Preserve and Protect (55 page)

“Mr. President, I offer this Committee, in the hope that it will in turn offer the country and the world, the name of the Honorable Orrin Knox of Illinois to be our nominee for President of the United States.”

From outside a bawl of boos, harsh, sustained, animal-angry, rose from the rancid ranks of NAWAC. Inside there came applause, vigorous, dedicated, perhaps slightly defensive: not quite as much as had approved Governor Jason’s name, the press felt, but still disturbingly substantial.

(“That was a longie,” Senator Van Ackerman remarked in his office in the New Senate Office Building. “Let the son of a bitch talk,” LeGage Shelby said with a shrug. “Knox loses votes the longer his people yak.” “Yess,” agreed Rufus Kleinfert. “Now ve shall see.”)

“Mrs. Bigelow,” the President said, “if you will complete the roll of states, please.”

And when Anna had, and there were, as expected, no more speakers save for a seconding announcement by Harold Barkley of Kentucky, he brought the gavel down once, sharply, and said gravely,

“These nominations for President of the United States are now closed.”

All over the city, the nation, the world, a hush descended, a tense, waiting excitement began.

“We now come,” he said quietly, “to the call of the states for the purpose of electing—”

But Roger Croy was on his feet, and the tension became so great that it was almost palpable.

“For what purpose,” the President inquired, “does the Committeeman from Oregon interrupt the Chair?”

“The Committeeman regrets, Mr. Chairman,” Roger Croy said with an edge in his voice, “if the exercise of his prerogative to make a motion is regarded by the Chair as an interruption. The Chair had not completed his instruction to the Secretary, I believe?”

“That is correct,” the President agreed calmly. “The Committeeman will make his motion.”

“In view of the intense national and world interest in this nomination,” Roger Croy began—

(“For God’s sake,” the
Chicago Tribune
hissed impatiently, “what in the hell is it now?” “He has a right to do it,” the
Baltimore Sun
snapped. “Shut up!”)

“—and to allow time for members of the Committee to ascertain to the fullest degree the opinions of the country—”

(“Oh, oh,” Hal Knox said softly. “Quiet!” his mother commanded.)

“—I move, Mr. President, that this Committee do now stand in recess until ten a.m. one week from today.”

And again tension soared and uproar reigned.

“I further move,” Roger Croy said coolly, “that on this vote the votes of the states be weighted to correspond to their votes in the convention in San Francisco.”

And uproar increased as eight or ten members jumped to their feet and began shouting angrily at one another across the little room, while the President resumed his steady, insistent, finally effective, rapping with the gavel.

“The Chair will say to the Committee,” he said when an explosive silence had settled, “that it is his opinion that the motion of the Committeeman from Oregon stands on the same bottom with previous motions here, in other words that it is a procedural matter and should be decided by simple majority vote.

“The Chair, in fact, will so rule.

“Now, if the Committeeman from Oregon really wants to prolong this for some strategic advantage he thinks he may see in it, he may appeal the ruling. But an appeal, I warn the Committeeman, is clearly a procedural matter and it
will
be decided by a simple majority.

“The Committeeman evidently feels that he stands a better chance with a weighted vote than he does with a simple majority. Now if the simple majority on his appeal goes against him, the Chair would think,” the President said with a certain quizzical wryness, “speaking as an old parliamentarian, that it just might have a psychological effect on the vote on his motion.

“Is the Committeeman really sure he wishes to run that risk?”

“Well, Mr. President,” Roger Croy said reasonably, “if the Chair can give me some assurance that when we actually vote on the nominations, we can have a vote that will correspond to the total vote cast by each state in the convention—”

“Now the Committeeman is quibbling,” the President interrupted sharply. “I have told the Committee that, repeatedly. Furthermore, it is in the rules. It can’t be avoided if anyone wanted to. The Committeeman knows that. The Chair would appreciate it if he would stop these snide implications that the Chair is somehow going to pull some sleight of hand that is plainly and absolutely impossible under the rules. Does the Committeeman,” he asked, biting off each word, “wish to appeal my ruling or does he not?”

“As long as I have your assurance, Mr. Chairman,” Roger Croy said smoothly, “I shall not appeal. But I should like to speak for a moment to my motion.”

“The Committeeman has that right,” the President said coldly.

“Thank you,” said Roger P. Croy. “Mr. President, it is very obvious from events in the past twenty-four hours, that there is a deep and genuinely dangerous division in the country. There have been outbreaks of violence. There have been tragic deaths. There has been a near-breakdown of law and order in several areas of several major cities. Again, all these things are tied together and related: again they come down basically to a genuine, frustrated, almost hopeless protest against policies whose solution, to many, seems to lie only in the election of Governor Edward M. Jason.

“Mr. President,” he said sharply as several voices cried out angrily, “I have the floor! It is time to face up to these realities and stop pretending! It is because a disturbed nation feels instinctively that there is a conspiracy here to deny it the man it wants that these things are happening! Is there anyone here who honestly thinks that if the Committee had approved the recall of the convention, and so paved the way to a free and democratic vote for Governor Jason, that the nation would have seen the turmoil it has seen in the past twenty-four hours? We deny the people what they want and they have no choice but to riot, Mr. President! We deny them the man of peace and so they make war, tragically, upon their own countrymen. How can such things be?”

“Far better, Mr. President,” he said as angry voices again protested, “that we should bow gladly and willingly, as we sooner or later must, to the will of the people. Far better that we listen to, and heed, their deeply impassioned desires in this matter.

“They see their future in this man, Mr. President. It is folly to stand in their way, for to do so can lead only to more bitterness, more frustration, more violence. And that way lies final disaster for our beloved land.

“Mr. President, it is because not all members of the Committee are yet fully aware of this that I think they should have time to sample national sentiment, and understand. A week’s delay in a matter so vital will not hurt anyone, Mr. President. Rather, it will permit reason to prevail. It will permit truth to be heard. It will give Committee members who may still doubt, time to achieve the sure and final conviction that the country does, indeed, want Governor Jason; and that if it is denied him by some conspiracy here, some parliamentary evasion or arrangement, only truly great disaster lies ahead.

“I believe this week may save America. That is why I urge approval of my motion, Mr. President.”

And with a graceful little bow to the President, who stared down upon him with a cold and quizzical expression, he sat down, folded his hands before him, and lifted his stately white head with a bland, attentive air. From outside there came a great prolonged roar of approval and excitement.

“Does anyone wish to reply?” the President inquired dryly as some twenty Committeemen and Committeewomen stood up and waved vigorously for recognition.

“The distinguished Committeeman,” he said, making the choice he thought would furnish the most contrast and be most effective, “from Vermont.”

“Mr. President,” Pete Boissevain said, so angry that his words came out in a tumbling rush, “I am not a very graceful speaker, as the Chair knows, he had enough trouble with me in the House. I can’t pull out a lot of fancy phrases on short notice like the former Governor of Oregon. But I can speak the truth as I see it, Mr. President, and I don’t have to do it,” he said with a bitter sarcasm, “like Aaron Slick from Punkin Crick, either.

“I’ve heard plenty of poppycock in my time, but I’ve never heard anything as twisted and slick and crafty and—and evil—as what we’ve just finished hearing now. Sure, there’s a deep division in the country! Sure, there’s been violence and, sure, there’s threat of more violence! And why, Mr. President? Because a lot of immature minds, egged on by minds that aren’t so immature but know exactly what they want, are trying to overturn the very foundation-principle of democracy, which is that
you accept the will of the majority.”

Outside there rose again the angry hum.

“The Governor says in so many words that if we’d recalled the convention—and look who’s talking about parliamentary conspiracies!—
if we’d given these monstrous babies what they wanted
—they wouldn’t have rioted last night. And he says if we don’t quit for a week now and then come back and give them what they want, they’ll riot some more and maybe destroy the country.

“Good God Almighty, man!” he exclaimed, rounding on Roger P. Croy, who paled but returned him stare for stare, “do you realize what you’re saying here? Do you have the slightest concept of what you’re really saying? You’re saying that if an organized minority—because don’t you try to kid us, Governor, we each of us have our own ways of sampling public opinion, and there are just as many who want Orrin Knox, and maybe more—you say that if an organized minority doesn’t like something and goes into the streets and breaks the law and raises hell, we’ve got to appease it and give it what it wants, because if we don’t it might do worse. You’re saying we’ve got to crawl to it, instead of putting the law on it and beating it down as it should be beaten down!

“What you’re saying, Governor, is that democracy is all wrong. You’re saying that if somebody doesn’t like something the majority has democratically voted for, he has a right to go out and destroy democracy if he can, just because he’s an insane child who has the pouts and isn’t mature enough to play by the rules. Men have worked and struggled and died for a long time to make those rules, Governor, and now you want to toss them out the window because the riffraff of America riots for your precious candidate!

“Well, I don’t know how others feel,” he said, and he glared around the silent room, “but I say, the hell with that! I say it’s about time we stopped appeasing these thugs and murderers who are trying to take over the country. I say it’s time we stood up to our responsibilities and voted the way we please, and if they don’t like it, the hell with them!”

Outside, the angry hum increased until the Kennedy Center seemed to vibrate with it.

“I say it’s about time to
make them behave!

“You can have your motion, Governor,” he concluded, more quietly but not much. “I wouldn’t be such a betrayer of America as to think like you do and act like you want us to act. I wouldn’t be such a coward.”

And he turned his back on Roger P. Croy and sat down. Outside, the angry humming grew to a steady, bitter thunder. Inside, about half the Committee and half the audience applauded with an almost hysterical approval, while the other half sat silent, unmoving and grim.

“If there are no further speakers,” the President said quietly after a couple of minutes had passed with no signs of anyone else wanting recognition, “I think the Secretary may call the roll on the motion of the Committeeman from Oregon to recess for a week.”

“Alabama!” said Anna Hooper Bigelow in a voice that trembled in the hush, and,

“Aye!” said Helen M. Rupert, and,

“Nay!” said Henry C. Godwin.

(“If they stay split the way they have on the other votes,” the general director of the
Post
remarked to Walter Dobius, “it isn’t going to tell us a thing.” But the instinct of a longtime political reporter caused Walter to shake his head. “It will,” he said, concentrating grimly on the little screen. “It will.”)

And so, as the world could see with a steadily rising excitement, it did; for as Anna Bigelow proceeded down the proud roll of names that ring the changes of America, evoking the seas, the plains, the mountains and the forests, three or four delegations that had been split before were split no more; and while this might have been just for the present issue, still there was something about the tone of voice and the manner in which the votes were cast which seemed to indicate that some hitherto undecided were undecided no longer, and that some whom worry and possibly timidity had made uncertain were beginning to find certainty.

“On this vote,” the President said into the quivering stillness, “the Yeas are fifty-eight, the Nays are forty-eight, and the motion is not agreed to.”

Again there came the great rush of sound, this time, uncertain, puzzled, frustrated, angry, ominous; as though the hordes of NAWAC were not sure what was going on, but whatever it was, knew that they shouldn’t like it.

(“That’s it,” Walter said bitterly at the
Post.
“Oh, no,” the general director protested, “you’re too pessimistic.” “That’s it,” Walter repeated. “Look where the changes came. I’m going to call Ted.” But the phone was not being answered in Dumbarton Oaks.)

“The vote now comes,” the President said slowly, “on the selection of a candidate for President of the United States. According to the rules of the Committee, selection will be by a majority of the number of votes cast at the convention in San Francisco, each state to have the same number of votes here as it did in San Francisco. Should the two National Committee members of a state disagree, each shall cast one-half of the full vote of the state.”

(“You see?” the general director said. “It isn’t over yet, by any means. You take some of these states that split in San Francisco but didn’t split right down the middle, and you divide them equally—”)

And as the vote progressed from still-divided Alabama (which stayed five and five, as it had in San Francisco) on through still-divided California (where an equal split favored Orrin Knox), to still-divided New York (which also helped Orrin), to now-unified Ohio (which gave Ted Jason a big boost), and so on to Wisconsin, Wyoming and the end, it became apparent in the tensely silent room and all over the tensely watching globe, that the director was right. The equal division rule was having a decisive effect; aided, though they would probably never realize the irony of it, by the waiting hordes of NAWAC, who yelled eagerly for each Jason gain, groaned bitterly with each advance by Orrin Knox.