From the cellar door one of the scullery maids was calling down into the gloom, unaware of their catastrophe. Mr. Julien had need of those beets.
Hercules jumped onto the dock and stood shivering with the others while the hold was being emptied of the Mount Vernon goods that would be sold here in Alexandria. His hands were already stiff from the November sleet, but he grasped the barrels that were being handed down as best he could.
When he dropped one, his hands too cold to work properly, the Negro overseer cuffed him hard at the back of his head.
“Watch what you’re doing, boy!” he snarled, spittle landing from his mouth onto Hercules’s face.
He swallowed his anger although it would almost be worth pushing the mongrel bastard into the river, even though the rest of them would stand by while the white sailors descended on him like a pack of hunting dogs, ready to tear him apart. He glanced over at the pilot, who was often willing to be bribed to give Hercules a lift downriver to the town some evenings. The man held his gaze and gave him a slight shake of his head.
“Get to the back of the line,” spat the overseer. Hercules took his place by the cart.
By the time it was loaded, twenty minutes later, his chill had turned to sweat and he was breathing hard. The overseer gestured for them to follow the cart as it moved toward the warehouse and they started the process of unloading it. Passing each barrel, hand to hand.
As he worked, Hercules let his mind wander to Philadelphia and the household there. He prayed the boy Nate was minding his steps. Hopefully the scullion had taken a lesson from how quickly Hercules’s fortunes had shifted and sufficiently scared off the white girl, but he doubted it.
Once they were done in the warehouse, they sat on the piled boxes and barrels and ate the cheap meal of bread and gristly meat that the overseer doled out to them. Hercules could barely gag it down but it was all he’d get today, so he forced himself to swallow.
When they were finished, they trudged back to the docks and the boat waiting to take them back to Mount Vernon. The sleet that had fallen earlier had frozen into a slick path of ice. Hercules felt himself go down hard on his back, his shoulder slamming into the ground.
He groaned and closed his eyes. Seconds later he felt a vise-like grip on is arm, hauling him up. Shrugging the hand off, he rose to his feet, ready this time to take a swing—consequence be damned. He’d had enough. Anything would be worth it to level a blow against the head of that step-and-fetch nigra who’d been beating him down for massa these many weeks.
But when he turned it was into the face of James Brown, the mariner from Philadelphia. He dropped his hand in surprise.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said the man. “If it isn’t the General’s cook.”
Hercules glanced at the others who were well ahead of him by now and then back at James Brown.
“I looked fuh you in de capital,” Brown said quizzically.
“And so you’ve found me. What brings you to Alexandria?” said Hercules, his voice tense and surprised.
Brown waved away the question. “Regular business. You been here de whole of dis time?”
“Since the summer, yes,” he answered.
“And doin’ hard labor by the looks of you … Dem don’t need you in de kitchen no more?” Brown peered at him.
Hercules shrugged and smiled. “Different work now,” he said and made to move off. The last thing he wanted was to speak about his reversal of fortunes, nor had he the time to do it with the others waiting and the overseer itching to use his whip.
“Good to see you, James.”
As he tried to get by, Brown grasped him on the shoulder.
“Now hold a minute,” he said. “What happen? The General is yet in Philadelphia, not so?”
Hercules feigned an easy smile. “It’s too long a story for right now.”
James Brown looked at him steadily and then at the gang moving down the road.
“De social club at the edge of town—do you know it?” said the sailor.
Hercules nodded.
“Good, meet me there as soon as you can get away,” said Brown. “I go be here for de next t’ree nights.”
Hercules glanced nervously away and then back at his friend before running on to catch up, slipping and sliding on the icy road.
Two nights later, Hercules stepped off the boat onto the dock at Alexandria. It was a risk coming out, but the ferryman was again willing to be bribed and he’d bet his skin on the fact that Allistone wouldn’t be out checking the cabins on a night like this. More likely he’d have a slave girl warming the bed in his cozy cabin while the winter wind barreled through the chinks and holes in the slaves’ quarters.
The wind slapped his face sideways with needle-sharp ice pellets whisked up from the river. The sun was already dipping below the horizon with one last blast of orange against the sky.
He bent his head and headed up King Street past the taverns with glowing windows. He burrowed his nose into his collar and shoved his hands down into his pockets, turning left on Henry Street toward the Bottoms, where the Negroes lived and where the social club was. Here the buildings were meaner and poorer than the grand brick warehouses and homes closer to the river.
The social club was nothing more than a lean-to on the back of an old stable. As he approached he could clearly hear the rise and fall of voices and a fiddle wavering above them. Light flickered through the chinks in the wallboards.
Hercules stepped inside and was stopped in his tracks by the pulse of heat that filled the room. Heat from the warm bodies and the small hearth in the corner. It made him realize how long it had been since he had felt truly warm.
A young woman with dark skin and reddish hair hoisted a tray of tankards above the crowd. He scanned the room for faces from the farm, only recognizing a few here and there. He squeezed through into a corner near the far wall from which he could see the door but wouldn’t get taken up in conversation.
He leaned his back against the boards and closed his eyes. The wall felt cold through his coat even as the warmth of the room radiated around him. He was weary. A shout rose above the crowd, but since no one seemed alarmed, he didn’t open his eyes. He could feel the bodies shift around him.
“Master cook!” The shout drew nearer. Hercules opened a searching eye. The crowd shifted and swayed in front of him. Somewhere in another part of the room the fiddle paused before taking up a tune.
“Hercules!” The voice came more insistent now, and closer too. He leaned up off the wall and blinked. James Brown was pushing toward him.
“I ready to hear you story,” he said after shaking hands.
Hercules shrugged. “Not much to tell. The General decided I should stay here—for safekeeping.”
Brown raised his eyebrows. “Come on,” he said, pushing Hercules forward toward the girl with the tankards. He tossed a coin on the tray and she lowered it to allow him to pull a couple down.
He handed one to Hercules and guided him into a dim corner. “I always in market fuh a good tale. So go on—tell me.”
Mrs. Harris put down her fork at the sound of a knock at her door.
A black boy and white girl, servants by the look of them, stood on her doorstep. “Yes?” she said.
“Are you Mistress Harris, the schoolteacher?” the boy said nervously.
“I am.”
“We are sent by Master Hercules, General Wash—”
“I know who he is,” Mrs. Harris said, cutting him off. She stepped to the side of the door to allow them to pass. “You had better come in.”
CHAPTER 30
Winter 1796
HERCULES FILLED THE BRUSH WITH PAINT and sand and slapped it on the side of the house. The others talked while they worked, painting the glop on the house’s wood shingles to make it look like stone. Nothing was ever what it seemed here, he thought bitterly. All this time he’d thought himself an almost free man. But almost free wasn’t the same as being free, was it?
He let hi
s mind wander to the second time he saw James Brown at the social club, when the mariner had come back down to Alexandria at Christmastime.
“I believe opportunity will soon come,” James Brown had said in low tones. Even in that place it was better to be circumspect. There were those among them who would trade information for coin. And neither man would blame them for it. You did what you must to make your own lot a little better.
“Happy Christmas,” he said more loudly, so others could hear, and raised his glass toward Hercules, who sat across the small table from him. The social club was nearly empty, most folks being home with their families. Hercules had remained in his quarters until the girls were asleep.
“And to you,” he said now to Brown before downing his drink in one go.
“I’ll be back this way in two months’ time, taking shipments from the warehouses up to the capital,” Brown said, now softly again. “Some of them from Mount Vernon.”
Hercules had often met the ship from Virginia when it arrived in the capital city with hams bound for market and supplies for the President’s House.
He gestured to the girl and bought them another round. James Brown took a long sip and set the cup down. He did not speak again until the girl moved away from the table. Hercules had leaned in closer to better hear.
“Good,” Brown had said. “Here’s what I want you to do.”
Hercules brought his thoughts back to the present. As he told Nate so long ago, it was a dangerous business to let your mind wander too long. Now the others were laughing and talking about what they’d get up to on the General’s birthday when the slaves were given rum and a few nights to celebrate.
“What about you, Uncle Harkless?” said one of the younger men with a jeer. They used the hated nickname as often as they could—a reminder that he had come down in the world to be just like them. “What you got planned?”
Hercules shrugged and made himself smile pleasantly.
“Oh, nothing much,” he said and bent to dip the brush in the bucket once more.
CHAPTER 31
February 22, 1797
FOLKS PASSED RUM BOTTLES AROUND CROWDED campfires near the slave quarters and in some of the fields. Hercules could hear the cries of “To the General!” and “Washington’s health!” from outside the cabin door. Their celebrations would go on at least two days or more—ample time before anyone noticed Hercules was gone. He only hoped his girls would have the sense to hold their tongues.
He sat next to Baby’s cot and stroked her chubby cheek. Soon she would be six years old, old enough to remember him but young enough to maybe not miss him.
Her sisters, now—that was another story.
He swallowed down the lump in his throat as he stood and went over to where they lay huddled together next to the fire, choosing the hard floor so the little one could have the one pallet. They were good girls. He only hoped the General wouldn’t punish them for what he would see as Hercules’s treachery. Maybe one day the General would even see fit to sell his children to him when he raised the money to purchase their freedom.
Hercules set his jaw in a hard line, grinding the back teeth together so that pain would overtake sorrow. He’d earn the money—he would—as soon as he got to New York. He’d do nothing but work until they too were free.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the leather drawstring purse in which he had saved his coins. There were enough to make a good start somewhere else. He took out a handful and put them under Evey’s pillow and kissed her on her forehead.
He turned his back on his children and quickly put on his one good shirt over the one he wore, tattered and filthy as it was. He did the same with his good britches. At the very least the extra layers would keep him warm as he crossed the miles of estate on his way toward Alexandria.
At the door, he looked at his walking stick with its elegant head. He was going to leave it for the girls as a remembrance or, if worst came to worst, to sell when the coins ran out. He hoped that Evey had the sense not to let on that she had them.
On second thought, he snatched it up again. He could use it to lean upon during the trek, or to protect himself if it came to that. Tucking the coins well into the inside of his coat, he jammed his hat on his head and stepped out the door. The cold was already reaching out for him as he moved quickly away from the house into the woods near the river, until he could double back in the forest toward Alexandria, where there was no one to see his footprints in the snow.
“Almost done here, sir,” said Nate over his shoulder as he scrubbed out the last pot. Margaret moved around the kitchen putting things away.
“Good,” said Mr. Julien, smiling. “Then you have leave to celebrate a little. Here—” He stepped toward the table and put two coins upon it. “These are from Mrs. Washington. Should you like to step out and see the fireworks displays, you might have a little refreshment.”
“Thank you, sir, much obliged,” said Nate. He dared not meet Margaret’s eyes.
Margaret stepped forward and picked up one of the coins. “That is very kind of her,” she said. “I hope his Excellency might have a very happy birthday indeed.”
“Yes, I imagine he will,” said Julien, smiling. “Don’t stay out too late; tomorrow we had better go through the stores and consider what we may send on to Virginia. Only a few weeks to go …”
“Yes, sir,” said Nate, nodding.
“Good,” said the chef again, heading for the door and raising his hat. “I’ll bid you goodnight, then.”
For a moment, Nate felt strange. Hercules used to do just that. It occurred to him that he would never see the cook again, now that he and Margaret were running away with Mrs. Harris’s help. He swallowed and forced himself to give a jaunty salute. “Goodnight, Chef!”
Once the door had closed, Nate continued his scrubbing while Margaret took up the broom and worked it around the room. He rinsed the pot and began drying it just as the scraping of the broom against the brick floor stopped. They couldn’t have been handed a better chance.
As Margaret slipped into the cellar where they had hidden the small cloth tied up with their few things, Nate put on his hat and coat. When she came back into the room, her cheeks were already red from the brief moment in the cold.
“Not that hat,” she said softly, looking at his head. He snatched off the livery cap and looked at it a moment before tossing it onto Hercules’s old worktable.
“Shall we go?”
Margaret nodded and went out the door first—they were to separate at the stone wall surrounding the garden and take different routes to where Mrs. Harris’s agent would bring them well outside of the city in his cart.
“Ah, Nate, there you are.” A voice echoed through the darkened kitchen just as he was about to step through the door.
He turned toward Mr. Kitt. “Sir?”
“I need you to bring up some more cider from the cellar,” Kitt said, moving toward him, holding a lantern aloft.
Nate’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the door. He prayed that Margaret had pressed on and into crowds clamoring in the street, their voices rising up between the sudden blasts of cannon fire saluting General Washington from the ships in the harbor.
Kitt leisurely walked toward the worktable and set down his lantern, bathing Nate’s cap in a pool of light.
“Why is this here?” he asked, looking at Nate.
Nate stared at the hat and swallowed.
“I—I must have set it down on my way out, sir,” he said, hesitating. “Mr. Julien said it was all right to go out and see the fireworks … that is, Mrs. Washington told him so, sir.”
Kitt looked at him for a longish time. “Where’s the girl?” he said suddenly.
Nate felt his stomach pitch. “The girl, sir?”
“Margaret—where is she?”
“I—I don’t know, sir, Mr. Julien said she was to go out too if she liked.” Nate’s mind raced. “Maybe she did?”
Kitt took a step toward him and examined hi
s face. Something wasn’t right here, but he couldn’t figure what. It wasn’t like Margaret to be brave enough to go out alone. “Why didn’t you go with her?” he asked suspiciously.
Nate swallowed fearfully and willed himself to think. What would Hercules do? He’d shift Kitt’s attention to where he wanted it.
“Me? Why would I want to go about with her?” Nate said, trying to make his voice sound contemptuous. He swallowed. “It’s not often I get out to … enjoy the town.” He went on hurriedly before he lost his courage. “Lots of things to get up to without that milk-faced girl clinging on my sleeve.” He blurted the last out and tried to leer, imagining he was copying that slow terrible smile that Hercules affected when he wanted to frighten someone without saying a word. Kitt could well cuff him for the impertinence, but he’d take the blow if it helped Margaret get away.
“Why you filthy—” He pulled at Nate’s arm. “Come on then.” Kitt shoved him roughly. “Get on down and bring me up that cider.”
“Ready?” said General Washington, looking down at his granddaughter Nelly happily as the swirl of ballgoers moved about them.
“Yes, sir,” she answered with a curtsy.
“You may not be able to keep up,” he said with a wink. “I mean to out-dance you all this evening even if I am now sixty-five.”
Nelly laughed, happy to see the old gentleman in such high spirits. “Of that, sir, I have no doubt,” she said just as the music started and, true to his word, he stepped lively out to the floor.
“Ready?” said Mrs. Harris’s driver, a Scotsman called Seamus, who sat beside Margaret on the cart bench, clutching the horse’s reins.
“Can we not wait a moment more?” she begged.
“You know the plan, girl. Have to keep moving, no matter what,” he said, beginning to twitch the reins. Before he could, the horses tossed their heads and stamped their feet, spooked.
Seamus looked around, his hand reaching for the gun at his feet. A shape burst out of the woods by the side of the road just as Seamus drew up the revolver.
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