“A good likeness,” the General said finally.
“Van Rensselaer,” Stuart answered “One of your generals, I believe?” Relief made Hercules feel woozy. They must be looking at the painting that Stuart had hastily placed on the easel to replace his own.
“Just so,” came Washington’s answer.
“Will you take tea, sir? Or perhaps something stronger?” said Stuart. “I’ll send to the house.”
“No, thank you,” said Washington.
Hercules heard the dragging of a chair nearer the settee where Washington must have been sitting and then its creak as the painter sat heavily down.
“To what do I owe the honor, sir—” Stuart began, but Washington cut him off.
“Mrs. Washington is desirous of my portrait,” he said. “She has heard of your work favorably and I recalled your visit the other day.”
“An honor, sir,” said the painter. “I am at your disposal.”
Now Hercules heard Stuart’s chair scrape the rough floor. Washington must have stood.
“Good,” the General was saying. “My secretary shall inform you of the particulars. I might send for you at any time my schedule permits. I shan’t waste your time, sir, nor do I expect you to waste mine. I shall sit for a length of time and be entirely at your disposal. I expect you will complete your work satisfactorily and not impress upon me to return at your leisure, which I will not do.”
“I understand, Excellency,” said Stuart, following as the General made his way to the door, once again in sight of the small opening through which Hercules peered.
“I submit very reluctantly to this business of portraiture, but it pleases my wife and so I must do it,” he said, turning back to face Stuart one more time. The painter had been so close at his back that he had to quickly take a step back.
“Very good, sir,” Stuart said.
Washington looked at him a moment more, then nodded curtly and ducked his head as he went out the short door. Inside the stable, Hercules counted to one hundred, picturing the General’s long strides out to his horse Prescott and the time it would take him to mount the horse. He was ready to slip quickly back inside when he heard Washington’s cluck to his beast.
Once he was back inside, he and Stuart looked at one another without speaking, both listening to the hoofbeats of Washington’s horse until it was the faintest thud in the far distance.
Thelma’s eyes flew open and her gaze darted around the room, panicked. It was a relief when the lightning flashed harshly into the unkempt chamber and she found herself able to make out the shapes of Stuart’s easel and table. Beside her, Hercules slept soundly through the thunder that she had mistaken in her sleep for the sound of cannon fire. She sat up and exhaled before reaching for the shawl that lay beside them on the floor, then moved to the window. Rain was lashing the nearby willow tree, its long, thin branches moving back and forth across the ground like a broom. It was nothing compared to the sea-storms they’d endured back home.
Thelma walked over to the table and lit a candle before taking up a piece of paper and charcoal. She glanced over at Hercules—they could not remain here much longer. She studied her lover while he slept, skin glowing in each flash of lightning, stretched taut over bulging muscles.
Her fingers began to fly across the page, trying to capture his form, but soon other images took over—not of the man lying beside her but of what she had seen before. The things she wouldn’t speak of with the General’s cook. The blood-run roadways and paths of her island, the wild dogs gnawing on the human limbs flung into the fields. Through the black smoke from the burning plantation houses, Bastien, the voodoo priest, had emerged, ambling easily, using his long, twisted stick for purchase, as if he were taking a stroll through the forests.
Thelma had seen him from where she stood at the shore, soaking rags to drape over the window holes of their little house, to catch the smoke and soot.
“Ki kote ou se manman ou ye?” he’d asked in his pidgin French. Where is your mother?
She’d gestured toward the house, then dropped her rags into a bucket and followed him up the small dune.
“Blondelle mouri. Nou te pran l. Fanmi l’ tou,” he told her mother. “Ou anyen pa rive Et poko men tifi ou dwe ale. Blan sou po se yon mak pou touye koulye a. Dènye batiman an a pwal. Mete l’ sou li.”
Blondelle is dead. We’ve taken him. His family too. You are safe and you are free but your girl must go. White skin is a death mark now, the last ship is going. Put her on it.
Maman had looked wildly from him to Thelma, pain crumpling her face.
“Who will escort her?” she asked. “How can I be sure she will be safe?”
“I will take her myself,” the priest answered. He turned toward the door. “I will return with a cart. Pare.”
Be ready.
She had fallen on her knees on the hard dirt floor and clung to her mother’s legs. “Come with me,” she begged.
Maman had stood stock-still, halted for a moment in her mad rush around the small room, flinging Thelma’s three dresses and her few books and art supplies into a small trunk. She placed her worn, rough hand on Thelma’s smooth head. “My darling girl,” she had murmured. “There is no place for me where you must go. You can pass into the white man’s land. I cannot.”
Thelma had buried her face in her mother’s skirts and sobbed.
“I would drag you down,” Maman said. “Alone, you could find your way. Find respectable work. With me you would be a Negress, something to barter and use.”
Thelma had screamed into her mother’s lap. Screamed and screamed until her throat was raw and until she had felt the priest’s vise grip on her shoulders, ripping her away. He had pulled her roughly with one arm and hoisted the small trunk on his shoulder with the other.
Outside a donkey cart waited, piled with gunny cloth sacks and barrels. “Climb up there and stay down,” said the priest. Maman’s hand slipped into Thelma’s and she pressed a small brocade bag into it. All the money she had spirited away over the years.
“Hurry now, no time,” said the priest, holding up a length of sacking for Thelma to climb under. She clung to her mother.
“Go, mon petite ange,” she murmured in Thelma’s ear. “Se souvenir: je t’aime au-delà où l’univers se termine.”
Remember: I will love you past when the universe ends.
Thelma swallowed hard now and breathed through her nose. The tears came anyway, falling heavily onto the page and making blotches on the charcoal images.
She looked down at what she had drawn. A white woman, naked, her mouth a gaping gash from which a soundless scream erupted. The scream was endless.
At first, under her sacking, Thelma thought she herself was screaming again, beyond her senses with grief. When she had peeked out above the edge of the cart, she saw a woman, shrieking like a pig at slaughter, unsilenced even by the heavy blows falling around her face and head from the slaves in their rags who surrounded her. Two of them held her arms while another raped her. Blood ran down her legs.
Fear had gripped her so badly she wet herself, and in her confusion mistook the warm wetness running down her legs for blood as well. She had known the woman—her half sister Monique. She had last seen her sipping wine at their father’s table while Thelma had cleared dishes and poured out the port.
When they reached the ship, she felt half dead. The priest had dragged her up the gangplank and handed the captain some coins, no doubt provided by her mother. How much had he kept for himself?
They were quite at sea when she came to herself again, huddled with a mother and her two girls below decks, their eyes still wild from terror.
She had stayed with them for the remainder of the voyage to Philadelphia, sharing rations, never moving about without one another—protection against the women-hungry sailors.
When they had arrived in the capital city, their relatives had come to collect them and Thelma was left alone to fend for herself, barely able to walk on dry la
nd from being so long on a rolling, pitching ship.
A lady from the Quaker church had approached her, speaking terrible French, and Thelma had answered in halting English. It was the first time she had actually used the language her father had taught her to converse with a real person. The lady was from some sort of society organized to help the “poor, unfortunate victims of Saint-Domingue.”
The victims. Thelma had said nothing and allowed herself to be bustled along to a clean room in a private home to bathe and eat a hot meal. It had been January and Thelma had never felt such cold. The trees were so curious too—not one of them had a leaf.
Only when months had passed did she learn about the seasons, her artist’s heart learning to delight in the flamboyant colors of spring and then, later, like a surprise jewel at the bottom of the box, autumn.
Later, another refugee boat had come with the reports of the gruesome massacre, setting the whites in Philadelphia on edge.
Her father had been strung up by his feet like a goat. His guts had been cut out. He had drowned in the blood that ran out of his stomach down his face. Then they had cut him up and fed his body to the hogs.
Thelma put the last few lines of shading around the scene before she put aside the charcoal and wiped her hands on a rag. Turning toward the flame, she held the edge of the paper to it and watched, expressionless, as the flames licked up the page and nipped at her fingers. She did not drop the leaf until it was no more than a cinder ash.
Thelma couldn’t have wished a better end for the man. Not since he’d turned away from her mother and started rutting her in the field or the scullery or anywhere he had a mind to. Once, he even shoved her up against the well as she dragged on the rope to draw up water. That time was in plain sight of the others working in the garden.
It was a fine end for one such as him. She’d only wished she’d been there to see it.
Hercules turned in his sleep, reaching out to where she had been lying behind him. He awoke when he felt the space was bare and sat up suddenly.
“What is wrong, love?” he said, focusing on her.
“Nothing,” she said, drawing the shawl over her lap.
He rubbed his hand over his face and stretched.
“It’s late,” he said. “We better be gone.”
“Oui,” answered Thelma, rising to kneel before him. “Just one more thing first,” she said, letting the shawl drop and pressing her body against his.
Part III
CHAPTER 17
Philadelphia, Autumn 1794
HERCULES SET A BOX DOWN ON the long wooden table. Through the small window he could see the commotion in the yard as the servants rushed to unload the dray carts carrying the furniture back from Germantown.
“Hercules?” The voice fluttered through the kitchen.
“Yes, Lady Washington?” he said smoothly, turning to bow. The violet scent she wore overpowered the room.
“The president will be entertaining guests before supper this evening,” she said. “Do you have anything for refreshment?”
She looked around the kitchen in despair. “Oh my, nothing is ready,” she said more to herself than to him. “So inconvenient … I imagine we could send to the grocer, but then …” She looked at him pleadingly.
“Not to worry, madam,” Hercules said. “I know of an excellent cake seller who usually has lovely confections to hand. I will set the others to putting the kitchen to rights and will go into the city to buy the cakes. Will that suit?”
“Oh, that will be fine,” said Lady Washington, giving Hercules an indulgent smile. “Thank you.”
“And I have some hams from Mount Vernon to slice for a cold supper—along with whatever greens we may have in the garden,” he said. “I’ll procure some loaves of bread when I go out as well.”
Again, the First Lady heaved a sigh of relief. “I really don’t know why I worry so, Hercules, with you here,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “You always have everything in hand.”
He bowed once again. “I try, madam,” he said.
Mrs. Washington smiled before turning and making her way out of the kitchen.
Kitt came in after Mrs. Washington had passed. Hercules ignored him and stepped around a particularly large crate that sat on the floor.
“Nate,” called Hercules, loudly. The scullion appeared from the back of the kitchen. “Unpack these first,” he said, gesturing to the smaller boxes on the table.
“You should find at least two hams in them. Slice half of one thinly and set it upon the large charger, which I believe is in the crate Austin is prying open now.” He gestured toward where the postilion, his fine jacket removed, was working on a larger crate. “When you are done with that, go over whatever Margaret can find from the garden and slice it all very thinly—like paper. Dress it with salad oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper and set it aside. Then continue with the unpacking. I’ll return shortly.”
Nate, who had been listening intently to Hercules’s instructions, stopped mid-nod.
“Return? Shortly?” he said. “I’m to prepare this alone?”
“I must procure some cakes from Mrs. Brummage and then see if there is any bread to be found in the capital at this hour,” he said. Hercules paused and looked at the young man, whose eyes had become wide. “You can do this,” he said, putting his hand on Nate’s shoulder. It was time the boy tried his hand at a few things on his own. One day, Hercules meant to be gone from this place, but the General would have a fine cook in his stead. “These are easy tasks you have done many times.”
“But you’ve always been here while I did them,” said Nate.
“Indeed, and Mr. Kitt is here if you need aid,” said Hercules, looking pointedly over at the steward, who was suspiciously counting the silverware, even though he’d already done so that morning before they were packed away for the short journey back to the capital.
Hearing his name, Kitt turned around. “What’s that?” he said.
“I must away to buy some items for the General’s guests this afternoon,” said Hercules. “Nate will prepare the supper in my stead—and of course you are here to make sure all goes smoothly.”
Kitt looked from Hercules to Nate. “I should come—” he said firmly.
“I’ve promised Lady Washington that I would attend to this myself, Mr. Kitt,” said Hercules easily. “No need to trouble yourself.”
The steward stared at him overlong, a malicious snarl lifting his upper lip before he finally said, “I see.” He said nothing for a moment, then barked at Nate, “Get to it then.”
Nate looked from Kitt to Hercules nervously, then bowed to the steward. Hercules gave Nate another clap on the back, then turned for the door.
When he was outside the garden walls, he drew a deep breath. Even the stench of horse shit, rotting waste, privies, and unwashed slatterns—the smells of the city—were delightful after the fresh open air of the country where he could not move about as freely.
Hercules crossed High Street and headed down Sixth. He paused every now and again to pretend he was looking at a shop window or feign interest in something going on in the road. Once he stopped in front of a woman selling nosegays and spent a longish time choosing among them until he settled upon a small bouquet of blue lobelia.
His pauses had purpose, for each time he stopped he scanned the streets and alleyways to be sure he was not taken unawares again. He walked on, shrugging his injured shoulder as he made his way to Mrs. Harris’s home in Cherry Street.
He rapped upon the door twice, waiting a good length of time between each, and was turning away when the door opened behind him.
“Master Hercules?” said the teacher, her voice trilling with delight.
He turned and bowed gallantly. “None other, madam,” he said, straightening up and smiling.
She glanced down the alleyway and then back at him. “You were not—”
“Followed? No, I was not,” he said, putting his booted foot upon the short stair.
Mr
s. Harris stepped aside so he could pass into the house.
Once he was in the hall, he could hear the low murmur of a group of people talking. Startled, he looked at Mrs. Harris, who only smiled and gestured him into the schoolroom.
“Do come in, Master Hercules, it is most fortunate you happen by just now,” she said. “There are some people here I would have you meet.”
He followed the schoolteacher into the room, where a strange group sat in chairs formed into a close circle. An old white woman—a Jewess by her head wrap and the star brooch at her throat—sat by an old Negro who, bizarrely, wore the skull cap of a Jew. Two white men in expensive clothing sat side by side and a tall, muscled, nut-brown Negro wearing mariner’s clothing completed the circle. There were two open chairs, one of which Mrs. Harris must have vacated when she came to answer the door.
Hercules hesitated as Mrs. Harris moved toward the circle. They all stopped talking and watched him with interest. A look passed across the face of one of the white gentlemen as if he were trying to figure something out. The mariner stood and gestured for Hercules to sit.
“I was unaware you had company, Mrs. Harris,” Hercules said, looking at each person in the room and then settling his gaze on his teacher. He turned toward the door. “I’ll come back at another time.”
“No!” she said swiftly, taking a step toward him, then stepping back. “That is to say, you are most welcome here, Master Hercules. These are”—she gestured vaguely toward the circle—“my friends,” she finished awkwardly. Hercules uneasily allowed himself to be drawn forward by Mrs. Harris to a chair set out by the mariner, whom she introduced as James Brown.
“And this is Mistress Levi,” she said, gesturing toward the old woman. “And her servant, Solomon.”
Hercules nodded, not caring a whit who they were. He began to absently tap his cane upon the floor.
The General's Cook Page 16