’t give much thought to food, but he expected the meal to be well prepared.

  “I was just thinking of that first breakfast I made you, sir,” said Hercules now, setting the lid on the teapot. He had been a different man then, or barely a man, truth be told. Those few days on his own, when he had left Posey’s house and before he was properly taken up by Washington’s, had been a blessing and a curse, caught as he was between being merely invisible and actually free. When Washington had ridden up to him, he had almost died from fright but worked hard not to show it.

  Washington smiled in his close-lipped way.

  “Still one of the best meals I’ve ever had,” he said and took a sip from the cup Hercules had set before him, then glanced at the contents and took another.

  “What’s in it, Hercules?” he asked curiously. “It tastes different—though not unpleasant.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, pouring the steeped tea into a deep cup with a wide saucer. “I put a bit of ground clove in it. Soothes the gums, they say.”

  He did not look up as he said this and Washington did not answer. Instead he drank the rest of the tisane, holding the warm liquid in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.