Preserve and Protect

by Allen Drury

  “Darlings!” she cried, pounding the lectern with a large gavel. “DARLINGS! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS?” And she held it aloft and waved it, as a sudden murmurous silence fell upon the happy celebrants.

  (“Now, how did she get that?” Helen-Anne demanded loudly of the Ambassador of the Cameroons. “Their money can do anything!” The Ambassador nodded and smiled, somewhat blearily.)

  “It’s from the convention,” Patsy announced happily. “And if a certain event occurs that we hope is going to occur, we’re going to BURN it!”

  There was a smattering of laughter and applause, a little uneasy. Too many bitter memories for the Jasons rode on that gavel, and they were sure she meant what she said. But burning carried a reminiscence of violence that made many uncomfortable. The mood of the room was suddenly very odd, for just a moment. As if she sensed that she had made a mistake (Though when did Patsy ever realize her mistakes, Bob Leffingwell murmured to the Chief Justice in the uneasy quiet) she rushed on to the introductions they all knew were coming, and for a while everything was restored to a familiar basis of understandable political competition.

  “On behalf of Washington,” Patsy said, “this great capital which awaits—as the whole wide WORLD awaits—what our 106 distinguished guests are going to decide for our beloved country, I wish to welcome the members of the National Committee. We are GLAD to have you with us tonight!”

  (“They should be,” the Chicago Tribune remarked to the Wall Street Journal. “It’s the greatest second chance anybody ever got.”)

  “We know,” Patsy said gravely, “that you will do what you know to be the VERY BEST thing for us all.”

  There was a burst of applause, quite genuine and heartfelt this time, as if in some curious way, at this curious gathering, official Washington did realize for the first time just how very important its 106 distinguished guests were. The members of the National Committee looked self-conscious and, despite the amount of alcohol most of them had consumed, quite grim: they knew already.

  “And now,” Patsy said, “I may be prejudiced, but I should like to present to you one whom I believe deserves at LEAST a hearing—my brother.”

  And from somewhere behind the dais, looking tanned and rested, stepped the Governor of California, coming forward so calmly and purposefully into the flashing strobes, the television lights and the sudden wild roar of greeting that very few paused to realize that his wife was not with him. But he knew, and for just a second his face looked quite ravaged, a sad expression that came and went so fast no one really noticed. All they were aware of as he placed one hand on the lectern and began calmly to speak was the handsome, confident, statesmanlike public servant whom so many of them wished so fervently to see in the White House.

  “Members of the National Committee,” he said quietly, “distinguished guests, my friends: It is good to see good friends having such a good time together!”

  Laughter, renewed applause, a sudden warm current of feeling in the room. “I think he’s going to carry it off,” Lafe said to Cullee, and Cullee shrugged. “Sure, right here. Wait until the cold winds blow at Kennedy Center.”

  “My family and I,” Ted said, “are honored that you have joined us tonight for this happy occasion. May its conveyance be an omen for the days ahead. That they will be serious days, we all know. Yet they need not necessarily be—as some have suggested—days in which our republic is further divided.”

  (“Now who suggested that?” Bob Munson murmured to Orrin Knox. Orrin shrugged. “Must have been me. It’s the sort of awful thing I would positively insist upon.”)

  “No!” Governor Jason said sharply. “That they need not be. I say here and now that they will never be that, as long as I have anything to say about it!”

  “Bravo!” shouted someone at the back of the room. The press immediately fell into a bitter argument as to whether it was Ralph Jensen, National Committeeman from Minnesota, or Ewan MacDonald MacDonald, National Committeeman from Wyoming. In any event, it was echoed vociferously from many places around the room, and another tide of applause rolled up.

  “Our purpose now,” Ted went on, “must be to bind up wounds, not reopen them; to seek unity, not destroy it; to create harmony where disharmony has all too dangerously been allowed to prevail before.

  “Our purpose must be to do what is best for America, and do it in accordance with American traditions and American decencies.”

  His expression became grave, his voice somber.

  “Many have deplored the unseemly and disturbing violence which has disgraced and disfigured our political life in recent weeks. I have condemned it before, I condemn it now. I want no such support!”

  The applause roared out again, and this time there was in it a certain fervent, insistent note that indicated how much, friends and foes alike, they wanted him to mean it, and how relieved they were to hear him say it.

  “But,” he said, holding up a hand, and instantly the applause dwindled, and silence, listening and once more uneasy, filled the room—“but, no one man can do it alone. There must be a disposition, on the part of those whose policies arouse violence, to understand why the violence arises—and to make some attempt to accommodate the sincere misgivings which the violence expresses.

  “No one could possibly condone the vicious, horrible things that have occurred in this city in the past four days. But”—and the silence became almost a living presence, so intently were they listening—“must we not ask ourselves: why did they occur? What caused the anguish and deep despair of those who organized these things? Why are emotions so high and tempers so hot that protest so easily flames into violence?

  “Who is responsible?”

  (“He’s doing a masterful job,” Roger P. Croy whispered complacently to Esmé Stryke. “What a trimmer!” Mary Baffleburg hissed to Lizzie McWharter.)

  “Obviously,” Ted said, and a sternness came into his voice and the set of his jaw, “we need not look far for the answer: the protesters have made it clear enough. It is the present Administration which is at fault. The Administration’s policies, and nothing else, have produced the protests.”

  Once again a surge of applause, but through it, someone shouting, “Are we supposed to swap them for those of a damned appeaser?” The press again was not entirely sure who said this—thought it might be John V. Wilson, National Committeeman from South Carolina—decided it was caused by too much liquor—decided not to print it. But in the room it had its effect: an angry, agreeing sound began to grow. Into it Ted Jason snapped his closing comments in a level, emphatic voice, his head held high.

  “Now we have a chance to correct this situation. We have a chance to moderate and accommodate and correct. We have a chance to meet honest objections and honest worries—which have, in some few instances, spilled over into the sort of horrid violence which has demeaned America in these past few days. We have a chance to set things right. We have a chance to chart a new policy—of freedom, of decency, of peace. (JASON CALLS FOR ‘NEW POLICY,’ the Times bannered. EMJ PICKS HIS LABEL: ‘THE NEW POLICY’ said the Chicago Tribune.)

  “My friends,” he said—and his voice became grave again, and he had, as Esmé Stryke remarked to Roger P. Croy, never looked handsomer—“will we have the strength to do so? Will we have the integrity and the courage to accept sincere criticism, meet it halfway, seek a true national unity on the issue of war or peace that now divides us? Will we restore America in the eyes of the world, and in her own eyes, to the position of integrity and honor she used to hold—has a right to hold—must hold again?

  “That is our challenge.

  “That is our task.

  “I pledge myself to it in whatever capacity you may deem me worthy to fulfill.

  “Thank you.”

  And he prepared, amid another jumble of sound compounded of the approving shouts of his supporters and the answering, angry murmur of his critics, to step down from the dais. But before he could do so there was a sudden disturbance at a door be
hind him, a wildfire flare of excitement, a quick tensing as many thought (though there were heavy guards on every door and a hundred cops outside), What now, more violence? and then a wave of applause that grew until it filled the room, as the man who was, after all, leader of the party, came forward and stepped up beside Ted Jason.

  “Governor,” he said, holding out his hand, “thank you for inviting me.”

  (“The old sharpie invited himself,” Patsy hissed to her aunt Selena Castleberry. “HONESTLY!”)

  For a moment Ted looked absolutely taken aback. But he had no choice but to recover, and he recovered fast.

  “My pleasure, Mr. President,” he said with a fair show of cordiality, shaking hands and drawing the Chief Executive to the lectern. “Members of the National Committee, distinguished guests,” he said smoothly, “it is my great pleasure and privilege to present to you the President of the United States.”

  And again the applause roared up, filled with many things, annoyance and worry on the part of Ted’s supporters, amusement and glee on the part of Orrin’s, the overriding excitement that grips a Washington crowd when it sees the game of politics being played by masters. This was the kind of blood that Washington really enjoys seeing—political blood—and there could be sensed in the air that happy, delicious anticipation that comes with the conviction that it is about to be spilled all over the room.

  For a minute or two, however, the President was in no hurry. He stared slowly about with a stolid, unsmiling air, searching out a face here, a face there, looking it over appraisingly, moving on. By the time he decided the moment was right to speak, he had secured silence and an attention that could not have been more profound. His opening remark was so different from what most expected that an audible gasp of amusement answered it.

  “Now that,” he said thoughtfully, “was quite a speech.” He looked around again slowly, head slightly down, eyes quizzical. “Yes, sir, quite a speech. Don’t know who it was about, of course—didn’t recognize myself or any of my friends in there anywhere—but it was quite a speech.

  “If I were one of your supporters, Governor,” he said with a smile, not too unkindly, for the man who had stepped back to the side of the dais, “I think I’d feel as though you’d made it a perfect evening for me.

  “Too bad,” he said, “that I had to come along and spoil it. Oh, yes,” he said quickly, as Ted made a halfhearted gesture of protest, “spoil it. Because I’m going to inject just a fact or two, and then I’m going to ask you to do something that I know you will do, being the fair-minded and decent man you are.”

  There was a quick, alarmed stirring among Ted’s supporters, a peculiar, half-smiling, half-uncertain look from Ted himself. What was the old man up to? They knew from long experience that his political moves were sometimes devastating. He had already proven himself to be a strong and unpredictable President. What was he going to do now?

  “First of all,” the President said, and his tone became as grave and stern as Ted’s had been, “let me remind you of one fact: the violence we have seen in this past week—not only the past four days but the past ten, if you like, back to the convention—has not been any genuine protest against the policies of the Administration. It has been a deliberate attempt to embarrass and disrupt the United States of America itself.

  “You say ‘accommodate,’ Governor,” he said, swinging about suddenly to stare at Ted. “You can’t accommodate with people who don’t want to accommodate with you. You can’t reason with people who are operating on an entirely unreasoning level. You can’t appease that sort of thing, or it’s the end of you … The end,” he repeated thoughtfully turning back to the room so that his conclusion was not quite as personal as it might have been, “of you …

  “God knows,” he said, “that nobody wants an end to violence more than I do. God knows I am willing to honor, and try to accommodate, honest dissent. But dissent has an obligation to be lawful and it has an obligation to be constructive. This mindless stuff is not dissent as America has always defined dissent. It is something else. Something else,” he said quietly, “that I don’t want to play with.

  “Others can. Oh, yes, others can—if they like. If that’s the way they want to play, others can. But it serves nothing honest, and it doesn’t serve this country. What others it may serve, I wouldn’t know. But it doesn’t serve this one.”

  (“Of all the damnable, slanted, one-sided, self-serving speeches,” Roger P. Croy whispered angrily to Esmé Stryke. “My God!” “Dreadful,” Esmé murmured, her dark little face sharp with disapproval. “Perfectly dreadful.”)

  “But,” the President said, “that’s something to fight out somewhere else. That’s something we in the National Committee will have to fight out.” (“Then he isn’t going to relinquish the chairmanship,” the general director of the Post whispered excitedly to Justice Davis. “Oh, boy, that’s going to mess things up.” “He’ll be right in there working for Orrin every minute,” Tommy said in an aggrieved tone. “It’s going to be absolutely frightful.”)

  “Right now,” the President went on, “there’s another man to be heard from. Knowing you’re a fair man, Governor, I know you’re going to do the decent thing by him and give him a chance to speak too. Isn’t that right?”

  And he turned about with a slow, deliberate movement and stared at Ted, who, for a long moment, stared back. Neither made much attempt to hide hostility. (“Wow!” Helen-Anne exclaimed to the Ambassador of Mauritania. “Quelle confrontation!” said the Ambassador with a tipsy smile.)

  “So I’ll make way,” the President said, turning back to the room. “Thank you for your attention, ladies and gentlemen of the Committee. Remember that destruction is not dissent and violence is not a safe thing to play with. I’ll be seeing you very soon, I hope. We have things to work out.”

  (“Doesn’t he realize,” Walter Dobius demanded of Krishna Khaleel in an indignant half-whisper, “that this is a unique situation? Doesn’t he realize that the Committee now is as independent as the Constitutional Convention? He still thinks he can control it. It’s incredible!”)

  “Governor,” the President said, “thank you for your courtesy. I know you’ll be wanting to introduce someone else, so I’ll step down, now.” And with a quick wave to the room and a tight, sardonic little twist to the corners of his mouth, he did so.

  There ensued a pause of several minutes while he stepped back to the opposite side of the dais and looked across with a polite expectancy at Ted. The Governor did not look at him. Instead he stared off over the heads of the swaying, fascinated, unsteady crowd. He made no attempt to conceal the frown on his face or the grim lines around his lips. He was thinking and he wanted them to know it.

  For perhaps two minutes the room remained quite still. Just before the tension had to break somehow, his face became impassive. He stepped forward abruptly to the dais, picked up the gavel, brought it down with a single sharp crack on the lectern. Before their stir of startled excitement was over he had said crisply, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Secretary of State,” and stepped back to his place, from which he resumed staring impassively over the room.

  Orrin came forward on a mounting roar of applause in which Mary Baffleburg, Lizzie McWharter, John V. Wilson and many others could be seen joining with a wild enthusiasm. But his face, too, was as deliberately impassive as his opponent’s. And he too, once he was in position on the dais, held his moment and let it lengthen until silence and attention were restored.

  “Mr. President,” he said quietly, one arm on the lectern, “Governor, members of the Committee: I appreciate the honor. And,” he added with a straight face, “I thank you for giving it to me.

  “I will save for another time and place, should you care to hear it, the lengthier statement I might wish to give you on the issues that involve us now. For the moment, suffice it to say that I agree with the President.”

  (“There’s a switch,” Jawbone Swarthman remarked loudly to Perry Amboy, National Committee
man from New Hampshire. “Now, there is a ding-danged switch!” Perry Amboy sniffed a disapproving sniff and did not reply.)

  “What we have seen in recent days is no one’s legitimate protest about anything. It is no sincere attempt to change policy. Any attempt to rationalize it as such is folly.

  “Its aim is to ruin and destroy. And it is time to meet it head on.”

  Applause from his supporters, resentful noises from his critics: about fifty-fifty, the press thought, and so did Beth, standing near the middle of the room with the Munsons. Not conscious that she did so, she moved a little closer to them, as if shielding herself from those who did not like her husband.

  “For myself,” Orrin said, “I will not appease it, nor will I excuse it, nor will I rationalize it. It is wrong, and it is bad, and I am against it.” A wry expression touched his face. “This is old-fashioned, liberal, simplistic and out of touch with the times. That’s me,” he said, and the expression deepened, “all over.

  “Nonetheless,” he said, serious again, “I conceive it to be a valid position and I stand on it. I too want peace. Any man who doesn’t is a fool. But I don’t want it at the price some people want to pay. I want it with honor (“and with force,” the San Francisco Chronicle murmured to the St. Louis Post-Dispatch) and with some certainty that it will mean something—enough to last for a while, if we can do it. I think we can.