Capable of Honor (75 page)

“I submit that this will be impossible if those who cannot be relied upon to act with honor are given too great a hand in what we do.

“It will be impossible if those of faint heart and clouded purpose are allowed to enter the places of leadership.”

It could be seen by those who avidly looked, and all did, that Governor Jason’s face was impassive, though his color seemed a little paler and the line of his jaw might be said to be a little tense. But no one could really conceive that he had any reason to worry. The imperatives of the situation gave the President no room to maneuver, and his remarks now must be taken for what they obviously were, a human little reaction, natural enough, a fatherly warning that he would expect the loyalty which they were all, of course, eager to give him.

“You have nominated me as your candidate for President. Not, I will admit”—he smiled wryly and there was a sharp little bleat of laughter, suddenly very nervous—“in quite the way, or under quite the circumstances, that I had anticipated.

“Had you done it as I anticipated, I intended to follow the policy I announced earlier and make no attempt to influence you in the selection of a vice presidential candidate—even though every presidential candidate, it seems to me, assumes his role with the immediate obligation to assist in the selection of the man he believes best equipped to succeed him should the necessity arise.

“But,” he said gravely, and now nobody at all was laughing, from Governor Jason on down they were giving him an absolute desperate attention, “you did not act as I had expected, and so I think I am relieved of the obligation to act as I originally announced.

“I think what has happened here in this convention indicates that I indeed have an obligation to give you the benefit of my thinking on the selection of my running mate and potential successor.

“I know,” he said softly, and it could be seen that Governor Jason’s face became whiter and whiter as he spoke, “what he must not be.

“He must not be a man who sacrifices honor and integrity and the decent standards of decent men in the cause of his own avid ambition for public preferment.

“He must not be a man who associates with the worst elements in America to gain his ends.

“He must not be a man who, condoning violence, attempts with the most devious skill and the most ruthless cynicism to shift the blame for it to someone who is innocent.”

It could be seen, in the deathly silence that now held the great room, that Governor Jason was very still and his face was very pale.

“He must not be a man who calls for ‘negotiations’ because it is a popular word, but does not have the honesty to tell you that genuine negotiations demand strength on our part and a willingness to stand firm—not weakness and a readiness to surrender in advance every position we hold.

“He must not be a man who offers you the outer shell of integrity but has sold himself to unprincipled backers”—and now he finally permitted his eyes to rest finally upon the Governor, who stared tensely back—“inside.

“He must not, in short,” the President said softly, and now he was staring straight at the Governor as though he had never, really, seen him until this moment—“be a man for whom conscience does not—perhaps never has, but certainly, in the heat of his ambition for office and desire for national power,
does not now
—decide the issue.”

At this there was a great gasp from the delegates, yet so astounded were they, so overwhelmed, so delighted, infuriated, happy, aghast, depending upon their personal sympathies, that it was impossible for anything coherent to emerge. Only a strange animal mumbling and grumbling, whose elements were unclear and whose import was uncertain, rose from the floor and descended from the galleries.

In the midst of it Governor Jason sat absolutely still, absolutely white, immobilized by humiliation and dismay; not yet angry, because what was happening to him was so overwhelming that it really could not penetrate, as yet; not daring, and actually physically unable, to move, so stunned was he and so uncertain as to what might be coming next.

“I do know a man of honor,” the President resumed, still softly, and there was a sudden burst of applause, nervous yet defiant, from somewhere on the floor, cut off as abruptly as it came.

“He has served his country and his party without stain or blemish for twenty years.

“He has occupied high position in his state, in the Senate, in the Cabinet.

“He has fought hard and valiantly and with great courage all his life for what he believes in.

“He has made enemies, but they have been enemies honestly made, in battles honestly fought.

“He has not been devious.

“He has not been cynical.

“He has not been cruel.

“He has not been weak.

“He is as convinced as I am that only with unflinching firmness and the willingness to accept, and act immediately upon, our international obligations, can this nation, and the free world that depends upon her, survive.

“He is direct, forthright, courageous—and honorable.

Like him or dislike him, take him or leave him, there he stands—a man, in all senses.

“A man,” the President concluded quietly, “I believe the country needs—I believe the world needs.

“I know I need him.

“I nominate for the office of Vice President of the United States,” he said, so quietly and calmly that they hardly realized he was doing it until it was over, “a great and
honorable
American, Orrin Knox of the State of Illinois.”

His expression became stern in the fantastic hush. It was a moment in which the world could end, so terrible was the tension.

“I tell you frankly now, I will accept no other.”

And with a grave little bow of his head he turned without looking at Ted Jason, shook hands quickly with the Speaker who could not resist giving his arm a quick, delighted squeeze, and walked solemnly from the podium, a portly, comfortable, old-shoe figure who did not look at all fatherly or forgiving any more.

Of what happened in those next few minutes no one who was there, or anyone who watched it on television, ever retained any coherent memory, so great was the release of emotion that burst from the convention, so furious and contradictory the emotions and reactions that filled the hall and spun outward from it around the earth. From Frankly Unctuous and Walter Dobius, at last too upset to make any attempt to dissemble their horrified disbelief, to Hal Knox, absent-mindedly gripping the Illinois standard and staring transfixed at the platform while tears ran down his face, all were undone and everything was tossed awry. The enormity of it was what overwhelmed the Jasonites; the wonderful audacity of it was what stunned the Knox supporters. The President had defied all the clichés of conventions, had refused to go along with the sickly good-fellowship with which men who hate each other on Wednesday embrace on Thursday for the sake of party unity and the necessities of November; had done, bluntly and honestly, exactly what he believed in doing. It was a deed beyond immediate comprehension, though in days to come many and many a solemn word would be written analyzing its reasons, implications, and effect.

But right now, for perhaps ten minutes, no one was capable of doing much of anything. It was as though the whole convention were paralyzed. Delegates milled aimlessly about, the galleries gabbled, Walter’s world babbled, nobody took hold. The Speaker, appearing as dazed and uncertain as the rest, stood chatting to Anna Bigelow in a rambling conversation whose content neither of them would ever be able to recall later, no matter how hard they tried. It seemed that no one would act because no one knew how to act.

The event was temporarily too much.

The human animal, however, is not one to go for long without adapting; and in one benumbed but brilliant mind the glow of a great and growing anger produced presently the action required to get the convention back on course and start the world moving again. One decisive act was needed, and this was it.

The Governor of California stood up.

Instantly the hall fell still.

Slowly, with a terrible controlled tightness, he came to the microphone. The Speaker abruptly left Anna in midsentence to move forward beside him.

“Mr. Chairman!” Ted Jason said in a strained, harsh voice that boomed out with a shocking loudness over the amplifiers. “… Mr. Chairman.”

“For what purpose does the distinguished delegate from California seek recognition?” the Speaker inquired automatically, his own voice strained and uncertain, staring intently, as though he had never seen it before, at the drawn face at his side.

For a second it seemed that the Governor might not be able to go on, so dreadfully was he struggling to control himself.

“To withdraw a candidacy,” he said finally, and a great groan went up from his supporters across the floor and in the galleries.

“Yes!” he said, his voice growing stronger. “To withdraw a candidacy and to withdraw myself from this convention which is now a mockery of all that honorable men hold dear.”

There was a roar of applause, met by some booing and, from the Wyoming delegation, a wild, frantic voice that yelled, “Give it to him, Ted! Oh, damn it,
let him have it!”

“Much has been made of honor in the last few minutes,” he said, and now his voice was becoming fuller and stronger as the anger began to take hold and the impact of what had been done to him at last began to sink in.

“It is amazing how the word can be interpreted to suit the purposes of those who use it.

“Honor, the President says—and he allows you to assume that he will favor me so that he can get you to vote a platform endorsing his ill-advised and dangerous policies.”

There was a gasp but he ignored it.

“Honor, he says—and he brings me here to make a Roman spectacle of me before the world, with a cruelty that sits oddly with the picture of a kindly President in love with honor.

“Honor, he says—and he steps cold-bloodedly into the deliberations of a democratic convention and ruthlessly attempts to impose his will upon you.

“Honor, he says—and he nominates a vice presidential candidate whose policies of violence in the world and violence in this convention—”

Now there was a wave of booing that grew as he spoke, but he shouted on into it—

“—have contributed to disaster here and disaster abroad.

“Honor, he preaches,” he said more calmly, “and nothing but dishonor flows from what he does.”

Again there was a gasp and an abrupt, uneasy silence.

“He uses, too,” Ted said slowly, “and he chooses to make a mockery of it, the word conscience.

“He says I do not have one.

“He says I have never had one.

“He says power means more to me than conscience.

“He sneers at my campaign slogan and implies it is nothing but a gimmick to get votes.

“Very well,” he said, and his voice again became uneven with emotion, “he can say what he likes. And I leave you to make what peace you can with your own consciences about what has happened here. But I know what I must do to rest easy with mine.

“I care not what others do, and I make no attempt to direct or influence them, but I know what I am going to do.”

He paused and when he resumed it was in a still-unsteady but stronger voice.

“When I leave the platform now I shall be leaving this convention and I shall not return.”

There was a great groan of protest and anger from his supporters, met suddenly with an equally angry and determined applause from the other side.

“Words cannot express my gratitude to those of you who have believed in me,” he said slowly and with great emotion. “I wish you well in your future endeavors. May God give you strength to do what is best for our beloved country. I shall always do what I can to advance her interests—in decency … in conscience … and in honor.”

And without looking right or left he turned and walked swiftly, brushing aside the tentative hands that reached out to him in pity or approval, off the platform, out of the Cow Palace, out of the convention.

Moments come, and sometimes moments do not wait, and those who would control them must act swiftly or not at all.

“Mr. Chairman!” Cullee Hamilton shouted while all around delegates sat stunned, none yet moving, none rising to follow the Governor as they might in another second do, “I second the nomination of Orrin Knox to be Vice President and I ask you to put the question!”

“Question!” Lafe shouted from the Iowa delegation, and “Question!” Bob Munson shouted from Michigan.

“QUESTION!” a giant yell went up.

“The Secretary will call the roll of the states for the selection of a candidate for Vice President,” the Speaker cried, and Anna Bigelow barked, “Alabama!” so fast she could hardly be understood.

“Alabama,” a tense voice said, and a wild rush of sound went up as floor and galleries sensed instantly what was going to happen, “casts six votes for Orrin Knox and
four votes abstain.”

“On this ballot,” the Speaker reported an hour later in a voice heavy with emotion and strain as the clock once again approached the hour of three o’clock in the morning, “there are 763 votes for Orrin Knox of Illinois, 530 abstentions. Orrin Knox is hereby declared to be the choice of this convention for the office of Vice President of the United States!”

He paused for a moment, obviously awaiting a motion to make it unanimous, but of course no motion came; only a harsh laughter, here and there, and a restless stirring across the floor.

“Mr. Chairman!” Senator Van Ackerman called out into the uneasy pause.

“For what purpose does the delegate seek recognition?” the Speaker inquired.

“Just to say one little thing, Mr. Speaker,” Fred said in a savage, mocking voice. “To say that I’m going.” His voice rose in a shout. “ARE ANY OF THE REST OF YOU GOING TO HAVE THE GUTS TO GO WITH ME?”

And he, too, without looking to one side or the other, turned and stalked from the floor; and this time others rose, in many delegations, ignoring the Speaker’s repeated gavelings for order, and made their way to the exits, while on the floor and in the galleries and in the press the entire convention stood to watch them go: almost 500, Frankly Unctuous reported with a pleased excitement five minutes later, enough to hold a rump convention, enough to start a third party—“although the Governor of California,” Walter Dobius cautioned in a voice finally restored to its normal judicious gravity, once more in command of events and busy upon them, “will undoubtedly have to consider many things before authorizing so drastic and fateful a step.”