Authors: Irving Wallace
Eaton tried to smile. “Mr. President, you are doing so well that I feel you can educate us. As a matter of fact, there are a number of foreign—policy problems of the most pressing nature to remark upon.”
Eaton found himself vividly reporting to the Cabinet the last conversation with T. C., and T. C.’s desires up to that moment when he had been killed. Carefully, he elaborated upon what Talley had tried to tell Dilman in the Oval Office. Premier Kasatkin and the Russian Presidium were suspicious of United States intervention in emerging Africa.
“The Russians,” said Eaton, “feel that our renewal of membership in the African Unity Pact, promising these African countries economic aid and military support if their independence should be threatened from the outside, is a provocative slap at Moscow. In short, another NATO. However, T. C. said, the Russians would overlook our Pact if we would cease to encourage anti-Communist legislation in Baraza. Almost the last words T. C. spoke were that we must compromise with honor, maintain a moderate course, to insure world peace. While he wanted the Pact ratified, he also wanted to give the Russians their bone—our promise that Baraza would lift its anti-Communist measures. This week, as Secretary of State, I did two things—I brought Ambassador Slater from the United Nations meetings to hold talks with the Barazan Ambassador to this country, and I sent Assistant Secretary for African Affairs Stover to Baraza City to feel out President Amboko. Perhaps Ambassador Slater would like to tell you about his conferences?”
The United Nations Ambassador, a diminutive, onetime history professor celebrated for his eloquence, launched into a detailed account of his talks with Ambassador Wamba of Baraza. The talks had made it clear that while Baraza was fearful of American abandonment by its not joining the African Unity Pact, the little country was equally fearful of giving its minority of Communist-trained natives a free hand. Ambassador Wamba would make no promises. The decision would have to come from President Amboko.
Here Eaton took over again. Stover’s one long conversation with President Amboko had reflected the same fears and indecision.
Eaton turned in his chair to Dilman. “Amboko wants to see you in person, Mr. President, before he makes up his mind. If I may be frank, I think he suspects that because you are an American Negro, while he is an African Negro, you will be more sympathetic toward his views, perhaps let him have his cake and eat it, and promise to defy Russia.” Eaton could see Dilman squirm slightly at his undiluted candor, but he felt that it was time to let Dilman know that there were those abroad who might make use of his color. “Mr. President, no matter what our African friend may have to say to you, our own course has been distinctly charted by T. C. We cannot risk a nuclear war to serve the self-interests of one tiny African country. This can be discussed in detail before Amboko’s arrival. I suppose you will have to receive him.”
“Yes,” said Dilman quietly, “I think I’d like to.”
Now Eaton brought up the resumption of the Roemer Conference, and promised to see Russian Ambassador Rudenko about a mutually satisfactory date and the possibility of holding the conference in or about Paris. Then, feeling that he had dominated the table long enough, Eaton hastily told Dilman that foreign policy had become so complex it overlapped from his Department of State into numerous other Departments, notably those of the Defense and the Treasury.
As if on cue, Secretary of Defense Steinbrenner, a mirthless, ponderous, shrewd aircraft millionaire, made a statement about the country’s current standing in the weapons race, emphasizing the number of stockpiles of nuclear warheads, and the country’s situation as to overseas bases. Except for the recent development of the Demi John guided missile, mainstay of the nation’s highly mobile airborne rocketry force known popularly as the Dragon Flies, Steinbrenner deplored the fact that in readiness for limited warfare the United States was woefully behind the Russians. He wanted greater expenditures devoted to select units like the Dragon Flies. Furthermore, he wanted reorganization of the Pentagon, especially in the areas of enlarging the military manpower draft and in enforcing speed upon government-subsidized contractors’ production schedules.
Immediately Secretary of the Treasury Moody leaped into the fray, protesting the cost of a Pentagon reorganization and opposing part of Eaton’s foreign-aid program. Listening to the contentious banker’s rasping voice, Eaton took out a cigarette and his silver holder, fitted them together, and smoked. He had heard all this before, and he could see that Dilman had heard it, too, in the Senate, and Eaton tried to hide his boredom. As Moody went on about deficit spending, lower interest rates, tax cuts, economy, Eaton shut him out. Then, suddenly, the Secretary of the Treasury mentioned the budget of the proposed Minorities Rehabilitation Program, and immediately there were six voices, one from every part of the table, superimposed upon each other.
Eaton tried to distinguish one voice from another, but it was difficult, and then, he knew, unnecessary, for the voices were saying almost the same thing but in different languages of self-interest. Unanimously they favored the Minorities Rehabilitation Program and they wanted no paring of the budget. Secretary of Labor Barnes was saying that the Program would create jobs and guarantee prosperity. Secretary of Agriculture Allen was saying that farmers were satisfied that the Program would absorb their own surplus foods for use in depressed areas at home and abroad. Secretary of Interior Ruttenberg was saying the Program would help him develop and conserve natural resources, as Ickes had done with the WPA. Secretary of Commerce Purcell was speaking of his public highways, and Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare Mrs. Cummins was speaking of her expanded school-building program, and Postmaster General Guthrie was speaking of the promise of more post office branches and more carriers.
Ideas were flying, and despite the initial unanimity, there were suddenly acrimonious exchanges. Hearing the cross fire, the participation of almost the entire Cabinet, Eaton was pleased. T. C.’s genius, he told himself, had made such intellectual vitality and excitement possible. Here they were not suffocated by the tedious monologues that had often taken place in earlier Cabinets, ones divided by departmentalism. Eaton recollected a conversation, long ago, with a member of one of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Cabinets, about a typical meeting during which Secretary of Labor Frances Perkins had lectured the others on her problems, and Harry Hopkins, James Farley, Cordell Hull had been inattentive, and Robert Jackson and Henry Morgenthau had exchanged jokes about other matters. Only President Roosevelt, the catalyst interested in everything and everyone, listened to Madam Perkins.
Eaton cast a sidelong glance at President Dilman. His black face was as set and unchanged as ever. His hands were immobile, but his cautious eyes moved from speaker to speaker.
Then came the slapping of a palm on the mahogany table, and a voice louder than the rest. Immediately the others fell silent, fully concentrating on Attorney General Clay Kemmler, whose flinty eyes were colder than ever and whose prominent jaw was extended farther than ever.
“Why don’t we stop this economic and prosperity nonsense about the Minorities Rehabilitation Program, and all the sidetracking and disagreements about the money aspects, and speak right out about the only damn thing that is important about that bill?” Kemmler demanded. “We’ve had a Negro problem since Reconstruction days, and it didn’t get attention until the Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson administrations, because the Negroes kept quiet and were poorly organized, and then all hell broke loose. Under T. C., all hell was still breaking loose. His administration had to dig up something fast or be witness to daily massacres of whites and blacks. So he thought of how F. D. R. pulled the WPA out of his hat, to keep the unemployed busy, keep them from open rebellion. Then he thought of the Urban League’s old notion of a domestic Marshall Plan to help Negroes, who have been deprived so long, to bring them up quickly, through increased income and education, to ready them for complete equality. That’s how MRP was born and that’s the sole reason for it.”
Attorney General Kemmler seemed to gulp for breath, and then he whirled toward President Dilman, and leaned against the table, wagging a finger at him.
“Mr. President, there’s no aspect of that bill for you to consider except one—that it’s designed to help your people, and therefore your country.”
Eaton could see that while Dilman’s broad face held to its impassivity, one hand folded over the other more tightly, until the dark knuckles lightened.
“Mr. President,” the Attorney General went on, “I hope you will find time to visit our Department of Justice someday soon, and walk through our Civil Rights Division. Under Kennedy and then Johnson we had a hundred men and women, lawyers, investigators, secretaries, working there. Under T. C. we had two hundred in this Division. In the past week, since you, a Negro, sir, have become President, we have had to bring our personnel up to two hundred and fifty and in a month it should be three hundred and fifty. Why? Because your sudden accession has doubly reminded the average Negro of what he is missing. He is tired of standing in line with his hungry belly, waiting for his citizenship and his book learning. He is tired of the Crispus Society and the NAACP fighting his battles with law books. He wants action. There’s this Turnerite Group, to name only one of a hundred others springing up, all putting on the heat, not merely demanding our action but acting themselves, and threatening all kinds of unnamed horrors. And there’s the Klan, and its offshoots, militantly revived, and doubly revived because they fear your administration may be anti-white and vindictive, and they’re getting ready for every kind of violence. Only one thing can stop the civil warfare that’s right ahead, and that is immediate passage and effective implementation of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program. Maybe it won’t solve everything permanently, but it’ll get this country back to normal right now, and give my Department a fighting chance to handle what is going on. I recommend strongly, because of the race issue and nothing else, that you, like T. C., throw the full weight and prestige of your office behind the bill.”
The Attorney General halted, chest heaving, and Eaton could observe that after this outburst there was little left to discuss. Eaton looked at President Dilman, whose expression still had not changed.
Eaton said, “Mr. President, I think we’ve used up our allotted time. If you are to keep to your appointment schedule—”
Dilman nodded, stuffing the envelope still before him back into his pocket, and then, blinking at Kemmler, and then at the others, he tried to speak. His voice, caught low in his throat, was almost inaudible.
“I will begin a thorough reading of the Minorities Rehabilitation Program Bill tonight,” he said. “Before our next meeting is convened, I may call upon some of you, individually, for more information about it, as well as on Baraza and other matters. . . . Secretary Eaton, I appreciate the speech that you and the others among T. C.’s advisers prepared for my television debut tomorrow. It is excellent, and represents my sentiments entirely. I shall deliver it as written, with but one insignificant modification that I must make. I will not be explicit about the minorities bill in this talk to the nation, until I’ve studied it and understand it better. In all respects, I believe the speech will assure the country that I am not going to give it a—a black government—or a different government—but a government such as it enjoyed under the late President. . . . Thank you, one and all. The meeting stands adjourned.”
He rose, and went hastily across the thick green carpet, and disappeared into Edna Foster’s office.
At once the Cabinet meeting broke up, and few lingered behind to hold postmortems, since each of them had a heavy engagement calendar. Going to the door, most of them expressed satisfaction that Dilman would “toe the mark” and “cause no trouble” and “listen to advice.” Eaton was the last member in the room, and before he could leave, he found Talley holding his elbow, guiding him to the privacy of the nook between the far wall and the farthest French door.
“What do you think, Arthur?” Talley asked
“I thought it went very well,” said Eaton. “He seems prepared to go all the way with us. He’s delivering our speech to the country tomorrow. We can’t expect more.”
Talley had a reservation. “Yeh, but what about that last little thing, about his saying he wants to modify the outright endorsement of the minorities bill we put in his speech, wants to study the bill so he can understand it? What does that mean, Arthur?”
“It means, Wayne, he needs to display some dignity as an individual, to prove he is not simply a parrot. He is a person, a person who happens to be Negro, and he wants at least to read the most important bill presented to Congress in twenty years involving the people of his race. It makes sense. In his shoes, I would do the same.”
“But you think we have him?”
Eaton frowned. “Forgive me, Governor, but I would not put it precisely that way. I’d say that T. C. has him, and he has T. C., and that is good enough for me.”
“Amen,” said Talley. “And I say you deserve the entire credit.”
“Not all,” said Eaton. “Hesper deserves some of it.”
“I still say—you,” said Talley. “You convinced her to be upstairs when he was there, and to speak to him the way she did. Nobody can resist a widow. That would be like pushing Mom out the window or stepping on the flag. You’re a genius, Arthur. I feel now—why, it’s almost like having T. C. back in the President’s office.”
“T. C.
is
in the President’s office,” said Arthur Eaton. “And we’re going to keep him there.”
Douglass Dilman sat back in the green swivel chair and contemplated his son across the Buchanan desk.
Since his arrival ten minutes ago, the boy had remained in a state of high enthusiasm. He had congratulated his father profusely. He had happily recounted the details of his train trip down from New York, accompanied by the Secret Service man who had shown up at Trafford University six days ago. He had reported proudly that every passenger aboard was absorbed in a newspaper or weekly magazine filled with pictures of President Dilman. He had recounted the excitement of his ride in the White House limousine, of the photographers who had surrounded him outside the West Wing lobby, of his rescue by Tim Flannery.