Six Crises (67 page)

Pat was adamant against my making any kind of a concession statement—even a conditional one. She said: “I have no regrets about all the work we have done in this campaign. But I simply cannot bring myself to stand there with you while you concede the election to Kennedy.”

I understood so completely how she felt that I did not press the point. I kissed her and Tricia good night, and they went back upstairs. I asked the members of my staff to leave me alone in the room, and then I sat down with yellow pad and pencil to try and draft some notes which I might use for the statement.

It was now almost midnight. In fifteen minutes I would have to go downstairs alone to the Ambassador ballroom and speak not only to the thousands gathered there—my closest personal and political friends who, through the years, had worked so hard in my campaigns—but also to millions across the nation, many of whom had worked and voted for me, and perhaps as many more who had worked and voted against me.

I thought back over other crises which had confronted me as I prepared for speeches or key press conferences: the fund speech in 1952; my White House press conference after the President's stroke in 1957; trying to hold my temper as I met the press in Lima and Caracas after the riots there in 1958; those tense moments when Khrushchev had verbally assaulted me at the American Exhibition in Moscow and I had a split-second to decide whether to remain silent, to retreat, or to fight back.

But this was the greatest test of all. How could I be gracious, and yet not concede outright? On the other hand, how could I avoid disappointing and discouraging over thirty million people who had voted and worked for me and who were now waiting to hear what I had to say? Most important, if the trend were to continue as I expected it would, and Kennedy were elected, how could I best use this opportunity to get those who had voted for me to stand with him—wherever and whenever he would speak in the future as President of all the people and not just as the leader of his party? At least a dozen times I jotted down notes—and then tore the pages from the pad and tossed them in the waste basket.

I thought back on what other men had done under similar circumstances. I recalled Tom Dewey's generous comments “the morning after” in 1948 when he finally had to acknowledge a defeat which was, if anything, harder for him to take than mine would be for me because he had been such an overwhelming favorite to win.

As a student of history, I thought—what an appropriate time for a Lincoln anecdote! But this ground had already been pre-empted by Adlai Stevenson. In 1952 he had compared his feelings in defeat with Lincoln's little boy who had stubbed his toe: “It hurt too much to laugh, but he was too old to cry.”

I still had not been able to put down a note that I felt would be appropriate when Don Hughes opened the door and walked in, with Pat beside him. “I have been thinking of all those people in the ballroom who have given so much of themselves to all our campaigns,”
she said. “I think we should go down together and tell them how much we appreciate what they have done.”

It was now 12:15, Pacific Coast Time. Just as we were leaving the room, Bob Finch rushed in to tell me that the popular vote margin was now less than a million—less than 900,000 in fact—and growing smaller as the returns kept piling up. The count by states was now 20 sure states for Nixon—but with only 157 electoral votes—against 19 sure states for Kennedy, with 265—only four electoral votes short of going over the top. Michigan Democrats, according to Stuart Novins of CBS, were still not claiming the state for Kennedy because, while he had piled up a 66 per cent margin in Wayne County, he was running about 3 per cent behind the expected outstate vote. And in Minnesota, it was the same story: “still a horse race.”

There was still a bare chance that, if we could win California, which I expected we would do, and two out of the other three critical “undecided” states—Illinois, Minnesota, and Michigan—we could take it all. But the chance was a long one, and it had already been announced that I was on my way downstairs to address the group in the ballroom and the national radio and television audience. I had to go ahead with it.

Pat and I walked together down the long deserted hallway to the elevators. A lone Secret Service man stationed at the end of the hall smiled as we approached him, and then turned away to hide the disappointment he shared with us. Just before we went on-stage we saw Herb Kaplow of NBC, ears covered with headphones. As I saw him, I remembered that he had been the first man to reach my car after we had run the gauntlet of the stone-throwing mob in Caracas. I sensed that he might be remembering the same incident as he smiled at us as we walked on by him and out onto the stage.

Paul Niven of CBS reported our entrance to the ballroom: “The Nixons are headed for the ballroom where presumably Vice President Nixon will concede defeat to Senator John Kennedy. It is a most enthusiastic reception, a tremendous ovation.” As we moved to center stage, it seemed like still another campaign rally. Johnny Grant, who had been master of ceremonies at our big California rallies, was leading the crowd in the campaign song, “We want Nixon, we want Nixon! We want Nixon to be our Pres-i-dent”—to the tune of “Merrily We Roll Along.” It took us at least two minutes to get everyone quieted down. As we looked out over the crowd, I could see that more than half of them were crying, and we saw literally hundreds who had been personal
and political friends since the time, fourteen years before, when I had first run for public office.

And so I tried first to speak to them in personal terms:

I thought we had had the last rally of the campaign, but here we go again!

As all of you in this room know, and as all of you millions who are listening on television and radio realize, it is normally the custom for a candidate for the Presidency . . . not to appear until after the decision is definitely known, and all the votes are counted beyond doubt.

However, I have been keeping some pretty late hours recently as some of you have . . . I know too that many who are listening in the Eastern part of the United States will find that it is now about 3:15 in the morning, and before the evening was over I did want to have the opportunity to speak to those in this room who have been with us during the day, and also to those who are listening on television, to say these things.

First, to express to all of you who have done so much in this campaign, our appreciation. Words are really inadequate at times like this. We can only try to let you feel what we have in our hearts . . .

As I said this, I could see tears welling up in Pat's eyes and, before going on, I put my arm around her.

I can say that we couldn't have had a more wonderful group of people in all of the 50 states than have been in our campaign.

Next, I tried to say something to those who had supported Kennedy:

The other thing I wish to do is this: I am sure that many are listening . . . who are supporting Senator Kennedy. I know too that he is probably listening to this program and, while . . . there are still some results to come in, if the present trend continues, Senator Kennedy will be the next President of the United States.

Here, I very nearly lost control of the situation. Shouts of “no, no, don't concede” filled the ballroom from the emotional crowd in front of me. I tried to quiet them by saying:

I want to say that one of the great features of America is that we have political contests, that they are very hard fought, as this one was hard fought, and once the decision is made, we unite behind the man who is elected . . . I want Senator Kennedy to know, and I want all of you
to know, that certainly if this trend continues, and if he does become our next President, he will have my whole-hearted support.

My deep thanks to all of you who are here . . . My congratulations to Senator Kennedy for his fine race in this campaign.

Finally, I felt I should say something which, at the end of so long and hard a campaign, would remind all those listening, Democrats and Republicans alike, that we were all united in a cause far greater and more important than any partisan considerations. And so I said:

And while because of interruptions . . . I have not been able perhaps to make this as coherent a statement as I might have wanted to, I do want to say that having been through all of the 50 states of this nation since the nominating convention in Chicago, having seen the American people . . . by the hundreds of thousands and perhaps millions, in the towns and cities of America, I have great faith about the future of this country. I have great faith that our people, Republicans, Democrats alike, will unite behind our next President . . . in seeing that America meets the challenge which destiny has placed upon us.

That challenge is to give leadership to the whole world which will produce a world in which all men can have what we have in the United States—freedom, independence, the right to live in peace with our neighbors.

And so with that, may I say again, my thanks to you. Having had only two hours sleep last night, and two hours sleep the night before, I am now going to bed—and I hope you do, too.

I had spoken for only five minutes but it seemed like a lifetime. Pat and I walked off the stage, making our way slowly through the crowd of friends who swarmed around us—many of them crying, most of them congratulating us on a fine campaign and wishing us well. As we walked back down the hall to my suite, I thought: “Now, it's really all over. No more schedules. No more crowds. No more handshakes, no more autographs, no more speeches. Now, at last, we can rest.”

I took Pat to the fifth-floor suite where the girls were sleeping and then went back downstairs to check over any last-minute reports.

Herb Klein reported that the reaction to my statement had been about what we might have expected. Ed Morgan of ABC called it “a curious bundle of sentiments and statements,” and John Daly said: “Fighting right down to the end of the race, Vice President Nixon was unwilling to concede the victory. If the trend continues, he said, Senator Kennedy will be the next President. A gracious speech, but not
conceding.” Virgil Pinkley called it, “virtually conceding—a sporting speech; the Vice President was in fine form.” On NBC, Chet Huntley said, “I don't know whether that was a concession or not,” and Dave Brinkley replied: “I suppose it was, but I never heard one just like it before. You can choose your own name for it.”

The one o'clock reports indicated Oregon and Washington definitely in our column, with California becoming closer all the time. At 1:30, Kennedy's popular vote margin kept on shrinking: it was now only 800,000 out of 54 million votes recorded.

Len Hall came into the room at 2:30. Illinois, he reported, was getting closer. Kennedy's lead had been whittled down to 35,000, and UPI had reported that in each downstate precinct—with 1700 of them still to go—I had been gaining about 100 votes per precinct. At such a rate, Illinois could not yet be conceded to Kennedy. UPI also began to carry reports out of Chicago on alleged vote frauds in Cook County. Len commented, “The Democrats are holding back about 200 Cook County precincts, waiting to see what the count is downstate. We are trying to get them to throw them in but they refuse to do so. Unless they do, they will be able to count us out, no matter what happens downstate.”

After Len left the room, I continued to listen to returns for another hour. At four, Kennedy's popular vote margin was down to 600,000. NBC, which as early as 8:00 on Tuesday evening had flatly predicted a Kennedy victory, now began hedging: “Our best
judgment
is that Kennedy is ahead.” CBS, which had made the same sort of prediction, joined in: “Kennedy
apparently
has won.” I finally turned off the television set, just as NBC flatly gave California to Kennedy and thus added up his electoral vote total to 296, well over-the-top. I did not accept this conclusion because I knew what any observer of California political trends should have known—that the absentee ballots, if past trends held, would put the state in our column.

As I went to bed at last, a little after four, I realized that if we could win California, gain enough downstate to take Illinois, and come through in Minnesota, we might do exactly what Eric Sevareid had suggested earlier in the evening, only in reverse—“snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.” As I dozed off, I recalled what had happened to Charles Evans Hughes in a similar but again reverse situation in 1916. He had gone to bed believing that he had been elected President. California, however, because of an unintentional snub to Senator Hiram Johnson by Hughes, had surprised all the experts and ended up
going for Wilson. The next morning, a newsman called to talk to Hughes. A secretary replied, “The President is asleep and cannot take your call until he wakes up.” To which the newsman reputedly replied: “Well, when he wakes up, tell him he isn't President any longer.”

Perhaps in the morning, I thought, someone might awaken me with a report that the miracle had come to pass—that we had turned the tide by winning California, Illinois, and Minnesota. And with that, I finally did go off to sleep, expecting and hoping to get my first good night's rest since leaving Los Angeles for Alaska almost three days before.

•  •  •

Barely two hours later, I felt someone shaking my arm insistently and urgently. I opened my eyes and saw that it was Julie.

Pat had put her to bed at about ten o'clock the night before, as she was becoming more and more distressed by the early returns. As she tucked her in, Pat had said: “You go to sleep now and don't worry. Things will be much better in the morning.” Well, here it was morning and, waking at six and finding her mother and sister still asleep, she had gone to the Secret Service man in the hallway and asked where I was. He had brought her down to my room.

She asked me, “Daddy, how did the election finally come out?”

I could think of no way to make the news easy for her. “Julie, I'm afraid we have lost.”