Chapter XII: Hitch’s Mother

Skeeter sat for two hours turning over the appalling array of facts which the sheriff had set before him for the condemnation of his friend. Nothing seemed to be lacking except Hitch’s confession that he had robbed the store and killed the watchman.

“Dis here is awful!” he sighed. “I’s gwine over an’ git some religium advices from de Revun Vinegar Atts.”

He found Vinegar occupying his customary seat under a chinaberry tree in front of the Shoofly Church. Vinegar moved his chair only when the shadow of the tree shifted and the sun shone upon his head. He called this diversion “settin’ de sun aroun’ de tree.”

“Revun,” Skeeter began, “I been cornversin’ Marse John Flournoy about our chu’ch an’ lodge brudder, Hitch Diamond.”

“No hope!” Vinegar grumbled. “Hitch is done flirted wid a hearse one time too many. He’s as good as dead.”

“Cain’t we do nothin’ fer him?” Skeeter asked.

“We kin save up money in de chu’ch an’ de lodge fer a real nice funeral,” Vinegar said. “Atter de white folks is done deir wuck, Hitch’ll furnish de corp’.”

“Is you interrogated any of de white folks?” Skeeter inquired.

“Yes, suh. Marse Tom Gaitskill tole me all I knows. Hitch wucked fer de kunnel, an’ kunnel say he’s got to git him anodder nigger--de cote-house is gwine spile Hitch!”

“Ain’t de kunnel tryin’ to he’p Hitch none?” Skeeter asked.

“Naw. What kin be did fer a nigger whut is kotch his tail in a cuttin’-box like Hitch done?”

“I feels sorry fer Hitch, Revun,” Skeeter mumbled piteously. “Gawd, I’d do anything fer him dat I could!”

“Not me!” Vinegar bellowed. “When de white folks backs off, dat’s de sign fer Revun Atts to git away befo’ de bust-up comes. Naw, suh, Hitch ain’t got no hope!”

Vinegar’s voice was a bellow which could be heard a block away. He stood up, took off his stove-pipe preaching hat, and mopped the sweat from the top of his bald head with a big, red handkerchief.

“Naw, suh!” he howled. “You oughter had been to chu’ch dis mawnin’ an’ heered me orate ’bout Hitch Diamond. I shore preached his funeral good! I tole dem niggers how Hitch went to N’Awleens an’ fit in a sinful prize-fight an’ got on a big, bust-head drunk an’ vamoosed up to Sawtown an’ robbed an’ kilt, an’ is fotch back here now to dis town to show whut happens to de members of de Shoo-fly Chu’ch when dey rambles away from de highways of holiness--whoosh!”

Vinegar broke off with a snort and a flourish, seizing the chair in which he had sat and thrust it up so close to Skeeter’s chair that he pinched Skeeter’s fingers.

Then he sat down with his thick lips not two inches from Skeeter’s ear.

“Listen, Skeeter,” he whispered. “Marse Tom Gaitskill an’ Sheriff John Flournoy don’t think dat Hitch is guilty--dey’s bellerin’ it aroun’ town that Hitch is shore a deader so dey kin hunt fer de real guilty man on de sly!”

“Bless Gawd!” Skeeter grinned.

“I been buttlin’ fer Marse Tom ever since Hitch went to N’Awleens, an’ I been snoopin’ aroun’ an’ listenin’ to deir talk. Marse Tom an’ Marse John sot up mighty nigh all night las’ Friday talkin’ an’ smokin’ an’ cussin’ in Marse Tom’s dinin’-room. I sot up out on de porch an’ listened to ’em. Dey done agree dat de bes’ thing fer Hitch is fer eve’ybody not to hab no hope. I agrees wid de white folks.”

“Bless Gawd!” Skeeter Butts cackled.

“Git yo’ nose on de trail an’ sot yo’ mouth to howlin’ like a houn’-dog, Skeeter,” Vinegar grinned. Then, in a bellow which echoed back from the woods in the rear of the church, he howled: “No hope!”

“Dem is de best religium advices you ever orated, Revun,” Skeeter cackled as he rose to his feet. “I’s gwine turn detecative right dis minute an’ snoop aroun’ seein’ how much I kin find out!”

He walked straight to the courthouse and entered the sheriff’s office.

“Could I be allowed to see Hitch, Marse John?” he asked.

“Certainly. Any of his colored friends may see him if they come at a reasonable time. I’ll admit you to the jail.”

When Skeeter was admitted and locked behind the bars of the jail, and saw Hitch Diamond pacing up and down the corridor in the second story, the only occupant of the prison, he found to his annoyance that he could not begin a word of conversation with his lifelong friend. When talking to others, he could speak about Hitch and his misfortune with great volubility, but face to face with Hitch, what was there to say?

The two sat down, Skeeter laid a package of cigarettes upon the seat of a chair beside them, and after that for twenty minutes there was perfect silence. Not a word had been spoken except their first brief and embarrassed greetings. Each sat, smoking furiously, and lighting a fresh cigarette upon the stub of the old one.

At last Skeeter managed to speak, and made the one request which opened the floodgates of Hitch Diamond’s talk:

“Tell me all about it, Hitchy. Don’t leave out no little thing.”

Hitch dropped his cigarette at his feet and began.

For two hours his low voice rumbled on, the narrative beginning from the moment he left Tickfall to go to New Orleans to the prize-fight and progressing with minute particularity to the moment when he sat in the jail beside Skeeter Butts.

Skeeter listened with a heart as heavy as lead. It seemed to him that Hitch had confessed everything except the actual commission of the crime of murder and robbery. The array of proof which Flournoy had was sustained and established in every particular by Hitch’s story. Vinegar had fired his hopes for a moment by betraying the secret that the white folks were unconvinced of Hitch’s guilt and were hunting for the perpetrator of the deed. But Skeeter knew when Hitch had finished his story that Hitch would pay the penalty for his crime.

Not a word did Skeeter utter until the narrative was ended. Then he arose and held out his hand.

“Good-by, Hitch,” he said, with a catch in his voice. He walked down the steps, and the jailer opened the door and let him out.

Passing across the courthouse yard he met Sheriff Flournoy.

“Marse John,” he said, “you tole me dat Hitch wus borned on yo’ plantation. Does you know who his maw is?”

“Certainly.”

“Is his maw livin’ yit?”

“Yes.”

“I ain’t never heerd Hitch say nothin’ ’bout his maw,” Skeeter remarked.

“Hitch don’t know who his mother is,” Flournoy smiled. “I doubt if she knows that Hitch is her son.”

“How come?” Skeeter asked.

“Hitch’s mother committed a little crime the year before I was elected sheriff. Hitch was then one year old. His mother abandoned him--ran off and stayed away for thirty years. Hitch was taken care of by the other negroes on the plantation, and all who once knew who Hitch’s mother is are now either dead or have gone away from here.”

“Fer Gawd’s sake, Marse John!” Skeeter wailed. “Why don’t you tell Hitch who his maw am? Who is she?”

Flournoy considered this question while he took the time to light a fresh cigar. Then he asked:

“If I tell you who Hitch’s mother is, will you promise never to reveal it?”

“I promises!” Skeeter exclaimed.

“His mother is Ginny Babe Chew!” the sheriff told him.

Skeeter reeled back from the shock, and an exclamation shot from his throat like a bullet.

He turned round and round like a man who was dazed, uttering a series of highly profane expletives like the crackling of thorns under a pot.

“You asked me why I didn’t tell Hitch who his mother was,” the sheriff continued, as he started away. “I think you know the answer!”

Ginny Babe Chew!

Like a panorama the events of the Sunday before passed before his dazed and horrified vision--Ginny Babe Chew, shrieking, cursing, whooping, thrusting the people aside and pressing up behind the sheriff’s horse, howling after her son the charge of “Murder! Murder! Murder!” Again he saw her struck down by the massive fist of Vinegar Atts, the blood streaming from her lips, the mob splitting into halves as they walked past her, while she groaned and cursed, groveling in the dust. Again he saw her staggering down the street, the blood reddening the front of her dress and making a red froth upon her lips, as she stood in front of the jail tossing dust into the air, gyrating, shrieking, cursing, and wailing, “Good-by, Hitch! Good-by, Hitch!”

What a mother for any man to have!

Skeeter staggered across the courthouse yard, wiping the clammy sweat from his temples.

“Marse John made me promise not to tell nobody who Hitch’s maw is. Ef I wus to tell dat fack, de white folks would hang Hitch Diamond befo’ night. Dat’s de awfullest fack agin him yit!”

In front of the post-office he met Vinegar Atts.

“Revun Atts,” Skeeter said earnestly, “ef you know any good religium advices to gib to a nigger whut is about to die, fer de Lawd sake go preach ’em to Hitch Diamond. De white folks is got him--got him good!”