Before we marched I had arranged in groups the names that impressed me.
I had C without any following.
For G, I had _Gayle_, or _Gail_.
For K, _Kame, Kames, Kean, Key, Kinney, Knight_.
For P, only _Payne_.
We marched. My head was full of my list of names. I knew them without
looking at what I had written.
All at once I dropped the C. I had failed to add to the bare
initial--nothing in my thought could follow that C.
Why had I held the C so long? There must be some reason. What was its
peculiarity? The question was to be solved before I would leave it. It
did not take long. I decided that I had been attracted to it simply
because its sound was identical with K. Then K loomed up large in my
mind and took enormous precedence.
The name Payne was given up.
But another, or rather similar, question arose in regard to Payne. If K
was so prominent, why had Payne influenced me? It took me an hour to
find the reason, but I found it, for I had determined to find it. It was
simple, after all--the attraction lay in the letters a-y-n-e. At once I
added to my K's the name Kayne, although the name evoked no interest.
Thinking of this name, I saw that Kane was much easier and added it to
my list, wondering why I had not thought of it before.
The process of exclusion continued. Why Kinney? And why Knight? The
peculiarity in Kinney seemed to be the two syllables; I did not drop the
name, but tried to sound each of my others as two syllables.
"What's that you say, Jones?"
It was Butler, marching by my side, that asked the question.
I stammered some reply. I had been saying aloud, "Gay-le, Ka-me, Ka-mes,
Kay-me."
The march continued. I knew not whether we were passing through woods or
fields. My head was bent; my eyes looked on the ground, but saw it not.
My mouth was shut, but words rolled their sounds through my
ears--monotonous sounds with but one or two consonants and one or
two vowels.
Suddenly association asserted itself. I thought of Captain Haskell's
quotation from some Persian poet; what was the poet's name? I soon had
it--Khayyam--pronounced Ki-yam, I added Khayyam and Kiyam to my list. We
marched on.
Why Knight? I did not know. My work seemed to revolve about K-h. I felt
greatly encouraged with Khayyam,--pronounced Ki-yam,--which had the K
sound, and in form had the h. But was there nothing more in Knight?
Nothing except the ultimate t and the long vowel, and the vowel I had
also in Ki-yam; the lines converged every way toward Ki, or toward
K-h-a-y, pronounced Ki.
Again I tried repeatedly, using the long sound of i: "Gi-le, Ki-me,
Ki-me, Ki-me, Ki-me," and kept on repeating Ki-me, involuntarily holding
to the unfamiliar sound.
For a long time I worked without any result, and I became greatly
puzzled. Then a help came. The name was that of a doctor. I repeated
over and over, "Doctor Gay-le, Doctor Ka-me, Doctor Ka-mes, Doctor
Kay-ne, Doctor Gi-le, Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-mes, Doctor Ki-yam." The
last name sounded nearly right.
The face of my dream was yet easily called up--a swarthy face with
bright black eyes and a great brow. I repeated all the words again, and
at each name I brought my will to bear and tried to fit the face to the
name: "Doctor Gay-le, they do not fit; Doctor Ka-me, they do not fit;
Doctor Kay-ne; no; Doctor Gi-le; still less Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me,
Doctor Ki-me."
The words riveted me. They did not satisfy me, yet they dominated all
other words. The strangeness of the name did not affect me; in fact, the
name was neither strange nor familiar; and just because the name did not
sound strange, I took courage and hope. I reasoned that such a name
ought to sound strange, and that it did not was cheering. I was on the
brink of something, I knew not what.
We stacked arms by the side of the road, and Ewell's corps marched by on
a road crossing ours; it took so long to go by that we were ordered
to bivouac.
My brain was in a stir. I asked myself why I should attach so great
importance to the recovery of one man's name, and I answered that this
one name was the clew to my past life, and was the beginning of my
future life; the recovery of one name would mean all recovery; I had
resolved to never abandon the pursuit of this name, and I felt convinced
that I should find it, and soon. What was to result I would risk; months
before, I had not had the courage to wish to know my past, but now I
would welcome change. I was wretched, alone in the world, tired of life;
I would hazard the venture. Then, too, I knew that if my former
condition should prove unfortunate or shameful, I still had the chance
to escape it--by being silent, if not in any other way. Nothing could be
much worse than my present state.
That afternoon and night we were on picket, having been thrown forward a
mile from the bivouac of the division. There was now but one opinion
among the men, who were almost hilarious,--Lee's army was flanking
Meade, that is, Ewell and Hill, for Longstreet had been sent to Georgia
with his corps. But why were we making such short marches? Several
reasons were advanced for this. Wilson said we were getting as near as
possible first, "taking a running start," to use his words. Youmans
thought that General Lee wanted to save the army from straggling before
the day of battle. Mackay thought Ewell would make the long march, and
that we must wait on his movement. Wilson said that could not be so, as
Ewell had marched to our right.
Nobody had any other belief than that we were getting around Meade. We
were now almost at the very spot, within a few miles of it, from which
Jackson's rapid march to Pope's rear had begun, while Meade now occupied
Pope's former position. Could General Lee hope that Meade, with Pope's
example staring him in the face, would allow himself to be entrapped?
This question was discussed by the men.
Mackay thought that the movement of our army through the Valley last
June, when we went into Pennsylvania, would be the first thing Meade
would recall.
Wilson answered this by saying that the season was too far advanced for
Meade to fear so great a movement; still, Wilson thought that General
Meade would hardly suppose that Lee would try to effect the very thing
he had once succeeded in; besides, he said, every general must provide
against every contingency, but it is clearly impossible to do so, and in
neglecting some things for others, he runs his risks and takes his
chances. Meade would not retreat until he knew that the flank movement
was in progress; to retreat in fear of having to retreat would be
nonsense; and if Meade waited only a few hours too long, it would be all
up with him; and that if he started too early, Lee might change his
tactics and follow the retreat.
On the picket-line my search was kept up. We were near the North Fork of
the Rappahannock. No enemy was on our side of the river, at least in our
front. Before nightfall we had no vedettes, for we overlooked the river,
and every man was a vedette, as it were. I lay in the line, trying to
take the first step leading to the reconstruction of my life.
"Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me."
The words clung to me obstinately. Every other name had been abandoned,
I asked not why; involuntarily all words with weaker power to hold me
had been dropped. Yet Ki-me, strong as it was, was imperfect. It did not
seem wrong, but deficient rather; something was needed to complete
it--what was that something?
Evening was drawing on. Again I thought of Khayyam, and I wondered why.
I vexed my brain to know why. Was it because Khayyam was a poet? No;
that could be no reason. Was it because he was a Persian? I could see no
connection there. Was it because of the peculiar spelling of the name?
It might be. What was the peculiarity? One of form, not sound. I must
think again of the written or printed name, not the sound only of
the word.
Then I tried "Doctor Khay-me," but failed.