Promise of Joy (12 page)

“The same as it adds up to with me, I like to think,” the Secretary said shortly. “Some ability to change and grow and accept the facts of a shifting world. Adaptability and character are what it shows to me. I always knew you had the brains, now I know you have the character. I don’t appeal to you frivolously.”

“And I don’t reject you frivolously,” Robert A. Leffingwell said slowly, giving the third answer Orrin had counted upon, “but I feel I must reject you.” He turned to the others, men with whom he had once differed bitterly but whose views he had come finally to support. “What do you think, Mr. President?” he asked. “What do you think, Senator? Don’t I make more sense”—a touch of wry amusement robbed the question of its sting—“than he does?”

“You do to me,” the President said bluntly. “It won’t wash, Orrin. Too many problems. And this, Bob, with no disrespect to you. Just the practicalities of it, as you say.”

“With which I concur,” Senator Munson said. “Too many enemies, too much controversy, too many allegations of weakness and equivocation—some of them,” he reminded Orrin dryly, “by you—no, it’s going to be tough enough getting him through the Senate for Secretary of State. Vice President I can’t see at all, I’m sorry to say. I can see his personal merits but I can’t see his political viability.”

“And political viability, Mr. Secretary,” Bob Leffingwell said calmly, “is what you must be concerned with now. So: thank you, but, like the Majority Leader—no, thanks.”

“Well,” he said with enough asperity to make them think he was really being forced to consider alternatives other than the one he had been considering all along, “then you force me to fall back on my last line of defense. See what you think of it.”

He was pleased that they thought it an idea both viable and exciting. A quick phone call produced the astounded but delighted agreement of the potential nominee. A pledge of secrecy sent them out of the house in Spring Valley to face, without response other than patient smiles, the barrage of questions from the waiting press; and he was alone in the study to contemplate what he would do tomorrow when the Committee met again.

As he considered it, and as his three guests considered it after they left him, the logic of it seemed—as logic always does to those who think of it—impeccable.

But this, of course, was planning without really considering the Committee, the media or the friends of Edward M. Jason, all of whom retained their considerable and continuing ability to make trouble.

Again the Committee came, through mobs again unruly and armed forces again at ready, to Kennedy Center in August’s suffocating sun. Again he was introduced as “the next President of the United States,” again he surveyed them for his long, characteristic moment. Again he spoke, and again controversy rose and raged and swirled about his words.

“Mr. President,” he said quietly, looking, sounding and acting much stronger, “yesterday I nominated a great lady for the office of Vice President, and yesterday she declined. I was as astounded as any of you and as fully dismayed. But life affords us no luxury of prolonged regret in these hurrying days. We must move on.

“I am deeply grateful for Mrs. Jason’s declaration of support and I know it will help me immeasurably, in the campaign and after. I expect to take full advantage of her generous offer of assistance, for America knows no more intelligent, lovely and capable woman. I am very lucky indeed to have her on my team.”

Far came the distant booing, while in the room there was a mixed and uncertain sound as some applauded vociferously, some hesitated, some grumbled among themselves but grudgingly concurred. Ceil Jason as ardent partisan of Orrin Knox was still a difficult concept for many to assimilate: except that, as with so many things in politics, what happens happens, and the astute are well advised to be nimble and make the most of it.

“I could not agree with her more,” Orrin said, “concerning the dangers of the violent in this country.” There was a sharply rising sound from the world outside: his only acknowledgment was to speak more firmly. “I shall do everything I can to stop them, and I shall do everything I can to drive what they represent out of American life.

“This does not mean,” he said sharply over the angry roar that answered, “that honest dissent cannot have a place. Nor does it mean that I shall be arbitrary in my policies or harsh in the treatment of opposing views. It simply means that I shall do my utmost to see that political debate in America is no longer disfigured and besmirched by intolerance, hatred and what has already come very close to civil rebellion.” Again the roar rose, again he challenged it sharply. “In my campaign, and in my Administration if such there be, I will have none of it. On that I give you my absolute and unshakable pledge.”

Sullen, protesting, angry and unappeasable, the animal sound retorted. Inside, united on this one thing as on perhaps no other, the Committee applauded with heartfelt concurrence, while some among the audience looked skeptical and some among the media made appropriately ironic remarks.

“We meet again today,” he said quietly, “with our problem still unsolved. I have considered very carefully several courses of action.

“I could throw the nomination open and let it be decided on this floor. This is what will eventually happen anyway, of course; but to do it without any suggestion from me would be to create even more controversy than might normally be expected. I think there is a responsibility resting on me to again offer advice, and I think many of you feel that I should have the opportunity.” There was a restless stirring in some parts of the room, and with a sudden smile he added calmly, “In any event, I intend to take it.…

“I could also be arbitrary, of course, and demand that it be my suggestion or no one. This would automatically increase the controversy by a very substantial degree. Nothing would be gained by such an arbitrary policy save greatly increased bitterness, and, perhaps, the complete breakdown of our proceedings.

“By the same token, of course, any similar arbitrariness on the part of those who don’t quite see eye to eye with me would produce the same result. Therefore, it seems to me, we had best find another compromise. I have one to suggest. No doubt there may be others. But at least we should begin in a reasonable spirit of discussion. With luck this will lead us on to agreement—hopefully, a reasonably early and cordial agreement. We can then get on with what is, after all, our major business: winning the election.”

He paused, took a sip of water, appeared to study his notes for a moment while he let the thought sink in. Again he had issued the tribal call to battle, and again they were realizing, as he knew they would, that their paramount interest as politicians was just what he said it was: winning the election. He hoped, although he wasn’t as sanguine as he appeared, that it would help to keep all but the most maverick in line.

“Today,” he resumed with a return of the quick, appealing humor, “I am going to offer you a man. I didn’t have too much success with a lady yesterday. Maybe I’ll do better today.…” The humor faded, seriousness returned.

“This is a man well known to all of you, a young but already much-distinguished member of the Congress who has served his country superbly in several fields. Not only has he distinguished himself in Washington, but as a diplomatic representative of his country he has performed with great integrity, under great provocation, in another arena.”

In the audience, seated side by side, Congressman Cullee Hamilton of California and Senator Lafe Smith of Iowa, members of the American delegation to the United Nations, suddenly began to breathe very softly and listen very intently, not daring to look at one another, though very many were suddenly looking at them.

“There are others,” Orrin said quietly, “to whom I might have turned; others with more years, longer records in national position. But after considering those who to me seemed most deserving, I decided upon this man for four fundamental reasons: he is young, he is experienced, he is supremely able and he is as devoted to peace as anyone in this room or anyone within sound of my voice. Those, I think, are the desiderata which must govern us today.

“He has one other qualification that he was born with”—he smiled, and Lafe, without turning his head, gave Cullee a nudge with his elbow and whispered, “Right on, man!” Cullee, with a great effort, suppressed the start of an excited grin and kept his face impassive. But he returned the nudge. “A qualification which in a sense both is, and isn’t, important. To those who attach great importance to it, it may outweigh all his other qualifications. To those who regard him first and foremost, as I know he regards himself, as an American, it will be nice but not overwhelmingly relevant. It may give him a slight edge in working with the many diverse interests among his countrymen” (“And a slight edge in stopping opposition here,” the
Times
remarked sardonically to
Newsweek. Newsweek
nodded) “but other than that, it is, in the last analysis, immaterial when it comes to judging him. Certainly it has been immaterial in my mind” (“Oh, sure,”
Newsweek
whispered. The
Times
responded with a knowing glance) “as I hope it will be in yours.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Committee,” he said with a concluding fall in his tone that brought them all to a tense silence, “you need no lengthy or flowery introduction. You know him well and favorably. I have faith and confidence in him and believe he would make a great Vice President, and also a great President should the need ever arise. His name is Cullee Hamilton and he is presently Congressman from California. I commend him to your most serious consideration.”

And he left the lectern and sat down, exchanging a glance with Cullee, who beamed back with such innocently happy excitement that all friendly observers were pleased. Not all, however, were friendly.

From outside there came a long, astounded, uncertain sound. In the room applause rose, pleased and enthusiastic from Orrin’s supporters, dutiful—and ready to have second thoughts—from the Jason camp. It was apparent that the second thoughts were swift in coming. Roger P. Croy was on his feet requesting recognition. The President granted it, a certain tiredness in his voice. Roger Croy picked it up at once.

“Now, Mr. President,” he said, showing a carefully calculated testiness of his own, “if I bore the Chair, I am sorry, but it does seem to me that we had better stop, look and listen now, rather than later. This nomination by the candidate for President faces us squarely once again with the fundamental issue we have been contending over ever since the convening of the national convention.

“Let me state it with some of his own famed candor.

“It is salvation or disaster.

“It is war or peace.

“It is life or death.”

There was an approving roar beyond, a vigorous burst of applause within. Blair Hannah was on his feet, flushed with annoyance. A mask had come down over Cullee’s handsome face. He looked somber and ominous. The innocent happiness was gone already. Such was the withering effect of the present suspicious world.

“Mr. President,” Blair Hannah said, “I think we can do without the flamboyant rhetoric of the national committeeman from Oregon. The distinguished nominee for President has offered us the name of a candidate for Vice President worthy in every respect of our trust and support. He is a fine young man, able in public service, dedicated to the cause of world peace, thoroughly responsible in every way. He is also—”

“He is also,” Roger P. Croy interrupted, “one of the chief architects of a consistently disastrous foreign policy, and the fact that he is black is not going to be sufficient to bamboozle those who abhor that policy into forgetting it. If the candidate for President thinks this, he is unhappily mistaken. He is, as usual, being too clever.”

“Mr. President,” Mary Buttner Baffleburg cried angrily, roly-poly little body shaking with indignation, “look who is dragging in the race issue here to confuse everything. That—great—liberal, Mr. Roger P. Croy! It has no place in these discussions, Mr. President! It is so much hogwash!”

“Hogwash or no,” Roger Croy retorted, flushing but holding his ground, “it is patently clear to many of us that the candidate for President is making deliberate use of it to confuse the issue and secure approval of a Vice Presidential candidate who agrees one hundred per cent with his own point of view.”

“Is that bad?” Asa B. Attwood inquired innocently, and at once Roger P. Croy rounded on him with a fine show of righteousness.

“Yes, it is bad!” he said sharply. “And I will tell the committeeman from California why. It is bad because it would reverse the hard-fought decision of this committee when it chose Edward M. Jason. It is bad because it would wipe out all the elements of balance that we struggled so hard to achieve. It is bad because it would make the ticket simply Tweedledum and Tweedledee, betray all the supporters of Edward Jason and give the man who may be our next President virtual
carte blanche
to continue headlong down the road to endless overseas involvement and endless war. That is why it is bad, Mr. President, and I for one intend to oppose it as vigorously as I know how.”

“I think the issue
is
race,” Asa B. Attwood said with a calculated indifference, turning his back deliberately upon Roger Croy. “If the committeeman wants to be tagged with that, it’s his responsibility.”

“The issue
is not
race!” Roger Croy cried, his anger entirely genuine this time. “That is a vicious, unprincipled, unworthy falsehood, I will say to the committeeman from California! It is entirely typical of the tactics with which Orrin Knox and his supporters have acted here, throughout. It is just one more of those vicious, unprincipled—”

“Well,
now!”
William Abbott interrupted with a sudden thunder that startled into silence all except CBS, who murmured dryly to NBC, “I thought
that
would bring a little work with the gavel.” And the President did indeed use it, so hard that it seemed it must break the lectern.

“I do not propose,” he said, as the room became abruptly silent, keeping his tone level but breathing hard, “that this committee degenerate once more into the name-calling aggregation of political asps that it turned into a week ago. We have some responsibility to proceed in an orderly fashion to make the grave decision that devolves upon us, and I for one don’t intend to let us get into personalities if I can help it. The committeeman from California and the committeeman from Oregon will both be in order, because we shan’t proceed until they are.”