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The General's Cook

Page 24

by Ramin Ganeshram


  “I see,” Mrs. Harris said. “Where does that interest lie, sir? Surely, given our activities here”—she gestured at him and back at herself—“you cannot mean to expose us? That would hardly seem gentlemanly.” She said this last easily, as if making small talk, but he could see that she was nervous. He knew that, to her, he was a potentially dangerous man, considering to whom his allegiance was expected.

  “A fair question,” said Hercules. He didn’t blame her for being suspicious; they all had to guard their secrets closely. “And I suppose I deserve no more than suspicion after my—er—reaction that day. But I am sure you must understand that a person in my very particular circumstance cannot afford to have his business known by too many.”

  Mrs. Harris considered this a moment.

  “Those such as us—as me—would do well to know all of our options, should the need ever arise,” he said, examining her carefully as he said this. “However, I should better like to understand how you go about this trade.”

  The teacher leaned forward a bit and looked into his eyes for a long time. With each slow blink it seemed she was consuming some bit of information about him and deciphering it. He forced himself to gaze back at her steadily without flinching until she finally sat back.

  “We have a number of ways,” she said. “Mistress Levi buys slaves as she can and then manumits them. Solomon helps them to find apprentice work among the network of free black and sympathetic white tradesmen in the town—and north.” She stopped and observed him listening attentively before going on. “There is a couple who are man and wife but live as lady and servant, for she is white and he black.” The schoolteacher watched him closely to see if he would betray any shock. He did not. “We depend up on their network to help with families if the need arises—or with those like themselves, if you understand my meaning.” His thoughts briefly, disturbingly, fluttered to his scullion and Margaret.

  “Mr. Brown uses his connections upon the waterways to bring many to safety in the Northern states,” she said. “And of course, we use the law to our advantage wherever we can. We have men who work with us—white men, prominent men—who make it their business to steal back Negroes taken by slave catchers and bring culprits into the courts. We’ve had some successes there as well.”

  Now he was surprised. “And the courts found in your favor?”

  “They have done, yes,” she said, folding her hands on the table in front of her. “But we only pursue that route if we can be very sure of winning. If not, we find other ways to remove these souls from the way of harm.”

  Hercules sat and digested all of this, his mind churning.

  “Mrs. Harris, I thank you greatly,” he said, standing up and bowing. “What you’ve said has been most interesting. I assure you that your confidences are safe with me. And, madam, with your leave, there is someone whom—as time and circumstance permit—I would very much like for you to meet.”

  The teacher cocked her head curiously at this, but asked no more questions. He was relieved she made no attempt to pry it out of him.

  “As you wish, sir,” she said, following him to the front door. “I shall look forward to making that acquaintance.”

  After he took his leave, he walked out into Cherry Street and breathed with deep relief. It was time to enact his plan.

  As the time to depart for Mount Vernon again drew near, Oney was becoming more difficult to manage. Betsey’s letters to her grandmother were filled with demands for goods from the capital city and directions for Oney to begin sewing the child’s layette. Plus, Mrs. Washington herself had a never-ending list of things for the girl to attend before she left Philadelphia for good.

  Hercules watched her from his place behind the worktable and said nothing. The others, made nervous by Oney’s hovering presence, missed his orders or failed to carry them out in time. Nate burned a roast because he was watching Oney rather than the spit he was turning. Hercules’s own ears were always pricked for the screams that never came forth.

  No one had asked him what had gone on that day when he took her to the stable. Once she had calmed enough, she had gone ahead of him to the cookhouse, walking as usual, head high as if nothing had happened. When Hercules returned, he made sure that his face betrayed nothing and he went back to work, but not before glancing meaningfully around the room to be sure they were all about their business. He noticed that the others looked at each other with wide, questioning eyes behind Oney’s back as she passed.

  Now it was only four weeks before they must leave and Oney, though quiet, was no better. Her eyes went from blank to panic in a split second and when she got close enough he could see the prick marks upon her cream-colored fingers where the needle had gone awry, unguided in the absence of its mistress’s mind.

  “Something on your mind, son?” Hercules’s voice rolled like distant thunder over Nate, who was watching Oney nervously from where he worked chipping at an ice block.

  “No, sir,” he said, trying to look sharp, chipping faster at the block before him.

  “That’s enough ice then,” said Hercules as soothingly as he could. It wouldn’t do for them all to react to Oney’s nervousness and bring Kitt’s or Mrs. Emerson’s attention to the goings-on in the kitchen. It was critical, in fact, that they did no such thing. “Bring it here.” Nate cradled the huge bowl of ice in his arms and set it on the table. He held the iced cream maker steady as the chef poured the chipped ice around the cylinder, then held the cylinder itself while Hercules poured in the custard he had ready.

  “Go on and start,” he said, putting the bowl down. Nate began to turn the cylinder.

  Hercules watched him closely before going back to his own table. Now and again, he glanced around the room until he was sure that, becalmed by the mundane actions of the kitchen, each was concentrating enough on their own tasks not to pay them any particular mind.

  “Nate—please come with me to the gardens,” he finally said, waving Margaret over to continue turning the cylinder.

  When they reached the garden, Hercules squatted down and began pushing aside the leaves of the plants as if he were examining what was underneath. He gestured to Nate to join him. Nate squatted and watched Hercules’s busy hands, waiting for instruction. Finally, he said, “What are we doing, Chef?”

  “Look at the leaves, Nate, turn them over and pull off any grubs,” said Hercules, resuming his work.

  “There is nothing there. I saw when you turned them over.”

  “Just do it, son.”

  Once Nate seemed engrossed in the task, Hercules sat back on his haunches and looked up at the brick house rising before them. In a low voice he said, “When we return to the cookhouse, I will say I am going to the harbor to seek out Mr. Johnson the oyster seller.”

  “But you said never to buy oysters this time of year—”

  Hercules held up his hand and continued, “And I will be taking Oney with me to help carry the basket.”

  “Oney!” exclaimed Nate. “But surely she isn’t to do kitchen work now? What of Margaret?”

  Hercules looked at him calmly before he spoke again. “Nate, listen to me with some care.” He stopped turning over leaves. “I’m not really going to see Mr. Johnson, but you must pretend otherwise. I need you to remain here and manage the others in the kitchen.”

  Nate closed his mouth and looked at the chef in shock.

  “When I return, I will say that the oysters did not look good at this time of year and that is why I brought none back,” said Hercules. “Do you understand?”

  Once Nate nodded, he said, “Good, I will speak to Oney.” He stood up. When Nate followed suit and they were but inches from each other, the boy asked, “But where are you going, Chef?”

  “I cannot tell you that now. Perhaps one day,” Hercules said soberly. “I know it’s hard to understand, but I am trusting you with this, Nate. Do not let me down.”

  “This way,” said Hercules, heading straight for the market sheds and toward the docks. If anyone
happened to see them, better to appear to be going about regular business.

  Oney licked her lips. She was starting to take on the same look as Sister Seer, who wandered around Mount Vernon talking to herself and hovering on the edge of things, eyes wide and watching. She was no good to anyone and folks let her be—they said she could see into the other world. The General allowed her to wander around the farms as long as she didn’t trouble anyone or interfere with a day’s work. But that wouldn’t do for Oney at Betsey Law’s house, where her young mistress might take it upon herself to beat the crazy out of her.

  The market wasn’t too crowded since it was near to closing time. Some sellers had already packed their carts for home. Hercules walked purposefully through the sheds, stopping now and again to inspect some produce or a piece of cheese, making sure that people saw them. When they passed a woman selling ribbons and feathers, he nudged Oney and said loud enough for those nearby to hear, “There’s the stand with sewing notions. You should look them over for your work.”

  Oney looked at him peculiarly and then dully back at the stand. “Go on,” he said, nudging her toward the seller. Oney moved over to the stand and looked listlessly at all that was laid out there before turning back to him, her eyes troubled.

  “Nothing you fancy? Well, come on then,” he said cheerfully and guided her under the elbow with the hand that did not hold the market basket.

  Eventually they made it out of the sheds at Front Street and he pointed her to the left along the harbor as if he were seeking something out. When they reached Chancery Lane, she hesitated.

  “This is Helltown,” she said, her eyes fearful.

  “I know it is. But you have nothing to fear—you are with me.”

  Oney’s eyes cut away from him, up the notorious road and back. She turned as if she were going to head back toward the harbor.

  “No, my girl,” said Hercules firmly, catching her arm. “Mind me now.”

  She stood still a moment, looking toward the crowds at the waterfront and then back at the street with its dark alleys and wafting stench. Lifting her chin a bit, she nodded and turned back.

  “Here, take my arm,” said Hercules in a low voice, “and look at no one. We just have to cross three blocks to the other side into Cherry Street.”

  Hercules pulled his hat low over his head and pulled Oney close to him as they walked through the crowd of evil-looking, already-drunk sailors clogging the road in front of the infamously depraved Three Jolly Irishmen.

  “Lean into me,” he instructed her softly as he snaked his arm around her waist. “And giggle, like I said something amusing.” Oney looked at him in shock.

  “Just do it, Oney,” he said, his voice gravelly and threatening. “Do not look over at those men.”

  She did as she was told and Hercules leaned into her and nuzzled his face into her neck while propelling them past the pub as though they had too much to drink.

  A few men guffawed.

  “Look like she’s ready for you,” one called out, then cackled loudly. “There’s an alley just there, friend.”

  Hercules raised a hand in thanks without turning around and ducked into the alley.

  He looked at Oney, whose eyes were wild with terror, and held his finger to his lips. They stood still for a moment listening. When the crowd of drunken men hurtled down the street, laughing and singing bawdy songs, Hercules pushed Oney into the wall and pressed his body against hers.

  “Don’t say anything,” he whispered hoarsely and pressed his mouth against her neck.

  Some of the men spotted them and hooted and cackled out encouragement to Hercules so he raised up her skirt and hiked her leg around his waist, feigning the act of lovemaking.

  Fat, fast tears began to drop from the girl’s eyes and fell onto the side of his face as he pressed it into her neck. Her tense body had fairly collapsed against him like a rag doll. Hercules felt sick.

  When the sound died away, he pushed away from her and smoothed down her skirt, making every effort to arrange the fabric without touching her skin through it.

  “I’m sorry for that, my girl,” he said as gently as he could. “But it had to be done.”

  Still crying, Oney looked at him with a mixture of relief and terror. Her eyes were wide and crazed. Once again he held his finger to his lips and leaned out of the alley before beckoning her forward.

  Once in the now-empty street they walked quickly, Hercules forcing her forward with his hand under her elbow. Oney kept her eyes on her feet as she walked quickly beside him. Eventually they crossed Fourth Street and stepped into a different world.

  “Here,” he said, nodding toward a small alley with a little gray house at the back.

  Mrs. Harris answered the knock before they could sound another and looked from Hercules to Oney, her face still wet with tears and her clothes badly disheveled.

  Recovering herself quickly, Mrs. Harris moved aside and opened the door wide.

  Hercules surveyed the plates he had prepared for Lady Washington’s light luncheon. He’d laid out platters of cut roasted beef and pickled radishes, chicken pudding, apple fritters, and a small mince pie for the dessert.

  There was plenty enough here to keep the old lady satisfied while the others finished the preparations for their summer trip to Mount Vernon. To Hercules’s enormous relief, the Congress and Mr. Adams had convinced the president to stay through one more term. That gave him to time to make a plan of his own. In the meantime, there was this short trip to consider and all he had to achieve beforehand.

  Oney had been jumpy and barely listened to direction, and Hercules had been forced to take her aside and speak to her in a low voice more than once, especially after the old woman had threatened that a few straps across the back would set Oney to rights. They all knew the General would not allow the slaves to be punished in that way—but that protection wouldn’t last long. Oney could well expect a few good lashes at the Laws’ if she got out of line.

  Once the luncheon dishes went up to the dining room, Hercules continued managing the business of packing up the kitchen. He could hear the noises of the servants running to and from the yard, bringing out trunks and boxes and loading carriages. Mr. Kitt’s voice carried from somewhere in the house, snappishly barking directions.

  Just about now, Hercules knew that Oney Judge would be handing up Mrs. Washington’s toiletry trunk to Postilion Joe, who was loading the dray cart with the luggage. She’d have exclaimed that she had left one of the First Lady’s hairbrushes behind and rushed back to the house to get it.

  Hercules waited in the kitchen, knowing that Oney Judge’s footfall on the stair or voice calling out to Mrs. Emerson would not be among the din of the house all around him. He knew that soon she would round the corner of the house, well out of sight of the dining room and all the doings in the yard. Oney Judge, clutching her traveling bag, would slip out of a side gate in the wall surrounding the house and into the fray of the city without so much as the smallest look back.

  CHAPTER 28

  Mount Vernon, Summer 1796

  “I WOULDN’T DO THAT IF I WERE you,” Hercules said in a low, solid voice through the dark room. Nate halted, crouched at the side of his bed, his clothes in one arm and lifting his shoes with the other hand.

  Hercules swung his legs over the side of his cot and leaned forward in the dark.

  “Don’t try it, son,” he said again. Inside, he marveled at the boy’s mixture of boldness and stupidity. It irked him that Nate, as sharp-minded as he was, persisted in playing the idiot when it came to Margaret. “There are too many people in that house and none will take kindly to you going up there and ferreting about for the girl.”

  “I was just going out for a walk,” Nate stammered into the darkness.

  “They wouldn’t take too kindly to that either,” Hercules said, making his voice solid even as he spoke in a whisper. “A slave wandering about at night? To what end? Escape maybe?”

  “I wasn’t—” Nate began
before Hercules cut him off.

  “I know that,” he said as kindly as he could. “But they don’t. Especially after what’s happened. Go back to sleep, Nate.”

  The boy was young and he would learn in time, no need to gut him with it now, but he must still heed the message. Hercules lay back down, rolled over, and stared at the wall, listening to see what the boy would do next. He’d stop him bodily if he had to. Nate’s persistence exhausted him. He reminded Hercules of a moth dancing madly around a candle flame, becoming more crazed even as its wings singed. The boy’s blind desire led him to take dangerous risks with grave consequences. They had all seen Washington’s high fury after Oney had gone.

  It had taken a good half hour for the maids to calm the red-faced Lady Washington when the alarm went up, only to have her explode again in rage when Mrs. Emerson had returned to say the General’s secretaries’ canvass of the neighborhood had turned up nothing. Throughout the house they could hear her shrieking for an armed guard to turn out every house. She’d had to be given a sherry and taken to her room to have her temples bathed in perfume by Old Moll.

  By then crucial hours had been lost and General Washington had been obliged to oversee what must be a discreet search, lest the public take note that he was hunting one of his slaves. And it had all been for naught except to lose them a full day on the journey home and make a particularly annoying stop at Betsey’s in Washington City to explain the loss of her gift. Margaret had been brought into the house to learn the service of lady’s maid, should Mrs. Washington choose to use her when they returned to Philadelphia.

  Just two days ago Hercules had stood with Nate in the pantry and read the notice the General had put in the paper, hoping to hunt Oney down.

  Absconded from the household of the President of the United States, ONEY JUDGE, a light mulatto girl, much freckled, with very black eyes and bushy hair. She is of middle stature, slender, and delicately formed, about 20 years of age … She has many changes of good clothes, of all sorts, but they are not sufficiently recollected to be described—As there was no suspicion of her going off, nor no provocation to do so, it is not easy to conjecture whither she has gone, or fully, what her design is … Ten dollars will be paid to any person who will bring her home, if taken in the city, or on board any vessel in the harbour;—and a reasonable additional sum if apprehended at, and brought from a greater distance, and in proportion to the distance.

 

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