The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  “Escape,” said Brown, lowering his voice. “I stowed away on a trade ship, bribed de ship cook to take me on as a scullion.” He shrugged. “We got here and I made my way.”

  Interesting. The man was clever and industrious. Hercules was feeling more sure that James Brown was a useful man to know.

  “Where will you open your tavern?” asked Hercules between bites.

  Brown looked out the window at the crowd that had spilled over from the City Tavern before he answered.

  “Plenty taverns mash up together here,” he said. “Too much of competition. I aim to make fuh New York.”

  Hercules considered this a moment.

  “But isn’t the capital more—” he paused to find the right word. “Welcoming for those such as us to conduct business?”

  Brown’s lips twitched at the corners.

  “So it may be,” he said. “But den, when you free, you can make you way anywhere, not so?”

  Hercules stopped short of putting another bite to his lips and searched Brown’s face. Again, he wondered if the sailor was having fun at his expense. Shrugging slightly and smiling, he continued eating.

  “Besides, there’s more good I can do dere,” said Brown, watching Hercules carefully. “In my other line, dat is.”

  Hercules let this pass. He wasn’t about to be drawn into that conversation until he was good and ready.

  “What is New York like?” he asked instead.

  Brown thought about this before answering.

  “Hodgepodge like. As big as Philadelphia but not so well put up,” he said. “But de city expanding, inching north and north every time I does go there. Ain’t but a few Quakers dere so anything goes.” He smiled to himself as he said this.

  Hercules nodded, encouraging Brown to go on while he continued eating.

  “I mean to make my place on de water at de west end, just above de press of de old city,” he said. “Maybe in Desbrosses Street or Spring, somewhere in dere. Dere’s plenty trade to be had by dem such as myself.”

  Hercules raised his eyebrows curiously.

  “Mariners,” Brown clarified. “The city is full-up of men who go to sea.”

  Hercules had stopped eating while he listened and considered this.

  “Nowadays, it possible to get almost as many a fine thing dere as it is here in Philadelphia,” Brown said, taking up his drink again. “But none of that does trouble me—my fare go be plain and simple. A good bar and a better hand at cooking is all I need—someone more in your way of skill.” Brown smiled at his companion. “But here I talking too long,” he said. “Boring you wit my rambling.”

  “Not at all,” said Hercules mildly. In fact, he had found all Mr. Brown had to say more than interesting.

  “A toast,” said Brown suddenly raising his glass. “To new acquaintances.”

  Hercules’s hand clasped around his own glass and hesitated before raising it to meet Brown’s own.

  “May they soon be old friends,” he said.

  Hercules came back into the yard and saw Nate go down the cellar stairs with Margaret, holding the lantern aloft behind him. At first, he thought nothing of it—no doubt they were assembling the next day’s supplies. Besides, he knew there had been a chill between them since that day she flew at Hercules and shamed Nate, as if he were a little boy who needed her protection.

  But just as he reached the kitchen door, something nagged at his mind and he turned back toward the cellar and listened at the top of the step. For a minute or two he heard nothing but the sounds of them moving about and filling baskets, but then her voice broke through suddenly, cracking the silence of the cellar.

  “Why have you come to hate me?”

  “What?” he said, surprised.

  “You hate me—why?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Nate said, low and angry.

  “I won’t,” she said in a normal tone. “I have a right to know.”

  Hercules heard Nate snicker.

  “You don’t have ‘a right.’ Nor do I,” he said spitefully. “Now let’s get on with this.”

  “No,” she said, her voice snapping out into the dark like a gun crack. “At least tell me what I’ve done.”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Why must you carry on so? Let us be about our business.”

  “NO!” she said, even louder now and banged her hand on something—the top of a barrel, probably.

  “Dammit, shut your gob!” he hissed at her and Hercules could hear his angry steps. “Stop this!”

  Hercules started down the steps, fearful that Nate would strike the wench and seal his fate, but then all was silent.

  “Please, Nate,” she whispered. “I thought we were—”

  “Thought we were what?” he said, clearly struggling to hold on to his anger.

  She was sobbing now.

  “I don’t know—friends,” she said between gulps of air.

  “People like us can’t be friends, Margaret.”

  “But I don’t care what anyone says about me!” she exclaimed. “You are all I have! What is there left if you turn away?”

  “Listen to me!” he growled. “This is not about you. Do you understand?”

  Hercules heard her whimper.

  “Do you know what it means for me to be seen with you? To have you hovering at my side? Someday someone—some white someone—isn’t going to like that. Then what?” He spat out the last.

  The girl whimpered again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Oh dear God, I’m sorry.”

  For a while, there was only the sound of the girl crying and Hercules, gratified, began to walk quietly up the step and into the yard, but then Nate spoke again.

  “Shhh shhh,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. Shhhh.”

  Slowly, the sobs turned to sniffles and then, as Hercules strained to hear, there was some snuffling and a low moan. Alarmed, he moved quietly down the steps again, afraid of what he might see.

  When he reached the bottom, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. When they did, he felt his stomach lurch with fear and fury. There against the side wall, dimly lit by the lantern light, Margaret was pressed against the wall with Nate pushed up against her. She was kissing his lips, his face, grasping at his hands and kissing them too.

  The boy pulled aside the cloth at her neck and kissed her there and then down to her collarbone before the little strumpet curiously, cautiously reached out and put her hand against the swelling in his pants.

  He moaned and put his hand over hers, pushing it down, rubbing hard. She pressed her body closer into his but not before unbuttoning his trousers and reaching inside. A little gasp came from her lips when she felt him without the cloth.

  They stood pressed together, his face buried in the rise of her meager bosom, as he guided her to stroke him back and forth until finally there was an explosion of wet in her hands.

  Through it all Hercules had stood frozen to the spot. He was too ashamed for them both—and for himself—to cry out, and now he didn’t want to retreat so they would know he had been watching. He stepped backward into the shadows at the base of the stair.

  Now, Nate pulled away and quickly buttoned his pants. Searching the cold stone room, he found a scrap of rag wedged between the wall and a barrel. She was staring at the thick fluid on her hand and he grasped her by the wrist and scrubbed at it with the dirty cloth.

  “Forgive me,” he said to her hand, too ashamed to look at her.

  Margaret put her hands on each side of his face and forced him to meet her eyes before she kissed him gently on the lips for what seemed a long time.

  “No,” she said when she pulled away. “I cannot forgive when there is no offense.”

  He looked at her and touched her face, where Hercules knew he would see the veins beneath the thin skin.

  Hercules slunk quietly up the stairs, anger and despair warring in his heart. As he reached the top, he heard Nate say hoarsely as if amazed, “I do love you.”

  CHAPTER 21


  Early 1795

  “I’LL THANK YOU FOR YOUR FULL attention when I speak to you,” snapped Kitt. Hercules paused, his knife in midair. All noise in the kitchen stopped as they watched to see what he would do.

  Hercules raised the knife high and brought it down smoothly on the head of a fish, separating it from the body. He tossed it into a bowl with several others.

  “Nate,” he said to the scullion, who had been kneading dough for rolls at the far end of the kitchen, “these are ready for the broth. Add a bit more savory this time, please.”

  Wiping his knife on a cloth, he stuck it straight up into the cutting board and then wiped his own hands carefully before turning to face Mr. Kitt. The steward was becoming more of a problem, and it seemed that Washington meant to keep him in service for the long term. Lately, his constant presence around Hercules had made it more difficult for him to come and go as he pleased.

  “I am at your service,” he said with a tight-lipped smile.

  Kitt had watched him stiffly through the whole performance and did not once turn his head toward the rest of the kitchen.

  “Good,” he said shortly. “Are we understood? You’ll check with me upon the menu?”

  “Certainly,” said Hercules.

  “The General wants his table well laid for this event but not extremely so,” he went on, as if Hercules were new to the house. “This means I will attend every detail.”

  Hercules continued to look at him, a slight smile plastered on his face.

  “Well, then, as long as we are settled,” said Kitt, “You may proceed.” He watched for a moment, expecting Hercules to take up his knife. When Hercules continued to stand there smiling like a half-wit, he finally turned to leave the room.

  When he was quite to the door, Hercules called out. “Oh, Mr. Kitt?”

  The steward turned around expectantly.

  “I’ll need more sherry for cooking by tomorrow’s end,” he said. Kitt nodded and turned again to leave.

  Hercules picked up his knife and began to pick at the fish’s innards. “Oh! But I forgot—of course you’ll need to ask the General’s secretary for that,” he said, making his voice friendly. “Since the General doesn’t allow the stewards control of the wine room.”

  Kitt hesitated in the doorframe, his shoulders inching up. Even from the back Hercules could see he was deciding whether to turn around or not. Finally, he chose to proceed out of the room without answering.

  At the butchering table, Hercules began to hum to himself just as Oney came into the kitchen carrying Lady Washington’s tea tray, which she set on the washing board. She was subdued, moving listlessly these few months since Austin had been killed in a carriage accident on his way back to Mount Vernon just before Christmas.

  At his chopping block, Hercules didn’t stop working, but his eyes followed Oney as she made her way from the room.

  “You going out for Lady Washington today, Oney?” he asked.

  Oney looked limply at him. “Yes, to deliver a letter to Mrs. Chew—why?”

  “If you’d stop at the apothecary for some liniment for my shoulder, I’d be much obliged,” he said. The shoulder had been troubling him worse since he had carried Oney from the hall to the kitchen after she had fainted when Lady Washington told her of her brother’s death. She’d sat in the kitchen in a trance for the rest of the afternoon, mumbling with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Oney, her gaze dull, acknowledged his request before she turned and passed like a specter from the room.

  “Chef? Chef?” He could barely make out the words. “Master Hercules?” He struggled to open his eyes. Someone was crouching over him. Richmond? The face came closer. No. Nate. He drifted off again.

  A loud rude voice broke through next. “How long has he been like this?” There was a mumble. Another voice asked, “What was in those pills?” Before he could hear the answer, he was gone again.

  The sunlight slanting through the attic window made his eyelids twitch. He cracked one eye open, holding his hand up to his face. His body felt so stiff.

  Squinting, he could make out a form sitting on a chair at the edge of his cot.

  “How you goin’, Master Hercules?” It was Old Moll, Lady Washington’s grandson’s nanny.

  When he tried to open his mouth to speak, he found his voice came out in a croak.

  “Hold on there,” said the old lady, standing up and making her way to small clay jug on the room’s one table. She poured out some water into a tin tankard and came back to him.

  He tried to sit up and sharp pain shot through his shoulder before he collapsed back down.

  “What you got to do is roll over to the good side and then push yuhself up,” said Moll, standing near the cot.

  Hercules grunted with the effort of rolling to the side until eventually he was sitting up. He took the cup gratefully, sucking down the liquid and holding it out for more. Moll refilled it for him.

  When he was done drinking, he handed back the mug and cleared his throat.

  “What are you doing up here, Moll?” he said, his voice still sticking.

  “You was out near fourteen hours,” said the old lady, peering at him. “Them pills what they gave you for that shoulder really cut you down.”

  Hercules ran a hand over his face. The liniment he’d sent Oney for hadn’t worked and his shoulder was still aching something fierce when the steward sent to the apothecary for some pills. He tried to stand.

  “I have to get downstairs … the Thanksgiving banquet,” he said. It was an important event—proclaimed last year to be held now, in February. It wouldn’t do for Hercules to be absent. But as soon as he was upright, dizziness felled him again. He sat down on the cot with a slump.

  “The General like as took a fit when he found out you was up here laid out,” said Moll, sitting back in her chair. “Mmm hmmm.”

  “He’s angry?” asked Hercules.

  “Good and angry—but not at you,” she said. “No, he gave that Mr. Kitt an earful, sending for medicine to put you out than for a doctor what could help you.”

  Hercules lay back on the pillow, relief etched on his face.

  “Well, I’m fine now,” he said. “I’ll be down shortly.”

  “No, son, no you won’t,” said Moll, leaning over and tapping him on the leg. “The General, he say I’m to sit up here with you and make sure you rest that shoulder—a couple days at least. He say he’d rather have you out the kitchen for two or three days than for God knows how long if that shoulder stopping you from work.”

  Hercules closed his eyes as he considered this. Once he would have thought it kindness from a master who was not cruel, now he felt like Prescott, the General’s favored horse, stabled for a few days for a bruised hoof lest he push the animal too hard and lose him—and his investment—altogether.

  “But Mr. Julien and Nate can’t manage that dinner alone and the hired-in women aren’t much of a hand,” he fretted out loud.

  “Don’t matter,” said Moll, taking up her sewing from the basket by her feet. “The General say they have to make do. Mr. Kitt, he hired in some cooks.”

  Hercules exhaled slowly. Beneath the covers his leg started to twitch. The last thing he could stand was other people in his kitchen, especially people put in place by the devious Kitt.

  “Maybe I should just go and check …” he said, swinging his legs back over the edge of the cot.

  “No, sir, you won’t,” said Old Moll, looking up from her sewing. “The General told me to sit up here and stop you from running around. ‘That’s an order, Moll,’ he say. So that’s what I’m set up here to do.”

  Hercules felt the annoyance rising up his chest. Damn this old woman. She was like a dog with a bone.

  “He say the onliest thing I’m to leave for is so you can use the chamber pot,” she said, looking at him pointedly.

  He squinted at her and looked away.

  “Where is Nate sleeping if you are up in here, nannying me?”


  Old Moll chuckled at this. “Now, don’t get testy there,” she said. “Lotta folks would be happy to stay in they bed on the General’s say-so. Nate been sleeping in the landing.”

  Hercules grunted and looked back out the window. Must be about ten in the morning from the way the sun was slanting in. It had snowed in the night and white powder had collected in the corners of the window and frost covered the panes, mirroring the sun like crystals. At least with the fires in the house going, the chimney that came through this room was throwing off plenty of heat.

  “Time for you to step on out, Miss Moll,” said Hercules, putting his feet on the floor and rising. “I have to do the necessary.”

  Three days later he felt well enough to get dressed and come down to the kitchen. Before he could leave his room, though, Old Moll had gone down to the president’s study with a full report. He was only allowed out when she had come back and given him the go-ahead.

  Tying his neckerchief as he made his way down the stairs, Hercules considered how Kitt might have used his illness for his own advantage. Being laid out might have given the steward what he needed to further argue that it was best for him to remain at home in the evenings—lest his shoulder be injured further, of course.

  Except for the pain, it had been nearly impossible for him to lie in that bed, with Moll yammering and sewing, sewing and yammering the whole time. All he could think of was the disaster that was being made of his kitchen. Nate had stopped in every evening and told him all that was going on in great detail, but he knew the boy was leaving things out—the things that would send him flying down the three flights of stairs in a fury.

  “… and you have seen, Lady Washington, my cooks have everything well in hand.” Kitt’s voice came through the closed kitchen door. Hercules hesitated and drew his hand back from the knob. They must be standing right in the vestibule between the kitchen and the passage. Mrs. Washington said something he couldn’t quite make out and then Kitt spoke again.

  “I’m sure his Excellency would consider it a great relief to be able to return those members of your—ah, family—back to Virginia and allow for these white cooks instead.”