Preserve and Protect (54 page)

“When I first came in, a couple of weeks ago, the label which was promptly attached to me by a great newspaper, the
New York Times
was, I recall, ‘The Caretaker President.’ In my short time in office, and in the time remaining to me, I have tried to take care, and I will continue to try to take care: of the American Government, which is my personal responsibility; of the American people, some of whom”—his expression became ironic—“don’t like me, but a lot of whom do—and of something even more precious and vital, because without it there wouldn’t be an
American
Government or an
American
people—and that is the essential spirit and tradition of this Republic.

“Now, basically, that’s what we’re contending for here in this Committee right now. Basically, in their own weird way, I suppose it is what those who are presently desecrating that spirit and that tradition are contending for in their riots and demonstrations across the country.

“The soul of America—that is the prize. Whoever captures that captures the fulcrum with which to move the world. Beset, beleaguered, even somewhat bedraggled as we may have become in the eyes of some—still it is the prize.

“I am defending it as best I know how while the burden rests on me,” he concluded very quietly, and even outside there was an absolute hush. “Let us pray God that whoever succeeds me will do the same.

“Mrs. Bigelow,” he said briskly, before the applause could really get started inside, before they could remember that they were supposed to boo outside, “please continue the roll call for nominations.”

But then the applause did begin, and so, dutifully, did the booing. The two contended in a rush of sound that the President allowed to run for a couple of minutes. Then he began rapping patiently with his gavel, and when the Committee finally responded, repeated matter-of-factly, “Mrs. Bigelow!”

“Arizona!” said Anna.

“Arizona passes,” said Margaret Bayard Hughes.

“Arkansas!”

“Arkansas,” said David M. Johnson, “yields to California.”

And the tension shot up as everything returned to normal.

“Mr. President,” Esmé Harbellow Stryke declared, her dark little face pinched and strained with excitement, “California wishes to nominate the next President of the United States!”

“I expect California has as much right as Illinois has,” the President remarked amicably. “Would the distinguished Committeewoman like to come to the lectern?”

“Yes, I will, Mr. President,” Esmé said; and after she had done so—the President and Anna Bigelow stepping back to take seats at the table toward the right of the stage—she adjusted the height of the microphone and began to speak, in a voice that was urgent and a little defensive, yet firm.

“Mr. President, California, too, has a native son, and it is now incumbent upon California to give her son to the world—”

(“Her only begotten son?” the
Chicago Tribune
whispered to the
Miami Herald.
The
Miami Herald
whispered,
“Shhhh.”)

“—so that the world may at last have peace.

“Mr. President,” she said, and the defensiveness became a little more pronounced, “it will not be my purpose this morning to go into matters of foreign policy that are presently dividing this Committee and are very much dividing the nation. I think we all know the basic lines of argument, and we all know, generally, where we stand.

“Certainly, Mr. President, we know where you and the Secretary of State stand”—she looked around at him and he looked back with complete impassivity—“and certainly we know where California’s favorite son stands. He, too, I will say to the distinguished Committeewoman from Colorado, is known to us as a man of integrity, courage and honor. He, too, has stood four-square for what he believes in. He, too, cares for America. How could he run for this terrible, difficult office otherwise?

“Mr. President, California believes that the time has come for America to have the leadership of this man. With all respect to you, and to the Secretary of State, we do not believe your policies are best for America. We do not believe that they can achieve a genuine peace as long as they rest solely and exclusively on force of arms. We do not believe that there is any future for America the way we are going. We believe that the policies being followed are old, tired, unimaginative and stale. We believe they lead to disaster instead of redemption. We believe,” she said quietly, “that they are doomed, and we are very much afraid that unless they can be changed, America will be doomed along with them.

“California offers this Committee—as we had hoped to offer the free convention, but that is not to be—a man who can bring us new policies, a new vision, a new approach. California offers you a man who can give us the leadership we desperately need—who can put us back on the high road of American purpose and American idealism—who can save us and save the world—a man who can preserve, protect and defend, if you please, what the President in his very gracious speech described as ‘the soul of America.’

“Mr. President, California is proud to offer this Committee, the country and the world, the name of her most favorite, most able, and most distinguished son, Governor Edward M. Jason!”

And she turned and bowed to the President, still impassive, came down the little flight of steps and returned to her seat, as many in the Committee and the audience applauded, and distantly came a long, swelling roar of cheers and shouts, applause and excitement.

(“Not as bad as I thought it would be,” Senator Munson murmured to Bob Leffingwell, while Patsy strained to hear them from the row behind. “Very reasonable,” Bob Leffingwell agreed. “Maybe the President’s words have calmed things a little.”)

“Members of the Committee,” the President said, returning to the lectern, “are there seconds? It seems to the Chair that possibly, since this is not a convention, it might not be necessary to have lengthy seconds—”

“Mr. President,” Roger Croy said, “we on our side discussed this last night. We agree that your position is entirely sound. To complete the nominating process for the record, Mr. President, and on behalf of a substantial number of our colleagues—”

(“Damn it,” AP whispered to UPI. “How can we see how things are shaping up if he isn’t going to name them and they aren’t going to speak?”)

“—Oregon seconds the nomination of the Honorable Edward M. Jason.”

“Thank you,” the President said. “Mrs. Bigelow—”

“Connecticut!” Anna said.

“Connecticut,” said John P. Fanucci, “passes.”

“Florida!”

“The great state of Florida,” said J. V. Simonson, “yields to the great state of Illinois to nominate the next President of the United States!”

Blair Hannah rose beside his desk.

Tension renewed itself.

Outside an ominous murmuring began.

“Mr. President,” Blair Hannah said, looking about in his thoughtful, rather pedantic fashion, speaking in his slow, acid-edged drawl, “we do meet under extraordinary circumstances here, and nothing, I think, illustrates that fact better than the general response and treatment that we on the Committee have received in this city.

“Most of us, Mr. President, arrived here a week or so ago to await our meeting in response to your call. Since then, in every edition of every newspaper, and every hour on the hour over television and radio, the opinions of the Committee have been sought.

“When they haven’t been found, they have been fabricated.”

There was an uneasy stirring at the press tables and all the cameras suddenly zoomed in on Blair Hannah’s calm eyes and firm, pugnacious jaw.

“For instance, Mr. President, each day there have appeared, in various newspapers with a national or semi-national circulation that happen to be on sale in this town, such headlines as: MAJORITY OF COMMITTEE SHOWING TREND TO JASON. Or sometimes it’s been: KNOX FORCES LOSING GROUND IN PRE-MEETING HUDDLES. And then again it’s been: COMMITTEE MEMBERS HINT JASON ON FIRST BALLOT. Or, KNOX WAR POLICIES DRAW COMMITTEE CRITICISM.

“And in the columns and the editorials and the pictures, and on the television and radio programs, the story has been the same. It seems as though there have been sixty dozen dope stories and fifty dozen special broadcasts, all of them adding up to the same thing: Orrin Knox is the villain of the age and he’s beaten before we vote.

“Well, Mr. President,” he said, and his drawl became increasingly sardonic, “that isn’t the way some of us have heard it. In the first place, aside from a few”—he stared thoughtfully into the cameras—“professional leakers, I suppose they might be called—I don’t really think too many responsible people on this Committee have said much to the press or television. I know that on our side we haven’t, because we all reached agreement in the first few hours that we were in town that we weren’t going to. So, all these reports and inside-dope stories, Mr. President—these trends and gains and losing grounds—they must have come from somebody else.

“Now, I know, Mr. President, because before I retired and got into this delightful business of politics, I was in that other delightful business, that this just isn’t very good journalism. I mean, I used to run a pretty sizable newspaper in Decatur, you know, and we used to try not to do that sort of thing. Of course now and again it will creep in, but you can guard against it, Mr. President … if you’re alert and reasonably careful, you can guard against it.”

“Mr. President—” Ewan MacDonald MacDonald began, but Asa Attwood snapped, “Regular order!”

“The Committeeman from California is correct,” the President said. “This isn’t a debate, now, these are nominations. Proceed, Mr. Hannah.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Blair Hannah said. “Wouldn’t want to upset anybody too much, but I think it’s good to get the background, here.”

(“As he sees it, the pompous ass,” the
New York Post
whispered to the
San Francisco Chronicle.
The
Chronicle
nodded cheerfully. “Never did think much of that rag in Decatur!”)

“Now, Mr. President,” Blair Hannah continued calmly, “ever since we got here, I will admit, there has been a powerful lot of stirring around inside the Committee. I remember reading a story a few days ago by Miss Carrew, God rest her soul, whom many of us had gotten to know well and fondly in conventions over the years, and while I don’t want to be critical of it or of her, still all that social lollygagging, while it has existed, has only been part of it. As of course she knew, and, I suspect”—he paused and peered slowly around at Ewan MacDonald, who had no choice but to stare impassively back—“knew too well …

“Much else has gone on, Mr. President. All of us have been subjected to all sorts of pressures. We’ve had telephone calls and messages and talks with everybody from you, right on down—or up, as some may wish to look at it—to the distinguished Governor of California, to say nothing of the distinguished Secretary of State. Clear up to three and four o’clock this morning, over there in Fort Myer in that gilt-edged detention home you’ve provided for us”—there was a ripple of amusement in which the President joined—“people were conferring like mad. And some of them, probably, at this moment don’t know exactly which way they’re going to jump. In fact, I’d say,” he added with a thoughtful expression that brought an intent interest, “that maybe about four or five are still undecided. And four or five,” he said quietly, “can sometimes decide an election.…”

(“Is it that close?” Hal Knox asked in the library in Spring Valley. “So we’re told,” Beth said. “Yipes,” he said soberly.)

“So, Mr. President, the point I’m making,” Blair Hannah resumed, “is that it hasn’t been anywhere near as one-sided, right inside the Committee here, as it’s been portrayed to the country and to the world. There’s been a certain—maybe we should say ‘wishful thinking,’ that might be the polite way to put it—that has seemed to pretty well color the reporting and the broadcasting that’s gone on here. Four or five people here may be undecided, but I doubt there’s that many major newspapers, periodicals and networks that are. With them, it’s the great Governor, all the way.”

“Mr. President”—Ewan MacDonald tried again, but Blair Hannah raised a gently cautioning hand and went serenely on.

“So, Mr. President, I come to the nomination, now that I’ve paid my tribute to the value of reasonable perspective and objectivity in the press. And the nomination I have to make, as you all know, is that of Illinois’ favorite son, the Secretary of State.”

(“Spiteful old son of a bitch,”
The Greatest Publication
murmured. “What can you expect of a jerkwater-town editor?” the
Los Angeles Times
asked with a shrug.)

“I’m not going to be lengthy about this, because we all know him. We all voted upon him for Vice President scarcely two weeks ago. We know his record, and we know what he stands for. He stands foursquare for the only policy that will save America—which to my way of thinking, and that of the people
I
know,” he said dryly, “is possibly even slightly more important than saving the rest of the world. Because without us, there won’t be much left of it.

“It is true that the Secretary of State has always counseled, beginning in the very earliest days of a Senate career which even his enemies, I think, concede was very distinguished and outstanding, a firm policy in the world. But it has been a firmness tempered with compassion—”

(“Napalm in the jungles of Gorotoland?” the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
whispered to
The Nation
. “That’s known as selective compassion,”
The Nation
replied.)

“—and a strength restrained by fairness and justice. He believes that the world is indivisible and that we rise and fall together, and he believes the same thing about the United States. He doesn’t think you fragment off your principles and your courage without fragmenting off your chances of survival. He doesn’t think the world can survive half-slave and half-free, particularly when the slave side is constantly on the move trying to disrupt and conquer the free side.

“So: he has principles and he stands by them. And because he has, I believe, and many Americans believe, America has been stronger for his presence; and will be even stronger if we here today give him the ultimate office from which he can—and I will use the language of the oath, just as my good friend, Mrs. Stryke, did—preserve, protect and defend the Constitution and the corporate being and future of the United States of America.