The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  “And allow me to present Mr. Winters,” she said, gesturing to the younger of the two white men. “And this is Dr. Rush.”

  Hercules looked at the man introduced as Dr. Rush more closely and suddenly felt queer. Benjamin Rush. Of course, he knew him. He was well known to the president, this doctor who had believed Africans could not get the yellow fever and had convinced so many to minister to the sick and dying, until they too eventually fell ill. Those who survived were spat upon by society, accused of being opportunists, preying on white victims.

  “Apologies for my tardiness.” A voice came in from the back hall. A side door to the room opened and there stood the Reverend Allen. He stopped just as he was about to say more and looked at the group and then at Hercules before breaking into a huge smile.

  “Well! If it isn’t the General’s cook!” he said loudly, moving to shake Hercules’s hand. Hercules returned the handshake silently, giving Mrs. Harris a curious sideways look.

  “The General?” asked Dr. Rush, leaning forward now.

  “The president, I should really say,” said Allen.

  Understanding passed across Rush’s face and Mistress Levi leaned over to whisper in her servant’s ear. Why was a servant sitting in a group with one of the city’s most prominent ministers and doctors? And who was this seaman?

  When they had all settled in, no one spoke for what seemed a long time. Hercules smiled pleasantly at Mrs. Harris, but he hoped the question—and the anger—in his eyes was clear.

  “Master Hercules,” began Mrs. Harris, looking around at the others. “We are a society of … helpers.”

  He raised his eyebrows, willing her to hurry up and say her piece so he might leave.

  “Yes,” cut in Reverend Allen. “We give aid to those who would make a better life for themselves but are barred from doing so on their own.”

  Dr. Rush had propped his reading spectacles up high on his forehead and now looked from one to the other of them, his eyes shining. With his beaky nose he resembled a bald eagle about to strike its prey.

  Beside Hercules, the mariner, James Brown, crossed his arms.

  “Mistress Levi, here, for example, is in the business of buying souls in order to set them free,” said Mrs. Harris, nodding toward the old woman.

  “My Solomon was one such,” said the old lady, putting her hand on the arm of the old man beside her. Large, expensive rings encased her gnarled fingers. Hercules doubted she could take them off now even if she wanted to. The old man put his dark hand over her white one and smiled gently at her. Hercules felt something go funny in his head. Surely, there was never a stranger scene.

  “Stop with de mincing,” said James Brown suddenly in a heavy West Indian accent. Hercules was curious about what he had to say. “We is abolitionists. Pure and simple—help folk escape they masters.” He leaned forward then and tapped Hercules on the knee. “Get them away from some pretty important folk—but none so important as you own.”

  Hercules’s head pounded as if he had run too long and too far, but he made himself look Brown in the eye calmly before smiling widely and standing up.

  “Gentleman—and ladies.” He bowed politely to Mrs. Harris and then Mrs. Levi. “I’m afraid you mistake my presence here. I have come only to pay my compliments to Mrs. Harris. I’ll take my leave now.”

  Dr. Rush sat back, his cheek resting in his palm, one long finger extended along the length of his jaw.

  “There is nothing to fear here—” began Reverend Allen, standing as well.

  Hercules turned to him, his eyes hard and glittering. “And nor am I afraid,” he said with an edge to his voice that he hoped was unmistakable.

  “Let he go,” said Brown behind him. “You can lead a horse to water … He go come back when he time right.”

  Hercules ignored him and stepped away from the circle.

  “I bid you all good day,” he said, thrusting the bouquet he had purchased toward Mrs. Harris before turning toward the door.

  When he reached the front hall, Mrs. Harris was close behind him.

  “Master Hercules—” she began, but he opened the door and stepped through. “Hercules!” she said loudly, following him into the alley. He turned quickly and closed the few steps between them quick as a cat.

  “Hush!” he hissed angrily. “Keep your voice down, woman.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought it would be good for you to—”

  “To what?” he spat out. “To be in the company of known abolitionists? How do you think Washington would take to hearing that? And make no mistake, there is little he does not know.”

  “I assure you, we are discreet,” she said desperately. “Lives are at stake if we are not.”

  He turned to walk away from her and then turned back.

  “Mistress Harris,” he began, forcing himself to sound more kindly this time. “I have no doubt that you are, but I make it a policy to never underestimate General Washington and I advise that you do the same.”

  He stood looking at her a moment more, searching her eyes and willing her to take in the seriousness of his words.

  “Will you risk coming back?” she said finally. “For your lessons?”

  Hercules looked back toward the house and then at her. “I will, but not when they are here,” he said. “Do you always meet on Saturday?”

  “Yes,” she said. “The students only come for half of a day of lessons then.”

  “Good,” he said curtly and then as if it were an afterthought, gave her one of his particular smiles. “Mrs. Harris.” He bowed and quickly made his way from the alley and into the city in search of cake.

  CHAPTER 18

  WEEKS HAD PASSED, WITH ALL RESUMING their regular activities. Hercules had begun to relax. He hummed to himself, taking pleasure in reading the signs that hung from the buildings as he walked toward the New Market on the other side of town. He entered just in time to see Nate point at the small trout that the fishmonger was about to put in his basket.

  “Not that one,” Nate said. “No trickery from you—I’ll not pay for a measly one without flesh on its bones.”

  Beside him, Margaret gave him a surprised look. The fishmonger’s dirty fingers halted in midair and then closed into a fist.

  “You’ll take what you get and like it, nigra!” he growled, his left hand curling around the scaling knife on the table.

  Nate’s expression hardened and Hercules’s stomach sank as the boy leaned in closer to the man instead of away.

  “None of that,” Nate said in a low and nasty voice. “Or I’ll have to report to my master how you tried to cheat him.”

  The man snorted and showed his gray teeth. “Even your master won’t make me heel to a nigra boy, now git before I gut you!”

  Nate watched him, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

  “And you’ll put an extra on that pile, no charge—for good measure,” he said in a friendly tone.

  Margaret tugged at Nate’s sleeve to get him away.

  The man’s eyes widened and then he guffawed, stopping almost as soon as he started. He pulled the knife out of the butcher’s block on the table and pointed it at Nate.

  “This nigra’s trying to rob me!” he said loudly so that the people milling about could hear. “You all are witness! I’ll defend my trade!”

  Mumbling went through the crowd and a few other merchants stepped around their tables and stood, arms crossed, ready for trouble. Hercules began to shove his way through the crowd that had gathered around the table.

  “This man is trying to cheat the President of the United States!” Nate shouted.

  In the crowd Hercules heard the words “Washington” and “General” thrown about. Now, more strongly, the murmur of doubt rippled through the chatter, but still they pressed in farther—just as Hercules reached Margaret.

  “What goes on here?” he rumbled, low and threatening. Margaret turned and nearly collapsed with relief at the sight of him.

  Now the
pitch of the crowd grew louder as they chattered among themselves. One of the merchants shook his head and returned to his table. The fishmonger looked at Hercules, who stared at him without blinking, then back at the crowd, which started to fray around the edges and disperse. Hercules was relieved to see the fishmonger was losing their sympathy.

  “I’ll not be threatened!” he said louder now, toward the crowd, and turned back to where Hercules stood, arms crossed, observing the scene.

  Another vendor, wearing a long apron smeared with blood, moved closer to the fishmonger’s side. He murmured something in a low voice, watching Hercules the whole time. Through it all Nate stood, smiling pleasantly as if he were insensible of any danger.

  The fishmonger put down the knife. His friend put a hand on his shoulder and then returned to his stall, leaving the fish man to glare at Nate across the table.

  Hercules stepped around Margaret until he was standing behind Nate.

  “I don’t think we’ll be needing any fish today,” he said smoothly, looking scornfully at the trout. “Leastways, if we do, there are better to be had elsewhere.”

  He clapped a hand around the base of Nate’s neck. He meant for it to hurt.

  “Good day, sir,” said Hercules, bowing slightly at the man and giving him a pleasant smile. “Come along, Margaret,” he said over his shoulder as he propelled Nate forward and out of the market at Second Street.

  They walked in silence past the fine houses down Pine Street but Hercules never moved his hand from Nate’s neck. Abruptly, he turned into a small alley and Margaret faltered behind them before recovering herself and following.

  She stopped short when she saw that Hercules had Nate smashed up against the brick side of the house and his face inches away from Nate’s own.

  “What did you think you were about in there?” he snarled, barely able to control himself. Margaret shrank back.

  “He was trying to cheat us,” Nate gasped out, for Hercules had his hand around the front of the boy’s neck now, holding him up off the ground.

  “You should have walked away,” spat Hercules. His fingers twitched; he longed to squeeze harder.

  “I thought—” began Nate.

  “Don’t,” said Hercules viciously. “Don’t think. Walk away.”

  Margaret pressed herself against the opposite wall, too terrified to speak. Hercules could hear her breath coming out in fast bursts. To his surprise, she bolted forward and darted between them.

  “Let him go!” she shrieked, inches from Hercules face.

  Hercules looked down at her and his eyes got wilder and his lips curled back. It took all his will not to strike her with his free hand, but he let go and Nate fell forward upon her, coughing.

  Hercules watched with his hands on his hips until the boy regained his composure, just behind Margaret. Finally, moving around her, Nate squeaked out, “You never walk away!”

  “I am me and you—” said Hercules, his eyes narrowing. He paused for a minute, then said, “Are not.”

  “He thought I was a stupid rube!” said Nate angrily.

  “And so let him,” said Hercules, his voice equally angry.

  “But—”

  Hercules put his hand up to stop the boy from speaking. He stood a moment, collecting his thoughts. It was like Richmond all over again. When had this boy become so heedless? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Margaret moving again to the side, trying to make herself small. Nate’s nemesis—though neither of them saw it.

  “If I hadn’t come along, he would have gutted you and that crowd would have let him,” he said.

  “But the president—”

  “Yes. The president would have had him punished—hung,” said Hercules simply. “But not because of any other reason than his property was destroyed. And in the end you’d still be dead, wouldn’t you?”

  Nate closed his mouth and said nothing.

  “And you,” said Hercules, whirling to face Margaret, who was now nearly to the mouth of the alley. “Protecting your little cur, here. Did you ever give a thought to what would have become of you if those men had their way? What do you think they would have done to the likes of you, consorting with this little nigra, so close at his side so you may as well be one?”

  Margaret’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes filled with tears. She looked over to Nate but he was looking sheepishly at the ground.

  Hercules turned back to Nate.

  “It’s better when they take no notice of you,” he said more calmly now. “If you are unseen, there’s some freedom in that.” Nate didn’t answer, and Margaret was crying openly now, tears streaming down her face. Surprising him, the boy rushed past and out of the alley. As he passed Margaret, she instinctively reached out to grab his sleeve, but he pulled away just before her fingers touched the cloth, leaving her to snatch her hand back to her mouth to stifle her sob.

  Hercules observed her silently shaking with tears before he too walked furiously out of the alley, forcing her to move aside as he walked past.

  CHAPTER 19

  “NATE, COME IN NOW PLEASE,” HERCULES called from the kitchen door. The scullion crouched among the garden rows, pulling off the dried bean pods and filling baskets that he brought over to set by Margaret.

  She also looked up from shelling the dried cowpeas into the waiting bowl and tossing the dried husks into another basket for the compost.

  Every time Hercules glanced out the door for the last hour he had seen her steadily talking and nodding to herself, like a madwoman. Nate, working beside her, barely moved his lips. Hercules had been gratified that ever since that day in the market, Nate hardly spoke to her. He did not know what had become of their reading lessons—they were over now, he supposed, but that was all to the better, given the danger they would be in if they were caught.

  As Nate stood and left, Margaret bit her lip. She split another pod with her thumbnail and slid the beans into the bowl before stopping to press the heels of her hands to her eyes.

  When she came into the kitchen, the wooden bowl heavy with shelled peas propped against her hip, Hercules barely glanced at her. He was keeping one eye on Nate, who spooned filling into small tart pans while he himself was stuffing a pheasant with herbs and ground meat. Mr. Julien, who had returned to them when they came back to Philadelphia, was slicing a large fish into steaks and the hired scullery maids were scrubbing pots and peeling vegetables.

  “Don’t just stand there, girl,” snapped Hercules, when Margaret stood foolishly while everything around her operated at a steady hum. “Take those peas to the storage bin in the cellar, then come right back up and start peeling pears for poaching in wine.”

  For the briefest moment, an expression like hatred twisted Margaret’s face and she opened her mouth to say something. Hercules waited, interested in what she might be brave enough to do, but just as quickly her expression changed. No doubt she remembered that no good would come from one such as her sassing him. Instead, she nodded and quickly picked up her bowl before heading back out to the cellar. Hercules was gratified to see that when she tried to catch Nate’s eye as she passed, the boy did not look up.

  Hercules stroked Thelma’s arm as she lay with one cream-colored leg thrown over him.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, nestling her face into his neck.

  “We must go soon,” he said softly into her hair.

  Thelma sighed and rolled away to sit up. She hugged her knees to her chest and traced the pattern on the Turkish rug in Gilbert’s new Philadelphia studio. The artist had secured an ideal location in Chestnut Street—just near Congress Hall and all the merchants of note. Society Hill, where he would no doubt get many a wealthy commission, was steps away as was the President’s House—which particularly suited Hercules. Now that Stuart had secured a commission to paint Washington, his fortunes had changed for the better.

  Hercules sat up and kissed the side of Thelma’s head. Her hair smelled of lemon verbena.

  “You’ve changed your scent,�
� he said, breathing deeply and relishing the light perfume, which, he imagined was the smell of places where all was right and good in the world.

  “What? Oh …” she said. “Yes. A gift … from Harriet.”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured, suddenly suspicious at her hesitation. Was it really a gift from Harriet or that ferret-faced Grayson?

  Thelma, oblivious to his dark thoughts, smiled at him over her shoulder before rising and walking to the canvas upon the easel. Hercules glanced at the windows to be sure there was no gap in the drapes before turning his gaze back to her.

  Thelma lifted the cloth covering the painting and peered at it, her head cocked sharply to the side.

  “It is a good likeness … but so dark,” she said, turning to look at him. The flickering firelight made his skin shine gold, then red and deep black when it receded.

  “And so am I,” he said with a chuckle at his own joke.

  Thelma clucked her tongue at him and went back to looking at the painting.

  “Non, it needs something,” she said, studying it.

  “Yes, Stuart says the same,” said Hercules, reaching over to where his shirt lay a few feet away and pulling it over his head.

  “It needs some light, I think,” she said. “Here … and here.” Her fingers grazed the image of her lover across his chest and in the space above his head.

  Now Hercules was standing, pulling up his britches.

  “He told me about a special white jacket and hat that chefs in Europe wear,” he said, walking over to the painting and standing beside it. “With buttons like so.” He gestured down the length of his torso. “And the hat is tall and white.”

  “Vraiment?” said Thelma. “How peculiar. It would seem to become soiled in the kitchen, non?”

  “Oui,” he said, smiling and leaning over to kiss her. “Now put on your clothes.”

  After she had rolled up her stockings and pulled on her bloomers, she slipped on her corset and turned her back to him to tie it.

  “I wish,” she sighed. “I wish we could be together always.”