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.
I knew that I had said "Ki-me," and had not thought "Khay-me."
By an effort that made my head ache, I said "Doctor Ki-me," and simultaneously reproduced "Doctor Khay-me" with letters before my brain. It would not do.
Yet, though this double process had failed, I was not discouraged. I thought of no other name. Everything else had been definitely abandoned. Without reasoning upon it I knew that the name was right, and I knew, as if by intuition, how to proceed to a conclusion. I tried again, and knew beforehand that I should succeed.
This last time--for, as I say, I knew it would be the last--I did three things.