The General's Cook Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Ramin Ganeshram

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Print ISBN: 978-162872-977-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-162872-981-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Author’s Note

  IN AN EFFORT TO ACCURATELY PORTRAY the historical language and sensibilities of the late eighteenth century in America, I have used the terms “colored,” “African,” “Negro,” and some of their derisive derivatives throughout the book to refer to both the free and enslaved African Americans portrayed. By no means should the reader take this usage as agreement with or sanction of any historical or modern use of these words. No offense is meant in using this terminology and the author hopes that none is taken.

  For S.P.V.

  The chief cook would have been termed in modern parlance, a celebrated artiste. He was named Hercules, and familiarly termed Uncle Harkless … Uncle Harkless was, at the period of the first presidency, as highly accomplished a proficient in the culinary art as could be found in United States. … It was while preparing the Thursday or Congress dinner that Uncle Harkless shone in all his splendor. During his labors upon this banquet he required some half-dozen aprons, and napkins out of number. It was surprising the order and discipline that was observed in so bustling a scene. His underlings flew in all directions to execute his orders, while he, the great master-spirit, seemed to possess the power of ubiquity, and to be everywhere at the same moment.

  —George Washington Parke Custis,

  Recollections and Private Memoirs of Washington, 1859

  A man is either free, or he is not. There cannot be an apprenticeship for freedom.

  —Amiri Baraka (1934–2014)

  Part I

  CHAPTER 1

  Philadelphia, Winter 1793

  THE MAN WHO STOOD, LEGS FIRMLY apart, his gold-headed walking stick planted in front of him with his beefy hands resting on top, smiled slightly even though his eyes were half closed as though he might doze off. He was undisturbed by those who walked around him speaking in hoarse whispers. Nor did he note the rage and bustle of the marketplace in front of him and the roil of docks behind. His shirtsleeves, white against his dark skin, were rolled up to show forearms layered with muscle and snaky veins.

  He breathed deeply, nostrils flaring out and then in again. The stench of rotted fish and putrid vegetables mingled with the coppery smell of the animal blood that ran out of the market sheds and in between the cobbles around his expensive boots.

  Along with the aroma of the unwashed beggars colliding with that of the expensive toilet water of the society ladies, these were the smells of Philadelphia—the smells of freedom. Hercules would take them over the fresh hay and magnolia of Virginia any day.

  Behind him stood a boy and girl of about thirteen or fourteen. The boy wore the same tasseled cap as all of the Washington servants and the girl was dressed in a plain brown cloak and coarse linen mobcap. Her wide blue eyes darted around the busy market while the boy’s light brown ones rested only on her.

  Ignoring them, Hercules looked toward the market shed and the most agreeable posterior of Mrs. Polly Haine, the pepper pot seller, as she bent over her cauldron and he smiled broadly. He often enjoyed the delights of Mrs. Haine’s famous stew as well as those of the freedwoman herself.

  Around Polly, the buzzing of the crowd pitched high and then low, only to be cracked open by the yell of vendors hawking wares as Hercules began walking toward the market shed.

  “My dear Mistress Haine!” he boomed as he drew near, the children trailing after him. “The view is agreeable, but not as much if I might look upon your lovely face.”

  Polly straightened, smiled, and walked over to Hercules, who brushed at the long white apron buttoned to his chest and hanging low over his britches. Like the scarf around his large neck and the white shirt buttoned close at the collar, he wanted to ensure it remained immaculate. When he was done he leaned on his gold-headed cane and took her extended hand.

  “If it isn’t General Washington’s cook!” Polly exclaimed. Hercules bowed over her hand as though he were a fine gentleman and she a lady. A clerk sipping his stew at the stall stopped with his bowl halfway to his lips to stare at them.

  “Madam, it is no other,” Hercules said, straightening and smiling. “I—we—are returned as you see.”

  “I heard the General was in Germantown these past weeks,” said Polly. “Were you not there? We had hoped to see you here in town from time to time.”

  Hercules’s eyes clouded over as he remembered being stuck in Virginia, flying hither and yon on Lady Washington’s whims. President Washington and his household had gone to his Mount Vernon plantation in September to avoid the fever that was gripping the city. Now here December was almost gone before they had finally returned to the President’s House at the other end of High Street.

  It was only a second before he smiled again. He had learned long ago the importance of never giving away one’s thoughts. His eyes flickered over the clerk, who had given up eating altogether to ogle him.

  “I was needed more at Mount Vernon,” he said smoothly. “With Mrs. Washington and the family there, it was more important for me to stay. The General hired a cook for the time he was without us.”

  “No doubt not one as good as you,” said Polly, turning to dish him up a bowl of pepper pot soup. Handing it over, she addressed her other customer.

  “Will that be all then?” she asked, her tone skirting the edge of rude.

  “Oh, er—yes,” he said, drawing out the words in a long country drawl. He set the bowl on the table before turning reluctantly away.

  As she turned back from watching the man go, Hercules reached into the small tapestry purse tied to the front of his apron.

  “Oh, no, Master Hercules—no money from you,” she said.

  “You are kind, Mrs. Haine,” he said, accepting the soup and taking a deep sip. It was rich and thick and the spices were balanced and well blended. His cook’s mind cataloged the ingredients: beef, allspice, hot pepper, onion. The meat fairly melted on the tongue. “Beyond satisfactory, madam. As always,” he said.

  Hercules slurped with gusto, murmuring appreciatively, set down his bowl, and glanced over his shoulder at the young ones who stood there in his shadow.

  “Nate, take Margaret and collect the items I need,” he said. His voice was not unkind but matter of fact. It was best for these two to learn his way of doing things straightaway. “You’ll need to show her the vendors we like and who we don’t. Remember—don’t buy the new apples from anyone but Mrs. Shapely.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nate said, but the girl just stared at him fearfully. It was not until her companion put his hand gently on her arm and murmured that she jumped and moved on after bobbing a herky-jerky curtsy to Hercules.

  “Is she slow-witted?” Polly asked when the pair had moved o
ff.

  Hercules sighed. He’d asked himself the same ever since the girl had come to the President’s House. She didn’t say much, mostly just stared at him with terrified cow eyes. “No. At least I think not,” he answered. “She’s new to us—an orphan—the almshouse sold her into indenture.”

  Polly raised her eyebrows. “Since when is the General taking on indentures? He has you all—” She stopped abruptly, embarrassed.

  Hercules shrugged. Her slip didn’t trouble him because he made a point of facing facts square. It was a fair question—why indeed would a man who owned slaves take on the trouble of an indenture?

  “Not many of us there now,” he answered. “Him and Mrs. Washington are too worried that we’ll all run off and take advantage of the freedom law. Sent most of us back to Virginia.”

  Hercules smiled mildly as Mrs. Haine sucked her teeth. Even though he counted her as a friend, he wouldn’t show his true feelings for Washington to anyone. Safer to keep those to himself. He thought back to that summer of ’91, when Mrs. Washington had wanted him to travel back to Mount Vernon “to cook for the family.” She’d been afraid of him taking advantage of the freedom law that said any slave in the state more than six months could claim his or her freedom, and it had made her nervous and shrill. Hercules had only smiled at her pleasantly, then gone to Mr. Lear, the General’s secretary.

  “I’d never leave the General, Mr. Lear, sir!” he’d said, wringing his hands childishly as he had never done in his life. “The General—he been good to me!”

  To his satisfaction, Lear had apologized and promised to tell the First Lady just what an ideal slave Hercules was and to allow him to stay past the six months as a proof of their faith in him. Better still, they showed their returned affection by allowing him to sell the kitchen slops and earn a good two hundred dollars a year by it—twice what a white Philadelphia workingman earned in as much time.

  That was two years ago and since then he had come and gone as he pleased, spending his money on nice clothes and his own amusements. Except for the trips to Mount Vernon it was near as good as being free, and there had been nothing to tempt him away from the life he enjoyed at the presidential mansion—yet.

  “But tell me, Mrs. Haine,” he said, giving his cane a good thump on the market floor. Leaning close, he allowed his eyes to rake her up and down, “Tell me news of Philadelphia. Any worthy entertainments to speak of?”

  A quarter of an hour later, he left Polly Haine and searched for the two young ones, spotting them three sheds beyond where they had started. Margaret was grasping at Nate’s sleeve as he walked purposefully through the market with the basket swinging at his side. She had to fairly skip to keep near him through the frenzied rush of activity around them.

  “Melons! Last of the season! New potatoes! Wethersfield onions!” The yells of vendors all around joined with the snorts of pigs and bleating of sheep near the butchers’ stalls to make one cacophonous roar.

  Hercules had nearly caught them up when Nate stopped; the girl almost crashed into the young kitchen hand, she was walking so close. Hercules slowed again. Something about them bothered him. They were almost too familiar, though they’d known each other only a matter of weeks. It wasn’t an association that would serve either of them well. Hercules approached carefully so that he could catch their conversation without being observed.

  Nate put his arm out across where Margaret stood. “Halt a moment,” he said, peering down the open roadway that intersected the market. There were six such avenues west of the river that crossed through the market sheds, offering halos of light at the end of each long wooden building. A heavy cart pulled by two large bay horses was clattering down the avenue in front of them, faster than was necessary.

  “Drunk, no doubt,” the General’s cook heard Nate mutter as he took a few pointed steps backward. When Margaret tried to look over at what he saw, his movement forced her back as well.

  “Why’s he driving so fast?” she asked.

  “From the looks of it, he’s a farmer who’s spent some of his day’s earnings at a tavern,” said Nate, shrugging. “Happens all the time. Once they’re in their cups, they act the fool, drive crazy, and—” He paused. “And, well, other things.”

  Margaret nodded slowly, as though she wasn’t quite sure what he meant. Hercules remembered her chatter as they walked to the market. She’d told them that her father had been a farmer and sometimes he came into town to sell the brewers extra barley from their farm in Northern Liberties.

  Now the girl looked stricken, as though she might start to cry. Her parents had died of the yellow fever, leaving her orphaned, with indenture the only option to earn her keep. She bit her lip and stared ahead at the commotion the driver was causing as he tried to maneuver his large cart through the street crowded with people, animals, and vendors.

  When the housekeeper, Mrs. Emerson, had brought Margaret to his kitchen, she had told Hercules that after the girl’s parents had died, she had walked the city searching for work she did not find, sleeping behind an old crypt in Christ Church’s yard. After three days, her pride exhausted from fear and hunger, she found her way to the almshouse, where after a few weeks of hot meals she was fit again. Being young enough to work hard, they sold her for eight years’ indenture to Washington.

  The girl had nearly fainted the first time she saw the president, and she looked like she swallowed a rock when Lady Washington came into the kitchen daily to discuss the meals with Hercules and the steward, Fraunces. Hercules stopped himself from laughing out loud thinking about short, fat, nervous Mrs. Washington clucking around like a high-strung chicken, and Margaret like a skinny worm, wriggling desperately to be out of her sight. Hercules knew how to handle the old woman. He spoke to her in a special voice he only used for her—low and soothing, like he was calming an angry mother hog in the slop yard.

  “Come on,” Nate said now. The commotion with the cart was over—the driver eventually parting the sea of people around his vehicle by heaping curses on them along with a few snaps of his whip.

  Nate was already walking ahead and Margaret scurried behind him into the next block of market sheds. They walked past the cheese vendors toward a fruit stall in a corner, where Nate stood, looking confused. Hercules watched as the boy turned around slowly as if he did not know where he was. He turned back to the fruit vendor’s stall where a thin man in a worn brown vest sat on a barrel.

  “Is this not Mistress Shapely’s stand?” Nate asked the man.

  “T’were,” he said.

  “Where is she?” Nate asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “Taken in the fever,” the man answered, shrugging. “I’m here now.”

  “Oh.” Nate picked up an apple and set it down, then picked up another and set it down.

  “Surely these look fine, Nate?” Margaret said, touching his sleeve.

  The fruit man raised his eyebrows.

  “You buying or what?” he barked, although his stand had no other customers.

  “Not much trade coming your way,” Nate said to the man. “Maybe your wares aren’t so good.”

  The man gave him an evil look and opened his mouth to reply, but then spotted Hercules, who had covered the distance between himself and the pair and now stood behind them.

  “Nate!” his deep voice rumbled. The boy turned to look at Hercules, who was leaning on his stick in an amiable pose, but when he glanced from Nate and Margaret to the vendor, his expression was hard.

  “Why are you dawdling? Where is Mrs. Shapely?”

  Nate swallowed. “Gone, sir. That is—”

  “T’was the fever what took her,” the vendor snarled.

  Hercules continued to look at Nate, ignoring the vendor. “Ah, a shame. Let’s be on our way.”

  “I’m here now,” the man said again, this time to Hercules’s back as he started to leave.

  He turned back and regarded the man. He knew the type—lowborn with little desire except for enough chink to fill his cups and
maybe his bed. He was scraggle-faced and dirty headed but sure of the position granted by his pasty skin. How delightful it would have been to poke the man in the chest with the tip of his cane. But, of course, he could not.

  Instead he only said, “Ah, so you are, sir. So you are,” before strolling away. The man was mistaken if he thought Hercules were some kowtowing nigra. He was Washington’s man, and that made him untouchable, no matter how black he might be.

  Hercules grasped Nate near his neck with his powerful hands and propelled the boy along, leaving Margaret to scurry after them as they walked past at least ten fruiterers before Hercules found one whose apples he liked. When he did, he bargained unflinchingly before loading Margaret’s basket with the red and green fruit.

  Then they doubled back to the cheesemongers and he walked past them all, studying their wares.

  Finally, he paused in front of one in the middle of the shed row.

  “Ah, here is a man with finer tastes,” said the proprietress, eyeing him. His lips curled in the hint of a smile. She was a plump woman with huge bosoms pouring out of the top of her tight blue bodice. Her red hair escaped the lace-ruffled mobcap she wore—a cap far too fancy for a day at the market.

  “Cut a slice of that sage cheddar for General Washington’s cook,” she said to the young girl standing beside her, never taking her eyes off Hercules. The girl was small and skinny and maybe a year or so younger than Nate and Margaret. She looked at him with interest, her mouth hanging slightly open. Hercules ignored her.

  “Don’t catch flies, girl! The gentleman is waiting!” the proprietress snapped.

  The girl appeared to be confused and Hercules knew what she was thinking: that he was a Negro, and everyone knew the Negroes in General Washington’s house were slaves. Why was her mistress calling him a “gentleman”?

  She cut a slice of the cheese and speared it with her knife, then stuck it out to Hercules. He looked down at it as if it were a snake on a stick, then stared at her coldly until she shrank back.