Come Nineveh, Come Tyre: The Presidency of Edward M. Jason

by Allen Drury

  “Two,” the President said cheerfully. “We will not cut and run in Gorotoland, and we will not abandon the Panama Canal to the Communists.”

  Ted’s smile faded.

  “I thought so.”

  The President raised a conciliatory hand.

  “Let me amend: we will not get out of Gorotoland unless we can do it safely, leaving a secure situation behind us; and we will not get out of Panama until the Canal has been secured for unrestricted peaceful passage of all vessels. Can you go that far with me?”

  Ted hesitated and the President could see that he was calculating all options, possibilities, advantages and disadvantages in half a minute’s time. When he spoke it was slowly and deliberately.

  “If you will let me have a free hand to write the statement confirming this and let me give it to the press for both of us on Thursday.”

  It was the President’s turn to hesitate and calculate. He, too, responded slowly and deliberately.

  “You’re going to be my President. I’m going to have to be helping you on the Hill when I become Speaker again. I guess I’ve got to start trusting you.… Very well. I shall rely on your good faith and your good judgment. And now, one favor to me, please.”

  “Yes?” Ted said, and the President could tell from a certain defensiveness in his eyes that he knew what was coming.

  “Will you now, as President-elect of the United States, repudiate NAWAC and the violent elements that supported your campaign?”

  Again a silence fell while Ted gave him a thoughtful stare whose import the President could not define. Finally he spoke with an almost angry impatience.

  “Mr. President—no. I’m not going to go over all the reasons again. Just—no. Partly because I may still need their help in some ways, and partly because I simply no longer regard them as a danger to anyone, now that I’ve won. They’re just not that important anymore.” His tone became almost contemptuous. “They’ve got their hero elected now. He’s going to be in the White House where they wanted him to be. Their purpose has been achieved, and now they’ll gradually disband and disappear into the general population. I’m willing to bet that within two weeks after inauguration NAWAC will have folded.”

  “Are you really willing to bet?” the President asked quietly. “What if they stay together—and wait to see how you act?”

  “They’ll be satisfied with the way I act,” Ted said flatly. “And anyway, some of their—” he stopped abruptly and concluded somewhat lamely, “anyway.”

  “Anyway, what?” the President demanded. “You’re not going to keep some of them around you, are you? You’re not going to appoint any of that crew to anything, are you? Come on, now, Ted—”

  “Mr. President,” Governor Jason said firmly, “I thank you for calling, I thank you for proposing an agreement you and I can live with for the next two months—and on into the new term, for that matter. I thank you for suggesting that I take an office in the White House, which I greatly appreciate and which I accept. I look forward to seeing you on Thursday and making clear to the world that there will be no difficulties or frictions in this transition. And now there are many people here waiting to see me—”

  “Give my love to NAWAC,” the President told him with an angry bitterness. “You take a fearful gamble, Mr. President.”

  “Much less than you think, Mr. President.”

  “I hope you’re right,” the President said grimly. “God help us if you’re not.”

  “He’s helped me pretty well so far,” the President-elect replied. “I don’t see any reason why He shouldn’t continue.”

  But, of course, no one at that moment, including the President-elect himself, could really be sure. And so, as a direct result of their talk, two more conferences were held that night before famous and weary poll watchers could at last go to bed.

  The first, filled with concern for the country and firm pledges of mutual support, took place via a three-Picturephone link-up of the President in the White House, Senator Munson at beautiful “Vagaries” in Rock Creek Park, and Senator Strickland at his rambling old home in Boise, Idaho. The principal decision reached was that there should be further meetings and discussions as soon as their friends in Congress who had survived the Jason sweep got back into town. There was a most disturbing moment for them all when the President disclosed that he was actually much less sanguine about his chances of being re-elected Speaker than he had maintained to the President-elect. Bob and Warren agreed with this. It was on a note of uneasy foreboding that their talk concluded.

  The second conference began at midnight, California time, in the rambling, redwood-paneled library at “Vistazo.” There in the room he had known from infancy, filled with the worn leather armchairs and sofas that had supported Montoyas and Jasons down the years, the President-elect stood at an open window during the slowly creeping minutes before his guests arrived, listening to the faint recurring roar of the Pacific, miles below. It was the background of his life, that distant, restless, implacable sound—on rare occasions soft, soothing and gentle, far more often angry, somber and harsh. It was somber tonight, and so was his mood as he listened. Three hours after final confirmation that he had won one of the great political victories of American history, he was as uneasy and uncertain as though he were a hunted soul instead of the next President of the United States. And so he was hunted, he realized, by ghosts, by the past, by history, by the future.

  How typical of the President, to fight to the last for his point of view on NAWAC; and how effective he had been, in these past few weeks and months, in implanting his own fears and worries in his successor. Ted would never admit it to him, but his words had struck home far more often than he knew. There had been a number of occasions when Ted had been on the very point of openly repudiating his unruly and unpredictable supporters, but always he had backed away, for reasons he had patiently tried to explain to the President, to Valuela, to all the many others who had written him or questioned him during the campaign, troubled and concerned lest he let himself become too much beholden to elements they feared. He had never fully acknowledged to anyone, even himself, the ultimate reason for his hesitation, the reason that had lived with him ever since that dreadful moment at the Monument:

  He feared them too.

  And that was a most unusual and unnerving emotion for Edward M. Jason to experience.

  He was not exactly afraid of them in a personal, physical sense, although that was a large share of it, as he had come very close to admitting to the President in their talk before the election. But somehow, although that fear did exist, as it would for any sensible man, it went far deeper, to a general fear for the country, and for what the violent might do to it if he did not handle their dismissal from his cause and from public life with the greatest astuteness, firmness and skill. There had been times before in America, not too long ago, when the violent had run amuck, had begun to organize deliberately to destroy democracy, had begun to coalesce behind candidates for President who had been either too complacent, too naive or too self-confident to worry about the ultimate implications of their support. In one way or another fate had intervened, using strange instruments, and none of those candidates had reached the White House. No one would ever know how they would have handled the problem (if they even realized it was a problem) that he faced now. He knew that many of his countrymen believed that he also had been too complacent, too naive, too self-confident about it. But he had not been, really. He had been trying, as best he could, to mask a constant concern, conduct a winning campaign, and simultaneously decide on the best time and place to get rid of NAWAC.

  Tonight the President had finally won his point, though he did not know it as he fell at last into a troubled sleep in the Lincoln bed. His successor had decided that this was the time and this was the place.

  Now he waited for the leaders of the National Anti-War Activities Congress to come to him at “Vistazo.” The Vice President-elect was flying down from the Croy home in Portlan
d. Senator Van Ackerman was flying in from Cheyenne after his squeak-in, 106-vote majority re-election in Wyoming. George Harrison Wattersill, LeGage Shelby and Rufus Kleinfert were driving up from Jason campaign headquarters in Los Angeles. Very soon, now, they would be here. What would he say to them, and how would they receive it?

  He did not know, on either score; but he did know his mind was made up beyond reversal, and he knew that he would never have a better opportunity. If he was not in position now, on the very night of his overwhelming victory, to bring the violent to heel, when would he ever be?

  Far below he heard the sullen sea crash in. So they found him, back to them, head erect and shoulders squared, staring out the window into the empty night, listening to the sound that would always mean home to him.

  “Mr. President,” Roger P. Croy exclaimed, hurrying forward, “heartiest, heartiest congratulations on your wonderful triumph!”

  He turned to face them with an air of grave dignity that said, as clearly as though the words came to them aloud: This is a President. For a moment the sheer magnitude of his achievement overwhelmed them. Then he smiled, and the magic dissolved a little—just enough for them to remember that he was Edward M. Jason, a man whose weaknesses they thought they knew. And a certain moment passed.

  “Mr. Vice President,” he said, returning Roger Croy’s fervent handshake, “don’t minimize what you did to bring us victory. It wouldn’t have been possible without your help.”

  “Anything would have been possible to you this day,” George Wattersill assured him, coming forward in turn to take both of Ted’s hands in his with an equally fulsome fervor. “Anything! What a rout!”

  “Right on,” LeGage agreed, shaking hands with less ecstasy but with what appeared to be a reasonable respect.

  “Marvelouss,” Rufus Kleinfert mumbled, following suit; and finally, coming forward with his expansive, self-conscious swagger, Fred Van Ackerman gave him a satisfied and somewhat savage grin and said, “We showed the bastards, didn’t we?”

  Abruptly Ted’s smile vanished.

  “Did we?” he asked in a voice so cold and so Presidential that for a moment, again, even Fred was momentarily awed. But his recovery time was very fast.

  “Yes, we did,” he said, the usual insolence in his voice. “I hope your supporters can take some credit, Governor.”

  For a moment longer Ted continued to look at him with a cold and skeptical glance; and again there was a chance to take command, the sort of chance that a President Abbott or an Orrin Knox would have seized. But soon his expression changed, became less stern, more friendly. Having appeared firm, he seemed subtly to waver. And the magic dissolved a little more.

  “I think my supporters can take a great deal of credit,” he said quietly, “but I don’t think there should be any vindictive spirit about it. That, in fact, is why I wanted to talk to you tonight, even though it means imposing on exhausted men the burden of further discussion, when all any of us wants to do right now is sleep. But this seemed to me so important that I took the liberty of asking you to come here.”

  “Whatever you say, of course, Mr. President,” Roger Croy assured him cordially. “It is our pleasure to oblige.”

  “Sure thing,” Fred Van Ackerman agreed with a heartiness exaggerated just enough to mock Roger Croy’s elaborate manner, which Roger Croy perceived and did not like. “Can we sit down?”

  “Please do,” Ted said a trifle dryly. “Forgive me for not suggesting it. Would anyone like a drink? No? Is the room too cold for anyone? I’m used to these Southern California evenings, but you may not be.… Everybody fine? Good.” He paused and looked around the semi-circle of attentive, shrewd, professionally impassive faces that confronted him. “I think it is time,” he said calmly, “to dissolve NAWAC and get back to a more peaceful and democratic emphasis for the new Administration.”

  “That seems like a perfectly reasonable re—” Roger Croy began, but Fred Van Ackerman interrupted.

  “Don’t move too fast, Governor,” he said, deliberately emphasizing the old title with a lazy arrogance. “You may need us.”

  “Now, why,” Ted inquired with a thoughtful slowness, “would I need you?”

  “Can’t tell what’s going to happen when you switch things around,” LeGage observed. “Some of these nice folks may not take it so well.”

  “When you end our endless entanglements in foreign wars,” Rufus Kleinfert remarked with the heavy Pennsylvania Dutch accent that thirty years in Texas oil had never changed, “there may be violent responses. Speaking as Knight Kommander of the Konference on Efforts to Encourage Patriotism, I think KEEP would be prepared to assist in putting those responses down.”

  “Likewise DEFY,” ’Gage said.

  “And COMFORT,” Senator Van Ackerman agreed.

  “What do you mean, ‘put’ them ‘down?’” Governor Jason asked quietly. “You mean they don’t have a right to protest if they want to? You’ve always claimed that right, haven’t you?”

  “Sure,” Fred Van Ackerman said with a lazy smile. “But now we’re on top.”

  “What I think they mean—” Roger P. Croy began, somewhat nervously, but Fred interrupted in the same lazy, insolent way.

  “He knows what we mean: just what we say. There’s no mystery about it.”

  “Well, now,” George Harrison Wattersill said with the fluid suavity that had made him such a courtroom sensation in helping the misfit and the violent escape the just punishments of a troubled society, “there’s no point in creating any issue about it. I think the Governor—the President-elect—is well aware of the uneasiness that may occur in some quarters when it becomes apparent that he really means to have a peace Administration. But certainly no one here has any intention of denying those who oppose such a course their right to express their opposition. I have always fought against restraints on those on our side of it, God knows, and I hope to God I am prepared to be consistent.”

  “You were a good man when we needed you, Georgie,” Senator Van Ackerman told him with a patronizing cruelty, “but who needs you now? You forget: we’ve won.”

  “Edward M. Jason has won,” Roger Croy snapped, “and that perhaps should be remembered here this morning.”

  “We’re not forgetting,” LeGage Shelby said with a sudden scowl, “and we don’t want him to forget who helped him do it, either. We’re only trying to save him trouble. What’s everybody complaining about?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want your help,” George Wattersill suggested bluntly. “Maybe he can do very well without it.”

  “Yes, and maybe he can let the dissenters and the protesters run wild and raise too much hell, too,” ’Gage said in a dour tone. “Can’t let ’em tear things apart, if you want to govern this country. You’ve got to be firm.”

  “And you don’t think I can be firm, I gather?” Governor Jason inquired.

  “We mean,” Rufus Kleinfert said, “really firm.”

  “Yes,” Fred Van Ackerman said with a comfortable insolence. “Like you weren’t with us.”

  Again Ted started to look angry, but this time he abandoned it with an expression of ironic disbelief.

  “You gentlemen,” he remarked, “are quite amazing in your consistency. You are really calling, I take it, for a serious attempt to suppress dissent in America, after taking advantage of America’s tolerance toward dissent in all these recent months. To say nothing of my tolerance, I might add. How do you square that with what you’re proposing now?”

  “Governor,” Senator Van Ackerman said, and a cold bluntness entered his tone, “you were tolerant of us because we helped you get elected. And that’s the only reason. And don’t try to get high and mighty now and try to convince us it was anything else. Because we don’t believe you, and neither does anybody else.”

  And looking around the circle of faces, in what he suddenly realized was a cataclysmic moment, the President-elect could see that Fred spoke the truth. It was a revelation so profound in its implica
tions for his future, and for his whole concept of himself, that for several moments he was unable to reply. When he did it was to echo Fred’s final remark as though he did not want to accept it but knew he must.

  “You don’t believe me, and neither does anyone else,” he repeated slowly. He shook his head with a strange little smile. “When all along, I was defending your right to dissent to the President—to Orrin—to my aunt—to—” his voice broke for a second “—to my wife … when all along, I was arguing, even when NAWAC’s methods became dangerous, that the basis for its support and the principal purpose of its leadership was to give voice to valid, genuine, loyal, democratic protest … and it was all a fraud. You never really—it was all a fraud. Just as they said. And I was terribly, terribly mistaken.… ” He repeated the words, so low they could hardly hear, as if to himself alone: “Terribly, terribly mistaken …”

  He rose suddenly, a movement so abrupt it startled and almost disturbed them—almost; but they felt sure of their man, and so it did not disturb them very much. He turned away and went to the open window. Far below, distant and insistent, the somber sound of home gave its melancholy intimations of man, mortality, the inexorable flow of history and the vast, impersonal sea.

  So he stood for what must have been at least five minutes, while behind him Fred and ’Gage and Rufus Kleinfert exchanged an occasional glance that ranged from the satisfied to the smug, and George Harrison Wattersill and Roger P. Croy looked at one another with a genuine alarm, shaken by the sight of a President apparently foundered before he had even entered office. But they had all underestimated their host. He was not a Jason for nothing, nor could his lifelong self-confidence be so easily broken.

  Presently he turned back.

  “George,” he said in a tone of such normal conversational quality that they could never be sure, later, whether this was something he had contemplated right along or something he had only thought of in the last five desperate minutes, “I intend to appoint you Attorney General of the United States. When I do,” he went on, hardly allowing George Harrison Wattersill time to utter his gulp of surprise, “I want you to prosecute these people with all the legal weapons at the government’s command. Have I your assurance that you will do so?”