Preserve and Protect

by Allen Drury

  If it were true that alien elements were behind the violence, if it were true that forces hostile to America were active in his campaign—and if it were true that these forces were organized and effective and more helpful to him than any other political element in the country seemed to be at the moment—still he must not lose sight of the fact that protest and dissent were part of the very fabric of America.

  He must not be false to the foundations of democracy itself. He must not betray the soul of America to save America, for that would be Pyrrhic victory indeed.

  Therefore, how far should he go in repudiating the violent, if to do so would be to repudiate the many perfectly sincere and loyal millions whom the violent temporarily seemed to be leading? They all wanted him: how could he repudiate the leaders and not lose the masses? And if he repudiated the leaders, would he not thereby be robbing the masses—the sincere, democratic, protesting masses—of their right to protest, even as he robbed himself of their support?

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost two a.m. The house was very still. His two hours were almost up. He must do something. Weighing everything in the balance—his political future—the fact that he had already begun to prepare his followers this afternoon, in his comment on what “those who may be close to Orrin Knox” might do to change his policies—the possibility of what he could accomplish within the Administration to secure a respected place for honest dissent—it was clear what his choice must be.

  Again he reached for the telephone. As he did so it rang under his hand, startling him so that he jumped. He picked up the receiver and the little rushing winds of long-distance came to his ear.

  “Yes?” he said, and though he tried to keep the excitement from his voice he could not completely succeed.

  “Hi,” she said over three thousand miles of troubled continent. “Can you hear that?”

  “I hear long-distance,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Is there something else?”

  “It’s the ocean. I’m down at the beach house. Can’t you hear the Pacific?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “now I do.” And he did, the long crashing roll that pounded in on “Vistazo’s” shore. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be down there alone?”

  “I came down on Trumpet,” she said. “Both dogs are with me, and I have your .45. So I’m safe, I guess. Also, I’m about to go back up. I just wanted to call from down here and tell you—”

  She hesitated and he said, “Yes?” in an eager, almost desperate tone.

  “—to tell you that I’ve been doing some more thinking.” She laughed, a light silvery sound against the slow, withdrawing, returning roar. “More thinking! It’s all I’ve been doing for the past ten days. Anyway, I’m coming back in the morning. I think a Vice Presidential candidate needs a wife beside him, not out here.”

  “I—I do too,” he said, his words beginning to tumble over one another in haste and excitement. “What—why—what have I done—?”

  “What have you done to deserve this unexpected pleasure?” she asked, and again the silvery laugh came clearly from his native shore. “I don’t exactly know, except I just think now is the time I ought to be there.”

  “Regardless of what I—whether I—”

  For the third time she laughed.

  “Oh, my dear, I’m not one of the Trojan women. Regardless of what you—whether you—which you. I just happen to think things are going to work out all right, and I want to be there when you accept the nomination. You are going to, aren’t you?”

  He hesitated now.

  “Would you come back to me even if I didn’t?”

  “I told you I’ve decided that’s where I belong. I’m coming in on TWA, noon your time. Shall I come to Kennedy Center or—”

  “Pat will send a car to bring you to the house. There’s no telling what may be going at the Center.”

  “Not what went on yesterday, I hope.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “That, I think I can promise.”

  But how he was going to make good on the promise he did not at that moment know. Nonetheless he knew it had to be. He picked up the phone again, woke Roger P. Croy at Fort Myer, asked him to call George Wattersill, asked them to come to the house as soon as they could make it. “Yes, sir!” Roger Croy said, his voice holding cheerful certainty. At that moment Ted was not so cheerful, nor so certain.

  He returned to the veranda, sat motionless, alone, eyes wide, staring into far distances, for perhaps ten minutes; got up abruptly, returned to the study, lifted the receiver, dialed Spring Valley.

  So all things in politics finally fell into place, the Secretary thought, if you waited for them long enough. “Time and I,” said Mazarin, and so, in some strange way, it had been for him. He had wanted to be President so long, had tried for the nomination unsuccessfully three times—and now at last he had it, in the strange turnings of fate that so often made of men’s conscious desires and deliberate intentions an ironic when not pathetic charade.

  Had it, and had also the running mate he had wanted—not wanted; sought—not sought; hoped he would have—hoped he would not have. Had it, and had also a situation in the country as grave as any that had ever confronted it. Every resource of good will, good faith, intelligence, integrity, decency, courage, honor, was going to be needed, from him and from all of them; and he had a running mate he could not be sure of in any of these.

  What had he gotten himself and the country into?

  And why?

  The cruel choices of politics, he had described them to his son: and so they were. He knew that tonight across the country millions of people who believed in Orrin Knox just as deeply as Ted Jason’s supporters believed in him, must be dismayed and appalled by his intention to take on the ticket a man they regarded as so dangerous and so completely opposed to the things Orrin Knox had always stood for.

  He regarded him as dangerous, too; nothing had changed his feelings about that. The difference between Orrin Knox and those who held the devil-theory of Edward Jason was that Orrin, as he had also told his son, had a basic faith in Ted’s decency as a human being. Given that, he could be brought back from the far paths toward which ambition had taken him.

  He knew with a wry certainty that Ted had the same feeling about him. It was not such a bad basis upon which to establish a practical working relationship, though politically there still were major problems.

  And politically, of course, was where the bargain would prove itself. Hopefully his own supporters would still have enough faith in him to accept his decision that Ted’s nomination was necessary, and submerge or at least suspend their misgivings for the common good. Hopefully Ted’s supporters would do the same. Thus together they might be able to re-establish a reasonable unity on which further unity might grow.

  This hope was the only basis on which he could justify to himself a decision which even in his own mind was a glaring and almost inexcusable break with a career and philosophy he had always tried, honestly and with a fair success, to keep consistent during his long contentious years in public office.

  The hope of restoring unity—the hope of restoring domestic peace and tranquility—the hope of bringing back to the ever-earnest, ever-muddled Republic some general atmosphere of sanity, kindliness and good will—these were the things that justified in his mind the addition of Ted Jason to his ticket.

  If these things came from it, he would have done a great and imperative service for his country. Given the present condition of America, anything else was secondary.

  If these things did not come from it, he would have made the greatest mistake of his lifetime.

  Too bad the decent and the well-meaning couldn’t exist in a vacuum to attempt their little miracles, he thought with an ironic smile in the silent study. Nowadays too many other people had an opportunity to get into the act. Sometimes their intervention proved to be literally fatal, not only to the miracles, but to the decent themselves.

  But—one could only hope. On
e could only do what seemed best for America, challenged though it might be by the dismay of the partisan and the scorn of those who charged betrayal of principles in order to achieve ambition.

  Of course he had ambition: no one climbed to the top without it. But he also had a vision, as Beth had said: he wanted to do things for his country. First and inescapable was the task of restoring unity. Without it, no one was going to do anything except preside, as he had told Ted at the White House, over the graveyard of the Republic.

  So he guessed he could take a little pounding from the conservatives for a while: he had taken one long enough from the liberals. It would be an ironic and rather amusing switch to be getting it from the other side. When they realized they had a common target, and came to realize what he was attempting, that in itself might be a step toward unity.

  Only one thing still bothered him as he prepared to turn out the lights shortly before three a.m. When he reached the upstairs hall, saw light still shining from under the childrens’ door and heard a low, argumentative murmur, he decided to tackle it head on.

  He stepped along and rapped on the door. Dead silence ensued.

  “I thought you’d be interested to know,” he said quietly, “that Ted called a few minutes ago. I told him at the White House I wouldn’t permit him to be nominated unless he made a complete public break with violence. He says he will. So that about wraps it up, I guess. Good night.”

  “Did you get it in writing?” Hal asked.

  “No. Under the circumstances, I believe him.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Hal commented, not yielding much.

  “I think I am,” his father said. “We’ll just have to wait and see. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Hal said, still skeptical.…

  “He’ll come around,” Beth predicted. “I gave Crystal a pep talk a while ago, and I’m sure she’s giving him one.”

  “I hope so,” Orrin said. “I’m not a great deal more sanguine than he is, actually. It’s a gamble.”

  “But you’ve decided it has to be,” she said.

  “Hank,” he said, using the old tender nickname, “I’ve decided it has to be.”

  2

  Three times the sirens sounded; three times the sleek black limousines raced swiftly in armored convoy through the 5,000 troops at ready, down the somber ranks of NAWAC; three times the shout went up:

  “There he comes!” for the President, sitting far back in his seat, looking neither right nor left: the cry today no longer angry, no longer hostile, curiously impersonal, curiously disinterested.

  “There he comes!” for Orrin Knox, equally invisible: the animal growl surly, uneasy, yet not violently antagonistic, though the potential was still there.

  “THERE HE COMES!” for Ted Jason, leaning forward, arms outstretched, waving out both windows as he sped along: the great exuberant roar happy, excited, welcoming, echoing over the tensely quiet Center, the sleepy meandering river, the almost deserted city, the watching nation, the world.

  “My friends,” the President said, rapping the gavel quietly once, “this emergency meeting”—he smiled—“hopefully, this final emergency meeting—of the National Committee is now in session. Will the distinguished National Committeeman from Washington once more give the invocation, please?”

  After Luther Redfield had done so, with a brief and moving fervor that invoked the blessings of a patient Lord upon these his earnest, unhappy children, the President stood for a moment looking down upon the Committee, all, even Mary Baffleburg and Esmé Stryke, silent and expectant.

  “The nominee for President,” he said gravely, “has asked that he be permitted to address you. I assume there will be no objections”—again he smiled, comfortable and solid and reassuring—“and so it is my pleasure and my honor to introduce to you the next President of the United States, the Honorable Orrin Knox of Illinois.”

  From outside there came a surge of sound reflecting the many confusions of NAWAC, whose members did not know exactly how they felt on this confusing day. But from inside, in some instinctive impulse of solidarity, encouragement and hope, there came a genuine standing ovation from Committee, audience and media alike. This was the old, traditional American reaction of good sportsmanship, not yet entirely abandoned though it might be going fast.

  Obviously inside the Playhouse they hoped it was not, were desperately determined that it should not: as though by shouting extra-loud and applauding extra-hard, they might help to recall it to the hearts and minds of their embittered countrymen, remind them of the great principle of tolerance and good will that held the country together, encourage them to recapture and re-establish it before it was too late.

  For several minutes, while Orrin entered from the foyer and walked briskly down the aisle to the stage, NAWAC with its newer traditions was drowned out; though presently, of course, when the tumult inside died down, the grudging uneasiness outside once more became audible, a restless thunder that would not go away.

  “Mr. President,” Orrin said quietly, and the thunder did at least diminish a little as a listening hush began to fall upon the world, “it is my hope that tomorrow, in front of the monument which symbolizes and pays tribute to the first President of the United States, the nominee for Vice President and I may present ourselves to our countrymen for formal acceptance of the great honor and responsibility placed upon us.

  “Suffice it to say at this moment that I accept your nomination”—warm applause inside, the uncertain thunder rising again outside—“and I do so humbly and yet unafraid, for I know that the heart of America is sound and valiant still, and that from it my running mate and I will draw the strength to do what must be done to restore unity and peace to our country and the world.

  “We meet in strange times after strange decades in which the law and order vital to the maintenance of a stable democracy and a stable world have been persistently and consistently reduced—persistently by those whose deliberate aim is the destruction of America—consistently by those in authority who, laboring under some strange contortion of thought, have been afraid to preserve law and order because, in their tortured reasoning, to do so might be to ‘destroy America’s image,’ as they have put it—or to ‘cause charges of police brutality’—or to ‘alienate world opinion’—or to ‘jeopardize good relations between the races.’

  “So the protections of a stable society have been allowed to collapse, sometimes slowly and sometimes not so slowly, until today no area vital to our national security—no city—no store—no home—no American anywhere in this land or in this world is really safe—because if he is attacked, his Government will not protect him.

  “The American Government has voluntarily abdicated the first responsibility of government, the preservation of its own security and the protection of its citizens.

  “The American Government, in effect, has given up, both domestically and overseas.

  “Until, that is, these last few months, when there has been some attempt, both at home and abroad, to reassert and restore the dignity and the strength of the American Government.

  “I propose to continue that attempt, and I am inclined to think that whoever leads our friends in the other party as their candidate for President will do the same: so that either way, I think we are reaching a long-needed and long-overdue turning point.

  “Pray God,” he said soberly, “it may not be too late to reverse the trend toward weakness which has been launched by our enemies and assisted by those we thought we could trust to preserve and protect us.

  “As for me,” he said, and his voice took on an emphatic edge as his words brought a rising murmur from outside, “if I am elected, I shall have two purposes: to restore order and to restore unity. I do not know which should come first, because to my mind they are indivisible. If you have real unity, order follows more or less automatically. If you have order, unity also follows more or less automatically.

  “And lest,” he said, his voice rising sharply as the mu
rmur outside swelled again toward its angry humming “—lest any man, any editor, any reporter, any commentator, any writer, any foreigner, any partisan of mine, any opponent of mine, any member of any mob—lest anyone try to misinterpret or cynically twist what I say, let me state it very clearly.

  “When I say ‘order,’ I do not mean ‘police brutality’ or international bullying. I do not mean repressive or harsh or unfair measures. I mean the even-handed administration of justice and the even-handed, impartial and firm application of the law, falling equally upon all transgressors, be they rich or poor, liberal or conservative, white or black, big nation or small.

  “And that is all I mean.

  “There have been disturbances in this city in the past in which the forces of law and order were deliberately held back because someone in authority had convinced himself that it was better to let the mob run amuck than it was to make sure that the law was respected and obeyed. To apply the law might hurt somebody—a few somebodies who deserved it—and so the law was not applied, and everyone had to suffer, because those in authority did not have the courage or the integrity to apply the law fairly and squarely across the board.

  “And so the law died some more, and after the event, everyone in America was just a little less safe than he had been before: because somebody didn’t have the guts. Somebody didn’t have faith in the rightness of democracy. Somebody didn’t have the courage or the integrity to gamble on the power of law and order, without which there can be no democracy, no society, no nation, no life.

  “Government was a coward and afraid. And so government grew less. And anarchy grew great.

  “And the same thing happened all over the world wherever America was afraid to do, or allowed herself to be browbeaten out of doing, what she knew to be right.

  “That did not happen yesterday, Mr. President,” he said quietly, “thanks to your courage and integrity. It will not happen in my Administration, should I be elected, either in this capital or anywhere else in America where the writ of federal authority may run. Or anywhere else in the world, if I can help it.”