Preserve and Protect (56 page)

Into the deathly hush the President confirmed what they knew already but could not believe in Spring Valley, could not believe in Dumbarton Oaks, could not believe anywhere on earth until his official words in some final, mystical, tribal way made it real:

“On the vote to elect a nominee for President of the United States,” he said, in a voice that was steady yet still betrayed something of his own tension, “the vote by states is 635 for Edward M. Jason, 658 for Orrin Knox, and the Presidential nominee of this party is the Honorable Orrin Knox of Illinois.”

At once the animal roar screamed up, drowned the world, and came rapidly nearer.

9

Concerning the event that historians would eventually come to refer to as “the great riot against the National Committee,” or more simply, “the Great Riot,” the news stories, the broadcasts, the magazine articles, the books, and the memories were probably as many and varied as the participants. Yet on one thing all agreed: there had never been in the city of Washington, or, in fact, in the United States, a scene and mood of quite such fear and terror as that which occurred when NAWAC’s ranks, swollen this fateful afternoon to an estimated 200,000, attempted to storm the Kennedy Center following the nomination of Orrin Knox.

What their leaders really hoped to accomplish, what the purpose could be now that their candidate had been defeated, they probably could not have said in any coherent or rational fashion. It was as though some final act of political violence, almost carefree in its own dreadful way, had prompted the unleashing of the enormous mob that now swept screaming toward the ring of troops surrounding the Center.

Perhaps it was a desire for revenge: it could not succeed. Perhaps it was sheer, blind rage at being denied the prize NAWAC wanted, some insane impulse that the verdict could somehow be reversed if those responsible were frightened or killed: reversal was impossible. It may have been simply a desire for martyrdom and propaganda. In that alone it succeeded, but not before half an hour of horror had almost convinced many millions of Americans and many millions overseas that the great Republic was being toppled to the ground at last.

Inside, as the roar increased and seemed to roll over them from all directions (seven motorboats filled with armed men actually did try to get past the Coast Guard launches on the river side, and a small private plane carrying homemade bombs was shot down by one of the Army helicopters as it came in over Theodore Roosevelt Island), the first reaction of the Committee and the audience was one of fright and desperation. But once again the steady, insistent rapping of the gavel finally brought silence even to Anne Rogers of Michigan, Alice Lathrop Smith of Wyoming, Jessie L. Williams of Ohio and other ladies whose screams and outcries were matched by the harsh protests and warning shouts of Pete Boissevain, Luther Redfield of Washington, Cullee Hamilton, Lafe Smith, and many others.

“If the Committee and the audience will keep calm,” the President was finally able to call out in a voice loud enough to carry over the tumult inside and the ominous clamor racing ever nearer as the seconds ticked by, “I have given orders, exactly as I told you, and they will now be carried out. I beg of you, be patient—keep calm—keep quiet—and we will get out of this all right. If you will just remain in your seats and don’t try to go out the doors, because they are locked and under guard, we have 1,000 troops already outside and another three to five thousand, if need be, on their way. They have the latest weapons and they have orders to use them in whatever way may be forced upon them to stop this. We’re quite safe here, so just keep calm and it will soon be over.”

But for a while it was not at all certain that his final assumptions were correct, because at first there seemed to be no stopping the furious rush that swarmed upon the Center from under the trees and along the boulevards. Some carried high the obscene defiant banners of COMFORT, DEFY and KEEP, others carried rocks and clubs, still others were obviously and formidably armed with pistols, rifles, Molotov cocktails, hand grenades. Members of one well-trained unit of black-uniformed thugs had canisters of gas strapped to their backs, and even as the soldiers sprayed tear gas and Mace upon them, they sprayed Mace and tear gas upon the soldiers.

Within two minutes gunfire broke out. Within seven it had settled into a steady, vicious, unrelenting exchange of shots. The first death, a soldier, occurred five minutes after the riot began, and in rapid succession seven more soldiers and fifteen civilians were on the ground dying or dead. Overhead the helicopters whirred, spraying more gas upon the mob. A lucky shot from somewhere in the trees brought one down. Pilot, crew and six of the mob perished in its flaming crash.

Nor was all the action in the front lines, for in the rear the sincere democratic protesters of NAWAC also found things to do. “My God!” exclaimed one of the younger reporters of the
Post,
rushed to the scene with many other newspapermen from around town, “do you see what those guys are doing to the flag? They aren’t only urinating on it, they’re dropping their pants and—” Very soon five Presidents and six Orrin Knoxes were burning merrily in effigy from the trees, and over all, those who were not close enough to do the fighting were keeping up a high, whining, banshee chant that blended in one great howl from the animal recesses of humankind. Its words were at first indistinguishable but soon became distinct as its angry rhythm solidified: “Kill the President! Kill the Committee! Kill the President! Kill the Committee!”

No one present that day ever doubted that these objectives were the real intent and purpose of the riot.

In those first minutes, surprise and desperation carried the mob so close to the Center that five black-uniformed toughs carrying machine guns succeeded in racing up the steps onto the plaza. They were gunned down from inside at the last minute, their blood replenishing the ox blood that had dried to a dull stain, their bodies lying grotesquely unattended on the marble, for no one dared go after them. Nor had anyone time. Encouraged by that first attempt to assail the inner defenses, a solid phalanx of perhaps three thousand formed on the north side and suddenly launched itself with a wild yell at the northeast corner, coming onto the plaza close to the building at an angle that momentarily confused the defenders. In the mêlée that followed six more of the black-uniformed succeeded in getting through into the North Gallery and machine-gunning the Marines guarding the stairway to the second floor. Two got through to the Playhouse. One died in the middle of the foyer, the other with his hand actually against the door. Two caroming shots splintered through the heavy wood. Even the President turned pale, and women began again to scream and men to shout.

“Get down there and quiet that mob,” Orrin snapped from Spring Valley, “if you ever want preferment from this party again!”

“What preferment?”

“The preferment of being an honorable man, if nothing else! But I suppose that isn’t enough!”

“I may get killed, you know,” Ted said calmly.

“I doubt it.”

“You’d like it if I did.”

“I’d like it if just once you’d do the honorable thing without thinking of your own advantage!”

“As a matter of fact,” Ted replied with an anger of his own, “I had already ordered the car and it’s out there now, if you’ll get off the line. Incidentally, congratulations. I wouldn’t venture out, if I were you.”

“God damn it,” the Secretary of State said with a savage repugnance,
“get going.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the Governor of California said with an equally savage dislike. “I’m on my way.”

And so, after what seemed an interminable time to those inside the Playhouse and to all the horrified millions who watched and feared for them—though it was really no more than fifteen minutes—were the additional troops and helicopters that were destined to put a quick and efficient end to the Great Riot. Force used as force and not as a bargaining point has its own decisive nature, and the President’s orders had left no doubt that it was to be used in just that way.

Twenty additional helicopters began methodically saturating the rioters with Mace, and although two were shot down, the remainder completed the job in five minutes. Three thousand additional soldiers and Marines in gas masks then entered the area and began to herd the retching, staggering rioters back toward the boulevards with an implacable, machine-like advance that generated a terror of its own in those who moments before had been so brave in their howling mass. Sporadic gunfire and isolated skirmishes continued for the next five minutes, but for all practical purposes the Great Riot was over.

Just as some semblance of order began to return—just in time so that he could legitimately receive and take some of the credit for it—a great shout went up at the far edge of the now confused and uncertain throng, and into the middle of it, riding in Patsy’s Rolls-Royce with two enormous, hastily lettered signs saying TED JASON attached to its sides, came, like some conquering savior, the Governor of California.

Instinctively the nearest Marine officer shouted to his men to form a protective cordon—though from the swelling, joyful shout that accompanied his progress it was obvious that he needed no protection—and in their midst his car rolled slowly forward until it reached the ravaged steps of the plaza. There he ordered it stopped.

He got out, was greeted by another wild explosion of joy; asked two Marines to assist him to the top of the Rolls; pulled a portable stereo loudspeaker from his pocket; and raised his hand.

A great hush fell upon the devastated park, the beautiful desecrated building, the vast concourse of people before him, the few inside the Playhouse, the nation, the world.

“My friends,” he said, and his voice boomed out over the silent globe, “I think it would be best, now, if you abandoned this protest and went home.”

An enormous groan went up, but again he raised his hand and in a moment, with a reluctant obedience, it died.

“I have no words that can adequately express my gratitude for the loyalty and devotion you have shown me in these past weeks.”

(“My God,” Bob Munson said to Lafe Smith inside the Playhouse. “Does he have no conception of the forces that have been let loose in his name?” “How ironic it is,” Lafe murmured, “that the new nominee of the party dare not leave his home to come here this afternoon, while Ted rides in like a paladin over the chaos his friends have created.”)

“But,” Governor Jason went on, “the time for protest is over now—”

There was a long, wailing denial, and he repeated firmly,

“The time for protest is over. At least, the type of protest which so unfortunately has evoked this sort of terrible violence.”

“Who’s to blame for that?” someone shouted, close at hand.

“It is not my purpose here today to assign blame,” Ted said, while an expression of wonder touched the face of a watcher three thousand miles away at “Vistazo.”

“Here on this battlefield—and it is a battlefield, of men’s hope and men’s beliefs—many of those hopes and beliefs have been shattered and defeated today. You came here, most of you, in good faith, because you did not believe in the morass of war in which we find ourselves”—in the Playhouse the President’s face set in grim, cold lines—“and you must leave here with that situation unchanged and unresolved in spite of your sincere and democratic protest.

“Some of you, noble martyrs to your deep-held, democratic beliefs, have fallen on this lost battlefield”—in the distance the last ambulance pulled away, siren moaning, to take its dying burden to the nearest hectic hospital—“and the rest must leave disappointed. Yet all is not lost, my friends. You have made your protest before all the world, and there can never be question anywhere again that there is a sincere, genuine, vital and active desire for peace in America which cannot be silenced and cannot be denied. Your honored dead bear witness, as you who live bear witness in this great gathering.

“But beyond that you will bear witness, for you will return to your homes and you will work, now, for victory—”

“Whose victory?” a bitter voice cried out, “Orrin Knox’s?” And there was a great boo.

“—for victory in the cause of peace,” Ted said. “Whether it will come through Orrin Knox, no man now living, including Orrin Knox, can know. History and fate and the destinies of nations work in strange channels and strange ways; and events may so unfold that the man you have opposed so gallantly on my behalf may yet find himself changing and moving closer to you, as you may find yourselves moving closer to him; especially if those who may be close to him encourage him to change, and to move, as I believe they will.

“Surely we and the nation will not remain static. Indeed, we cannot, for we live in the world, and the world is changing.

“Go now, my friends. I am not angry nor embittered, nor should you be. We have fought the good fight together: the satisfaction is ours. Go now. History will not forget you, nor will America look back with shame upon your democratic protest. Go, and God bless you, for what you have done for the conscience of America today.”

And with both arms lifted in a widespread gesture that seemed to embrace the world, he turned slowly north, west, south, east, until he had conferred it upon them all. Then he smiled at his two Marine assistants, who offered their backs for him to step upon to the ground; re-entered the Rolls and was driven slowly out through the enormous throng, which parted for his passage like the Red Sea for Moses and then turned back with smiles and grins and a euphoric air of released tension to take up its vigil—no longer hostile but, curiously, almost picnic-like—outside the Center.

“Well, I’ll be God-damned,” said Hal Knox in Spring Valley.

“Members of the Committee,” the President said quietly, “I shall not comment now on the extraordinary speech we have just heard. The time will come for that, but it is not now. Suffice it to say that we have had a long and difficult day; that we still have ahead of us the selection of a nominee for Vice President; and that in the customary nature of such things, this is usually preceded by conferences between the nominee for President and”—he hesitated for a second—“all elements—in the party.