The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  The softness of the air made Hercules want to draw a deep lungful of it, but he knew better. The stink of cooking and privies and bodies pressed close in the shabby little homes that lined the alleyways would taint its sweetness.

  As he walked along, Hercules reflected on the last month. Mrs. Harris was a patient teacher and now he was near to knowing the full alphabet without pausing to think. She said she would teach him to spell short words next. It was an amazing thing to even consider.

  His mind pleasantly occupied, Hercules didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, rapid and heavy. By the time he registered the sound they were close upon him and he stepped aside, pressing his back to the brick wall of the nearest house so that the men could pass in their hurry, no doubt running from a bar brawl or some other nonsense.

  They came upon him fast, each grabbing an arm roughly as though they were trying to pull them from their sockets.

  They were white men, alike in every way, down to their closely cropped hair and black beards. Recognition surprised him enough that he didn’t react right away. Though their hats were jammed low on their heads, he realized they were the same men who had followed him to Mrs. Harris’s house some weeks before. Now they crowded in on him so close that he could smell the whisky stink of their breaths. The one on his right had thick whitish stains on his lapel. Hercules felt his guts lurch and his head spin as they tugged at him like children fighting over a rag doll.

  Hercules hardened his stomach and marshaled the ball of rage that was forming there. With a huge roar he brought in his powerful arms and felt his right shoulder wrench with the effort. The men felt themselves pulled off their balance as they knocked toward each other. The one on the left let go and he lurched forward, only to feel a sharp sting across his forearm where the other man, who still held on, had pulled a knife and slashed him.

  Now fury made him blind and he could barely make out the forms of people gathering around them in the street. Hercules made a fist and swung around to level a blow against the man’s head, but was stopped by a fist to the belly from the other, who had regained his wits.

  “This here is a runaway nigra!” the other bellowed at the crowd. He had pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and held it forward, jutting it at onlookers as if it were a torch. “It is our lawful right to take him back to his master!”

  Some people in the crowd stepped back. Hercules opened his mouth to protest but a punch to the jaw stopped the words.

  “Back up!” the man with the paper screeched. “Back up! We’re executing our legal duty! This nigra’s a runaway from Georgia!”

  Another man now ran into the fray, fighting for his way between the two captors who still held Hercules by his arms as he doubled over for breath. He could see their scuffed and filthy shoes against the pebbled boulevard.

  “This man is the cook of President Washington!” The new man yelled louder than the one with the paper. Hercules cocked his head upward and squinted. The man was tall with shaggy hair. His fingers were stained with ink and coal. It was the scribbler who had also been following him these many weeks.

  “He is known to many of you by sight! Do not stand by!” He pointed to a young boy. “You! Run to the President’s House! Quickly!” The boy hesitated, mouth open, looking from Hercules to the slave catchers and back to the scribbler. “Go! There’s a shilling in it for you!”

  “It’s true! This man belongs to General Washington!” a female voice called out. Mrs. Harris. Hercules let his head hang again, this time shame washing over him as much as the pain from his blows. There was a murmur in the crowd.

  Hercules felt the hold on his arms loosen and then drop. He leaned on his knees and breathed hard before willing himself to straighten. His hat had been knocked off and lay in the gutter nearby.

  He stood for a moment, eyeing the men who glared back at him as if they were ready to attack the scribbler.

  “Run! RUN!” the scribbler yelled at Hercules, and then at the attackers, “We are many against you—I suggest you don’t try that treatment with me!”

  The men looked at each other and with a signal known only to them bolted in the same direction, past Hercules and away from the crowd. A few men ran after them.

  Hercules bent and retrieved his hat, which was too filthy to wear now. He drew a deep breath—his nose and lungs were filled with all the putrid stench of the road. Still, he willed himself to nod silently at the scribbler and bow to Mrs. Harris before he turned and walked unsteadily away.

  Only when he was a good two blocks south of Cherry Street did he break into a run.

  When Hercules limped into the yard, Fraunces already stood watching him from the kitchen door, silently stepping just to the side to let him pass through. Oney sat at the table, mending something of Lady Washington’s and chatting and laughing with Nate and her brother, Austin. Richmond was scowling in a corner whittling on a piece of wood and Margaret, equally silent, hovered close to Nate as she always did, his silent shadow.

  It was Margaret who saw him first, glancing away from Nate toward the door. A gasp escaped her throat and then, seconds later, the quiet hum of talk exploded. A chair fell to the floor with a smack, shoved violently backward with the force of Austin standing abruptly.

  “Lord!” Oney cried out, stepping around the table to meet him.

  “Pa, what happened?” Richmond yelped and ran toward him. Hercules put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “A scuffle, that’s all,” he said, looking at his son and then the others. He was overcome with the urge to grab his boy and hold him close, but he didn’t lest he scare the lad further.

  Fraunces hung back. Margaret’s wide and terrified eyes shot around the room, a pale specter among them.

  “Over what?” Oney demanded.

  Hercules gestured to Richmond to bring a chair. He sat down hard, wincing. When the boy rested his hand on his injured shoulder, he drew a sharp breath but did not move away.

  “Some men took me for someone else,” he said to their expectant faces. “Someone they had business with.”

  Oney raised an eyebrow and Austin seemed confused, as did Nate, that shadow of a girl behind him looking more terrified than usual. Hercules brought a hand to his jaw and touched the bruise there.

  “Oney, put together a poultice, if you’d be so kind?” he said.

  Oney put down the sewing she had been wringing in her hands.

  Fraunces watched her go and stepped forward as if he were about to speak but held his tongue. Nobody spoke, waiting for Hercules to go on.

  “Ah, good girl,” he said when Oney returned with the herbs for the poultice wrapped in linen. She went over to the hearth and pulled up the kettle nestled in the ashes. She wet the poultice and brought it back to the table but then stood by Hercules, unsure what to do.

  “Give it here,” he said, holding out his hand. He applied it to his jaw and closed his eyes.

  “Who did they think you were, Pa?” Richmond asked.

  Hercules opened his eyes a little and studied his son. Dammit, he did not want to discuss this now. They were all looking at him. He could feel Fraunces hovering, quiet in a manner that was much out of character.

  “A runaway,” he finally said.

  There was total silence for a few seconds before Richmond’s angry voice loudly broke it to pieces. “You mean another slave!” he exploded. “Someone else’s slave—just not the General’s slave!” He spit the words out like they were fouling his mouth.

  “Enough!” Hercules said, his voice low and rumbling. He stood quickly, forcing Richmond to move back. The effort made his head spin.

  Richmond narrowed his eyes and stared at him.

  “That’s if they are looking for anyone’s property in truth,” said Fraunces. Hercules had almost forgotten he was there. “Many of these slave catchers are just opportunists with fake papers, taking their chances. Had they got Hercules here, they probably would have dragged him to the block just over in New Jersey for some quick coi
n. Or, more likely, negotiated with the president to quietly buy him back.”

  He said this pleasantly, as if he were discussing the best way to set a table or an interesting fact about grades of sugar.

  Richmond seemed about to explode. Hercules glared at Fraunces.

  Austin stepped forward and put a hand on Richmond’s shoulder. The boy jumped.

  “Time for bed, I think,” he said. “Your pa’s all right. You see so yourself. Let’s go on now.” He guided Richmond toward the door with a firm hand. Nate stood and followed them too.

  Oney flounced over to the sideboard for a bowl, then retrieved the kettle and brought it back to the table, giving Fraunces a pointed look. She took the poultice from Hercules, wet it down again, and handed it back to him.

  “I’ll say goodnight too then,” she said, looking only at Hercules and giving him a small curtsy before she returned the kettle to the hearth. He raised his hand in thanks.

  Only Margaret was left standing at the other end of the table, practically cowering, as if she were stark naked to the world. She looked frantically from Hercules to Fraunces but made no move to go.

  “Go to your rest, Margaret,” Fraunces said. “You may leave now.” He said it firmly and she jumped. She looked desperately at Hercules, her eyes shiny. He gave her the very smallest nod and she scurried off to the back of the pantry, where she rolled out her pallet each night.

  When she had gone, Fraunces stepped to the table.

  “It seems,” he began as if he were musing out loud, “that after this little adventure you may have to stay in for your own good. I shall make the General aware.”

  Hercules readjusted the poultice and then looked at Fraunces.

  “No,” he said.

  “No?” said Fraunces, feigning surprise. “I beg your pardon, Cook, but you mistake my meaning. I am not asking your leave. I am telling you what must be done.”

  “And I’m telling you that you will not,” answered Hercules calmly.

  Fraunces’s expression hardened. “What has happened to you has proven, yet again, the folly of having … your kind as part of this household,” he said through gritted teeth. “The General has long been sensible that there could be danger, and so it has come to pass. I shall recommend to him that this is reason, yet again, to send you all back to Mount Vernon.”

  Hercules put down the poultice and stood up, leaning heavily on the table.

  “And if you do, I’ll be sure to make him aware of the tavern you’ve bought down in Dock Street and that your lady oversees even now as we speak,” he said.

  Fraunces, ready with a reply, shut his mouth with a snap. He hadn’t expected this.

  “That is a lie!” he spat out.

  “No, sir, it is not a lie,” said Hercules, his voice low and angry. “But it is easily proven either way—with a word to the General’s ear.”

  Now Fraunces composed his face and smiled pleasantly.

  “And just how would you possibly get a message to the General?” he asked with a snicker.

  “I have my ways,” Hercules said pleasantly. “But you mustn’t take me at my word. You can always wait and see, but we know the General doesn’t like surprises.”

  Fraunces studied Hercules now. He began to tap the table lightly with his index finger as he thought. Hercules sat back down and ignored him.

  “Very well,” said the steward. “But next time this happens, suffer the consequence as you may.” Fraunces waited a moment for Hercules’s reply. When one did not come, he turned and left the room without looking back.

  Richmond watched him from the corner of the kitchen, taking care to look back down at the carrots he was scrubbing whenever Hercules looked his way. The bruise on Hercules’s jaw was a swollen welt today, and the scullery maids stared at it when they came in that morning. Mr. Julien raised his eyebrows questioningly but Hercules only gave him a slight headshake, so the Frenchman did not bring attention to it again. No one else dared speak of it.

  But Hercules was slower today. He called Richmond over to lift the pots bubbling on the hearth or to pull out baking dishes from the oven. It was Nate, though, whom he trusted to stand beside him chopping vegetables and herbs at his direction or trimming cuts of meat. Today, Hercules stood by and did not lift a knife or bowl himself, wincing when anything brushed him and resting his left arm on the table or on his leg when he sat down. He relied on Nate to be his arms and hands and the older boy worked beside Mr. Julien to produce dish after dish for the day’s meals.

  When Hercules looked at his son angrily drawing the knife over the carrots, his resolve momentarily faltered. Maybe he should call the boy over and have him work beside Nate, but whenever he thought about it, irritation rose up as he considered the bollocks Richmond would make of the thing.

  Now the boy sat, legs splayed out so that when Margaret hurried by, basket of eggs in hand, she tripped over his foot and only just caught herself before dropping the whole thing.

  “Richmond!” barked Hercules furiously. The boy blinked, as if he didn’t know where he was.

  “And you, Margaret, why aren’t you minding where you are walking?” he snapped. Margaret stood, clutching the basket and looking nervously from him to Richmond. Sometimes her cow-eyed ways irritated Hercules almost as much as Richmond’s half-wittedness.

  Now those cow eyes filled with tears and she scurried away as Richmond narrowed his eyes.

  Shaking his head, Hercules turned his attention back to Nate at the chopping block and began murmuring directions as the boy cut pastry shapes with the tip of a sharp knife. The lad had sure, deft strokes and Hercules smiled, praising him now and again.

  With each word he could practically feel the fury emanating from Richmond, but there was naught to be done for it; the boy just would not learn. Hercules would have to think of another plan to keep his son out of harm’s way. With each passing day, he was less sure that having him here in Philadelphia was the right course of action—especially after his own run-in with the slave catchers. He knew his son and nohow was a man going to put his hand on Richmond and drag him off in the street without the lad fighting or dying while trying to escape.

  Hercules sighed and, after patting Nate on the shoulder, approached Richmond. Moving a basket of carrots to one side, he lowered himself next to the boy and put his hand out for the knife and carrot he held, saying,

  “Here, son, let me show you a faster way.”

  Washington took his time assessing the man standing before him. He looked sober enough in a dark brown suit and light spring cloak. His head was completely bald, with a sheen of powder upon it. Washington had not laid eyes on him before, having engaged his services through the attorney general Edmund Randolph, who himself had fallen victim to the law in these particular matters.

  The president gestured to the chair opposite his desk before seating himself. He would not offer the man any refreshment—this was not a social call.

  “What report do you have for me, Mr. Kitt?” he said.

  Frederick Kitt had taken his time observing the great Washington even as he was being observed. The man still stood tall in his perfectly tailored blue suit, but he moved his mouth oddly when he talked, as if his jaw pained him. He wore no wig and the once-red hair ran almost entirely to gray, but he had not bothered to powder it to be uniformly white, and where it was not braided tightly down his neck, the hair was frizzy and dry. He looked old.

  “Your cook has been making visits to a house in Cherry Street, sir. There is a free woman there, a widow, who runs a school for their own kind. I believe he is—ah—courting her.”

  Washington’s unblinking blue eyes didn’t leave Kitt’s face while he spoke. Now they squinted suspiciously.

  “Courting, Mr. Kitt? Come now, let’s not be so coy,” he said with contempt. “Hercules is a slave, he cannot make associations. He is going there to bed her, is what you are insinuating?”

  Frederick Kitt inclined his head slightly and smiled. “Just so, Excellency.�
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  “You said she was a teacher?” asked Washington.

  “Yes, sir.” The president tapped his long fingers on the table light and considered this.

  “I see,” he said. “Anything else to report? Does it look like he is moving toward escape?”

  “Hardly, sir,” said Kitt. “Nothing about his movements show any inclination to flight. He seems quite content with his lot.”

  “He is treated well here,” said Washington, more as an assurance to himself than to explain anything to Kitt. He focused again on the man across from him.

  “Thank you for the report,” he said. “My secretary has an envelope for you. You may collect it when you leave.” Washington stood.

  “Oh, one more thing, sir,” Kitt said as he took his time rising. “The cook was set upon by some slave catchers from Georgia. A few days ago, when he left the woman’s house.”

  Now Washington focused more sharply on him.

  “Handled him a bit rough, they did. Each got hold of one of his arms and were like to have a tug of war. Landed a fair blow on his cheek and sliced his arm.”

  “Then how did he escape them?” Washington demanded.

  “A man interfered and raised a fuss,” said Kitt. “Others in the street crowded in and called out that he was your cook.”

  “Who was the man?” said Washington.

  Now Kitt reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small brass notebook polished to high shine. He carefully turned the pages until he found what he was looking for.

  “I made inquiries, sir,” he said. “Ah, here it is. The man is a painter. Lately returned from London—Gilbert Stuart he’s called.”

  “I see,” said Washington. “And what of the slave catchers? Were they apprehended?”

  “Some tried to stop them when they ran off, sir, but failed,” said Kitt.

  Washington squinted again, his eyes taking on a hard anger.