The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  Now, Hercules could make out the First Lady’s response quite clearly. “The General was not satisfied with the Thanksgiving dinner, Mr. Kitt,” she said sharply. “And the breakfasts that your cooks prepare are far too elaborate. Hercules—”

  “I know that the General is accustomed to the style of his cook, but that is not to say that it is most superior,” he cut in. “With a little time—”

  “Mr. Kitt!” said Lady Washington sharply. “Are you suggesting that the president learn to accept your choice of cook when he has his own?”

  Now, Kitt mumbled unintelligibly before his voice rose again. “… and what if Hercules remains unwell? What then? We need to be able to organize ourselves appropriately.”

  “There is nothing whatever to suggest he shall remain unwell,” said Lady Washington irritably. “And if he does, we shall cross that bridge when we come to it. Clearly, you are quite capable of finding people to your liking when the situation arises.”

  Her voice grew fainter and Kitt’s replies less clear as they moved away from the door farther into the kitchen. Hercules stood there a moment longer to be sure they were well away before grabbing the handle and turning it purposefully. He strode into the kitchen cheerfully and made to reach for his apron upon the peg, then feigned delight at seeing the First Lady in the kitchen.

  “Lady Washington,” he said, smiling and bowing. “Mr. Kitt.” He nodded at the steward after he straightened.

  “Hercules!” said Mrs. Washington, relief clear upon her face. “But you look much recovered! How do you feel?” She peered at him as if she could see his affliction by staring hard enough.

  “I am indeed much recovered, madam,” he said politely. “Thanks to the kind ministering of Old Moll—I thank you for sparing her to be at my side.”

  Mrs. Washington twittered and smiled happily.

  “I understand that we have been graced with some fine cooks in my absence,” said Hercules jovially, going to his worktable in front of the hearth and looking at the roast sitting on a board. One of the hired cooks, a heavyset woman with red hair and a sweaty forehead, stood over it with a carving knife. The other cook, an equally heavyset man with black hair tied in a queue, stirred something in a pot hanging over the fire.

  “That roast is dry,” said Hercules pleasantly, looking at it resting on the block.

  The woman cook snapped disdainfully, “Not likely!” and went back to sharpening her knives.

  Nate watched from the other side of the kitchen where he was picking over some dried beans, then cut a glance over to Margaret, who was washing pottery at the sink. Hercules resisted the urge to wink at the boy.

  The male cook turned from what he was stirring with a look of disbelief at Hercules. He straightened up and came over to the table as well.

  “Go on and cut into it then,” said Hercules, his voice measured, but he stared at her coldly.

  The woman cook looked at him like he was crazy while the man snorted and shook his head before going back to stirring the pot.

  “Shall I do it then?” said Hercules, heading for the drawer where the knives were kept.

  “Now, see here!” she exclaimed, looking at Kitt. “I’ll not be told what to do by the likes of—”

  “Mistress Webb—” cut in Kitt nervously, glancing at Mrs. Washington.

  “I would like to see the quality of the roast, as a matter of fact,” said the president’s wife suddenly. “The president has not been satisfied with the joints that have come to table.”

  Giving Hercules an evil look, Mistress Webb took up the carving knife and began to slice into the roast.

  The cook cut thin, even slices of meat that fell prettily to the board in a fan pattern, stopping when she had reached midway through the roast. Hercules took up a wooden spoon from the table and pressed upon the meat. No juice came out.

  “As I suspected—dry,” he said. “You cannot let it cook completely to brown, madam. It will continue to cook when removed from the fire, and so you must remove it sooner lest it dry out—like this one.”

  “No one’s ever complained of my cooking!” she snarled. “And what would one such as you know of good food?”

  At the hearth, the man chuckled to himself.

  “I can smell from here that your pottage requires salt, sir,” said Hercules to his bent back. The other cook stopped stirring and turned around angrily.

  “What the devil,” he began.

  Now Kitt moved forward. “May I remind you, Mr. and Mrs. Webb, that you are in the presence of Lady Washington?” he said to the two cooks, who glanced quickly at the General’s wife and then at Kitt.

  “Begging your pardon, madam,” said the woman, half curtsying to Martha, knife still held aloft. “What is it you’d have us do?” she asked Kitt.

  “I am quite well to take over now,” said Hercules mildly, walking over to the hook and finally getting his apron. “No doubt the General would like to spare any extra expense.” He paused and watched Kitt’s face turn red.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Washington. “The General will be relieved to know you are at your duties again, Hercules.” She turned to Kitt. “Please settle accounts with Mr. and Mrs. Webb, Mr. Kitt.”

  Then, nodding to the hired cooks who stood, mouths agape, she headed toward the door, with both Hercules and Kitt bowing as she went past. As they rose from their bent positions, Kitt narrowed his eyes at him threateningly.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Washington, her hand on the doorknob. “Hercules—the president has a hankering for your hoecakes. Please have them ready for his breakfast tomorrow.”

  “As you wish, madam,” he said, bowing deeply again as she swept through the door, leaving the four of them to look at one another. Nate sat forward on his bench nervously. Margaret, who had not turned around from her scrubbing through the exchange, paused in her work, listening.

  “Very well then,” Kitt said crisply. “Come along with me, Mr. and Mrs. Webb.”

  The two cooks untied their aprons and flung them onto the bench in the corner before angrily following Kitt out of the room. Hercules began to whistle and walked around the table to point at the dry roast with the tip of his knife.

  “Nate!” he said loudly. “Come over here and take the rest of this meat off the bone and chop it finely. We will mix it with suet and use it to force some vegetables. Margaret—leave that now and see if there are any cabbages and small squash in the cellar.”

  Margaret quickly dried her hands and turned to do his bidding.

  “Oh, and take those aprons out of here with you and drop them at the laundress on your way,” he said, gesturing dismissively to where the Webbs had flung the soiled items.

  “When you’re done with that, I want you to chop some parsnips for this pottage, and add some salt and savory, then we’ll see what I need next,” said Hercules, going to the larder to check the stores.

  “You,” he said, pointing to one of the hired scullery maids who had stood agog at the action between cooks. “I want this place cleaned top to bottom. Every surface wiped with hot water, floor scrubbed with lye. Set a cauldron to boiling outside.”

  With that he disappeared into the small storage room and began to take stock.

  Oney dashed into the kitchen and dumped an armful of wet things—a lady’s overcoat and gloves—by the hearth and dashed out before Hercules could bellow after her.

  Furious, Hercules looked around the kitchen until he spotted Margaret.

  “You! Take those things out of here, now!” he said, turning back to his table while she scurried to the task. Oney hadn’t been right since Austin died but this was going too far.

  In another ten minutes, Oney was back. She wasn’t running now. Instead, she began to pace the room, wringing her hands.

  Hercules sighed in exasperation. “What are you doing, Oney?” he said, his voice rising with irritation. “And why are you doing it here?”

  Oney stopped pacing, her forehead creased with worry and fear.

  “Miss
Betsey’s arrived,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said, studying her face. “Were they expecting her?”

  Oney shook her head miserably. “She just showed up—said a lady from down their way in Virginia was traveling and she went along.” Hercules wasn’t surprised. Betsey was clever and conniving and she would have jumped at a suitable chaperone to get herself up here. Everyone knew that she was attached overmuch to Washington, hanging on his every word and look. Her jealousy that her younger sister, Nelly, was being raised here was legendary.

  “Miss Nelly saw her carriage through the parlor window. It was a real shock. She just stormed in and started bossing people around—” Oney’s words came out so fast that they were almost hard to make out. She didn’t look at anyone while she talked but moved around the room, touching things and rearranging them. The others in the kitchen looked from her to Hercules, and he saw the uncertainty in their eyes.

  “She shrieked at me to take off her wet shoes—see?” Oney turned to Hercules and lifted her apron. There was a muddy footprint there.

  “Oney, becalm yourself,” said Hercules. He moved around his table and grasped her shoulders. “How long will she be here?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, staring up desperately into his face. “Until the weather clears at least. Mrs. Washington said it was a risk for her to have even got here and they couldn’t tempt providence like that again. She’s going to share Nelly’s room and I’m to attend her and you know how evil she is and—”

  “Oney!” Hercules gave her a shake. “This won’t do. What do you think Mrs. Washington will do to you if you carry on so?” He led her to a bench by the fire and sat her down.

  “Just sit for a moment, girl,” he said and went to the sideboard and poured water into a pewter cup. The others in the kitchen were now watching openly.

  “Here,” he said, returning and handing her the water, but Oney just stared at him dumbly.

  “Take it,” he said, his voice more forceful this time, startling Nate, Margaret, and the others from their intense scrutiny of the scene. Everyone made a show of going back to their tasks, although he could tell that their ears still pricked to what was happening by the hearth.

  Oney took the cup.

  “Drink,” said Hercules. Nodding miserably, she took a sip.

  Hercules squatted in front of her. “Hear me, Oney Judge,” he said, his voice too low for the others to hear. “Get ahold of yourself lest you bring that old cow’s anger down on your head.”

  Oney cut her eyes to the others and then back to him.

  “Do you understand?” he said again, his voice low. She nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  Oney nodded once more and brought the cup to her lips again.

  Hercules studied her a moment more then stood, smoothing his apron and returning his table.

  The problem was he wasn’t sure she understood at all.

  CHAPTER 22

  Spring 1795

  HERCULES PAUSED AND OBSERVED THE PAIR heading toward him a block down Chestnut Street. Betsey Parke Custis charged forward like a common housewife rushing to get the best fish at the market and Oney Judge skipped hurriedly along, her feet slapping the pavement in a near run to keep up.

  Betsey’s bonneted head bobbed like a fat, angry pigeon, her face pinched, as she marched past other people on the sidewalk with her long manly stride. Hercules began to smirk but then set his face to rights. Oney may as well not have been chaperoning Betsey for how little the girl cared for propriety.

  Soon enough, the space between them narrowed and the pair stopped while Betsey looked furiously around her. Oney wrung her hands until she spied Hercules. Her brows shot up.

  Hercules moved forward before Oney could make a move that would set the ever-shrewish Betsey off and said, “Ladies,” bowing deeply.

  Betsey’s head snapped forward and her face twisted in fury.

  “May I be of help?” he said as he straightened.

  “Oh! Hercules,” said Oney, relief making her voice breathy. “We are looking for Gilbert Stuart’s house, might you know it—?”

  “Oney!” snapped Betsey, raising her hand and slapping the girl on the side of her head, then turning to him, her hands on her sturdy hips. Her thick, sow-like frame reminded Hercules of her grandmother, Lady Washington, and he longed to shove the woman in the gutter.

  “How dare you share my private business with this nigra,” she went on shrilly. “Besides, how would he know where Gilbert Stuart’s house is?” She raised her hand again and Oney cowered.

  Now Hercules stepped forward and made his voice as deep as he could to get her attention.

  “The fault is all mine, Miss Betsey,” he said, looking at her uplifted hand pointedly. Somewhat cowed, she let her hand drop and then started to crane her neck around him as if looking for aid from a passerby.

  “You may not remember me—I’m your grandfather’s cook.”

  Now Betsey turned to stare at him.

  “Uncle Harkless?” she said, her eyes beady with suspicion. “But why are you here in the road? I am about to keep Grandfather company as he sits for Mr. Stuart and I shall apprise him—”

  He wished he could tell her it was none of her blasted business, but instead he said politely,

  “I’m just returning from meeting the ship from Alexandria with our Mount Vernon goods.”

  “Oh,” she said and pressed her mouth into a firm line, then opened it again, and closed it.

  “I believe that Stuart’s house is just there,” he said, pointing to a building a few doors down.

  Betsey turned and looked at where his finger indicated, then without saying any more, she grabbed Oney’s arm roughly and started charging toward Mr. Stuart’s house. Oney looked at him beseechingly over her shoulder as they went.

  Hercules continued on his way, musing about the General sitting for Stuart in the very same studio where he bedded Thelma. He passed the doorway just as a black servant opened it to Betsey, who demanded, “Where are they?”

  “Who, Miss?” she said politely but with a chill.

  “Why, who lives here?” snapped Betsey.

  Hercules shook his head and kept walking. Pity gurgled in his chest. He didn’t envy Oney Judge at all.

  Hercules leaned over the elaborate pie decorated with a pastry cutout of a pheasant standing beneath a tree. He placed the last bay leaf in the small slit he had made around the branches so that it filled out the tableau with the fullness of green.

  “There,” he said, straightening up and bringing the dish over to the side table for the footmen. “Nate, spoon out the ragout of green beans and garnish it with the sliced egg.”

  Wiping his hands, Hercules set about cleaning his work area and inspecting the crockery that Margaret had already washed.

  “This isn’t clean enough,” he said to her after examining a large bowl. “I see the sheen of butter grease still upon it—wash it again.”

  “Perhaps if you spent less time looking after Nate and more time tending to your business you would not have to do your work twice,” he murmured so only she could hear. Margaret looked up, startled, and met his eyes. He kept his face impassive but he hoped she could see the hardness there. He’d been extra demanding of her work in the months since witnessing the scene in the cellar. She was making a brave show of it—he had to give her that. Hercules didn’t think she had it in her. She made him want to wring her scrawny neck.

  Everyone returned to their business until the last dish had been removed and Hercules untied his apron and hung it on the peg.

  “I’m for the city,” he said, slipping on the light coat that he wore against the chill that could still come on in the evenings of early May. Satisfied that all was in order, he took up his cane and hat and slipped out the door before Mr. Kitt could come into the kitchen and delay him.

  Walking the city streets usually calmed his mind, but not tonight. His thoughts kept wandering to Thelma and this business between Margaret and
Nate. He had been foolish to hope he could separate them for good. He thought of Richmond, back home in Virginia. Well, at least he would see his son in a few months’ time when they traveled back for the summer visit.

  The thought of Virginia crowded out all else and he was back at Mansion Farm again, trapped by all the outlying acreage of holdings that made up Mount Vernon. There was the little daughter he had fathered on one of the housemaids some five years ago. He hardly knew the girl, being in Philadelphia nearly all the while since she was born.

  Hercules knew he should long to see her and Richmond and his older girls Delia and Evey too, but he could feel the air being choked out of him at the very thought of Virginia. When he was there he was not as a father should be, consumed as he was with the idea of getting out, and this made him ashamed. It was better for them all when he was not there. But when the president went home he had no choice but to go too. The thought threw his spirit into a dark place, for soon enough Washington would want to return to his farm for good.

  Hercules took a deep breath in the chilly air. The street was quiet except for a few people tripping into taverns and some late-night oyster sellers huddled in the alleyways to sell their wares to the prostitutes and their patrons who conducted business there. He turned toward Fraunces’s tavern, the docks to his left crawling with as much activity as if it were broad daylight. Stevedores unloaded cargo onto waiting dray carts under the glow of torchlight.

  He turned right, up Dock Street, and passed the Man Full of Trouble Tavern, which was doing fair enough trade. He hadn’t gone there for more than a year now—since that last time he saw James Hemings. Hercules wondered about his old friend and whether that mongrel Jefferson would keep his word about the freedom contract. He doubted it.

  He rounded the bend and could already hear the noise of the carriages dropping off “the quality” in front of the City Tavern up the block, but here no streetlamps illuminated the road. Fraunces’s tavern sat quietly in a dark pool. Hercules walked closer and saw that the door was shuttered tight and there were no lights in the windows. The sign that had swung from the yardarm had been whitewashed.