The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  “You friend choose a poor spot fuh he tavern.” A voice from behind startled him. He stood very still so as not to show that he had been taken unawares, and instead leaned more heavily on his cane and studied the building.

  “It was a tavern before he took it on,” said Hercules. “I seem to recall that much.”

  “T’was that, but it were fuh the workingmen—the dock folk,” the other man said. “Hard to compete with de City Tavern for de quality.”

  Hercules knew the voice, with its lilt and falls. He turned to face the mariner James Brown.

  “Mr. Brown,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Master cook,” said Brown, bowing. “Hard luck about you friend,” he said, nodding toward the tavern.

  Hercules followed his gaze. “He wasn’t a friend exactly,” he said thoughtfully. “I am sorry that this didn’t work out for him, though.”

  Brown grunted, “Oh, I think he all right. Some of de mariners tell me he take over de Tun Tavern near de docks in Water Street.”

  “Has he now?” said Hercules, turning away from the building.

  “Wouldn’t know it except de boys say he turn a fine hand to shad,” said Brown.

  Hercules smirked. Fraunces and that damned fish. The lengths he would go to put a shad in front of the General, who favored the bony and oily fish. Folks said it was the shad runs that saved the troops at Valley Forge from total starvation back in the spring of ’78.

  Ah well. Hercules would have to find some other place to spend his evening. He touched his cane to his hat. “Good evening, sir,” he said to the sailor before walking away.

  “A moment!” said Brown, moving forward to walk alongside him. “I know another place—a respectable one,” he continued in response to Hercules’s raised eyebrows. “It time I return your hospitality.”

  Hercules didn’t slow his pace and said nothing as he walked. What the devil did the mariner want? To press him again about his abolitionist trade? Curiosity bested him and finally, without looking over at Brown, he said, “I should be delighted.”

  “Good,” said Brown. “It just this way,” he said, walking around Hercules and moving down an alley to the left. “It small but it clean and de food decent enough.”

  Hercules changed his course to follow the sailor.

  “You know,” Hercules said musingly, “I know another man called James and we used to frequent this part of town together.”

  “Oh?” said Brown. “What become of he?”

  “He was bound to return to Virginia with his mas—” Hercules stopped suddenly. The word he was about to say turned in his stomach like sour food. “He was obliged to return home,” he finished quickly.

  Brown considered this silently. “Ah,” he finally said, “well, now you has two friend called James. One for de other—until you meet again, perhaps.”

  Hercules glanced over at the other man who walked along purposefully, his eyes scanning the streets. Sensing Hercules watching him, he looked over and smiled.

  As Hercules crossed the yard, market basket in hand, he noticed the General at the stables, standing at Prescott’s head, rubbing the huge horse’s ears with each of his great hands. He seemed to be talking to the beast, leaning in toward the horse’s face. The white stallion flicked his ears and shook his head slightly as if he were answering, and the president leaned his forehead against the animal’s nose for a moment.

  Hercules felt strange witnessing this moment, what with the way the General was with the horses, like they were his only true friends. Maybe they were. Washington straightened up and gave the horse a final rub and held out one of last fall’s apples in his open palm. Prescott leaned down and nibbled it delicately.

  The General stood patiently, smiling and holding his hand steady as Prescott ate. When the horse was done, the General accepted the rag that Postilion Joe, the stableman, gave him and wiped his hand.

  Washington turned and began to pace the garden. Hercules knew him in these moods—somber and restless. He watched as the General crossed his arms and walked with eyes downcast around the bricked yard, pausing in front of the kitchen garden. He looked over and spotted Hercules standing there.

  Hercules bowed quickly and headed toward him.

  “Excellency?” he said. “May I be of service?”

  “Ah, Hercules, no, I was just—” He stopped, looking weary. “Are you off to market then?”

  “Why yes, sir, but if there is something you need—”

  “No,” said Washington, turning away as if looking around for something. “I’m fine.”

  “As you wish, sir,” said Hercules. He hesitated a moment, waiting to be formally dismissed, but Washington continued to stare at the trees, lost in thought. Washington was hard to read as a rule but even more so when he was in one of these moods.

  “I’ll walk with you then,” said the General suddenly.

  “Sir?” said Hercules, confused. Had the old man gone mad?

  “Yes, I’d like to step out. The market might be just the thing—that is if you don’t mind my company,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “It would be an honor, sir,” said Hercules, smiling deferentially to hide his annoyance. Mentally, he ran through the list of vendors at the market, making note of where to avoid or not linger too long, lest the General see more than he need.

  “Lead on then,” said Washington. “And be about your business as if I were not present. If you can do that, I assure you it will be more than the others we encounter.”

  Hercules lifted the side of his mouth in a smirk that he halted before it fully bloomed. As if such were possible. The General was right—his stepping out as a common citizen would cause a stir. They left through the garden gate, Hercules holding the door for the president.

  “Tell me, Hercules,” the General said in his raspy voice, causing Hercules to fall in step with him so he might better hear. “There was, I remember, an old woman who sold pepper pot—I went there with his Excellency, Mr. Franklin, back in ’74. I imagine she must long have died.”

  “I believe her daughter is there, Excellency,” said Hercules, thinking of his friend Polly Haine and the shock upon her face should he arrive at her stand in the company of the president. “We might go see her if you like.”

  Washington nodded at this and continued silently, worrying over something in his mind.

  Hercules had seen him like this before, those times he came home to Virginia during the war when he wandered the property on horseback, his body servant Billy Lee riding at his side.

  It was just a block before they stepped into the market shed at Fifth Street, and Hercules hesitated. The crowd was thick today. It didn’t seem the president had noticed or, if he had, he was undeterred. He strode on without pause and Hercules hurried to follow as they entered the dark of the shed with its stink of farm animals and blood and rotten vegetables. The General’s face relaxed and he seemed not to hear the murmurs that were rising up around him.

  A ragged woman came up to them and blocked their way. She held the hand of a snotty-faced little boy in raggedy clothes, dragging him to the ground as she made a low curtsy.

  “Your Excellency, sir, please,” she said breathlessly, looking up at the cold blue eyes. “This bairn is named for you.”

  Washington looked down at the child who had stuck his thumb in his mouth, although he was too old to be doing so. Hercules only just stopped himself from screwing up his nose from their smell.

  “Are you called George or Georgie then?” Washington said, smiling and putting his hand on the child’s head. The boy, who might have been dull, didn’t take his thumb out of his mouth and kept twisting his head up to see what was resting there.

  “Oh no, sir, it’s George it is,” said the woman proudly. “He’s to grow up strong and brave like you. No baby names for him.”

  Washington smiled a little at this and then patted the boy, who acted as if he hadn’t noticed what was going on or the small crowd that had formed around him. T
he president reached into the leather pocket sewn into the inside of his coat and pulled out a coin that he pressed into the mother’s hand.

  “That’s to buy something for your boy,” he said sternly. She curtsied again and thanked him profusely even as he walked past her.

  They pushed on, with a trail of people following them now. Those few brave enough to step forward and try to shake the president’s hand were made quickly wiser by the nod of his head and that his hands remained clasped behind his back.

  As Hercules stopped at the cheesemonger and the meat seller, Washington strode alongside, standing silently and watching the proceedings while the proprietors stood agog.

  At a stand selling jams, Washington picked up a crock of honey and handed it to Hercules who dutifully purchased it, knowing there was a full cupboard at home. He startled the broom maker by pausing overlong to watch him at his craft and fascinated the pear seller by advising Hercules as to which ones looked fairest.

  They were only halfway through the sheds and Hercules was finding himself wearied and peeved by their slow procession, so when Washington lingered at an oyster seller, he spoke up.

  “Excellency, sir,” he said in a low voice. “I procure your oysters from the best man in the city—keeps them in baskets in the seawater to stay fresh. I am sure these will not compare.”

  Washington considered this before moving on.

  “Why, Excellency!” a voice called from behind them. They both turned to see a tall man with white hair approach them in the company of a young lady.

  Washington turned and, noting the man, smiled genuinely for the first time. “Mr. Peale,” he said. “A pleasant surprise.” He turned toward the young lady and bowed. “Miss Peale.”

  Hercules stepped back and busied himself by scowling at the crowd of imbeciles dogging them.

  “What brings you to market, sir?” said Peale. Hercules supposed he could only be the famous artist. He had heard Stuart speak bitterly of him and his houseful of artistic children who, together, captured every good commission in the city.

  “Some fresh air,” answered the General. He nodded his head toward Hercules. “My cook has been kind enough to allow me to step out with him. I’m afraid my presence has delayed him in his tasks.”

  Peale peered around Washington and acknowledged Hercules, but the girl—his daughter, he presumed—stared at him, perplexed.

  “We were fortunate enough to see your lady not more than an hour ago at the milliner,” said Peale. “We were happy to see her looking quite well—well enough that her portrait should be painted again.”

  “Well then, be painted she must,” said Washington pleasantly. “I’m sure the chance of looking so well for all eternity upon the canvas will prove too great a temptation for Mrs. Washington.”

  As they chatted, Hercules let his mind roam to the trip back to Virginia, which was coming fast upon them. The night he saw James Brown in front of Fraunces’s closed tavern, they’d had drinks and for the first time Hercules unburdened his thoughts to another person. The thought of Virginia made him feel shackled, he’d told the mariner, and as the day grew closer, he could practically feel the chafe of iron around his hands and feet.

  And here was the General standing but inches away from him in this, his domain. Next, he’d want to set up his study in the kitchen and steal his peace there too. Hercules smiled at this insane thought but quickly set his face back to stone. Yes, Virginia was weighing heavy on his mind.

  “… I’ve been meaning to come by your museum,” Washington was saying. “Are there any new exhibits?”

  “A few,” said Peale. “Some interesting fossil specimens from Connecticut.”

  After some more pleasantries, the pair passed on and Washington nodded to Hercules that they should proceed.

  “Hercules,” he said as they moved through the press of people. “What of that pepper pot? I believe, even hot as it is, I should like to have some.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Mount Vernon, Summer 1795

  “START WITH INSPECTING THE COOKWARE. REWASH anything that looks dirty,” said Hercules to Margaret as he perused the shelves at the Mount Vernon cookhouse. “Nate, come with me, please.”

  The scullion followed him out the door toward the kitchen gardens. The slaves working on the grounds around the house stopped to raise their hands. Even the children, running around in their gangs, changed course to follow as Hercules and Nate walked along the path that led around the bowling green in front of the house.

  Hercules waved now and then in return, but otherwise generally took no notice of the awe that followed him. He was used to it—nay, had come to expect it, for when they were at Mount Vernon there was even less doubt who was the most valued among them.

  “Mind you don’t run through the General’s gardens,” said Hercules, placing his hand solemnly on the head of the eldest boy, who was about eight. “And stay away from the house or it’s a switch for you all.”

  The boy stood looking up at him in wonder.

  “Where’s Richmond?” Hercules asked.

  “Dunno,” shrugged the boy. The others did the same.

  “Well, if you see him send him to the kitchen for me, hear?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Off with you then,” said Hercules, patting the child on his shoulder as he continued past.

  Waving at him and Nate, they ran off—toward the house. Hercules sighed and shook his head.

  At the lower gardens several women and the younger children worked, harvesting squash and peppers. They all smiled and greeted Hercules as he walked around examining the various plots.

  “What have you of cucumbers?” he asked the most elderly of the women.

  “A good bunch over there.” With her little shovel, she indicated a plot by the garden wall.

  Beckoning to Nate, Hercules headed to the area she had pointed to. The scullion pulled several of the large fruit off the trellised vine and placed them in the basket he carried.

  “Now to the greenhouses,” Hercules said, striding purposefully across the bowling green instead of taking the path around it while Nate looked nervously up at the house as if someone were going to fly out and shoo them off the grass. They might do, thought Hercules grimly, but not to him.

  The weather was particularly fine that day. The river glittered behind them like a blue satin ribbon. Several boats moved steadily along at full sail. The smell of cook fires tumbled out of the chimneys at either end of the bunkhouses, which extended out long on either side of the greenhouse. From somewhere inside, a baby wailed.

  The greenhouse rose up before them, all ornate brick and windows. They stepped inside the building with its slate floor, fancy worktables, and shelves. Most of the plants were out for the summer except for a huge lemon tree that took up an entire corner.

  “Evey?” Hercules called out, his voice bouncing off the slate and echoing back to them. The room was oppressively hot even though the rear door had been flung open.

  A short and slender girl appeared in that doorway, a watering can in her hand. Shielding her eyes to adjust them from the harsh sunlight, she gazed in to see who had called.

  “Papa!” she cried and set the can down to run into Hercules’s open arms.

  “My girl …” he murmured, embracing her and kissing the top of her head. It felt good to hold his child in his arms. “Let me see you—practically grown. A mirror to your mama.” Hercules stopped, his voice catching in his throat.

  Evey beamed at her father’s compliment. “Truly?” she said, her eyes flitting over to the scullion. “Nate,” she said with a happy nod. The boy looked odd—like he’d swallowed a stone—but he gamely smiled back.

  “Papa, Delia is working here with me too, now,” she said. Hercules’s eyebrows furrowed, then relaxed. Yes, of course, he thought bitterly. Delia was now ten—old enough for the General to benefit by her labor.

  Of all the jobs on the plantation, tending the greenhouse and assisting the gardeners was a cho
ice one. The labor was not too hard and it was well out of sight of those in the house. He was glad to hear both of his daughters were here rather than up in the mansion.

  “Is Miss Easter still minding you all, then?” he said.

  Evey laughed. “No, Papa! I’m old enough for that now!” She raised her chin proudly. “Richmond is working over here at the blacksmith’s so he doesn’t have to travel. I cook for us and Delia helps with the garden and to look after Baby. Sometimes Richmond brings home some squirrel or fish, if the mood takes him.”

  Hercules didn’t say anything, but sadness was unfurling inside him like a miasma. His children had a life without him. A life he didn’t know. It was better that way, he supposed, better that they learn to make their own way, yet it made his heart hurt.

  “Papa!” A smaller girl ran pell-mell toward him, knocking him backward with the force of her embrace. “Papa!” she said again, practically climbing him, until he lifted her and twirled her around before gathering her up.

  “Soon you’ll be too big for that,” said Hercules. “Like Evey.”

  “But I’m not too big yet!” giggled Delia, hugging him again.

  “All right then,” he said, laughing and twirling her once more and setting her down with a wince. He rubbed his shoulder gingerly.

  “What is it, Papa?” asked Delia, watching him.

  “Nothing, it’s nothing. Say hello to Nate,” he said, looking down at his shirt that the girl had smudged with her muddy hands. “What were you doing? Burrowing like a groundhog?”

  Delia laughed. “No! I was filling the plant pots with soil for seedlings, silly!” She beamed at her father and wiggled her fingers at him. “Oh, hello, Nate,” she said as an afterthought.

  “There are trowels for that task, my girl,” Hercules teased. “No need to use your hands. Where’s Baby?” he asked, looking around as if she might also be in the greenhouse.

  “Probably with the other little ones,” said Delia, shrugging, as if she hadn’t just been part of the children’s gang herself only months before. “We had best be back. I will come see you all tonight,” he said, kissing each of his daughters on their heads.