The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  “Make inquiries into this, Kitt,” he said, his voice clipped. “I want names.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kitt said, standing there in case the president said more. When he did not, Kitt spoke again.

  “Another item, Excellency,” he began. Washington raised his eyebrows. “About that stewardship …”

  “Mr. Kitt,” Washington said, sitting down at his desk once more. “Continue with these jobs I have given you and if you execute them well, we will have much to talk about by way of future work in my household. Of that, I assure you.”

  He leaned back in his chair and lifted a correspondence to read. For a moment Kitt watched the president, absorbed in his papers, before he bowed, unseen by the great man, and showed himself out.

  Part II

  CHAPTER 10

  Summer 1794

  “MARGARET, PLEASE SEE TO YOUR PACKING.” Hercules’s voice rolled over Margaret. She had stepped out of the larder where she was putting preserves neatly into a crate and was just heading for the kitchen door. In the kitchen, people were flying around packing baskets and rushing out to the waiting carriages. The family was returning to Virginia for a month’s time. Oney, Old Moll, the nursemaid to Lady Washington’s grandson, and the coachmen were all going. Nate was going to help in the kitchens at Mount Vernon, since Hercules had to stay behind and help the new steward prepare the summerhouse in Germantown for their return. Margaret was to remain too, along with a few other day-helpers, to get the Philadelphia house put up for the season and the Germantown house properly dressed.

  Earlier, as Hercules stood at the far end of the kitchen speaking with Nate, Margaret had watched them a little too intently for his liking. Hercules clapped Nate on the arm and sent the boy out the kitchen door and Margaret had gone back to her work, but now she hovered again at the door, not attending her tasks. Hercules had not looked up from what he was doing when he spoke to her, but now he put his knife down and followed her gaze back out into the yard.

  He glimpsed Nate near the stables, stepping up to test the position where he’d be sitting at the back of the carriage on top of the cases. Austin was already decked out in his livery. Another black servant who worked loading the cases was dressed the same way. He’d stand on the other side of the carriage when they departed. A matched set.

  “Margaret!” Hercules said again, this time with more meaning in his voice. He couldn’t imagine what the girl thought she was doing. He marveled at her lack of sense, mooning around the door when she had work to do. When she looked at him before hurrying back to the larder to continue packing the preserves, he gave her a hard eye.

  In less than a month they would all be at Germantown to escape the sickening summer vapors of the city and the yellow death they carried. Hercules had heard Nate explaining it to her earlier in the day. Margaret didn’t understand why the family was going so far away as Virginia only to return in a few weeks. When she asked Nate about it, he told her it was not her business, but Oney had blurted out in her heedless way, “They just moving us out of here before the six months run out.”

  Hercules had set the pan he was holding down loudly on the counter and given Oney a sharp glance. The girl needed to learn to shut her mouth. Didn’t she know better than to say such things in front of this white girl?

  He’d sent Margaret to the larder then to pack all the remaining put-by vegetables and fruits. Soon enough they’d use them all and then the fresh stores would start coming in.

  When she finally emerged again from the small room, all was quiet. Hercules stood at his chopping block sharpening the knives on a stone.

  Margaret turned slightly to each side, looking around.

  “No need for ’em all to be in here what with most of the household gone,” he said to her unasked question about the hired day servants who normally crowded the place. Margaret turned to face him and watched, mesmerized, as he drew the knife back and forth over the stone.

  Hercules stopped and put the knife aside, breaking the spell. Margaret watched as he wiped down each of the knives before bringing them to their drawer in the kitchen dresser. He walked over to a shelf and started to reach up for a bowl and drew back in pain, grasping his left shoulder with his right hand. He uttered a low growl.

  Margaret jumped slightly before moving forward. “Oh, sir, let me do it.”

  She was quickly at his side, reaching up for the bowl and bringing it down. When she held it in her arms and faced him, he realized how she had grown in these last six months. She was quite near his own height.

  Margaret seemed to notice this fact for the first time too.

  “Just set it there, then,” he said, curtly, indicating the table where he usually worked.

  Margaret quickly set the bowl down. She stood beside it, unsure of what to do next. She looked at him expectantly.

  He walked over, still rubbing his shoulder, and stared at the bowl thoughtfully.

  “Take this and go out to the garden,” he said. “Cut me the most tender greens you can find—about half a bowl’s worth.”

  When she returned with the greens he took them to the sink, where he pumped water over them and swirled them around with his hand.

  “Bring me another bowl, please,” he said over his shoulder. Margaret ran to get it. He lifted the greens out of the soil-clouded water and placed them in the clean bowl. Then he did it again. He poured out the dirty water, rinsed the bowl, and drew out the freshly swirled greens and put them inside. Margaret watched it all, fascinated.

  “If you clean them this way, you will get all the grime out,” he said, handing her the bowl. “Now, take this and spread these greens on a clean towel. Pat them dry—gently, mind.”

  Margaret took the bowl over to the other table where Mr. Julien usually worked.

  When she came back, he was already chopping up cold chicken from the larder. He nodded toward an onion and some hard-boiled eggs that sat in another bowl.

  “Take those and chop them fine—so all the pieces are the same size,” he said.

  Margaret hesitated before taking the bowl. Hercules stopped chopping chicken.

  “Is the task beyond you, girl?” he asked, looking at her archly.

  “No, sir,” she stammered. “I used to—” She stopped. “I cooked with my mother.” She swallowed. “Before she died.”

  Hercules looked at her a moment, then jutted his chin toward the bowl. She grabbed it quickly and moved off to the other table.

  When she was done chopping the eggs and onion, she came back and watched as he lay the lettuce leaves on a platter.

  “We are doing a salmagundi for his Excellency’s lunch,” he said to her as he layered leaf over leaf. “Hand me that bowl of chicken.”

  She did and he layered the chicken on top of the lettuce.

  “Now the onion and eggs,” he said, and sprinkled them on top of the chicken.

  “In the larder, you’ll find some parsley that I have already chopped and a small bowl of those new peas—get them for me,” he said.

  Margaret turned and flew off. When she returned, he artfully arranged them on the platter.

  He stood back and assessed the plate before heading to a low shelf where he kept vinegar and oil. He grabbed a small bowl within his reach on his way back to the table. Using his birch whisk, he mixed the oil and vinegar in the bowl, adding salt and pepper in tiny pinches. Dipping his pinky finger into the mix, he tasted the sauce after each addition.

  Holding the bowl high, Hercules began to gently pour the dressing on the salad—and winced when he raised the bowl too far.

  When he was done, he stood back and surveyed the platter, frowning. The girl watched him, fascinated.

  “Go into the garden and cut the freshest-looking of the sweet pea flowers,” he said. “Choose the ones that are the darkest pink.”

  Margaret headed out to the garden, where the fuchsia and light pink flowers climbed up a tall trellis fashioned out of bent and dried willow branches. Returning, she held her apron up and tu
mbled them out.

  “In a bowl next time, Margaret,” Hercules said sternly while he examined the flowers. “Always take care with every ingredient.”

  She blushed and stood watching as he picked the best flowers and arranged them on the salad.

  He stepped back again and admired his work.

  “Oh, sir, it looks like a Turkey rug!” she said. “It’s that pretty. Almost too pretty for eating.”

  Her outburst surprised Hercules, and he laughed. She smiled at him shyly.

  “Here,” he said, sliding the platter toward her. “Wipe the edges of the plate with a towel—a clean one—and then put it on the side table there,” he said. “The footmen will be down soon.”

  Hercules left her to wipe down the table and clean the bowls he had used for the salmagundi while he went into the larder for the other dishes for the General’s lunch. He laid them out on the sideboard next to the salad.

  When he was finished, he turned to find her standing quietly by his table. She was an odd girl, hovering about like an eager cur, but she did her work readily and without complaining. He often found that he felt sorry for her.

  “You may continue packing the dry goods, Margaret,” he said.

  “Sir?” she said. He raised his eyebrows.

  “I—” She hesitated.

  “Yes?” he rumbled, looking at her more sternly now. It wouldn’t do to encourage too much familiarity with this one, as sorry as she might be.

  “What Nate said earlier—I keep thinking on it,” she began.

  Hercules took a step forward, a flicker of apprehension pricking him. “Yes?” he said, his voice more urgent. His mind raced over what else the girl might have heard. He’d have to warn Nate to take better care.

  She took a step backward.

  “Yes?” Now Hercules stood before her, his arms folded over his huge barrel chest.

  Doubt shadowed her face and she hesitated but then blurted out, “What they said about being brought to Virginia because their six months was almost up. What did they mean, sir? Are they being sent away? Will they come back? Nate didn’t tell me and …”

  Her barrage of words trailed off as Hercules turned and began to cut bread slices and lay them on a wooden charger with some cold-cut meat for the servants’ lunch.

  “Ah,” he said, gazed up at the ceiling, and blew out a breath. How to explain the particulars of the abolition law to her? Not that he even wanted to. He was saved from an immediate answer when they heard the footsteps of the new steward, Mr. Kitt, in the passageway.

  Hercules quickly composed himself and straightened.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Kitt,” he said pleasantly. “You’ll find all is ready for the servers on the sideboard.”

  Fraunces had gone to open his tavern—the president none pleased—and this Frederick Kitt was in his place. Where Fraunces was small and wiry, always elegantly turned out and brightly bewigged, Kitt appeared barely better appointed than a laborer. He wore no wig, preferring instead to completely shave his thinning hair. Hercules suspected he powdered both his pate and his face. It was easy to see the tracks where the rivulets of sweat trickled down the man’s forehead.

  Kitt was right peculiar—animally aggressive in his way—but Hercules supposed he was the best they could find on short notice. Hercules fervently hoped he wouldn’t last. The man put him on edge and he wondered what the spiteful Fraunces had told Kitt about him before he left and how much of a problem the new steward might prove to be.

  “Oh?” Kitt answered coldly, looking around. He didn’t acknowledge Margaret who stood glued to the spot, clearly unsure of whether she should back away or stand still and be as small as she could.

  Eyes narrowed, Kitt left the kitchen for the yard and Hercules said to Margaret, “Six months before they were free.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “If any of us stay here in the capital above six months then the law says we are free,” he said in a low voice. “Their time had come for that. Mrs. Washington takes them with her to Virginia where there are no laws against slaving, and then when she brings ’em back here, the time starts over again—see?”

  He spoke calmly, evenly, just as if he were showing her how to properly lay out a dish.

  Margaret sucked in her breath sharply and put out her hand, groping for the table to steady herself.

  Hercules reached over and grabbed her wrist.

  “Listen, girl,” he said softly. “This is not for you to concern yourself with—hear? Not with this and not with Nate.” Had she not realized that he saw how she looked at the young scullion? If she continued to carry on as she did—childlike and ignorant—she’d bring harm to herself and to the boy. She had to be made to see that. He looked into her eyes to be sure she understood, but her eyes were brimming with tears that threatened to fall. She gulped air like a fish out of water.

  “But sir,” she began nervously. “What about—” She stopped abruptly.

  “What about me?” he said disgustedly. The girl’s simpleness was annoying. “Is that what you were going to ask?”

  Margaret nodded once. Hercules let go of her wrist.

  “Don’t worry about me. Go on now and see to that packing,” he said, turning toward the hearth and taking up a broom to sweep back the ashes.

  Margaret fled toward the larder but was caught back by the wave of his voice as she reached the door.

  “Remember now, don’t concern yourself—not with this and not with him.”

  “A shame to abandon such a robust garden.”

  Hercules straightened up and dusted his hands before turning to face the General.

  “Afternoon, sir,” he said.

  Washington inclined his head politely.

  “That’s why we didn’t plant much,” Hercules went on. Washington liked little better than to speak about farming. “Just the peas and such, some lettuces. Only the spring vegetables. I’ve asked for some strong seedlings to be set aside for Germantown.”

  “Good man. I see the radishes are struggling,” said Washington, walking over to the rows and nudging one of the sickly plants with the toe of his boot.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hercules. “Not sure why, though. The soil is good here.”

  “Too good maybe,” said Washington thoughtfully. “They like a bit of sand mixed in with the compost. Try that.”

  “Will do, sir,” said Hercules.

  “Hercules,” began Washington, turning to face him. “I have something I want to discuss with you.”

  “Sir?” said Hercules.

  “It’s about your boy, Richmond,” Washington said. “He’s not faring so well here. I am bringing him back to Mount Vernon to be with family. I think the farm suits him better than this place.”

  For a moment Hercules said nothing. His stomach lurched. It was hard to remain standing passively in front of the General when all he wanted to do was bolt for his son and hold him close and safe.

  Even though he had suspected this day had to come, sending Richmond back meant that his son would be that much further away from freedom and back in the dank hovels they called quarters. There would be no more sleeping in an attic warmed by the chimney that kept the house fires going. He’d be working in a field sunup to sundown in the same pair of broken-down shoes until his feet were too blistered to walk, but still he would work.

  His mind raced to think of something to change the General’s mind, even as he also knew that Richmond’s own failings had caused this turn of events. Washington had brought Richmond here on Hercules’s request, but would he let him remain upon it too? And was it worth it to trespass on the General’s good nature for a boy who seemed hell-bent on causing trouble for them both?

  Perhaps this was Hercules’s own fault. He loved Richmond too much—enough to make him lazy and sullen, unable to cope with the life they had. The boy was always courting danger with his ways.

  Hercules’s mind jumped forward and back, weighing the thing. Richmond might be safer back at the pla
ntation, after all—at least for now. His ready temper and churlish ways would get him into less trouble there because they didn’t deal with the kind of whites they did here—the indentures or the hired folk that seemed pleasant enough but kicked up plenty of fuss when the boy got out of line. Down there, the rule was clear—every white man was your enemy, and if Richmond couldn’t remember it and hold his tongue, then the other slaves, the older heads, would make it their business to remind him. And keep him safe.

  In Philadelphia, he was constantly worried for the day Richmond would go too far and not even Hercules could protect him. Better for his son to be tucked away until the time came. Hercules would figure out how to get him back up here by then.

  “Hercules?” said Washington, breaking into his thoughts. “Would your work be too burdensome without his aid?”

  Hercules considered the man towering above him.

  “No, sir,” said Hercules, truthfully. “It would not.”

  “Good, have him be ready in a quarter of an hour,” said the General. “We will leave directly after the servants take their lunch. He can sit at the back with the other kitchen boy—Nate, is it?”

  Hercules bowed his head respectfully and stood watching as Washington retreated back to the house, pausing one more time to worry at the garden soil with the toe of his boot.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE RAIN DID NOTHING TO COOL the roof and the air inside the attic remained close and thick. Hercules lay on his pallet and stared out the dormer window pelted with driving rain. Had he been in the kitchen he would have propped open the garden door and let the damp breeze cool the room. But he wasn’t going downstairs today.

  He shifted on the pallet to ease the pain in his shoulder. It was bad but not nearly as much as he’d let on to Kitt that morning when the steward had shared his plan to travel across the river to Camden, New Jersey, for the afternoon “to look into some furnishings for the new house.” He’d demanded that Hercules come to load any purchases onto a hired cart and then onto a waiting ship. It was, said Kitt, an express wish of the president.