Capable of Honor (61 page)

“The Chair,” the Speaker said at last in a voice that trembled slightly in spite of him, when the noise had begun to drain itself out a little, “will recognize the distinguished National Committeewoman from California, Mrs. Esmé Harbellow Stryke, to speak in support of the minority report on the foreign policy plank.”

And for twenty minutes Esmé Stryke did, while the delegates and galleries listened with an almost desperate attention. The demonstrators of COMFORT, DEFY, and KEEP did not perform again during her speech, their opponents were similarly silent. By a sort of tacit agreement, everyone for the moment seemed too emotionally exhausted and too involved in letting tensions relax to do more than give her a few perfunctory moments of applause, a few dutiful boos and hisses. A great many in the hall were thoroughly frightened, not so much by what had occurred as by what it revealed of the capacity of the human animal to go suddenly berserk.
Who knew what they might do together next?
It was a thought that left many deeply shaken. Esmé Stryke was one of them. Her voice was not too steady, her usually positive manner was uncertain, and although she did make one quick reference to “those who have paid a tragic price for their belief in a peaceful world,” she raced over it and hurried on before there could be any reaction one way or the other from the convention.

When she concluded by moving adoption of the minority report as an amendment to the committee report, there was again a rather perfunctory burst of applause. Roger P. Croy followed her to the podium to second the motion; said the one brief sentence necessary to do so; announced that he would reserve further comments for rebuttal, if necessary; and retired to a seat with Esmé toward the back of the ramp.

The Speaker came to the podium and with his words the tension began again to build.

“To speak in opposition to the minority report,” he said, his voice still showing strain, though his manner seemed as impassive as always, “the Chair has the great honor and privilege to introduce one of the gentlemen of this party—one of the decent and honorable men who serve this nation with the integrity and dignity befitting the great office of United States Senator”—there was an ominous little flurry of boos, but he went calmly on—“the Majority Leader of the United States Senate, the
Honorable
Robert Durham Munson, senior United States Senator from the great state of Michigan.”

While Bob Munson smiled and waved the band swung into the Michigan Fight Song, the Michigan delegation seized its standards and began a snake dance up the aisle which was soon joined in good-naturedly by delegates from many other states. For a few minutes it seemed that the convention had been restored to being just like any other, brutal in spots but basically good-tempered and decent both in its instincts and in the outward display of them. It seemed so until the demonstration began to subside, the delegations returned to their seats, and an attentive silence settled over the hall. Then, just as Bob Munson leaned forward to place his hands upon the lectern and begin speaking, there came a flat, sardonic greeting that put it all back in perspective:

WEL-COME, LI-TTLE RO-BERT.

There was a gasp from the convention, a sudden furious move to pound the gavel from the Speaker, a restraining hand on his arm from Senator Munson, who murmured rapidly, “What can you do, they aren’t breaking any rule. Better not make it worse.” “All right,” the Speaker said grimly. “Handle it your own way. God give you luck.”

“I thank you,” Bob Munson said calmly, “for that kindly, warm, and cordial greeting.” He was rewarded with laughter and applause, not so intimidated now. “I do not know exactly who you are, for you do not speak with bands and bunting and happy, open sounds like my friends from Michigan and other states have just done. You speak as though you live in a cave, or under a rock, which is perhaps where you came from.”

WATCH—IT, the claque admonished coldly, and on the floor many delegates swung around and stared, trying to find the source. But the claque’s members had been so carefully distributed through the galleries that they could not be singled out. It was clear only, from their disciplined chorus, that there must be a great many of them, instructed and captained by walkie-talkie from some superbly organized central point with all the money in the world and the ruthless brains to use it.

“I suggest,” Senator Munson said with an equal coldness, “that whoever is guiding you and directing you, watch it; for he is attempting to introduce here methods in the pursuit of his ambition that are repugnant to America and will be repudiated by the common sense and decency of America. I say to him, watch it, for he is trying something that will destroy him before he is through. Take that message back to him from this convention!” he shouted with a sudden calculated vehemence that brought an answering, growing wave of cheers from the floor. “Tell him we don’t want his Hitler methods here! This is an American convention and we want to keep it that way!”

There was a great roar of applause, and against it the robot-like voices were temporarily overwhelmed, though there was some deep-growled indication they might still be trying.

“Now,” Bob Munson said before the enthusiasm could subside, “what is proposed here? That we actually refuse to support our President by naming the places where he has honorably and courageously committed American power in the interest of re-establishing world peace. That we actually be afraid to say the words ‘Gorotoland’ and ‘Panama.’ Are we, my friends? Are we such cowards in this great convention that we are afraid to say ‘Gorotoland’ and ‘Panama’? Tell me if we’re cowards!”

“NO!” roared the convention or enough of it so that even the skeptics of Walter’s world had to admit that he was carrying a good majority with him.

“I should hope not!” he shouted. “I should hope not! All right, then, if we aren’t afraid, let’s say so! Let’s take the only action we can take, consistent with supporting our great President and his policies. Let’s write it into the platform of this party in words that will ring from San Francisco to Peking and back again. Let’s repudiate this attempt by a minority of the platform committee to tiptoe past the realities of the age we live in. Let’s vote down their amendment, let’s adopt the committee report, and then as a free and fearless convention, let’s vote a foreign policy plank that will show the world that we stand behind our great President united and unafraid! Mr. Speaker, I ask the convention to vote down the minority amendment!”

Once again came a roar of applause, the Michigan delegation raised its standards and waved them wildly, the band broke into a few bars of the Fight Song, quickly stilled as the Speaker stepped forward to introduce Roger P. Croy. The ex-Governor of Oregon came forward from his seat beside Esmé Stryke with a grave and thoughtful air.

There was a brief demonstration from Oregon, a welcoming hand from floor and galleries, no sound whatever from the claque. Had a vote been taken at that moment, Bob Munson, knew, he could have carried the convention with him. But parliamentary procedures would not permit it, Roger P. Croy had reserved the right of rebuttal and now he claimed it. He began in gravely measured tones and it was apparent at once to the Senator from Michigan that he was mounting a very skillful attack. The issue still was any man’s.

“Mr. Chairman,” Roger P. Croy said slowly, “I want to tell you about two young men. I shall not,” he said, raising a graceful hand as a murmur of protest began to come from many places across the floor, “make any attempt to assess blame for their deaths, or attribute invidious motivations to any man or any group where they are concerned. The candidate I favor in this convention completely and finally repudiates any such type of argument.”

“We don’t hear him say so!” somebody shouted, but Roger P. Croy ignored it.

“Picture, if you will,” he said gently, “two fine, upstanding young Americans, one white and one”—there was the slightest perceptible emphasis—“black, come to the heart of their beautiful city of San Francisco to participate in all the fun and excitement that goes with the selection of candidates at a great national convention. Fun and excitement, yet serious things, too—for both these young men were earnest students of affairs, sincerely concerned for their country’s welfare, sincerely concerned about such things as foreign policy and war. One of them was, in his student days, something of a rebel against authority in these areas, so deeply concerned and so dedicated to the cause of world peace that he did, on occasion, make public protest. All honor to him,” Roger P. Croy said gravely, “for having the great sincerity and courage of his convictions.

“The other, less favored in education and upbringing, was yet moved by the noble aspirations of his race to seek answers for the troubling problems he saw everywhere in the world about him. In his quiet, less publicized way, he too made up his mind what was right and proceeded to seek it out.

“So, Mr. Chairman,” said Roger P. Croy, and it was some tribute to his well-known powers as an orator that he now had the convention, 99 percent of which at that moment knew absolutely nothing about William Everett Hollister II or Booker T. Saunders, quite spellbound, “so they decided, separately, not consulting, not together—these two brave young men who were destined to die together in a great cause never even met, as far as we know, never even knew each other, never even smiled the smile of brotherhood or exchanged the glance of a shared conviction—these two brave young men decided that in the person and the candidacy of the great leader of their great state they had found the answer to their doubts and worries … they had found, if you please, Mr. Chairman, the way to world peace.

“So we see them come, laughing and confident in the cause of their candidate, to Union Square in the bright sparkling sunshine that only San Francisco knows how to confer with such sweet beneficence upon her children and her guests. Earnest, sincere, dedicated—yes, Mr. Chairman,
noble.
One white and one—black, we see them come, not knowing one another but linked in the great bond of the great cause of world peace—to Union Square in the sun.

“But wait, Mr. Chairman! Wait! There are shadows on that sun. Something ominous underlies the sparkling air. Evil things are moving beneath the palm fronds and the sweetly swooping doves of Union Square. An ugly spirit is abroad, walking in the name of another candidate for high office—
not,
Mr. Chairman,” he said sharply as an angry murmur of protest began to rise from many Knox delegates—
“not
that he knows it,
not
that he directs it,
not
that he has ever consciously said or ever would say, I want the deaths of two noble young men who favor my opponent.’ No,
no
, Mr. Chairman! Never that!

“But, Mr. Chairman”—and his voice dropped sadly—“even that great man is subject to error. Even he can miscalculate and set in motion forces whose outcome can only be evil … and destruction … and death. Even he, who cannot, as captain, escape responsibility for his ship, can set it upon a course whose end can only be tragedy.

“And so he has, Mr. Chairman, so he has! In error—human, understandable—but, alas, how inevitable! For see them, two—two young friends as they enter the Square, innocent—happy—excited—eager—dedicated—
alive
. How many minutes remain to them, Mr. Chairman?
How many seconds?
Alas, too few! The hostile glance, the angry word, the quick, vengeful act—the blows, dealt in the name of Orrin Knox—yes, I
know,
Mr. Chairman,” he said harshly as indignant protests rose from the floor—“not with his knowledge, I
know
that. But
in
his name—and alas, how tragically—
for
the cause he represents, which is the cause of foreign entanglement, the cause of destroying international law, the cause of ruthless aggression by this great power against two tiny ones, the cause of endless war!

“That is what has killed our two young friends, in Union Square in the glorious sunshine shadowed by the harsh ambitions of a candidate and his ruthless backers. They have come seeking peace and life. They have found war—and death.…

“Mr. Chairman,” Roger P. Croy said solemnly, “surely this convention will not, now, repudiate the cause of peace for which they died. Surely it will not now write into the platform of this great party the bloody names of two little countries, and an open endorsement of war. Surely this language is sufficient, and I quote—‘Believing that the interests of world peace can best be served by halting armed aggression wherever it may occur, we applaud the declared intention of the President of the United States to conciliate and settle world differences in such areas of conflict on a basis of peaceful negotiation.’

“Can honest men argue with that? Can decent men argue with that? Can our two young friends, wherever they may be, and we pray God their rest is peaceful and quiet with a peace and quiet a ruthless political ambition has denied them on this earth—can they argue with that? I think not, Mr. Chairman. It approves the President, which seems to be the worry of my distinguished friend the Senator from Michigan. It endorses the President’s program of peaceful negotiations. It states the danger to the world as reasonable men see it. What more can possibly be asked of us, ladies and gentlemen of the convention? What is the issue here, what is the trouble? Why was it necessary for two brave young men to die? Surely this language says it all, firmly and effectively and fearlessly as befits this great party and its great President. Surely there is no argument here!

“My friends,” he said solemnly, “in the name of honor, in the name of decency, in the name of national interest, in the name of two brave young men, one white and one—black, who have so bravely made the last, great sacrifice for the cause of peace, I urge you most respectfully to approve the minority report which embodies this language and thus affirm our support of our great President and the cause of peace.”

And he turned and walked, soberly and slowly as befitted an ex-Governor of the great state of Oregon, back along the ramp past Bob Munson, who did not bother to look up from his earnest conversation with a Hal Knox whose sad eyes looked as though he had just about had it.