Who goes there?

by B. K. Benson

What folly!

But the other Jones asks also, "Don't you know me?" and then another picture comes before me, but dimly, for it seems almost in the night: Jones--this new Jones--is standing near a prostrate horse as black as jet and is prisoner in the hands of Union men, and the other Jones is there, too, and I see that he is joyful that Jones is caught. What utter folly! Is everybody to be named Jones? I have followed one Jones and have found two--possibly three. Who is the true Jones? Is there any true Jones? Has my fevered brain but conjured up a picture, or series of pictures, of events that never had existence? Why should one Jones be glad that another Jones was caught? I give up this new Jones.

Now I was thinking without method--in a daze. Every line had resulted in an end beyond which was a blank, or else confusion. I gave myself up to mere revery.

Somehow, I had trust; I felt that I was at a beginning which was also an end. I had come far. I had recovered the name of Dr. Khayme, and of Lydia, of Sergeant Jake Willis, of Jones, with possibly another Jones; with these names I ought to work out the whole enigma. I knew that Jones was the man who had broken his gun; the man who had helped Willis; the man who had been under the bursting shell on the hill. Yes, and another thought,--the man who had been wounded there.

I knew that Lydia was the Doctor's daughter. A few more relations found would untangle everything. But how to find more? I must think. Yet thinking seemed weak. I believed that if I could quit thinking, the thing would come of itself. Yet how to quit thinking? I remembered that I had received lessons upon the power of the will from Captain Haskell and ... from ... somebody ... who?--Why, Doctor Khayme, of course.

And now another new thought, or fancy. What relation, if any, could there be between the Captain and the Doctor? In a confused way I groped in the tangle of this question until I became completely lost again, having gained, however, the knowledge that Dr. Khayme had taught me concerning the will.

I lay back and closed my eyes, to try to banish thought; the effort was vain. I opened my eyes, and dreamed. I could recall the Doctor's dark face, his large brow, his bright eyes, and a pipe--yes, a pipe, with its carven bowl showing a strange head; and I could recall more easily the Captain's long jaw, and triangle of a face, and even the slight lisp with which he spoke. What relationship had these two men? If Captain Haskell had ever known Dr. Khayme, should I not have heard him speak of the Doctor? I had known the Captain since I had known the Doctor; where had I known the Doctor? Where had I known him first? He had been my teacher. Where? I remembered--in Charleston! But why does the Doctor associate with Willis, who is distinctly a Federal soldier, and with Jones, who is sometimes a Federal? I can see the Doctor in an ambulance--and in a tent; he must be a surgeon.

Ah! yes; Willis is a prisoner, after all, and in the Confederate hospital.

The thought of a possible relationship between the Doctor and the Captain continued to come. Why should I think of such a possibility? My brain became clearer. My people must be in Charleston. The Captain may have known the Doctor in Charleston. They may have been friends. They talked of similar subjects--at least, they had views which affected me similarly. Yet that might mean nothing. I tried to give up the thought.

Again the Doctor's face, and the Captain. For one short instant these two men seemed to me to be at once identical and separate--even opposite. How preposterous! Yet at the same moment I remembered that the Captain once had said he was not sure that there was such a condition as absolute individuality. Preposterous or not, the thought, gone at once, had brought another in its train: I had never seen these two men together, and I had never seen the Doctor without Jones. Wherever the Doctor was, there was Jones also. Here came again the former glimmering notion of double and even opposite identity. Was Jones two? He was seemingly a Federal and a Confederate. I had supposed, weakly, that he was a Confederate spy in a Federal uniform; but his conduct at Manassas had not borne out the supposition. He had even broken his gun rather than have it fall into the hands of Confederates, and had helped a wounded Federal. Yet, again, that conduct might have been part of a very deep plan. What plan? To deceive the enemy so fully that he would be received everywhere as one of them? Yes; or rather to act in entire conformity with his supposed character. He must always act the complete Federal when with federals, so that no suspicion should attach to him. No doubt he had remained in the Federal camp until he had got the information needed, and had returned to the Confederates before he had been wounded by the shell.