The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  CHAPTER 12

  Germantown, Summer 1794

  HERCULES STOOD BY THE FENCE OF the house in Germantown. When he had last seen Thelma, she said the Chews were taking a house in Germantown as well—just on the other side of the square, though he did not know which one. When he went inside, Margaret was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding the heavy basket with two hands and looking around in confusion as she waited for Hercules to tell her what to do.

  “I believe the larder is through there,” he said, pointing to a door at the back of the room.

  The kitchen was much smaller than the one in Philadelphia and the larder nearly as big as the kitchen itself. Margaret squeezed through the boxes and crates, set the basket down, and picked her way out again.

  “Go and find the well,” Hercules said as he pried open a crate and shuffled through the straw packing. When she left, he sighed in exasperation. The oven was inadequate and the kitchen entirely too small. At least there was a pretty orchard just past the kitchen door, and maybe the apples would prove something other than useless. He began to look for his cooking utensils. As soon as the foolish girl found the well, he’d set her to washing the dust and straw from his things.

  His thoughts were broken by the yells of men calling horses to a halt in front of the house. Stepping outside the kitchen door, he saw Margaret turn from the well at the back of the property and rush toward the gate in the wall.

  Ducking back inside, Hercules stepped into the front hall and slipped into the dining room. He could see the president’s carriages and a baggage cart lined up at the door and he could see Margaret hiding behind the stone pillar so she could watch unseen.

  Washington gingerly stepped out of the carriage. Austin hopped off the running board to offer his arm. Surprisingly, Washington leaned heavily upon it, slightly stooped over. Mrs. Washington left the carriage, twittering around him, calling for Oney and for the other postilion to come around to help. The president held up his hand to hush her and then placed it on her shoulder. They proceeded slowly into the house, with Oney and Old Moll following with the children. Hercules quickly stepped back into the kitchen and slipped outside to watch Margaret from there. Nate emerged from around the cart and Hercules watched her face carefully and cursed silently when he saw hope there. Nate’s face was serious as he brought a large leather satchel and set it near the steps. Margaret stood like a statue and watched him and Austin, returned from bringing the president inside, continue to unload the cart.

  Hercules had to admit that the boy seemed different, more like a grown man than before, but that was hardly possible in a month’s time.

  Clearly Margaret had marked this too. She looked down at her own dress. Her arms stuck awkwardly out of the too-short sleeves and the hem came clear to the beginning of her shins. As if she were ashamed, she pulled at the sleeves and smoothed the skirt down as if doing so would make it grow long enough to hide her legs. Hercules could only hope Nate would see how drab she was with his travel-fresh eyes.

  In the street, passersby had begun to stop. There wasn’t much they could see with the carriages blocking the view, but many remained, buzzing as the carriages were unloaded and box after box brought into the house. Hercules stepped back inside and drew in his breath.

  “Margaret!” he bellowed. A moment later she arrived, breathless, hands clutching her skirt.

  “Sir, I—”

  “The well, Margaret—where is it?”

  She stepped back and pointed in its direction.

  “Good, draw me enough water to fill the big tin washtub and get it set up,” he said. “I don’t like the look of these cauldrons they’ve left behind and they need a good scrubbing.”

  He waited with threadbare patience for her to catch her breath.

  “They’ve returned!” she said finally. “And Nate, he’s here—”

  “The water, Margaret,” he said abruptly, turning his back and retreating to the kitchen. His irritation was rising. Would he have to spend the whole of his time contriving ways to keep Margaret from mooning after his scullion? The girl was proving to be far more trouble than she was worth.

  The next few hours felt like utter chaos, with servants carrying in boxes and Hercules shouting orders. More than once he yelled at a footman to stay out of his kitchen and Kitt closed the doorway into the house. That was about all the steward did besides standing to the side and eyeing them all critically as they worked.

  The kitchen occupied the back of the house, not a separate building as it did in Philadelphia, but they would all be sadly mistaken to think he would change his ways even with the family close enough to hand to hear his bellows. They were worthless, the lot of them. Already he’d had to berate Oney for her laziness and she had stood sullenly, her pale cheeks flushed pink with anger. Next was Margaret who had watched the whole exchange, peering at them through the partly open larder door. He hated nothing more than a sneak. When Hercules turned away, Oney had flounced into the larder and, flinging the door open, said loudly, “His lordship says I am to help you.”

  Hercules could imagine Oney raking Margaret up and down with her sharp eyes and sharper tongue. Oney was pretty enough to make any lass feel poorly by compare. She had soft brown curls and her skin was the color of tea with plenty of milk. Her breasts swelled just enough over the top of her bodice to show off her slim and lovely figure. She made Margaret look like a scarecrow.

  “I can manage, Oney,” he heard Margaret say pleasantly. “Not much left to do.”

  Hercules pretended not to notice what was going on, though from the corner of his eye he had seen Oney take a tall cone of sugar from a crate and set it on a random shelf.

  “Well, her majesty also says I am to help, so help I shall,” she said and continued slamming sugar loaves wrapped in their indigo paper in a line along the shelf. Hercules stopped himself from going in and chastising her for misusing his goods. He wanted to see what would happen next.

  “Chef likes one or two loaves left on the kitchen dresser,” Margaret said meekly.

  Oney stopped just before setting one down.

  “Does he?” She looked Margaret up and down again before taking up another loaf and moving toward the door.

  “Have you seen Nate yet?” Oney asked Margaret sarcastically.

  “Yes. I mean, no,” Margaret said uneasily. “That is, I saw the carriage draw up and he was unloading it but I’ve not spoken to him as yet.”

  “I see,” said Oney. “Well, I’m sure you two will have time together soon enough, what with all the potatoes to be peeled and chickens to be plucked.” She smiled sweetly.

  Margaret just stared at her a moment, blushing more furiously. She turned back to her crates as Oney tripped triumphantly from the room past Hercules, who pretended to be concentrating on his chopping board.

  Nate sat heavily down at the large table and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  “That’s the last of them,” he said, taking the platter of green beans from Austin and forking some onto his plate.

  “Good,” said Kitt from the head of the table. “After lunch you can help Hercules set the kitchen to rights.”

  Hercules winked at Nate when the boy looked over at him. Kitt’s commands bordered on comical to those who knew who truly ran this kitchen.

  “Yes, sir,” Nate said and picked up his fork.

  Hercules watched Margaret, sitting across from Nate and staring like he’d come back from the dead. She held her fork in her hand, her food untouched.

  Nate glanced at Kitt, who was busy with his plate. Oney smirked between bites. Austin and Moll were speaking to each other about the town market, but Hercules watched Nate and Margaret.

  “Mr. Mueller’s pigs will be happy to have your share, Margaret,” he said pleasantly, his voice rolling over all of them. “When the dinner hour is over, we must get on with our business. No dawdling, so eat up.”

  Margaret jumped and looked guiltily at Hercules.

  Lunch finished,
and Oney, Moll, and Austin went off to attend to their various duties. Kitt and Hercules remained in the kitchen discussing an inventory of the stores, with the steward making a list of provisions for the market, while Nate and Margaret cleared the dishes and washed up.

  “How was it?” Margaret asked softly so that, Hercules supposed, she thought he would not hear. She stood close beside Nate, scraping the leavings into the slop bucket.

  He glanced at her and shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

  “Is it as beautiful as folks say? Mount Vernon, I mean?”

  “Dunno. I suppose,” he said. “It’s better here.”

  For a moment they continued working silently and only Kitt’s voice filled the room. Hercules feigned interest in what the man was saying as he strained to hear the young ones’ conversation.

  “Were you able to, you know, keep up your studies?” she whispered.

  Nate looked around quickly to be sure no one had heard. Hercules set his face in earnest attention to Kitt’s droning.

  “It was hard. You’re never alone,” he whispered back. “There’s a lot more of us there. All packed into small cabins …” His voice trailed off.

  “I—” she began but Hercules cut in. “Nate, please start the paste for the standing pies. Margaret, once you’re done with the dishes, I need you to grate a half pound of chocolate for the tart and when you are done with that, collect whatever apples we have left and chop them along with some onions.”

  Nate thrust the dish he was scraping at Margaret and rushed off to do Hercules’s bidding, leaving her to look after his retreating back.

  Pistol-gray clouds brought the sky down low over the garden where Nate and Margaret kneeled, pulling weeds and hoeing between the plants. The air didn’t move, and from time to time when Hercules came out and inspected their work, it felt like the very heat from the kitchen was rising off his clothes as he towered over them before storming back inside.

  Hercules was irritable. It seemed he spent more of his time watching over these two than anything else. And it was time he didn’t have. He wished he could leave them to their fate and was annoyed with whatever it was in him that could not let it alone. He didn’t care what happened to the girl, but Nate—he reminded him of his boy, Richmond. Or, truth be told, of what he wished his boy could be. No, he couldn’t let this orphan flotsam ruin Nate’s life—whether she meant to or not. Who knew what foolish and unpredictable thing she might do, dragging Nate down with her?

  As he worked in the kitchen, he watched them through the door. Nate stopped his hoeing now and again and spoke to the girl, who sat back on her heels and wiped her face with her sleeve. She said something and Nate shook his head and leaned over the hoe again. Margaret stood up and put her hands on her hips, looking thoughtfully toward the kitchen door before bending over and taking up a stick. She turned her back to the house and started on another patch of garden behind them before the first one was finished. Hercules slammed down his knife and made for the door, furious—they couldn’t even grub out a patch of dirt the right way—then something made him stop. Narrowing his eyes, he watched a moment longer as Nate walked over to stand beside her.

  She had taken up a stick and was making marks in the dirt. Nate looked at her and then at the house. Hercules stepped back in the shadow of the door. Margaret stared at Nate expectantly and tapped at the dirt with the stick.

  Nate whispered something and she nodded before rubbing her marks out with her foot and writing another. His lips moved until finally she nodded and rubbed out the markings again. They did this over and over before she handed Nate the stick.

  He took it from her hesitantly and clumsily moved the stick through the dirt. She put a hand over his to guide him, then squeezed his arm, meeting his eyes and broad smile with her own before pulling back bashfully.

  Now Hercules moved swiftly from the kitchen, praying that no one was at the upper windows of the house.

  When he reached them, he saw the word FREE etched in the dirt.

  He stomped upon it with his buckled shoe, its high polish becoming a golden blur as he rubbed it out vigorously.

  Startled, Nate stepped back, pushing Margaret slightly behind him.

  “Best not let anyone see you doing that,” said Hercules, putting one beefy hand on Nate’s neck. He could feel the boy flinch. “Margaret, go on into the kitchen and start peeling the cucumbers.” She remained dumbly frozen where she stood. He didn’t glance her way. The girl did not seem sensible of how things stood here, no matter how he tried to school her, and if he looked at her, his rage might explode.

  He watched Nate and felt the same old tinge of worry that dogged him when Richmond had been here.

  He looked down at the marred dirt. “Free, indeed. You’ll be sold away south if they catch you playing at this.” He made sure to keep his voice casual and steady, but he squeezed Nate’s neck as he said it.

  Now, Margaret’s eyes were wild with a sort of panic. Hercules leaned forward across Nate.

  “Be easy, girl,” he said. “Let this be forgotten. Least said, soonest mended. Just go into the kitchen as usual and start peeling those cucumbers.”

  She gave a half curtsy before fairly running back into the house.

  When she had gone, Hercules let go of Nate’s neck and grabbed his arm. He walked him quickly to the orchard and pointed out a tree laden with apples.

  “Look to where I point, lad, act like you are taking instruction,” said Hercules in a normal tone of voice. “We won’t be heard here, and if we are seen, I am merely instructing you on picking the best apples for a sauce. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said Nate, looking up to where Hercules pointed.

  “You are playing at dangerous business,” he said. “And so is the girl. If you are found out, there is no good end for either of you.” He leaned forward and pulled down a laden branch between them.

  Nate met Hercules’s eyes through the leaves.

  “I’ll not tell you to stop—you have a right to improving yourself as much as any man—maybe more so. You are a good and quick study,” said Hercules. “But I’ll tell you to be more discreet—especially with a teacher such as she, lest your interest be taken for something else.”

  Now Nate’s eyes narrowed. “Who could think such, Chef? I have made no improper move—”

  Hercules let the branch go and then squatted down to pick up an apple. He gestured to Nate to squat down beside him.

  “No, son,” he said in a low voice. “I know you haven’t. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t wish for you to.”

  The younger man now stared at Hercules in shock. “I—I—” he stuttered.

  “Let us say no more,” said Hercules, rising and putting his hand out to help Nate up. “Just take good care.”

  “How did you know?” said Nate, looking at Hercules across the table where they were gutting chickens. Hercules paused, his hands red with the blood and gore of the bird’s innards.

  “Know what, son?” he said mildly. They were alone in the room.

  “The word,” said Nate. “The word in the soil.” Hercules had hoped his own faux pas would pass unnoticed in the heat of the moment, but he, of all people, should have known his apprentice was too quick for that. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and brought the gutted chicken to a waiting bowl of water to wash it off.

  “Put those entrails in that slop bucket there,” he said to Nate over his shoulder. “Then wash down that board well. Use lye.”

  When Nate finally returned from his tasks, Hercules was chopping onions to add to the chicken, which was already submerged in a large pot of water with herbs.

  “Take this over to the fire,” he said without looking up. Perhaps if he didn’t answer, the boy wouldn’t have the courage to persist. But no, Nate did as he was told and then came back to stand expectantly.

  Hercules weighed his words and spoke. “As I said, Nate, to want to learn is a natural thing. I don’t begrudge it any man. But we must be careful in how
we let those aspirations be known.” He lowered his voice and leaned a bit over the table. “I made an error in my haste that day,” he said. “One I shall not make again—nor, I expect, will you.”

  Nate nodded uneasily.

  “Good,” said Hercules in a louder voice this time. “Go and see what Margaret has gleaned, if anything, from those blackberry bushes. Once you’ve cleaned them and set them to simmer with some sugar and spices, you and I shall go to the market.”

  The boy hurried out of the room, aware that Hercules’s gaze followed him clear through the doorway and into the yard.

  Carrying a large basket, Hercules stepped into the garden and paused. Washington was in the orchard meandering through the stand of old trees. Now he stopped and watched Nate and Margaret worrying at the old blackberry bush across the yard. He appeared very interested in how they carried the overfull basket between them back to the kitchen.

  When they had gone, the General put his hand on the trunk of the largest of the apple trees and stared into the distance.

  Hercules closed the door loudly and Washington looked up.

  “Excellency?” Hercules said as he neared the spot where Washington stood.

  “Ah, Hercules. What make you of this fruit?”

  Hercules looked up at the tree, which had been left to grow too tall.

  “I reckon it’s good for cider,” he said. “At least, I mean to try some for that.”

  “A good idea,” said the General seriously. “That which we’ve purchased in town has not served us well.”

  “No, sir,” said Hercules. “And apples have been too dear to buy a sufficient quantity to make our own.”

  “Just so, Hercules,” said the General, eyeing him. “You have more sensible care for my resources than most who surround me.” Washington muttered this softly more to himself, so Hercules pretended not to hear.

  Hercules bent down to retrieve a fallen apple, wincing with pain as he extended his arm. Pushing on his shoulder with the opposite hand, he straightened up, holding the apple to smell.