The General's Cook: A Novel

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 herkyjerky curtsy to Hercules.

Is she slow-witted? Polly asked when the pair had moved off.

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.

Amanda! her mistress snapped. That is not how we treat our esteemed customers! She grabbed the knife from the girl and plucked the slice of cheese off it, handing it to Hercules herself, leaning forward as she did so that he might get a better look at her powdered cleavage.

Ma’am, ain’t he a slave? the girl mumbled loud enough for them all to hear.

The cheesemonger looked sharply at Amanda. Go turn those cheeses over, she said, indicating the other side of the stall. Now! she snapped when the girl continued to stand staring at him.

Master Hercules—apologies, the lady said, simpering.

Hercules’s bemused look now became a full smile. Not at all, Mrs. Radcliffe. Not at all. He delicately plucked the cheese from her fingers and took a small bite.

Delightful! he said, looking openly at her breasts. As your wares always are. He smiled again.

Beside him, Margaret stared agog, but Nate resolutely stared straight ahead. Clever boy.

I’ll take two pounds of that cheddar, Mrs. Radcliffe, said Hercules, while drawing a kerchief from his pocket and delicately wiping his mouth. Being the General’s cook always had certain advantages.

Once they had their cheese, they stopped to collect tea and then some sweetmeats at the confectioners. As they made their way to the north end of the market at Fourth Street, people stopped to talk to him while others whispered as he passed. Hercules reveled in it. Each look and murmur, each greeting was filling the well of his soul, replacing the dry dullness of the many months at Mount Vernon. Margaret scurried beside him, her face growing redder at all the attention, but Nate continued staring straight ahead. This amused Hercules, who sailed on imperiously while the basket-laden pair struggled to keep up in his wake.

Outside the market the early winter wind had taken on a bite, blowing into the trio as they started up High Street. Hercules walked on in his shirtsleeves and apron as if it were a summer day, past Mr. Franklin’s print shop and post office and the Indian Queen tavern, where loud conversation crashed out the door in waves. He paused about a block from Sixth Street, where the President’s House stood on the corner.

Set those down a moment, he said, gesturing for them to step closer into the sidewalk.

Hercules reached into his purse and pulled out a small paper package. Pulling open the string, he held it out to them.

Go on, have one each. The others are for the rest in the kitchen, he said.

Six glistening jellies—pink, purple, and yellow—sat on the paper. Margaret’s eyes grew wide. She reached her hand forward and then hesitated.

Go on then, Hercules rumbled impatiently. Margaret snatched up a pink one and took a bite. Oh! she exclaimed, mouth full. Thank you, sir! she said, bobbing.

Nate chose a yellow one and took a slow bite. He seemed to be thinking hard each time his teeth came together.

That’s right, son, think about what you are tasting, Hercules said.

Sugar, of course . . . said Nate. Anise . . .

Hercules nodded.

Something else . . .

Take your time. Think.

Margaret swallowed what was in her mouth and watched the exchange. Nate took another bite.

Cinnamon? he asked, looking at Hercules for approval.

Hercules crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.

Nutmeg?

Hercules shook his head again.

Nate took another bite. It tastes—like mint leaf somehow but then again—

Cardamom, Hercules said. A seed from the East. I’ll show it to you when we return. Now finish your treat.

Nate smiled happily and began nibbling again. Margaret looked at the confection in her hand and took a smaller bite. Hercules could see her mind working, brows knitting together until she gave up and nibbled the rest down.

After they finished, Hercules jutted his chin toward their baskets and they hurried to take them up. He strode ahead of them, tapping his cane on the ground at regular paces as he went. Out of the corner of the eye, he spotted the hatless man leaning back into the shadows of the Messrs. Miller and Cline’s shop across High Street. His chestnut hair escaped its braid in wild waves and he hunched down in his old paint-spattered coat. He looked like a madman. Hercules had seen the man there when they’d left for the market hours ago. It was the third time in as many days that he’d noticed him hanging around the shops across the way.

As Hercules watched, the man leaned forward out of the shadows and squinted his eyes to better see them. Drawing a small pad and pencil out of his pocket, he scribbled madly, glancing at them and back down at the paper as he did, following them with his eyes until they slipped through the door in the garden wall. It made Hercules uneasy.

As the others walked toward the kitchen, Hercules pulled the wooden door behind him, staring through the grate at the man until he had committed him to memory.

CHAPTER 2

REVEREND ALLEN MEANS TO MAKE HIS church today! Oney rushed into the kitchen and panted the words out. She held one of the First Lady’s shawls. Jane, boil me some water, will you? she said to a scullery maid peeling vegetables at the other end of the long table. I need to wash out the perfume oil Mrs. Washington spilled on this before it sets into the weave. Ask the laundress for some lye soap too.

Hercules set down the knife he was using to cut paper-thin slices of the smoked ham sent up from Mount Vernon. The First Lady was serving it as a cold plate this evening at her weekly Friday night soiree for the women of Philadelphia society. Mount Vernon ham was a particular favorite of the president, who always dropped in on the evenings with a gaggle of ladies, who invariably gave him plenty of attention—the admiration of the finer sex was the one kind of social event Washington enjoyed.

Oney Judge, you are not the master of this kitchen, Hercules growled. And I’ll thank you not to charge in here and order people around. You know good enough where the pots are and the well pump, and the lye too, for that matter. See to your water yourself.

Oney went to fetch a small iron pot, glaring at Hercules as she passed, although he had gone back to slicing the ham as though nothing had happened. She filled the pot with water from the pump that stood by the stone sink near the window, then set it among the coals on the hearth.

While she waited for the water to boil, she went to the laundry house and came back holding a small cake of lye soap and a long wooden fork. When the water boiled, she grabbed a cloth and carefully hoisted the small pot onto the worktable near Hercules and slowly lowered the shawl inside.

Hercules silently watched Oney lift the shawl out, soap it well, and drop it back into the pot.

What exactly are you doing, Oney Judge? he said, his voice low and dangerous. How is it that you don’t have the good sense to do that in the laundry room and not here where I’m preparing food?

Oney flopped into a chair.

’Course I do, she said. But I also have the sense to know that all of you in here will sure want to know about Reverend Allen’s church. I reckon Fanny don’t care much about it either way seeing as how she only gets paid on how much washing she gets done and not for listening to stories.

Hercules made a sound like a grunt, then took the platter of meats to the larder and placed it on a wooden bench and covered it with a clean linen cloth. When he returned he picked up the ham bone and scraped it down with his knife. He put the bone in a large footed kettle that was simmering gently in the fire, then went to the other side of the kitchen.

Well, go on, then, he said, coming back with three eggs in a bowl.

Richmond, bring me a half cup of sugar, two cups Indian meal, and a nutmeg with my grater, he called over his shoulder to his son, who sat husking dried corn by the open kitchen door. You, Margaret, I need a molded crock—the one with the corn stalks on it.

Margaret nervously leapt up when she heard her name, knocking over the low stool she had been sitting on, shelling peas. Beside her, Jane—the youngest and lowest ranking of the hired scullery maids—snickered. She came with her mother Mathilda on Fridays when soiree preparation required more hands. Hercules didn’t care for either of them because they didn’t seem to understand how things were in this house. He knew they saucily called him General Kitchen behind his back.

Something amusing, Lady Jane? Hercules said sharply, staring at the bony girl hunched over the wide pan of peas.

Now it was Jane’s turn to jump. No, she mumbled.

What was that then? Hercules said, louder this time, his voice ominous enough to cause Mathilda to look up from the corner table where she was kneading bread and for Mr. Julien, the hired French cook, to pause and glance over from where he was shucking oysters.

Begging your pardon, t’were nothing, she answered him sullenly, looking down at the peas she continued to shell, sliding her thumb down the length of the split dry pod. The kitchen was so silent the chink of each pea hitting the tin pan echoed loudly.

Hercules let his eyes sweep around the rest of the staff in the kitchen, challenging anyone to step out of line. Jane looked over at her mother, whose eyes warned her to mind her tone. Here in this kitchen Hercules was master. It wasn’t for them to question the manner in which the president or Mrs. Washington kept their house. Hercules saw Julien, in his corner, shake his head. He’d often told Hercules how odd he found Americans with their talk of liberty and freedom and yet they continued on with this business of holding slaves.

Chef, Julien said. Would you taste this sauce before I pour it over the oysters?

Hercules knew that Julien didn’t really need his opinion—the man had worked in some of the finest houses in Paris. As his eyes met Julien’s, a small smile of appreciation played at the corners of his mouth. It was the Frenchman’s way of showing the little slattern her place. It had been Julien who, in the French manner, insisted on calling him Chef. Hercules was indebted to him for that. Julien was the first white man who treated him like a true equal. The Frenchman was inspired by James Hemings, Mr. Jefferson’s cook, who was also called Chef, having been educated to cook in Paris.

Certainly, Mr. Julien, said Hercules, going to the Frenchman’s corner. Although I know that your taste is far superior to mine.

He leaned over and dipped his pinky into the thick white sauce in a small iron pot that Julien had brought over from the hearth. He thought a minute.

A bit more salt, I would say—but only a bit, he said.

Julien smiled and said, Just so, Chef. Just so, and added a pinch of salt to the sauce from the box on the table and stirred it vigorously.

Now then, said Hercules to Oney, as he returned to his own table where Richmond had set down the dry goods before returning to husking the corn. What is this about Reverend Allen and his church?

Not just Allen, but them who has started the Free African Society are going to make a real and proper church for black folk, she began while peering into the pot and giving the shawl a swish with the stick. They’re moving that old abandoned blacksmith shop from the prison yard down to some property that Mr. Allen owns at the end of Sixth Street.

Huh, Hercules replied, looking down at the bowl into which he was cracking the eggs with one hand. You said today. Are they moving the building today?

That’s what I’m trying to tell you—they doing it now! Oney sat up, excited. If you had stepped outside this morning you’d have heard the noise clear to here. She lowered her voice to a whisper that only Hercules could hear. I managed to get away from Lady Washington for a moment and nip out to see the men lifting the building onto some rolling logs. Mr. Dexter is there to lead the horses.

The free coachman, Oronoko Dexter, was one of the most trusted horsemen in the city. Along with Absalom Jones and Reverend Allen, he had started the Free African Society to help those who were recently liberated. Hercules had seen his share of these newly freed Negroes around town, wandering like