The General's Cook

by Ramin Ganeshram

  “What would you have me do with those?” He hadn’t even shared with Thelma that he had been learning to read. “You know they are no more than marks on a page to me.”

  Thelma dropped her arm and licked her lips before chattering again. What was she to do? she asked Hercules. Grayson had arrived at the Chews’ house, ring in hand, with a proposition more than a proposal.

  The good captain, it seemed, was in need of a wife for a very particular purpose. There had been, he’d told Thelma, an incident with one of the stable hands at his father’s plantation. It was not the first time. Marriage was the best solution possible.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like women, he’d told Thelma. No, it wasn’t that at all. It was just that he liked, well, everything, and the more exotic the better: stable boys, slave girls, sailors, Chinese prostitutes, and Moroccan eunuchs. Or upper class “French” girls without connections, who were not what they appeared to be.

  “He leered at me like a jackal,” said Thelma, studying Hercules’s face. “I was in terror, there was no choice.” Hercules only stared at her. She went on, her voice edged with strain.

  She and Grayson had come to an agreement. Thelma would gain security and protection and Charles would go on as he pleased with the respectability of marriage to protect him—and without her interference.

  Now that there was a wedding to plan, it had been hard for Thelma to sneak out and see Hercules. Harriet was constantly at her with swatches of cloth and menus even though the affair was going to be a small one—after all, Thelma had no one to invite and Grayson’s people were in South Carolina. But she was here now and she had a plan.

  “This doesn’t mean we—this—has to end,” she said carefully, moving toward him again.

  “Oh?” said Hercules, deliberately keeping his face bland, though he longed to spit at her.

  “No,” she said eagerly, moving closer. “Charles—Monsieur Grayson—he is quite wealthy and there is a way, I believe …”

  He watched her, shocked at what he was sure she was about to suggest but willing his eyes to betray nothing.

  “We will have our own house,” she went on quickly. “And we will need our own cook—” She hesitated now. “Everyone has heard of the great Hercules, I am sure I could convince Charles to approach the General …” Her voice trailed away under his steady gaze.

  “Approach the General?” he said, raising his eyebrows as if intrigued. Now it would be his turn to play her for the fool she had taken him to be. “To what end?”

  “To have you cook for us—”

  “You mean to buy me,” he said, cutting her off viciously, never looking away from her face.

  “It would not be like that,” she began.

  “No?” he said, smiling indulgently as if he were intrigued by what she might say. “What would it be like?” He moved forward languidly, tapping his cane lightly upon the floor with each step. She knew him well enough to hesitate; his easy movements were like a cat about to strike.

  “It would—”

  “—be a hovel in which to live, with straps across the back, trapped in a putrid backwater.” He cut her off, the words stinging like lashes. “Or do you not remember?”

  Thelma shut her mouth, then opened it, but Hercules spoke over her again.

  “And what will happen when you spawn a little black mongrel? How will you explain that?” he sneered. “Oh!” He widened his eyes in faux surprise and snapped his fingers as if he just remembered an important fact. “But I am forgetting myself—that will happen anyway, won’t it? Because even without me bending you over, and even though your fiancé may not know it for sure, you belong in one of those little hovels yourself.”

  He moved forward threateningly. “You have no business in the big house, playing mistress, or did you forget?” He was gratified to see Thelma cringe as if he had slapped her.

  “I did not lie to him,” she said.

  “No?” he said, moving close to her. “It doesn’t bother him, then, that you’re just as nigra as them who clean out his chamber pots?”

  Thelma shook her head, then began to nod, and stopped. Tears rose in her eyes. “Ah!” he said. “I see. You didn’t have to lie—you just let him think what he would—like the rest of them.”

  Thelma had turned from him and toward the far wall—the now complete portrait of her lover stood on an easel, next to the nearly finished one of the General. The style was virtually the same.

  She stepped around Hercules’s solid form and crossed over to see them better—Washington with his white skin and dark coat and Hercules in that odd, tall hat, with his dark skin and white coat.

  “So how will you hide it when that first child comes?” he said to her back.

  She did not answer, choosing instead to cock her head to study the paintings more closely. Finally, she turned around.

  “There will be no children.”

  “And how do you think you’ll manage that?” he sneered.

  She whirled on him with furious eyes. “Why is it this never troubled you before? All this time you’ve been bedding me?”

  Now he stood in angry silence, regarding her.

  “I had a child when I was twelve,” she said, her voice low and bitter. “The man who was my father started to rut me when I was ten.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “When the baby came it tore me apart and the midwife said there would be no more. I was lucky to live.” She spoke through gulps of air while Hercules watched her from across the room. His jaw pulsed.

  “Please, mon taureau, I love you, or I would not have suggested such a thing,” she said. He made a rude sound in his throat. Thelma swallowed and sized him up.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she leaned forward slightly and reached into her bodice to scoop out her breasts. They perched over the edge. Licking her finger, she circled a nipple then pinched it rigid before cupping the breast and nodding toward it. When he did not move, she put her foot on the settee and drew up her skirt so he could see that she wore no bloomers. Still he made no move toward her.

  Thelma smiled. Dropping her skirt, she approached him and pressed herself against his rigid body. He refused to move the cane, so she had to angle herself against his side.

  “Mon taureau,” she murmured, running her tongue along his jawline and placing her hand over his groin. He would have welcomed the chance to cruelly take his pleasure from her and then leave her there like a rag doll in a heap, but now she sickened him and there was no rising in his loins. Putting her hand on the front of his pants, she realized this soon enough and froze, surprised. Undeterred, she massaged him while kissing his neck lightly, but still nothing happened.

  Finally, she pulled away angrily.

  “What would you have me do? Live always as someone’s maid? Or tutor? Or companion?” she hissed.

  “You can do as you like—you are free,” he said, shrugging. He was becoming tired of this little game. He no longer had use for her and wished she would just go.

  “Free to starve? To be ill used to earn my keep?” she spat.

  “Isn’t that what you are doing? What are you going to be but a rich man’s toy?” he growled at her.

  She flew at him but he caught her raised hand before it could meet his face.

  “You are not better,” she said, her voice rising, shrill and hysterical. “Why do you not run? You could disappear into the city comme ca!” She snapped her fingers violently in the air, causing her still-exposed breasts to bounce. “Mais non, you enjoy being the General’s man—strutting and preening through the streets!”

  Thelma darted toward the paintings standing side by side on their easels.

  “You are just like him!” She spat the words and pointed violently toward Washington’s image. “Giving the orders so everyone will scurry like the little mice. You enjoy for the people to have the fear of you. But you are no better than the cows or pigs he owns on his farm.”

  Now Hercules narrowed his eyes, took two steps toward her, and looked
her up and down. He drew air through his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. He would not risk his future by throttling the bitch.

  “Cover yourself,” he said when he opened his eyes again, keeping his voice frighteningly steady. “You look like a common whore.”

  Thelma’s eyes widened with rage. Turning her back on him, she tucked her breasts back into her dress—in full view of Washington. She snatched up her cloak on her way to the door and stormed through it without another word.

  When she had gone, Hercules walked over to the pile of letters she had let fall on the floor. Taking them up, he settled himself by the fire and began to carefully read each one before tossing it onto the waiting flames.

  Margaret quickly set down the bowl of cut parsnips and scurried away from him.

  “I need more potatoes,” he said sourly to her retreating back. “Flour too. Take Nate and bring me some.”

  Nate was turning pigeons on the spit. He sighed loudly and stood up, grumbling.

  “Do I inconvenience you, young master?” said Hercules sarcastically, tiring of the boy’s idiot game of pretending he had no interest in the girl. Clearly, he took Hercules for a fool and that was something Hercules didn’t take kindly.

  “No, no, Chef—it’s just that—” he hesitated and glanced at Margaret. “I don’t see why she can’t take two trips. I am tending those—”

  Before he could finish, Hercules exploded. “Because I have told you to do it!” He stuck his knife into the chopping board where it wobbled stiffly back and forth. “Do you question me further?” he said furiously.

  “No, no, sir,” Nate stammered and moved to the door, where Margaret hovered. “Come on!” he said rudely.

  She meekly followed the boy out of the room and Hercules went back to his work before anger itched at him again. Damn them! Wallowing in his own feelings, he’d given them the perfect opportunity to be alone. Slamming down the knife, he headed out of the kitchen toward the stairs. Ahead of him, Margaret’s foot hadn’t yet reached the bottom step when Hercules saw Nate turn on her swiftly and grab her waist, hungrily covering her mouth with his own.

  “Nate!” Hercules bellowed from the open door. “I’ve changed my mind, I need you to gut these pheasant for me.” There was only tomb-like silence.

  “Now!” he roared.

  “Yes, Chef!” the boy yelped and dashed back up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  CHAPTER 27

  Spring 1796

  HERCULES PRIDED HIMSELF ON HIS IMPERTURBABILITY, but he was taken by surprise when Oney walked into the middle of the kitchen and opened her mouth wide like a banshee, screaming, but no sound came out.

  He had reared back at the wretched sound of the breath she dragged into her lungs before making the silent scream again. Horrified as he was, watching the veins bulging dangerously in her neck, he almost did not come around his worktable in time to catch her as her eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed to the floor.

  Margaret dropped the silver bowl she was polishing and ran forward while Nate bolted up from his place at the hearth. The loud clatter of the falling bowl even drew the housekeeper, Mrs. Emerson, from the small office she shared with Mr. Kitt on the days she was there.

  Hercules held up his hand, palm facing them as if calming a skittish horse, while he crouched down, his arm encircling Oney who lay there, eyes rolled up in her head.

  “Oney!” he said, shaking her. “Oney! What’s wrong?”

  She began mumbling gibberish, oblivious to him and the others. Hercules scooped the girl up and moved toward the door, which Nate rushed to open. He carried her to the stable and kicked the door. Postilion Joe came running and quickly opened it.

  “What happened to her, boss?” he said, helping Hercules carry her to an empty stall.

  “Don’t know,” he grunted as he held her head so it wouldn’t knock against the floor. “A shock of some kind. Seen it before at funerals.”

  “Did someone die?” said Joe, his voice rising fearfully.

  “Not that I know of—not recently anyhow,” Hercules replied, looking at her thoughtfully. Could it be she was overtaken again with grief for Austin? But why now? The anniversary of his death had passed some months ago.

  “Help me bring her to her senses,” he said, grabbing one of Oney’s arms and nodding to Joe to take the other one. Together they rubbed until her light brown skin was red.

  “Joe, you have any liquor?” asked Hercules, looking at the coachman.

  Joe hesitated—they weren’t supposed to have liquor—before he rose to clomp up the ladder to his living quarters above the stables. In the stall next to them, Prescott snorted, his ears twitching.

  “I brought these too,” said Joe when he returned, clutching a small bottle in his huge fist. “Keeps ’em in case some of the ladies gets to fainting when we is on the road.” He uncapped the smelling salts and held them out to Hercules’s outstretched hand.

  “NO!” shrieked Oney, coughing and spluttering after he passed the vial under her nose. “No!” she screamed again and tried to push Hercules away, but he held her fast within his arms. He nodded to Joe, who stepped forward with a tin mug. “Here—have some of this,” he said. Hercules took the mug and, holding Oney firmly across his chest with his other arm, held it to her lips.

  “Go on,” he said, trying to hold the cup steady as she turned her face away. “Oney Judge!” growled Hercules, giving her a hard shake. “Calm down now, you hear? Don’t make me slap sense into you.”

  Oney stopped thrashing, her eyes mooning up at him.

  “Drink,” he commanded. Still watching him, she took a drink and then spluttered. She took another and this time got it down without gagging. When she looked up at Hercules and Postilion Joe, her face crumpled into tears and she moaned, low and hopeless.

  “What’s happened, Oney?” said Joe. “Is it about Austin?”

  She shook her head.

  “What then?” asked Hercules.

  “She means to give me to Betsey,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

  Clutching Hercules’s arm, she told him about going to Mrs. Washington’s room to gather the laundry things. Then the old bitch had told her happily that she was to be a wedding gift for Betsey, who had recently found some fool to marry her. They were living in Washington City and Betsey was now expecting a baby.

  Hercules considered this grimly. They had all seen Washington City when they passed through it to and from Mount Vernon so that the General could see its progress. It was still nothing but a muddy, deserted swamp, and Oney would be trapped there with that nasty Betsey and whatever monstrous brats she brought into the world.

  “She told me I should be delighted to have a baby to take care of!” Oney whispered viciously, spittle forming on her lips. “Hercules, I would have killed her right then, I would, but there wasn’t so much as a letter knife within reach. It’d be worth it to hang just to kill that old sow first.”

  Hercules looked quickly up at Joe, judging whether he was able to keep his own counsel. Joe loomed over them, shaking his head sadly.

  “Not much different than being here, I expect,” said Hercules, hoping she believed him.

  “That Betsey is evil-mean, Hercules, and you know it!” said Oney, ignoring Joe, her voice rising. “She like to slap and pinch and hit—you’ve seen her! She even beat Old Moll!”

  She stopped talking a minute and gulped air.

  “That house at Washington City is way out the way of other folks.” She stopped talking and left the rest unsaid: with no one to see. Without Betsey’s grandparents around to pass a comment or two.

  “Hercules,” she said, grasping at his arm. “I’m not crazy and anyways it’s no matter if you think I am—I’m not going.”

  “Can’t see as there’s much choice,” said Joe, his voice getting sadder. Hercules said nothing.

  “Still one choice no matter what they say,” she muttered, looking at Joe disdainfully. Then, in a whisper so low that Hercules wasn�
�t even sure he’d heard it, she said, “I still have the me part of me—and I go kill myself ’fore I got to give it to Mrs. Betsey Law.” She began to sob again.

  Hercules looked sharply at Joe to see if he had heard. Prescott sensed the agitation of the creatures in the stall beside him and began to snort and move nervously in the small space. Closing his mouth into a thin, hard line as the depth of her despair washed over him like a bitter wind, Hercules gripped Oney tightly to his chest.

  He closed the book he had been reading aloud to Mrs. Harris and sat back. The teacher looked at him for a long moment, her black eyes never moving from his face.

  “I am impressed by how far you’ve come, Master Hercules,” she said. “Especially since I can’t imagine you have much time to practice.”

  He smiled and tapped the cover of the book lightly with his forefinger. “It has been two years,” he said, feeling supremely happy in that moment. “Besides, now that I can make them out, I’ve come to see that words are everywhere, madam. On shops signs and apothecary labels—the markings upon the barrels of provisions—and so much more,” he said, pride bubbling under his words. “I move about more freely than the others so I have ample opportunity to make the city my teacher.”

  “And it has taught you well,” Mrs. Harris answered, smiling. Usually, he did not stay above an hour with her and it was nearing that time now.

  “Mrs. Harris—a moment, if you please,” Hercules said. He had been waiting for the right moment to speak to her about the thing most troubling his mind. Her eyebrows rising questioningly, she took her seat opposite him once again.

  “Sir?”

  “The meeting I happened upon—your meetings,” he began, then stopped. “I would like to know more about the—er—work that you do.”

  Mrs. Harris narrowed her eyes and studied him warily.

  “And why is that, sir?” she asked easily. “You led us to understand that it is not a subject in which you have interest.”

  “You are correct, madam,” he said, conceding the point. “I led you to believe the same, but you are mistaken that I have no interest in the topic.”