The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  Hercules put his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently to face him. These were dangerous waters into which he did not want to wade. He’d long ago learned to stop imagining the world of wishes and dreams. That world would never materialize, given who they were.

  “A pretty dream, my love,” he said, lifting her hand and kissing it.

  She smiled sadly at him and turned again to face the picture.

  “I wish I could have it,” she said.

  Hercules chuckled. “Yes, it would make a lovely adornment for your boudoir,” he said. “A reminder of my … talents.” He grinned at her.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, pouting. “Anyway, what will he do with it? Who would buy such a thing?”

  “Oh, so now you are saying I am too ugly for anyone to buy my portrait?” he teased.

  “Oh you!” She slapped at his arm. “You’re being too foolish, now.”

  “In truth, I don’t know,” said Hercules, smiling less. “Nor do I care. I can’t imagine why he even wants to paint me at all, but as long as he does, we benefit.” He lifted her hand and kissed it again. “Not so?”

  “Yes,” whispered Thelma, turning away and sitting heavily on the settee. She picked at her dress.

  Hercules, surprised, walked over and knelt by her side.

  “What is it, my love?” he said. Surely, she wasn’t still dwelling on the impossibility of a future together. He had never taken Thelma for a foolish girl.

  “I—” She shook her head, unable to continue.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “Captain Grayson asked me for my promise,” she whispered.

  “The fool from Germantown?” he said, his voice becoming hard.

  “Do you mean to say that you have been keeping his company all this time?”

  “No. I mean yes. That is—” Thelma stopped miserably. “He follows me everywhere when he comes to Philadelphia for his business. He does not leave me alone.”

  Hercules studied her for a moment, fury rising. “Well? What did you say to him?” he asked, knowing even as he did that he had no right.

  “That I must think on it,” she said and grasped at his hand. “But I only said this, so he would stop his pestering of me. I do not want to marry him.”

  Hercules stood. He walked to the window and drew the curtain aside a little to look into the street. He tried to marshal his thoughts, which ran furiously in all directions.

  “Does he know?” he said without turning around.

  “Know?” said Thelma, confused.

  “About you?” said Hercules, his eyes still scanning the street below. Across the way, a driver dozed in his coach in front of a tavern. Farther down the road, he could hear the noise of the crowd pouring out of the Chestnut Street Theater. The president had his own box there. Hercules himself enjoyed a show there now and again, sitting among the “quality” in ground floor seats. He always made sure to never find himself at the same show the General was attending.

  Now he turned to face Thelma, noting that she looked particularly fetching in the glow of the fire.

  “That you are a Negress,” he said baldly. “Are you sure he does not know? He might expose you.”

  Thelma colored pink.

  “I am not sure, he has said things …”

  “What things?”

  “He drops the hints that make me think he does not forget what I said that day, about my island, and …”

  “And?”

  “He does not want for me to meet his family.”

  “So you have not told him the truth.”

  “I never lied—”

  “But you never told him,” he said.

  She shook her head silently and for a minute or two neither of them said anything. Finally, Thelma stood and came toward him.

  “This—it doesn’t matter what he knows,” she said. “I made him no promise. I don’t even like him!”

  Hercules put his hand around the bottom of her face and drew her close. He leaned in and ran his tongue over her lips.

  “Keep it that way,” he said before kissing her hard and backing her up to the couch, reaching below her skirts.

  CHAPTER 20

  “I CAN’T IMAGINE HOW YOU WEAR THROUGH your shoes so quickly, Hercules,” said Kitt irritably. “Your shoes are not above four months old if I recall, and quite costly too.” He turned some pages in his ledger and looked back at the entries.

  The steward sat behind a desk strewn with papers and quill pens. In one corner, candle wax had melted down the brass holder onto the desk. Hercules stood there watching him. Kitt would have a long time to wait if he expected Hercules to act humble.

  “Fine,” said Kitt, finally closing the book with a snap. “Here you are.” He took seventy-five cents from the locked drawer in his desk.

  Hercules stepped forward and took the money the other man held out.

  “What have you planned for tonight, cook?” he asked as Hercules turned to go. “It’s a levy night, you know.”

  As if Hercules didn’t know that it was one of the nights Mrs. Washington entertained the ladies of society—which meant a large crowd of admiring females hoping to get a glimpse of the president.

  “Cold leg of mutton, forced mushrooms, sweet potato buns, and pears stewed purple,” he said, keeping his voice pleasant. “The usual course of nuts, fruit, and sweetmeat. The president received a shipment of pineapple from the West Indies, so I shall make a molded ice from them as well.”

  “Very fine,” said Kitt, and absentmindedly patted his stomach. Hercules held back a smirk. He knew that the greedy steward would come sniffing around like a dog when the platters came back, barely touched, from the dining room.

  “Mrs. Bingham will be in attendance,” Kitt said. “She is particularly fond of your carrot pudding. Is it too late, you think, to add that to the menu?”

  Hercules smiled and gave the steward a gallant bow. “Certainly not, Mr. Kitt,” he said. “Mistress Bingham’s wish is my command.”

  When he returned to the kitchen, he set Nate to shredding the carrots for the pudding and Margaret to assembling the other ingredients while he attended the roast. As he worked, he observed them closely when they didn’t notice.

  Interesting. They no longer stood so close together. In fact, few, if any, words passed between them. Nate had to ask Margaret twice to pass the bowl of eggs before she obliged and did not acknowledge his polite thank-you.

  So, it would seem that they had heeded his warning. Finally. He added spices to the port wine he was using to poach the pears. Things were starting to settle back to normal.

  “Nate my boy, you will mix that pudding yourself,” he called jovially to his assistant. “After you grate the carrots, tell me—what comes next?”

  Once the party was well under way, and the last dish removed by the footmen, Hercules untied his apron and laid it on the bench near the door. He shrugged into his waistcoat and pulled off his head kerchief, running a hand through his hair before perching his cockade hat on his head. Taking up his walking stick, he turned to the others in the kitchen and touched it to the rim of his hat before heading out.

  He turned up his collar against the damp chill as he hurried through the garden gate and past the front door, politely touching his hat to the footmen who stood guard there.

  “Evening, Master Hercules,” said the taller of the two. Raymond, he was called. He was a lanky country fellow who sometimes came and sat in Hercules’s kitchen in his free hours, whittling a piece of wood. He said the noise and rush of the kitchen reminded him of his big family home.

  “Oh, so you got black folks in you family?” Oney had snapped at him. Hercules had to turn his back on them and busy himself with the tin oven to hide his smile.

  “Evening, Raymond,” he said pleasantly now, as he hurried on.

  Even though he walked quickly he didn’t have a particular plan. He had already visited Mrs. Harris this week and he was not due at Mr. Stuart’s for another few days. He’d j
ust wanted to walk and think.

  His last meeting with Thelma lay heavy on his mind. Captain Grayson, that pathetic, girl-faced, white man, was courting Thelma. He felt rage. The kind of rage that would make him do something rash if he didn’t get a hold of it.

  Grayson was away on the China Trade, Thelma had said, and she didn’t know how long before he’d return. That was something at least. Surely the girl couldn’t possibly entertain his offer? She was not stupid and nor, Hercules thought, was she greedy enough to be lured by Grayson’s promises of wealth. But of course he couldn’t really know that, could he? He didn’t actually know her very well at all.

  Hercules tapped his stick meaningfully on the ground as he walked along and willed his thoughts elsewhere. Even if Thelma could remain free, he was not. They could never be together. He had no way to support her. Worse yet, she looked like a white woman.

  He let his mind imagine a bit. Would he want to marry Thelma even if he could? He couldn’t really say. What did he know of her beside the intricacies of her delightful body?

  He found himself panting from walking too fast. He was already close to the water at Second Street. Turning right, he realized where it was he meant to go.

  Samuel Fraunces’s tavern was quiet even while the City Tavern, just a block beyond Dock Street, was loud and busy as ever. Mariners and seamen crowded the street but no one came in or out of the place. Hercules headed to the door. It was time he saw firsthand what the snake Fraunces had done for himself.

  Inside, only a few tables were filled. An elderly couple sat together at one eating their supper, and at another a genteel lady dined alone, though she kept glancing at the door as though waiting for someone. Alone as she was, she could only have been a high-priced whore.

  No one was behind the bar, although he heard sounds from the kitchen. He walked forward and rapped on the wooden counter with his stick. It took a few moments but eventually the door behind the counter opened and Black Sam stepped out. He wore a long apron and his wig was slightly off-kilter. He seemed harried—far more than warranted by three patrons.

  His smile faltered a bit when he saw Hercules, but then he composed himself and stepped forward.

  “Hercules, by my eyes,” he said, smiling stiffly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Some claret, please, master stew—that is, Master Fraunces,” he said, relishing the other man’s discomfort. “And I should like to sample what’s on the menu this evening.”

  Confusion passed over the former steward’s face for a moment.

  “Are you not sent by the General?” he asked. “No, no, you wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t send a slave …” The last he murmured to himself, but Hercules caught it.

  “Alas, I am not,” said Hercules, somewhat loudly. So the old bastard was, perhaps, regretting his move. “Are you expecting word from him? Meaning to leave this place, are you?” he went on, feigning innocence.

  “Shhh!” Fraunces hissed at him, leaning forward. “No, I am not,” he went on priggishly. “And I’ll thank you to keep your voice down. I just thought—well, never you mind. Take a seat if you must.”

  Hercules smiled broadly at his old nemesis and took a seat near the window. Clearly, the steward could not afford to turn him away with the house so empty.

  Fraunces reappeared with a plate of mutton stew dressed with potatoes and apples, which he set before Hercules with some bread and butter. He poured out the claret in a small glass and placed it beside the plate, barely hiding his annoyance.

  Hercules closed his eyes and let the aromas meet his nose.

  “A fine cook you always were, master steward,” he said.

  Fraunces was surprised. “How did you know I made that?” he said. “There was—is—a cook here, you know. You can’t imagine I am managing this establishment and also at the hearth.”

  Hercules said nothing, because that was exactly what he imagined. He took another bite of food and looked around the room appraisingly. Things did not look to be going so well here at the Fraunces Tavern.

  “I know your hand, sir,” Hercules finally said, raising his glass in a toast. “A masterful way with the spice box.”

  “Taught you all you needed to know,” said Fraunces, a touch of his usual smugness creeping into his voice.

  Hercules only smiled at this, taking up his knife and fork. “That, indeed, you did.”

  Fraunces seemed surprised by this response and stood there. He looked around at the others in the dining room. The couple were engrossed in their own chatter and the strumpet was busy at her plate, perhaps having given up on the night’s assignation.

  “Tell me, cook,” he said, his voice softer. “How goes all at the President’s House? Are they well there?”

  “Well enough,” said Hercules, swallowing his food and taking up the wine. “The new steward isn’t a patch on you.” He said this last not only because it was in fact true, but also because he knew it would flatter.

  Now the old man smiled broadly. “Is that so?” he said with a chuckle.

  “How goes with all this?” said Hercules, gesturing vaguely around the room.

  “Oh, fine, fine,” said Fraunces, puffing his chest up in the old way. “It’s just slow tonight, you see. A concert over at the City Tavern …” His voice trailed off.

  Hercules watched him carefully. He doubted the place was ever full, but he said pleasantly, “I imagine you are flocked with trade from the mariners during the day hours.”

  “Oh no,” said Fraunces, haughty again. “We don’t encourage that kind of trade. Only persons of quality here—travelers to the city and the like.” His gaze flicked involuntarily to the woman in the corner.

  That was typical Fraunces, thought Hercules, forking some more of the tender meat into his mouth—he’d cut off his nose to spite his face. Here he was, hard on the water, and he refused the seamen’s trade. Foolish.

  “Well, I will leave you to your supper,” said Fraunces after a moment. Hercules raised his glass again. “Let me—let me know if you require more,” he said so gently that Hercules looked at him sharply, but he had already turned and was walking toward the kitchen door, his gait slower and more stooped than Hercules had remembered.

  He sat back in the chair and allowed the food to settle, staring out the window and thinking about Fraunces. How much had an ill word from the General figured into the man’s poor fortune? A figure passed below on the sidewalk that he thought he recognized. He leaned forward to get a better look at the hulking form. It was the man from Mrs. Harris’s house. James Brown.

  Before he could think why, Hercules rapped on the window to get the man’s attention and he held up his hand in greeting. James Brown stepped forward, squinting to get a better look behind the glass. When recognition dawned, he made his way up the steps.

  Fraunces met him at the door. Hercules could see him struggle with welcoming trade or putting the man, who was obviously a common mariner, out. Hercules stood up.

  “Mr. Fraunces, this is Mr. Brown,” he called. “An acquaintance.”

  Fraunces squinted at the black sailor in his woolen hat and striped trousers.

  “Would you be so kind as to bring him some of your delicious stew?” said Hercules, stepping forward and opening his arm toward the table. “What will you drink, Mr. Brown—ale, porter? Something stronger?”

  Brown glanced at the table. “Another of dat is fine,” he said, nodding toward Hercules’s glass.

  “Claret then,” said Hercules, smiling at Fraunces, who was beside himself. He turned on his heel and headed into the kitchen.

  At the table, James Brown sat wide-legged and looked at Hercules expectantly.

  “So you deck-off, eh?” he said finally. “You real dress up,” he clarified when Hercules looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “I suppose,” he said evenly. Was the man mocking him?

  “What I can do fuh yuh?” said Brown, nodding to Fraunces as he put the plate down in front of him. “Obliged,” he said p
olitely before taking up the spoon and taking a taste. He looked thoughtful and took another.

  “This real good,” he said. “You have cassareep in here?” he called to Fraunces’s back. The steward turned in surprise and returned to the table.

  “Yes—how did you know?”

  “Common thing where I’m from,” he said, looking closely at Fraunces. “You too, I expect.” Hercules recalled that Fraunces had been born in Barbados, where the treacle-like cassareep was a common ingredient.

  The old steward looked at the sailor with his rheumy eyes for a longish time before nodding slowly and hobbling away. When, thought Hercules, had he gotten so old?

  “So,” said Brown. “I ask what it is I can do fuh yuh?”

  “Do for me?” said Hercules, taking up his own fork again. “Nothing. I just saw you and—” Hercules paused. He wasn’t actually sure why he had called out to the other man; maybe an instinct that the sailor was a useful person to know in these days where he felt the press of the General’s household on him like a box about to close.

  “Mmm-hmmm,” said Brown, drawing out the syllables as he chewed slowly.

  “Do you travel far in your trade?” asked Hercules to make conversation and get the man’s intent stare off of him.

  “New York mostly,” he said. “Alexandria. I ain’t like to go farther south than dat. Obvious reasons.”

  He said the last pointedly and took a sip of his wine.

  “You from down Alexandria way, not so?” he asked next.

  “Yes,” said Hercules carefully.

  “Uh-huh,” said Brown, watching him. He turned his gaze to the room. “Dis a real fine place.”

  Hercules looked around as well. “Yes, it is,” he said. “Mr. Fraunces knows what he’s about.”

  “I aim to have such a place one day,” said Brown, tucking into his food again.

  “You do?” said Hercules, surprised.

  “Yep,” he said between chews. “Ran a tavern for my master in Grenada. I real good at it.”

  Hercules eyed the man with new respect.

  “Why did you turn your fortunes to the sea?” he asked.