Editor’s note: This is the second of two parts on the life or Robert Lee Madison, the founder of Western Carolina University.

(When I was about 10 years old, I attended “Sidney Lanier Day” at the Sylva Elementary School, when Dr. Robert Lee Madison was the guest speaker. This is my memory of that event.)

We were herded into the auditorium of the Sylva Elementary School, a building that had been repeatedly condemned as structurally unsound. It was spring and a sharp wind was whistling outside. We sat listening to the building shift as the remainder of the elementary school filed in behind us.

“Listen,” said Charlie Kay, my best friend that year. “I think it’s going to fall down.” Charlie liked to scare me. The building groaned and we all stared anxiously at the ceiling. URRRRR. URRRRRRRRR. It sounded like rending timbers and ruptured steel, but we had gotten used to it — except when the wind was blowing.

Then, the little man came down the aisle. He was supported by two women who might have been nurses, and they progressed slowly. Behind them came the principal and the mayor and a group of well-dressed folks that were probably important. But, I couldn’t take my eyes off the little man. He had a huge, drooping mustache and bright, blue eyes. He stared at us as he passed, stared as if we were the most exciting creatures that he had ever seen.

It took them a while to get him on the stage. He was seated very near the footlights where he sat smiling and nodding down at us. The auditorium grew quiet watching the little man. Then, the principal stood at the podium and told us that we had a special guest for Sidney Lanier Day  Robert Lee Madison, the founder of Western Carolina Teachers College. We were told that he was a very smart man who taught, wrote poems and played music. Throughout the principal’s speech, the little man continued to smile and nod, his blue eyes shifting from face to face.

Mrs. Tompkins, the first-grade teacher, sang “The Song of the Chattahoochee,” and we giggled when she acted as though she were the river. “I rush amain/to reach the plain/Split at the rock/and together again!” Then, we all stood and quoted (shouted) “In Flanders Field.”

“IN FLANDERS FIELD THE POPPIES GROW/BENEATH THE CROSSES ROW ON ROW/THAT MARK OUR PLACES!” The principal told us that “In Flanders Field” was the greatest poem that had ever been written. He read something about the eagle that was forgotten, and we stood and pledged allegiance to both the Confederate and American flags that hung on the back wall. Then, the little man talked to us.

At first we couldn’t hear him for he spoke in a hoarse whisper. He moved to the edge of the stage, which worried the nurses, and he peered down at us like God’s grandfather.

“Children listen! I want to tell you something, and you must never forget it!” Charlie Kay and I leaned forward like hooked fish. This is a story that you must tell your children and your grandchildren. Will you do that?” Dutifully, we all nodded, our mouths open like baby birds.

“When I was a little boy, even younger than you,” and he pointed right at Charlie Kay and me! “I lived in Robert E. Lee’s home. Yes, I did! The great leader of the Confederate army! You see, my father was a doctor and he took care of Gen. Lee. And I used to sit in Gen. Lee’s lap when I was smaller than you,” and he pointed to a boy in the first grade, “and he would let me listen to his watch!” He pretended to listen to a pocket watch. “I am named for him, you know.

“But that is not important. What is important is something that I saw when I was that little boy. It was late and night, and two of my playmates came to my bed and woke me. They said, ‘Get up, Bobby!’ When I asked why, they shushed me.” The little man put his finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh,” and then I got up and followed them. We hid in a ditch by the barn. The moon was out, and my friends pointed to the road that ran from the barn. ‘They will come from there,’ said one of my friends — they were older than me, and knew more, you see. ‘Watch, and be quiet,’ they said.

“Then, I heard it!” The little man was excited and he leaned down toward our upturned faces.

“Theratt! tat! tat! tat! It was the sound of drums.” He pretended to beat a drum. “Theratt! tat! tat! tat! And the great doors of the barn opened.

“Hidden there in the ditch, we saw the drummers, and behind them, the torches. Oh, it was bright as day, children. And then came Gen. Lee. He walked with his hat in his hand, and he was in full uniform. Behind him came the wagon. It was one of the old ammunition wagons from the War, and it was draped in gray — gray like General Lee’s uniform.

“‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What is in the wagon?’

“‘It’s Traveler,’ they said, ‘Gen. Lee’s horse. Traveler is dead.’

“It was a military funeral, same as would be given any soldier that died in the Confederate army. So we stood, my playmates and I, and we watched them pass ....on down the road, into the fog.

“Oh, lots of things have happened to this old man, children. I have seen life at its cruelest, and when it approached the sublime. Heard music, seen sunsets and tasted rare wine. But the image I will carry to my grave is seeing those torches flare in the night, and hearing the drums: THERATT! TAT! TAT! TAT! And seeing Gen. Lee walk by with his hat in his hand. And the wagon passing, that wagon draped in gray.”

For a moment, the little man seemed to have forgotten us. Then, he laughed and said, “Remember that, children. When you are old like me, tell your grandchildren. Tell them about the old man who was there the night they buried Traveler.”

The little man’s eyes sparkled with tears that ran down that great walrus mustache. “Oh, the stories I could tell you, sad, wonderful and magic!”

Then, the nurses came forward, grasped the little man’s arms and led him from the stage. We sat silently, watching the nurses lead Dr. Robert Lee Madison up the aisle.

Several years ago, I had the opportunity to tell this story to a group of teachers at the North Carolina Center for the Advancement of Teaching in Cullowhee. The story seemed appropriate since the subject of the conference was myth and legend, and we were close to the college that Madison had founded.

The group’s “facilitator” noted that my story could not possibly be true since Traveler’s skeleton had been exhibited at Washington and Lee University for years.

“This is one of your folk tales, isn’t it?” he said. I assured him that the story was true. He smiled and said, “Well, let’s move along now.”

I was troubled by the incident. Had I fabricated it? I had had 50 years to shape and reshape Dr. Madison’s visit. Then, I mentioned the incident to an old friend of mine in Sylva. He interrupted me to say, “Oh, you mean the story about how Madison hid in the ditch and watched the wagon and the torches and heard the drums beating!”

I was stunned. “How did you know that?”

“I was in the second grade. I was sitting right behind you.”

Regardless, the story has a life of its own. It exists in my memory and that of my classmates. I believed Robert Lee Madison then, and I believe him now. I see those children huddled in a weed-grown ditch, their faces washed by torchlight. And the drums. I hear the drums and I can see the sad, gray man walking with his hat in his hand. Dr. Madison told me to tell you, and I have kept my promise.

(Gary Carden is a writer, storyteller and lecturer whose book, Mason Jars in the Flood, was recently named Book of the Year by the Appalachian Writers Association. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com.)

 

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