Promise of Joy (24 page)

“And I suppose ‘deflecting’ me, as you put it, involves holding up my Cabinet and refusing to give me the military strength I need to see this thing through.”

“You will have your Cabinet in due course,” Arly Richardson said, “but I doubt if either house will approve your budget for military expansion.”

“Then apparently,” the President said, bleakly but with no signs whatsoever of any intention to yield, “I am on my own.”

But since he was still, after all, the President, and since some instinct for national survival restrained even the most adamant of his responsible older opponents from going the ultimate distance in trying to break him, his remote and unreachable tone brought a hurried response from the Speaker.

“Oh, now, Mr. President, sir,” he said hastily, “now, come, now! We got us a way out of this tangle, now, you know we have! It’s right there waitin’ for you. All you got to do is jes’ follow that
Yew
nited Nations resolution! It’s as simple as that, Mr. President. All you got to do is agree to a cease-fire and mebbe withdraw jes’ a few li’l ole troops, now, jes’ a token I’m sure would do it, and then ev’thang would be quieted down and you could go and meet with our friends in Moscow and Peking, there, and say to ’em, ‘Looka-here, now, you-all,
we want peace!
We want to get
together
with you-all! We want to settle this here whole
mess
that’s tyin’ up the world, and get on with the business of peace! That’s what we want, now, so let’s you and me
get at it!’
That’s what you could do, Mr. President, sir. That’s what we’re all
prayin’,
us good friends of yours in charge of Congress now, that’s what we’re all
prayin’
you’ll do.”

For another long moment Orrin Knox studied him thoughtfully. Then he spoke in a tone perfectly calm, completely unmoved.

“Let me make it clear to you that this is one President who will never negotiate with the Communist powers under duress. I invited them to talk: they preferred war. So be it. When they prefer peace, we will talk—not before. They have chosen the path we go down. I will follow as long as they wish. When they are ready to talk peace and mean it—when their actions on the battlefield prove it—when they show honesty and good faith and really end hostilities and aggression—then I will talk. Not before.”

“The day may come,” Senator Richardson said into the silence that followed, his voice filled with a bleakness to match Orrin’s own, “when you will have no choice.”

“Not if you give me the support and the weapons I need,” the President replied.

“And that,” Arly said, “many of us in good conscience cannot do.”

“Then,” the President repeated, “I am on my own.”

And this time there fell a silence that no one bridged, as he stared at them and they stared at him, and in the room tension and uncertainty and dismay and fears of the unknowable future filled their hearts. Presently, with hurried, awkward goodbyes from his opponents, heartfelt handshakes and worried, hesitant encouragements from his friends, the meeting broke up and they went out into the driving storm and the bitter night.

As their limousine chugged heavily away, the ex-President and the former Majority Leader looked back for a moment at the great house, now shadowy, mysterious, remote and somehow terribly lonely, in the heavy gusts of snow.

“I wonder,” Bob Munson said gloomily, “if we’re doing the right thing to encourage him, Bill? I wonder if maybe he’s terribly wrong, and we’re just encouraging him to take us down a dreadful path that can only end in—…”

“I don’t know,” William Abbott said. “All I know is that you can’t have doubts, in that house. You have to be sure. You can’t afford to look back, once a decision has been made.”

“I’d like to have just two more opinions put before him tonight,” Senator Munson said. “If you agree, let’s call them from the car right now.”

But after they had called, and after the British and French ambassadors had agreed out of old friendship and deep concern to make their own calls to the President, nothing had changed, in the desolate night. Lord Maudulayne and Raoul Barre assured him of their understanding, respectfully but firmly deplored his course, respectfully but firmly urged that he bow to world opinion, hinted sadly, reluctantly but pointedly that their governments might have to attempt to run the blockade of Panama if he persisted, concluded with further assurances of friendship and sympathy, and hung up knowing they had not persuaded or deflected him in the slightest. For them, too, the night turned colder and the winds of the world howled louder down the corridors of history.

After checking the reports from the battlefields—finding the initial American setbacks at least temporarily halted, the fighting momentarily stabilized—he saw only two more people before he went to bed. He was in the Lincoln Bedroom getting ready when there came a quiet but emphatic knock on the door.

“Yes?” he said, taking his bathrobe from the closet, tying it quickly around him as he went forward. “Who is it?”

“It’s us,” Hal said. “May we come in for a minute?”

“Sure. Want something to eat?”

“I don’t,” Hal said as they took the two armchairs facing the bed, “but Crystal’s ravenous.”

“Oh,” he said with a sudden pleased expression. “I trust this has the usual conventional significance.”

“It does,” she said, blushing a little, with a charming smile. “There just hasn’t been time to tell you.”

“I’m very pleased,” he said soberly, giving her a kiss which she returned with genuine affection. “Take care of yourself.”

“Will you take care of her?” Hal asked quietly. “Of them?” And suddenly the world’s cold winds were inside blowing about them all.

“Children,” he said soberly, “I will if God gives me strength. And if He wants me to.”

“You must be sure He does,” Hal observed, “because you certainly didn’t yield any ground over there in the office tonight.”

“Did you want me to? You didn’t say.”

“No,” Hal said slowly, “I didn’t want you to … I think.”

“Aren’t you sure?” the President demanded. “Because if my own family isn’t sure, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” His voice grew somber. “I can’t afford to know.”

“I believe in what you’re doing,” Crystal said earnestly. “I don’t see any other way.”

“I don’t either,” Hal said, still slowly. “I guess what I want—” He paused, his eyes widened in thought just as they had ever since he had been a little boy. “I guess what I want is to be sure that you’re sure.”

“Didn’t I sound it, in the office?” his father asked.

“Oh, sure,” Hal said. “You had to sound that way, in front of them. I mean inside.”

“I thought the inside showed through. I intended for it to.”

“Well, yes,” Hal agreed thoughtfully. “I guess you could say it did.”

“So?”

“I guess,” his son said in a troubled voice, “that I wanted to get it again, straight, from you. I guess I’m scared as hell, frankly. I guess I want you to reassure me.” He stared at his wife for a moment, her eyes intently fixed on the President, then back at his father. “Can you?”

For a moment Orrin paused, staring down at the worn rug that covered the floor. Then he looked up directly at these two who now, in Beth’s absence, held his heart.

“Children,” he said, beginning to walk slowly up and down as he talked, “children and friends, because I like to feel that’s what you are. A long time ago, Hal’s mother and I decided that whatever I had to face in public life, I would do my best to meet with honesty, with courage and with integrity. We agreed that I would do this even if it meant my political career, even if it meant the end of all our dreams and hopes. I like to think that I have remained generally true to that, over all these years. I am proud and satisfied that this has been the case.

“But until thirty-six hours ago in front of the Capitol, that philosophy and that way of doing things basically only concerned the four of us, Hal—your mother, yourself, Crystal and me. If I blew it, the people of Illinois might conceivably suffer on some issue I was fighting for, but not too much—not in any way that some other Senator couldn’t recover for them, if they threw me out. Basically I was gambling only with the fortunes of Orrin Knox, and the Knox family.

“Now,” he said, and his tone became even more thoughtful and somber, while outside the snow slapped savagely against the panes and the cold wind snarled, “much, much more is involved. Now I literally hold the fate of the country in my hands. Now I gamble not with my own ambitions and the Knox family, but—in a sense that sounds maudlin because it is so terribly true—I gamble with the fate of all mankind, and with the whole wide world.…

“Still and all”—and he stopped his pacing and his voice grew stronger as they listened with absolute attention—“I think the basic principle still holds. I think I must still try to do what I believe right, as honestly, courageously and with as much integrity, as I can. I hope that when all is said and done, this will be seen to have been the right and only course to follow.…

“I can’t promise you, I can’t promise anyone, that my course will succeed. About all I can give you, and about all I can give the country when I speak tomorrow, is the modest hope that maybe if we do right and are unafraid, right will prevail and humanity will prevail. That is all I can offer. Whether it will be enough to persuade the Congress, convince the Communists and swing the country behind me, I have no way of knowing. But I will try.…

“Does that answer your question?”

“It answers mine,” Ceil said softly, but it took a moment more for his son to answer.

“As near as it can be, I guess,” Hal said finally, his eyes, too, far away in contemplation of terrible alternatives.

“‘As near as it can be,’” his father echoed. “Which, I guess, is about as near as I can come.”

A few minutes later they left him, Crystal having deliberately lightened the mood by suggesting to Hal, “Come on, let’s go down and raid the kitchens. I’m famished!”

By midnight all the lights in the family quarters of the White House were out. Of the three Knoxes remaining, only the President, after a brief colloquy with Beth, who seemed to approve of what he was doing, went immediately and deeply to sleep.

Whatever the coming day might bring, he was at peace in his own mind that he was doing the best he knew, as honestly as he knew. He hoped this would be sufficient—had no way of knowing—but absolved himself from worry, feeling his cause to be just, his purposes to be honorable and his determination unflinching.

At 11 a.m. Eastern time, 10 a.m. Central, 9 Mountain, 8 Pacific, he appeared on television, radio and worldwide satellite network in an attempt to impart this conviction to his countrymen and the world. He did not know how he would be received. But no uncertainty appeared in his calm manner, his steady look or his slow, emphatic words.

He knew his critics would be frothing at the end but he hoped his enemies would be confounded and his supporters of good heart. Only time could tell. Words could do a great deal, and he certainly intended that his should. But only the unfolding of events could provide the final key.

“My countrymen,” he said gravely, “I had not thought to address you so soon again. Only vicious, unprovoked and completely unjustified sneak attack by the enemies of this country and of independent nations everywhere has made it necessary that I ask your attention now.”

(“You see?” Walter Dobius demanded of Frankly Unctuous as they sat together in front of a television set in the Senate Press Gallery, surrounded by respectful colleagues. “Right away, the blind, chauvinist appeal.” “Imperialism dies hard,” Frankly agreed in his customary profound and portentous manner.)

“You all know the reasons why we are engaged militarily in Gorotoland and Panama.

“In Gorotoland, American missionaries were wantonly murdered and American interests were wantonly attacked by Communist-backed rebel forces.

“In Panama, Communist-backed rebel forces are attempting to overthrow the legitimate government and capture the Canal.

“In both places, my predecessors, President Harley M. Hudson and President William Abbott, felt that the imperative interests of the United States and the independent world were at stake, and that we must intervene. Even aside from the direct attack upon the nationals and the interests of this country, Gorotoland is the strategic heart of the African continent. We cannot let it fall to Communist control: therefore we are there. The Panama Canal is one of the jugulars of the world’s commerce. We cannot let it fall to Communist control: therefore we are there.”

(“How’s that for gunboat diplomacy?” they demanded at the
Pimes.
“At least the bastard is being honest about it,” they said with savage irony at the
Tost.
“Thank the Lord for small favors.”)

“You will remember”—the President said with a certain savage irony of his own—“at least, some of you will remember, even though many members of the media seem to have forgotten—”

(“That’s right!” they snapped at CBS, NBC and ABC. “Blame the God-damned media!”)

“—that when I came into office, scarcely forty-eight hours ago, the battlefields had been quiet for several months. During this period of stalemate, President Abbott, and I as Secretary of State, made a number of secret approaches, through many channels, to Moscow and Peking, offering substantial concessions to bring about the start of genuine negotiations. All of these attempts were rebuffed. The Communists for the time being did not want war—the worldwide alert ordered by President Abbott discouraged them from that desire—and they did not want peace. Stalemate seemed to suit their purposes, and stalemate was what they deliberately maintained.

“It seemed to me that my inauguration, providing as all inaugurations do something of a clean slate, a new beginning, a fresh approach to problems which never change but which can sometimes be helped by a fresh approach, offered the opportunity for some dramatic new move.” His expression for a moment became wry, then hardened again. “It evidently appeared this way to the Communist powers also. There was, however, one difference. I thought it provided the opportunity for peace. They saw it as providing the opportunity for new war.