Preserve and Protect

by Allen Drury

  The good heart and the good will were still there somewhere—somewhere. He hoped he had helped a little this day to discover them again and make them stronger. Anyway, he had done his best.

  He closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, and was instantly asleep.

  7

  Far off the sirens sounded and once again within the crowded Playhouse susurrus ceased. “Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances,” Anotis Spirotis, National Committeeman from Pennsylvania, murmured to Mary Buttner Baffleburg. Mary Baffleburg said, “Hmph!” But there was no denying he advanced with an extra aura this morning: somehow last night’s events seemed to have increased his stature and strengthened his position. It did seem, curiously, that he loomed larger than life, larger than Presidents normally loom, as he passed swiftly once more in his guarded limousine between the long lines of servicemen at ready, through the restless, sullen ranks of NAWAC, to Kennedy Center in the hot, glazed sun.

  From his embittered countrymen as he passed, he received the sort of tribute he expected: a slow, growing swell of boos and hisses that came to those inside the Playhouse like a steady, rising wave from some uneasy sea. The wave crested in an angry boom of sound and was succeeded by an intently listening, watching silence. Through it they could hear the sound of motorcycles coming to a halt, an auto engine idling, the slam of a door, the slap of hundreds of hands on rifles as the inner group of guards snapped to attention while he passed from the plaza entrance along the North Gallery to the elevator up to the Playhouse, tucked away in the northwest corner of the second floor. There was a brief period of silence, everything was quiet everywhere; then a stir, a bustle, just outside the door, the crack of more hands on rifles; and there he was, walking down the aisle while they stood, this time not with his eyes lowered or grimly thoughtful, but nodding hellos and smiling as he came.

  “Good morning,” he said as he reached the podium and turned to face them with a pleasantly relaxed and amiable expression. “Please be seated. I hope everyone rested well after last night’s excitement. I did.”

  There was a murmur of amusement from the room and from outside a revival of the long, slow, savage “Boooooo!” He cocked his head and listened with a quizzical grimace clearly visible in the cameras. The booing increased. His expression became matter-of-fact and businesslike. He picked up the little ivory gavel and brought it down sharply on the lectern.

  “This second emergency meeting of the National Committee is now in session. The Chair is pleased to inform the Committee for purposes of the record that the Supreme Court last night upheld the appeal of the Committee against the temporary injunction of the District Court for the District of Columbia. The Committee is now free to proceed at its pleasure to select candidates for President and Vice President of the United States.

  “The Chair might say, incidentally, before we proceed, that he would like to raise one point and determine the Committee’s will upon it.” There was a sudden questioning silence. His tone took on an amused irony. “There has been much talk in the past twenty-four hours about military dictatorship—the ominous presence of the President hovering over the Committee with a threat of armed vengeance—the poor, beleaguered Committee trembling before the possibility of my—I believe the term was ‘bayonet-backed displeasure.’

  “Well,” he said, looking thoughtfully around the room: “Are you?”

  There was laughter, but the press was quick to note that several members appeared anxious to speak.

  “I didn’t really think that you were,” the President said, “but I thought we should have it out in the open and have a talk about it, in case anybody is really concerned. Yes, Governor?” he said with an expression that brought much amusement as Roger P. Croy raised his hand and then got slowly to his feet beside his desk. “You rise like the Phoenix, undaunted and renewed. What are you going to tell me this morning?”

  “Mr. President,” Roger P. Croy said with an easy smile, “we are all renewed and undaunted as we bask in the sun of your amiable good will. I will say—as many of us here who are lawyers by profession know from our own experience—that words and phrases sometimes become somewhat flamboyant in the eager pursuit of what one deems to be a valid argument.”

  “They sometimes do in the press, too,” the President remarked, and there was more laughter as Herman Kappel of North Dakota waved a copy of the Post, folded to display Walter’s column.

  “But, Mr. President,” Roger Croy continued, and his demeanor became more serious, “there is, it seems to me, a nub of truth here, in that there does seem to be an almost excessive, an almost deliberately frightening display of military power. I don’t mean frightening in the sense that it is directed against us, but just frightening in the sense that such displays are always frightening in a free nation, and also because there is the possibility that they may invite the very response and retaliation they are presumably intended to prevent.”

  “The Chair will say, Governor,” the President remarked with a certain asperity, “that there seems to be a rather prevalent tendency on the part of some people to put the cart before the horse. The argument was made yesterday in several places on Capitol Hill, not just before Mr. Justice Davis, but in the House and Senate as well, that violence and threats of violence were being prompted by the presence of the armed forces which I have ordered to protect our deliberations here, and to protect members of the Committee during recess. Now it does seem to me, I will say with all respect to those who make this argument, that they have things slightly topsy-turvy. The violence came first and then my decision to protect us. Now, let’s just keep that in mind.”

  “Very well, Mr. President, if that is the way you see it,” Roger Croy said smoothly. “But—but: Is it really necessary to have such an enormous array of troops and firepower to do the job? Is it necessary to have quite such a crushing display of the iron fist? That, it seems to me, is something the Committee may want to consider. Of course I realize, Mr. President, that even if the Committee were to make some formal protest, it would only be advisory. You could continue the overwhelming and possibly somewhat oppressive arrangements if you pleased. You have us at your mercy,” he said with a pleasant smile. “You are the Commander-in-Chief.”

  “Yes,” the President said dryly. “Now I’m overwhelming, oppressive and merciless. What other nice things can you think of to say about me this morning?”

  “Mr. President,” said Pete Boissevain of Vermont, “will the distinguished National Committeeman from Oregon tell me what he hopes to accomplish by this rigmarole? He knows perfectly well what the situation is out front, we all saw it when we came in. It was bad enough two days ago and it’s worse today. The crowd’s changed. It’s tougher. Some of them are beginning to wear those black uniforms we saw at the convention. Their signs are nastier and dirtier, if that’s possible. Their mood is worse. They’re spoiling for a fight, Mr. President, and I for one am mighty glad you’ve taken the precautions you have.”

  There was a rush of applause which did not daunt Roger P. Croy.

  “I can understand,” he said calmly, “the agreement of the distinguished National Committeeman from Vermont with the quite possibly excessive military arrangements made by the President, because he is backing the candidate who stands to benefit most from such inexcus—”

  “Mr. President!” Pete Boissevain said angrily. “Now, stop that, I will say to the Committeeman from Oregon! Nobody ‘stands to benefit’ except maybe you and me, Governor, and our precious necks. Yours may not mean much to you, but I like mine!” Again there was applause, this time mixed with laughter. “Now I think, Mr. President, that the Committeeman from Oregon and everyone who agrees with him had better stop trying to twist everything around into some kind of nasty implication every time he opens his mouth. We had enough of that watching him perform at the Court yesterday, and I for one am sick of it!”

  “Mr. President,” Roger P. Croy said patiently, “are there no rules of order here? I realize this is a si
tuation without precedents, but even so—”

  “The Chair will say,” the President applied, “even though under great provocation, Governor, that he agrees there probably should be a few general principles of decorum. But the Chair certainly is not going to reprove anyone who speaks his mind openly and honestly on the wisdom of bringing up things that are somewhat extraneous to our main purpose here. And also, perhaps, are dragged in by the heels to confuse the issue and inflame passions outside.”

  “Whether they are really extraneous may be a matter of opinion, Mr. President,” Roger Croy observed. “To me they seem quite fundamental. Quite fundamental, indeed. Not only are these enormous numbers of troops and this armed-camp aspect inhibitory to a free exercise of discretion and voting by certain members of the Committee dedicated to the cause of one of the candidates—”

  “Now, Governor—” the President began with a real annoyance in his tone, but Roger P. Croy sailed on.

  “—but they are also designed, apparently, to intimidate and, if you please, drive off, citizens exercising their right of free assembly and democratic protest against policies they feel are wrong and dangerous.”

  “Governor—”

  “However,” Roger Croy said, “I gather the Chair is not going to provide any protection from unbridled personal attacks against those who have the courage to raise these points, so rather than prolong the discussion I shall now move that the Committee request the Commander-in-Chief to reduce the number of troops to no more than 100, the level commensurate with the actual need for protection under the worst possible circumstances, which I for one do not think are going to occur.”

  At once half a dozen members were on their feet shouting for recognition as the cameras zoomed in to catch startled expressions, angry expressions, worried and upset expressions. A stir of excitement ran through the press, and in the audience Patsy Labaiya leaned forward and jabbed Bob Leffingwell in the shoulder. “How about THAT?” she demanded. Bob turned with a tired scorn that was not lost upon their neighbors and asked, “Does your brother really need a cheap stunt like this?” “WELL!” she began, but at that moment the President recognized Asa B. Attwood of California and the room abruptly quieted down.

  “Mr. President,” Asa Attwood said in his rather mousy but determined way, “as you know, California is divided. I happen to be the divisive factor. I am not for California’s governor, and this is a very good example why. His lieutenants and outriders here are raising phony issues, Mr. President, in an attempt to engender world headlines and bring pressure to bear upon you in the performance of your duties as chairman, and upon us in the performance of our task of selecting nominees. I despise this sort of thing, Mr. President, but of course it will get them just the headlines and the national and world reaction they want. It will also, I hope, get them the resounding negative vote they deserve on this motion, which is just a delaying and propaganda tactic and has no other purpose in this world.”

  “Mr. President!” Ewan MacDonald MacDonald cried angrily. “Mr. President, I resent—”

  “The Committeeman from Wyoming may speak,” the President said tartly. “It isn’t necessary to shout.”

  “I also resent the Chair’s tone,” Ewan MacDonald snapped in the liquid burr he had brought from Deeside at the age of four. “However: what I most resent is the attempt by friends of Orrin Knox to try to always charge that everything we on our side say in defense of the democratic freedoms of this country is in some way a phony propaganda stunt. Your troops make me uneasy, I’ll say frankly to you, Mr. President, and I don’t think they’re necessary and I’d like to see them reduced. And I hope this Committee will so vote.”

  “Mr. President,” Asa Attwood said, “that’s exactly what I mean. ‘Democratic freedoms,’ when it’s all the trash from the gutters of America who have come here to try to intimidate this Committee. A fine democratic protest we’ve got outside now”—faintly but unmistakably, the rolling wave of boos began again—“with its blackshirt bullyboys and its filthy banners. That mob reeks of violence this morning, Mr. President. Who knows what weapons they have concealed among them, or what their leaders, who happen to be friends of the Governor of California—which is another reason I’m not for him, I don’t like the company he keeps these days”—the boos grew louder—“who knows what their leaders are going to tell them to do? If we didn’t have the troops you’ve provided for us, they’d be into this Center, I’ll say to Committee members, and we’d be lucky to get out with our lives.”

  “May be, anyway!” Pete Boissevain shot out, and there was a clash of voices, some earnestly agreeing, others sarcastically derisory. From outside there came, as if on order, what seemed to be a giant laugh, tripartite and distinct: “Ha!—Ha!—Ha!”

  “This thing is getting worse,” Asa Attwood said. “It isn’t getting better. And since I have a Governor who apparently hasn’t got the courage or the integrity to break away—”

  At this a new, enormous wave of booing could be heard from outside, mingling with that which came from many parts of the Committee and the audience. The President rapped repeatedly for order, and when he got it said quietly,

  “Now I do think the distinguished Committeeman from California has gone too far. Tempers are high enough as it is. I think we’d just best not go into personalities of candidates until we reach the point at which, I assume, they will be placed before the Committee in formal nomination. If the Chair could express a purely advisory opinion, I think it would be just as well if we could stop this discussion and have a vote on this motion right now. Does anybody agree?”

  “Question, Mr. President!” cried Janette Vandervoort of New York. “Mr. President! Mr. President!” shouted Roger P. Croy. “Mr. President, this Committee has not had sufficient time to discuss—”

  But Janette Vandervoort was joined by at least fifteen others, some of them friends of Roger Croy, crying, “Second!” and “Question!” and “Vote! Vote!” and after a moment he waved his hand gracefully, said, “Very well, Mr. President,” and sat down.

  “Mrs. Bigelow,” the President requested, “if you will do the honors again, please—”

  And when she had, it appeared that Roger P. Croy’s motion had been defeated 64 to 42, which gave rise to much buzzing and speculation in the press and across the floor. But there was not time for lengthy analysis, because once more Roger Croy was on his feet, and something about his dramatic stance, the little lines of tension around his mouth, his determined expression, brought a sudden silence to the room. “Here it comes,” Bob Munson whispered to Lafe Smith; and so it did.

  “Mr. President,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady but not entirely succeeding, “I move that the National Committee do now recall the convention lately concluded and charge it exclusively with the task of selecting nominees for President and Vice President of the United States.”

  From outside there came a great roar of cheers and applause, and from within the room a babble of voices in which no particular one was distinguishable. Presently the President’s rapping of his gavel, not loud, not excited, just patiently persistent, began to break through the uproar and gradually a reasonable calm returned. Outside sporadic shouts and cheers still came faint but insistent.

  “I assume,” the President said with a matter-of-fact air, “that the distinguished Committeeman wishes to speak to his own motion.”

  “Only to say this, Mr. President,” Roger Croy said: “that the reasons for reconvening the convention are exactly what my able colleague, Mr. George Harrison Wattersill, and I said yesterday in presenting them to Mr. Justice Davis. With due respect to the diligence, integrity, patriotism and competence of our colleagues here, we on this side of the issue believe that a much broader democratic base for the selection of nominees will exist in the reconvened convention than exists in this small room.

  “Yes,” he went on firmly, over the indignant murmurs that came from such as Mayette Stranahan of South Carolina, Lathia Talbott Jennings o
f North Dakota, Harold Barkley and Diana Smith Watterson of Kentucky, “that is our conviction. And I think, Mr. President, that it would be our conviction regardless of any other issues involved here.”

  “Justice Davis decided that last night!” Renee M. Martensen of Montana remarked loudly, and Roger Croy swung about in a stately, imperturbable way to stare down upon her with a bland, unyielding gaze.

  “Indeed, dear lady, he did pass upon it, in his capacity as a Justice of the Supreme Court. But you will recall that he said he was basing his decision strictly upon the law as he conceived it to be, on the issue as it was presented to him. He also said—and I doubt if anyone here has really forgotten—that he personally would like to see the convention reconvened—”

  “Did he say it was for the reason you’re advocating?” Asa Attwood demanded.

  “He said he would prefer that the convention be reconvened—” Roger Croy repeated.

  “Oh, stop dodging!” Pete Boissevain interrupted angrily. “He did not say he wanted it convened because it would be ‘broader and more democratic.’ He didn’t give any reason at all, and we all know it. He just said he personally would like to see it done. That’s the truth of it, if the Committeeman ever bothers with the truth!”

  “Mr. President,” Roger Croy said patiently. “Now, Mr. President—”

  “Yes, the Chair will say,” the President agreed, “that it is probably about time to stop these personal attacks. I would remind delegates”—he smiled and there was a fragile moment of relaxation and laughter—“excuse me. Committeemen and women—that we are proceeding here in the full gaze of the nation and the world, thanks to our friends with their cameras and microphones along the sides and back of the room. Now, we as Americans can understand the asperity which sometimes creeps into debate, but I doubt if many of our friends overseas can understand. They can understand something like what we’ve got outside, of course,” he said dryly. “That makes sense to them in their experience. But the habits of democratic debate, allowing as they do for a good deal of release of tension through personal invective, are not known to too many outside the areas where democracy prevails. And also, there’s another reason for keeping it down a bit, and that is simply that we have to get along here for a while, at least long enough to select our nominees.” Faintly came the booing, in the room there was a stirring, but he ignored it. “We are going to have to refrain from too much bitterness, if we can. Governor Croy, do you care to say anything further?”