“Miz Wilkes sont me to work for you,” he said shortly. He spoke rustily, as one unaccustomed to speaking, the words coming slowly and almost with difficulty. “M’ name’s Archie.”
“I’m sorry but I have no work for you, Mr. Archie.”
“Archie’s m’fuss name.”
“I beg your pardon. What is your last name?”
He spat again. “I reckon that’s my bizness,” he said. “Archie’ll do.”
“I don’t care what your last name is! I have nothing for you to do.”
“I reckon you have. Miz Wilkes was upsot about yore wantin’ to run aroun’ like a fool by yoreself and she sont me over here to drive aroun’ with you.”
“Indeed?” cried Scarlett, indignant both at the man’s rudeness and Melly’s meddling.
His one eye met hers with an impersonal animosity. “Yes. A woman’s got no bizness botherin’ her men folks when they’re tryin’ to take keer of her. If you’re bound to gad about, I’ll drive you. I hates niggers—Yankees too.”
He shifted his wad of tobacco to the other cheek and, without waiting for an invitation, sat down on the top step. “I ain’t sayin’ I like drivin’ women aroun’, but Miz Wilkes been good to me, lettin’ me sleep in her cellar, and she sont me to drive you.”
“But—” began Scarlett helplessly and then she stopped and looked at him. After a moment she began to smile. She didn’t like the looks of this elderly desperado but his presence would simplify matters. With him beside her, she could go to town, drive to the mills, call on customers. No one could doubt her safety with him and his very appearance was enough to keep from giving rise to scandal.
“It’s a bargain,” she said. “That is, if my husband agrees.”
After a private conversation with Archie, Frank gave his reluctant approval and sent word to the livery stable to release the horse and buggy. He was hurt and disappointed that motherhood had not changed Scarlett as he had hoped it would but, if she was determined to go back to her damnable mills, then Archie was a godsend.
So began the relationship that at first startled Atlanta. Archie and Scarlett were a queerly assorted pair, the truculent dirty old man with his wooden peg sticking stiffly out over the dashboard and the pretty, neatly dressed young woman with forehead puckered in an abstracted frown. They could be seen at all hours and at all places in and near Atlanta, seldom speaking to each other, obviously disliking each other, but bound together by mutual need, he of money, she of protection. At least, said the ladies of the town, it’s better than riding around so brazenly with that Butler man. They wondered curiously where Rhett was these days, for he had abruptly left town three months before and no one, not even Scarlett, knew where he was.
Archie was a silent man, never speaking unless spoken to and usually answering with grunts. Every morning he came from Melanie’s cellar and sat on the front steps of Pitty’s house, chewing and spitting until Scarlett came out and Peter brought the buggy from the stable. Uncle Peter feared him only a little less than the devil or the Ku Klux and even Mammy walked silently and timorously around him. He hated negroes and they knew it and feared him. He reinforced his pistol and knife with another pistol, and his fame spread far among the black population. He never once had to draw a pistol or even lay his hand on his belt. The moral effect was sufficient. No negro dared even laugh while Archie was in hearing.
Once Scarlett asked him curiously why he hated negroes and was surprised when he answered, for generally all questions were answered by “I reckon that’s my bizness.”
“I hates them, like all mountain folks hates them. We never liked them and we never owned none. It was them niggers that started the war. I hates them for that, too.”
“But you fought in the war.”
“I reckon that’s a man’s privilege. I hates Yankees too, more’n I hates niggers. Most as much as I hates talkative women.”
It was such outspoken rudeness as this that threw Scarlett into silent furies and made her long to be rid of him. But how could she do without him? In what other way could she obtain such freedom? He was rude and dirty and, occasionally, very odorous but he served his purpose. He drove her to and from the mills and on her round of customers, spitting and staring off into space while she talked and gave orders. If she climbed down from the buggy, he climbed after her and dogged her footsteps. When she was among rough laborers, negroes or Yankee soldiers, he was seldom more than a pace from her elbow.
Soon Atlanta became accustomed to seeing Scarlett and her bodyguard and, from being accustomed, the ladies grew to envy her her freedom of movement. Since the Ku Klux lynching, the ladies had been practically immured, not even going to town to shop unless there were half a dozen in their group. Naturally social minded, they became restless and, putting their pride in their pockets, they began to beg the loan of Archie from Scarlett. And whenever she did not need him, she was gracious enough to spare him for the use of other ladies.
Soon Archie became an Atlanta institution and the ladies competed for his free time. There was seldom a morning when a child or a negro servant did not arrive at breakfast time with a note saying: “If you aren’t using Archie this afternoon, do let me have him. I want to drive to the cemetery with flowers.” “I must go to the milliners.” “I should like Archie to drive Aunt Nelly for an airing.” “I must go calling on Peters Street and Grandpa is not feeling well enough to take me. Could Archie—”
