Promise of Joy (29 page)

4

Nor did salvation come any closer in the week that followed, nor did any faintest glimmer reveal itself ahead. Day marched after day and on each the forces that threatened his country grew stronger on the fields of battle, the gloom that gripped his countrymen became deeper, the frantic howls of his critics domestic and foreign wailed ever louder around an increasingly isolated White House. American troops, planes, tanks, their retreats stabilized—but only just—continued to fight savage holding actions, a growing number captured, a growing number dead. Television and the press dwelt long and lovingly on every American reverse, every American mistake, their treatment of the enemy so sparse and gentle that one might almost have thought the United States was the sole country involved. Inevitably this had what he thought of as “the Vietnam effect” on his countrymen. Daily he sank lower in the public-opinion polls, daily his supporters grew more discouraged and more timid, daily more and more in Congress charged, denounced, demanded, daily the number who dared speak out in his behalf declined. The UN met, raged, passed new resolutions, raged some more when he had Ceil veto them. Rumors increased that Britain and France might be joining the Communist powers to form a naval task force to challenge the blockade of Panama. Hysteria soared. Still the basic deadlock remained. He kept himself aloof, made no further statements, held to his own counsel. He would not yield, the Communists would not yield, his critics foreign and domestic would not yield. The world screamed toward a climax of hatred and terror at whose center he appeared to be as serene and unshakable as though nothing at all untoward were going on.

But it took its toll, and all who were close to him knew it.

On the tenth day of his Presidency it took a toll he did not know that he could stand.

But he saw it through and stood even that, though looking back he marveled that he had.

“Bill—” he said, coming forward late in the winter-dark afternoon to shake hands with his troubled predecessor. “Bob—Warren—please be seated. And don’t look so solemn,” he added with a smile. “It isn’t as bad as all that.”

“It isn’t?” William Abbott inquired with a sigh. “You must know something we don’t know.”

“I know we’re holding them,” he said crisply.

“But at what a cost!” Warren Strickland said quietly. “At what a cost!”

“And would you be doing it any differently if you sat here?” he demanded sharply; and after a moment the Senate Minority Leader also sighed.

“No … I guess not. But it is imperative that we have some hope, Mr. President. We must have
some
hope.” The room became silent as he asked a quiet question: “Is there any?”

He studied their worried faces for a moment, elbows on chair arms, chin on fingertips in his characteristic pose. All were deeply troubled, all were looking to him for reassurance. For the first time it crossed his mind that even these might leave him, if the agony went on long enough.

“Hope?” he echoed, the thought giving his tone an extra edge. “Hope? Yes, I can give you hope: the hope that a just cause will ultimately win, that courage and decency will ultimately prevail, that freedom and democracy will not go down if brave men remain unflinching in the defense of them.”

“We’re brave men,” Bob Munson said, as quietly as Warren. “But we need encouragement.”

“I have been in office ten days,” he said, his tone still edgy. “The new fighting has been under way ten days.
Ten days
is sufficient to judge the way a war is going?
Ten days
is enough to give up hope?”

“Nations have fallen in far less in this century,” Bob Munson pointed out. “And today time telescopes even more.… No,” he said gravely, “we aren’t judging the war—finally—Mr. President. We aren’t giving up hope—finally. But we are telling you that things are getting increasingly tight, on the Hill, in the country, everywhere.”

“And you think I don’t know it?” he demanded, unable to keep some bitterness out of his voice. “I’m told it in every broadcast, every newspaper, every phone call, every piece of mail that reaches this house. I feel it in my bones as much as you do—you can’t be in politics as long as I’ve been and not have a gut instinct for what the country is thinking. At least I can’t.”

“And still you remain unshaken,” William Abbott said thoughtfully; and then with a wry smile added, “But of course you do, just as I did, and just as any other character worth his salt in this office, does.… Except that this time”—and again he sighed, heavily and unhappily—“this time, I just don’t know.… I just don’t know.”

“Well, I do,” he said with an outward calmness he did not entirely feel. “I do, Bill. And so did you, up to now. What’s happened?”

“The wars,” the ex-President said. “World opinion. Domestic opinion. The UN, nattering away. Congress, still holding up your Cabinet. The defense bill you have
got
to have to keep going, still pigeonholed. The whole head-on, intransigent atmosphere. No slightest sign of charity or compassion or understanding for you anywhere, at least in any influential spot in this country. Or the world, for that matter. The whole thing, Orrin. It’s just beginning to wear me down. As it must,” he concluded gravely, “be wearing you down too, though you seem remarkably resilient … at least on the surface.”

“And surface,” he remarked dryly, “is what the world goes on.” His expression changed, sobered. “No. I
am
worn down, Bill. Desperately so. But I will not—I cannot—give in and change course now. I simply cannot do it, because the minute I did, everything would be lost.” He looked from somber face to somber face. “Is that why you asked to see me? To urge me to give in?”

“Not to give in,” William Abbott said quietly. “You know none of your real friends wants you to do that. Just to—bend a little, perhaps. Give a bit. Don’t be quite so—arbitrary.”

“This
is
a change,” he said, finding it hard to keep the anger from his voice. “You three telling me this? I can’t believe it!” He mastered his annoyance with an obvious effort, forced his tone to become more reasonable. “All right then: how do I ‘bend a little’? How do I ‘give a bit’? How do I become less ‘arbitrary,’ when I face an absolutely unbending, ungiving, completely arbitrary adversary? We’ve all known each other all our political lives, nobody on the Hill has been any closer over the years: advise me. I’ll listen.” A fleeting smile crossed his face, but the moment was too serious for it to linger long. “I may not do anything about it, but I’ll listen.”

“Have you considered,” Bob Munson asked, “reopening the possibility of a conference? As you say, we
are
holding them—”

“Barely.”

“Yes, barely—but we are. Mightn’t this be an opportunity to start talking?”

His expression became set.

“It’s got to be more solid than this.”

“But will it be?” Warren Strickland inquired.

“Can it be?” asked William Abbott.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’ve got to hold on and hope.”

“Can
you hold on?” Bill Abbott asked. “Can we even hold what we’ve got, without a bloodbath even worse than we’re having right now? My part of the war was relatively easy, things were pretty calm over the past six months. Now we’re into Operation Meatgrinder—”

“Who came up with that one?” he snapped.

“It’s on the Hill. You’ll see it in your friendly media tomorrow morning. I’m not saying I agree with the spirit in which it’s used, but in essence—”

“Yes?” the President inquired with an ominous quiet.

“In essence,” the ex-President said calmly, “that is exactly what it is, Orrin, and you know it.”

“I cannot give in,” the President repeated, his voice curiously remote but unyielding. “And I cannot talk—yet.”

“You may never have a better chance,” Senator Munson remarked.

“At least some gesture—?” Warren Strickland suggested. “Some sign of willingness to meet, if only to take the propaganda initiative away from them? It would make it so much easier for you—and for the sizable number who still, I think, support your course, although with growing difficulty.”

He gave them a long, moody, searching look.

“How long can you fellows continue to support it?”

“How long can you?” his predecessor inquired with equal moodiness.

“As long as I have to!” he said sharply.

“Not quite, I’m afraid, Orrin,” William Abbott said somberly. “Not quite.”

“I
have
to, Bill!” he exclaimed in an almost desperate way. “I simply
have
to! Until
they
agree, until
they
make a sign, until
they
come halfway. There’s no other alternative at this moment.” His tone became suddenly almost beseeching, almost wistful, an Orrin they had very rarely seen in all their years of close association. “Now you
know
that … don’t you?”

“We’ll stay with you just as long as we can,” Bob Munson assured him quickly, deeply troubled by this insight into depths of Presidential anguish. And Warren Strickland, leaning forward with equal haste, agreed, “Of course we will—and beyond that if need be. Although”—he shook his head with a worried frown—“we probably won’t have much company.”

“I can’t help that,” he said, voice low, eyes far away, mind somewhere in the bitter night. “I have got to do what I think is right for this country and the world even if they both hate me forever in the process. There is no other way …
is
there?” he demanded of his predecessor with a sudden reviving challenge, a sudden return to the Orrin Knox they knew so well.
“Is
there?”

William Abbott studied him for a long time.

“We’ll be with you a while yet,” he said finally. “But, Orrin,” he added quietly, “for your sake—for the country’s sake—for everybody’s sake—I hope it doesn’t have to be too long.” He too looked far away. “I don’t know whether we could all stand it.”

“If I can, you can,” the President said, sounding fully himself again, but softening the near-flippant tartness with a smile.

“Yes,” the ex-President agreed,
“if
you can.”

“Try me,” he said with a suddenly reviving cheerfulness, for he was confident now, with a sudden upsurging relief, that these old friends would not desert him, no matter who else might. With them, his family and a few others, he felt his strength was as the strength of millions.

And so he continued to feel after they left, despite the continuing burden of discouraging reports that continued to flow to his desk from the Situation Room. The mood continued until shortly after 11 p.m., when he decided to go to bed; then it changed.

He had just reached the Mansion and stepped off the elevator onto the second floor when one of the young Secret Service men on duty throughout the heavily guarded house hurried forward down the long central hall. Something about the agent’s haste, his manner, the way he was carefully suppressing emotion though so obviously in the grip of it, sent a cold shiver through his body.

“Yes?” he called sharply. “What is it?”

“Mr. President,” the agent said. “I’m afraid there’s bad n—”

“My children,” he interrupted flatly, a great abyss seeming to open up at his feet, the house, the world, everything, almost literally spinning away from him, beyond grasp, beyond redemption.

“Yes, sir,” the agent said, his voice shaking a little now. “I am so sorry. We just this minute received word—”

“What?” he asked, a monstrous impatience seeming to seize his whole being.
“What is it, man?”

“They’ve been kidnapped, sir,” the agent said hurriedly, his earnest young face white with strain. “They went to the benefit at Ford’s Theater, and just after the performance ended, while they were waiting to get into the car, a group of six people—”

“Why weren’t they guarded?” he demanded, his voice grating harshly in the hushed corridor.

“Three of our men died, sir,” the agent said simply; and for several seconds neither of them said anything more.

Then he sighed from some great depth, passed across his eyes a hand that shook, and in a voice that was lower and by some miracle almost normal, said quietly:

“I’m sorry, I apologize. I should have known. Who did it?”

“We aren’t sure, sir,” the agent said, voice calmer now, officially matter-of-fact. “They were masked, four men and two women, armed with submachine guns and grenades. I should add that four spectators were also shot, two of them seriously. It could be NAWAC or one of its violent subgroups. The FBI is working on that angle, I believe.”

“Have we heard anything from them yet?”

“No, sir, not a word. They headed up Sixteenth Street and apparently went into Maryland. The hunt is being concentrated around Silver Spring and Chevy Chase. I think”—he paused, swallowed painfully, and went on—“I think I should tell you that it is our people’s impression that these are fanatics who may not stop at—at anything, sir.

“Oh, they’ll stop,” he said with a bitter weariness, “if I pay the price. I’m sure they’ll let me know, soon enough.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent said, young face sadly troubled; and the President felt it was comforting that he should still be hesitating there, not quite sure whether to leave or offer to stay, when another agent appeared down the hall carrying an extension telephone.

“A call for you, sir,” he said; plugged the instrument into an outlet along the wall, handed it to him and added quietly, “It’s being monitored, of course.” Solemn and wide-eyed, the two of them watched as he said sharply:

“Yes?”

“We have them,” the voice said calmly, “and we will kill them unless you withdraw from Gorotoland and Panama and meet with the peace-loving powers to negotiate an end to this war madness once and for all.”

“There are other kinds of madness,” he said.

“Maybe,” the voice agreed, still calmly. “But we have them, and those are our conditions.”

“You have a deadline in mind,” he suggested, playing for time, mind racing, desperately seeking some ground for rational appeal. The response showed him there was none.

“You just begin getting busy. We’ll let you know when we decide on a deadline.”

“What kind of a deal is that?” he demanded.