by Allen Drury
“That scum has been smelling blood all over the country all night,” Pete Boissevain remarked to Malcolm B. Sherman of Ohio as they found themselves the last to arrive and turned back for a moment to stare at NAWAC’s vast sea of ostentatiously silent black-uniformed figures, intermingled with tatterdemalion whites and blacks screaming their hatred and derision. “I hope to hell the President brings in the whole damned Army.”
He did not do quite that, but it was apparent the moment he declared the session open that he was going to do something.
“Good morning,” he said gravely. “Please be seated. I wish to apologize to the Committee and to the country for the vicious disturbances that have accompanied our arrival here this morning. I wish to state that I called the Secretary of Defense from my car before I entered the Center, and gave him certain orders. These orders will be carried out automatically if there are any further outbreaks. I warn those responsible that is not an idle gesture. The orders have been given and they will be carried out, in strength sufficient to assure their success.”
From outside there came a wild booing and screaming, and for the first time he responded to it directly. Looking straight into the cameras he said coldly, “If you don’t believe me, just try something.”
Outside the animal cacophony increased until its angry humming seemed to fill the world, coming from nowhere and everywhere. But in the room it was met and drowned out by a fervent and relieved applause in which the friends of Edward Jason and the friends of Orrin Knox joined equally.
“Mr. President,” Roger P. Croy said with a gracious air, “I wish to say to you in the presence of these witnesses that I regret the motion I offered yesterday to reduce security arrangements, and I wish to applaud the Commander-in-Chief for his precautions in defense of this Committee.”
There was vigorous if surprised applause inside, a rather puzzled and uncertain booing from without.
“His judgment,” Roger Croy acknowledged, “has proved more astute and foresighted than mine—even though,” he added in a regretful tone that brought a wry, sardonic turn to the President’s lips as he continued, “there still remains, I think, some reasonable question as to whether, if there had been a less openly provocative show of military force to begin with, there might have been a less hostile response today—”
“Mr. President,” Pete Boissevain snapped, “when is the Committeeman going to stop this business of playing all sides? What about the ‘hostile response,’ as he calls it, across the country last night? Did that have anything to do with the necessary forces stationed here? No, it did not. It was prompted purely and simply by a political motivation and a desire to intimidate the country and the Committee. Your gangs didn’t get their way about the convention here yesterday, Governor, so they got mad and rioted, tore up a dozen cities and killed 23 people. Now don’t give me that—stuff—again about provocation, and too many troops, and the poor sensitive rioters, and how they’re offended by it, and how this makes them twice as irresponsible and twice as bad as they are naturally. Because that, Governor, is—well, you know what it is. And I think this Committee has a right to ask that you spare us any further examples of it.”
“Mr. President,” Roger Croy said patiently, “the Committeeman from Vermont, like some others on his side of the issue, is not only characteristically offensive but characteristically obtuse. I have just apologized to the President for my motion yesterday, and have just commended him for his thoughtfulness in protecting these deliberations. Now, I think I have a right, in all fairness to myself and to the many sincerely disturbed and worried citizens who have come to make their patriotic protest here”—there was a faint sound of cheering outside—“to point out what seems to me the ill-advised and provocative nature yesterday of the massive military power displayed around the Center. And to say that if it had not been here, in such large and provocative numbers, there might very likely not have been such hostile response to it as we have seen this morning.”
“Mr. President,” Asa Attwood began in a tone of indignant disgust, but the President banged his gavel sharply and interrupted in the blunt, implacable tone with which Mr. Speaker had so often made the House sit up and think twice.
“The Chair will say to the Committee that there is no point in discussing this matter further. The Chair is not going to debate rights and wrongs when the barn is burning down: that is a matter for the Committee and the country to judge according to each man’s conscience and common sense. The Chair will say simply that he regards earlier precautions as necessary; he regards his orders this morning as necessary.
“Those orders have been given,” he said quietly, “and if necessary they will be carried out. Everyone within sound of my voice is on fair notice. I am not fooling. I am not equivocating. I am ready to act. Now, just remember that …”
Again there was the angry hum of many boos and shouts, but he ignored it and presently it trailed off, a little uncertainly. He looked slowly and challengingly around the room but this time not even Roger P. Croy ventured to respond.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” the President said quietly, “we have a job to do and I suggest we get on with it. The business before us, and the only business that logically should occupy our time this morning, is the nomination of candidates for President, followed by the selection of one of them. It would now seem time to accomplish this.”
There was a rustle and stir among the Committee, most of whom had been up most of the night arguing, conferring, discussing, debating, in groups that ranged from small to large, all over their quarters at Fort Myer. Milton S. Oppenheimer of New York raised his hand.
“Mr. President, I move that we proceed in regular order.”
“Thank you!” the President said with an exaggerated relief that brought some amusement and relaxed the tension a little. “If there is no objection, I shall ask the Secretary to call the roll of states for the purpose of nominating candidates for the office of President of the United States.” He waited for a moment, smiled comfortably, and said, “Anna: once more unto the breach, dear friend.”
There was genuine laughter as Anna Hooper Bigelow came forward to take her place beside him at the lectern. Abruptly the room, the nation, the world, quieted down.
“Alabama!”
“Mr. President,” Henry C. Godwin said, “Alabama agrees at last: Alabama passes.” There was good-natured applause.
“Alaska!”
“Alaska,” said Mary V. Aluta, “yields to Colorado.”
(“What the—?” the Seattle Times began. The Denver Post nudged him excitedly. “So that’s his game!” he exclaimed. “No wonder Jessie Clark wouldn’t talk to me when I phoned her last night. So that’s it!”)
But, as the President’s oldest and closest friends could have told the Denver Post, it wasn’t.
“Mr. President,” Jessica Edmonds Clark of Colorado said in a voice that trembled with excitement, “Colorado has a nomination.”
“It won’t get you anywhere,” the President said with a smile that no one in the press believed, “but come to the lectern, if you like. Or stay there, whichever you please.”
“This floor is good enough for me,” Jessie Clark said. “This is an historic floor. I don’t have a great deal to say. I will say it from right here.”
“Spoken with the true simplicity and directness of our native state,” the President said.
(“How cute,” the Post said in a tired voice to the New Republic. “It’s sickening,” the New Republic agreed.)
“Proceed, Mrs. Clark.”
“Mr. President,” she said, her tall, handsome figure, dressed in a silver-gray suit that matched the silver-gray of her hair, turning slowly as her keen blue eyes looked thoughtfully around the room, “Colorado will not take long to make this nomination.
“Colorado has a son who has proved in forty years in public office in this city that he is honest, courageous, steadfast; devoted beyond all else to the public good; diligent and tireless in his
service to his people; eternally and always dedicated, mind, heart and body, to the United States of America, and to her safety and her best interests.
“This we have always known in Colorado, as it has been known here in Washington, and as it is known to all the nation, and to all the world. In these recent days we know something more: that, called as he has been, unexpectedly, with tragic suddenness, to an even higher office, he has measured up completely to the heavy responsibilities thrust upon him. He has earned the permanent gratitude of his country, and he has earned the right to continue to do the magnificent job he has done, and is doing, for us.
“He has already put a successful end to a difficult war. He has offered the proposal of a world statesman to settle another. His integrity, his courage, his honor, are above challenge by decent people”—faintly came the fetid Boooo!—“and in his hands the future will be safe. Mr. President, it is with a deep pride that on behalf of Colorado—”
The President held up his hand.
“Mrs. Clark,” he interrupted gently: “dear Jessie, at whose side I have fought so many political battles over these long, difficult years. If the distinguished Committeewoman will ever forgive me for intervening at this particular moment, I think I have some inkling of the name which was about to come forth.”
(“I think,” the Seattle Times observed to the Denver Post, “that you were wrong.” “Yes,” the Denver Post agreed. “I underestimated him.”)
“I cannot find words,” the President said quietly, and his voice, too, betrayed a real emotion, “to express my gratitude for the great honor you were about to give me. I would like to think that if I were agreeable, Colorado might not stand alone in supporting me.”
(“The old HYPOCRITE!” Patsy whispered to her aunt Valuela Randall. “He knows perfectly well he could get it if he said so!”)
There was real applause, and cries of approval, for suddenly it seemed to them that it would be such a simple way out of their troubles, such a good way to dispose of the bitter clash between Orrin Knox and Ted Jason. At that moment, Patsy could have been right. Yet even Roger Croy could join in the applause, for it was clear that it was quite safe.
“But,” the President said, “I made up my mind at about—oh, I’d say about one a.m. on the night when I became President of the United States—that I would do my job until a successor was elected and sworn in, and then I would return to my true and only home on Capitol Hill.
“The only office for which I am or will be a candidate is member of the House of Representatives for the Fourth District of Colorado. It is presently empty, I understand. I have some hopes,” he remarked with a sudden smile that again brought laughter and applause, “that I may be able to fill it.
“I suppose,” he said with a distant, quizzical expression, “that when I leave the White House, I will probably have some sort of profound valedictory to give the country: history shows that a good many of us have, when we have left this office. But for now I don’t want to take up the time or the Committee or delay its work, except to say this:
“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 Ameri
ca.’
“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.