Preserve and Protect

by Allen Drury

  “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.

  “Mr. President, I offer this Committee, in the hope that it will in turn offer the country and the world, the name of the Honorable Orrin Knox of Illinois to be our nominee for President of the United States.”

  From outside a bawl of boos, harsh, sustained, animal-angry, rose from the rancid ranks of NAWAC. Inside there came applause, vigorous, dedicated, perhaps slightly defensive: not quite as much as had approved Governor Jason’s name, the press felt, but still disturbingly substantial.

  (“That
was a longie,” Senator Van Ackerman remarked in his office in the New Senate Office Building. “Let the son of a bitch talk,” LeGage Shelby said with a shrug. “Knox loses votes the longer his people yak.” “Yess,” agreed Rufus Kleinfert. “Now ve shall see.”)

  “Mrs. Bigelow,” the President said, “if you will complete the roll of states, please.”

  And when Anna had, and there were, as expected, no more speakers save for a seconding announcement by Harold Barkley of Kentucky, he brought the gavel down once, sharply, and said gravely,

  “These nominations for President of the United States are now closed.”

  All over the city, the nation, the world, a hush descended, a tense, waiting excitement began.

  “We now come,” he said quietly, “to the call of the states for the purpose of electing—”

  But Roger Croy was on his feet, and the tension became so great that it was almost palpable.

  “For what purpose,” the President inquired, “does the Committeeman from Oregon interrupt the Chair?”

  “The Committeeman regrets, Mr. Chairman,” Roger Croy said with an edge in his voice, “if the exercise of his prerogative to make a motion is regarded by the Chair as an interruption. The Chair had not completed his instruction to the Secretary, I believe?”

  “That is correct,” the President agreed calmly. “The Committeeman will make his motion.”

  “In view of the intense national and world interest in this nomination,” Roger Croy began—

  (“For God’s sake,” the Chicago Tribune hissed impatiently, “what in the hell is it now?” “He has a right to do it,” the Baltimore Sun snapped. “Shut up!”)

  “—and to allow time for members of the Committee to ascertain to the fullest degree the opinions of the country—”

  (“Oh, oh,” Hal Knox said softly. “Quiet!” his mother commanded.)

  “—I move, Mr. President, that this Committee do now stand in recess until ten a.m. one week from today.”

  And again tension soared and uproar reigned.

  “I further move,” Roger Croy said coolly, “that on this vote the votes of the states be weighted to correspond to their votes in the convention in San Francisco.”

  And uproar increased as eight or ten members jumped to their feet and began shouting angrily at one another across the little room, while the President resumed his steady, insistent, finally effective, rapping with the gavel.

  “The Chair will say to the Committee,” he said when an explosive silence had settled, “that it is his opinion that the motion of the Committeeman from Oregon stands on the same bottom with previous motions here, in other words that it is a procedural matter and should be decided by simple majority vote.

  “The Chair, in fact, will so rule.

  “Now, if the Committeeman from Oregon really wants to prolong this for some strategic advantage he thinks he may see in it, he may appeal the ruling. But an appeal, I warn the Committeeman, is clearly a procedural matter and it will be decided by a simple majority.

  “The Committeeman evidently feels that he stands a better chance with a weighted vote than he does with a simple majority. Now if the simple majority on his appeal goes against him, the Chair would think,” the President said with a certain quizzical wryness, “speaking as an old parliamentarian, that it just might have a psychological effect on the vote on his motion.

  “Is the Committeeman really sure he wishes to run that risk?”

  “Well, Mr. President,” Roger Croy said reasonably, “if the Chair can give me some assurance that when we actually vote on the nominations, we can have a vote that will correspond to the total vote cast by each state in the convention—”

  “Now the Committeeman is quibbling,” the President interrupted sharply. “I have told the Committee that, repeatedly. Furthermore, it is in the rules. It can’t be avoided if anyone wanted to. The Committeeman knows that. The Chair would appreciate it if he would stop these snide implications that the Chair is somehow going to pull some sleight of hand that is plainly and absolutely impossible under the rules. Does the Committeeman,” he asked, biting off each word, “wish to appeal my ruling or does he not?”

  “As long as I have your assurance, Mr. Chairman,” Roger Croy said smoothly, “I shall not appeal. But I should like to speak for a moment to my motion.”

  “The Committeeman has that right,” the President said coldly.

  “Thank you,” said Roger P. Croy. “Mr. President, it is very obvious from events in the past twenty-four hours, that there is a deep and genuinely dangerous division in the country. There have been outbreaks of violence. There have been tragic deaths. There has been a near-breakdown of law and order in several areas of several major cities. Again, all these things are tied together and related: again they come down basically to a genuine, frustrated, almost hopeless protest against policies whose solution, to many, seems to lie only in the election of Governor Edward M. Jason.

  “Mr. President,” he said sharply as several voices cried out angrily, “I have the floor! It is time to face up to these realities and stop pretending! It is because a disturbed nation feels instinctively that there is a conspiracy here to deny it the man it wants that these things are happening! Is there anyone here who honestly thinks that if the Committee had approved the recall of the convention, and so paved the way to a free and democratic vote for Governor Jason, that the nation would have seen the turmoil it has seen in the past twenty-four hours? We deny the people what they want and they have no choice but to riot, Mr. President! We deny them the man of peace and so they make war, tragically, upon their own countrymen. How can such things be?”

  “Far better, Mr. President,” he said as angry voices again protested, “that we should bow gladly and willingly, as we sooner or later must, to the will of the people. Far better that we listen to, and heed, their deeply impassioned desires in this matter.

  “They see their future in this man, Mr. President. It is folly to stand in their way, for to do so can lead only to more bitterness, more frustration, more violence. And that way lies final disaster for our beloved land.

  “Mr. President, it is because not all members of the Committee are yet fully aware of this that I think they should have time to sample national sentiment, and understand. A week’s delay in a matter so vital will not hurt anyone, Mr. President. Rather, it will permit reason to prevail. It will permit truth to be heard. It will give Committee members who may still doubt, time to achieve the sure and final conviction that the country does, indeed, want Governor Jason; and that if it is denied him by some conspiracy here, some parliamentary evasion or arrangement, only truly great disaster lies ahead.

  “I believe this week may save America. That is why I urge approval of my motion, Mr. President.”

  And with a graceful little bow to the President, who stared down upon him with a cold and quizzical expression, he sat down, folded his hands before him, and lifted his stately white head with a bland, attentive air. From outside there came a great prolonged roar of approval and excitement.

  “Does anyone wish to reply?” the President inquired dryly as some twenty Committeemen and Committeewomen stood up and waved vigorously for recognition.

  “The distinguished Committeeman,” he said, making the choice he thought would furnish the most contrast and be most effective, “from Vermont.”

  “Mr. President,” Pete Boissevain said, so angry that his words came out in a tumbling rush, “I am not a very graceful speaker, as the Chair knows, he had enough trouble with me in the House. I can’t pull out a lot of fancy phrases on short notice like the former Governor of Oregon. But I can speak the truth as I see it, Mr. President, and I don’t have to do it,” he said with a bitter sarcasm, “like Aaron Slick from Punkin Crick, either.

  “I’ve heard plenty of poppycock in my time, but I’ve never heard anything as twisted and slick and crafty and—and evil—as what we’ve just finished hearing now. Sure, there’s a deep division in the country! S
ure, there’s been violence and, sure, there’s threat of more violence! And why, Mr. President? Because a lot of immature minds, egged on by minds that aren’t so immature but know exactly what they want, are trying to overturn the very foundation-principle of democracy, which is that you accept the will of the majority.”

  Outside there rose again the angry hum.

  “The Governor says in so many words that if we’d recalled the convention—and look who’s talking about parliamentary conspiracies!—if we’d given these monstrous babies what they wanted—they wouldn’t have rioted last night. And he says if we don’t quit for a week now and then come back and give them what they want, they’ll riot some more and maybe destroy the country.

  “Good God Almighty, man!” he exclaimed, rounding on Roger P. Croy, who paled but returned him stare for stare, “do you realize what you’re saying here? Do you have the slightest concept of what you’re really saying? You’re saying that if an organized minority—because don’t you try to kid us, Governor, we each of us have our own ways of sampling public opinion, and there are just as many who want Orrin Knox, and maybe more—you say that if an organized minority doesn’t like something and goes into the streets and breaks the law and raises hell, we’ve got to appease it and give it what it wants, because if we don’t it might do worse. You’re saying we’ve got to crawl to it, instead of putting the law on it and beating it down as it should be beaten down!

  “What you’re saying, Governor, is that democracy is all wrong. You’re saying that if somebody doesn’t like something the majority has democratically voted for, he has a right to go out and destroy democracy if he can, just because he’s an insane child who has the pouts and isn’t mature enough to play by the rules. Men have worked and struggled and died for a long time to make those rules, Governor, and now you want to toss them out the window because the riffraff of America riots for your precious candidate!

  “Well, I don’t know how others feel,” he said, and he glared around the silent room, “but I say, the hell with that! I say it’s about time we stopped appeasing these thugs and murderers who are trying to take over the country. I say it’s time we stood up to our responsibilities and voted the way we please, and if they don’t like it, the hell with them!”