The Death of a President

by William Manchester

  For Americans in cities the halting of traffic was the most conspicuous observance of the moment. Chicago’s Loop was deserted. “NEW YORK LIKE A VAST CHURCH” read the front-page headline in next day’s Times. And so it was: Times Square was utterly quiet, and taxi drivers standing by their cabs with bowed heads heard the sweet notes of taps coming from the Astor Hotel marquee, where two sixteen-year-old Eagle Scouts, bugles facing outward, played together. Yet the pause was not confined to urban America. The mob watching the Mass on the gigantic television screen in Grand Central Station was surprisingly large because travelers could not, for the time being, go anywhere. No trains were leaving, and those which had been in transit had stopped by farms, in woods, on mountain trestles; as the Eagle Scouts raised their trumpets in Manhattan, a conductor swung down from a braked car in Narberth, Pennsylvania, and blew taps there. The nation’s entire transportation grid was frozen. Greyhound buses drew over. Planes cut their engines on tarmac take-off strips. The roar in subway tubes and the hum of elevator shafts were stilled, and the New Jersey Turnpike, which had been solid last evening with cars of mourners headed for the rotunda, was a barren wasteland.

  This was the time for gatherings in the fifty state capitals, tributes made more touching by their very homeliness. National Guardsmen in tight uniforms formed uneven ranks, irregular volleys were fired, and local politicians stumbled through eulogies whose very heavy-handedness gave them a rough eloquence. It was also the juncture when the professional observers of the national audience noted a sharp drop in attendance. Between noon and 1:30 P.M. the number of watchers and listeners reached the lowest point in the long weekend. One obvious reason is that most Americans weren’t Catholics; they didn’t understand the rubrics in the cathedral. But an incalculable number were in churches and synagogues which had scheduled memorial services of their own to coincide with St. Matthew’s. Monday was the real Sabbath of that week. Almost every place of worship was open, including Buddhist temples in San Francisco’s Chinatown. Twelve ministers presided over the congregation in Los Angeles’ All Saints Episcopal church. In the darkness of wind-swept outposts on Korea’s western front the 1st Cavalry Division was holding special services. In New York over a thousand members of the Salvation Army gathered on Fourteenth Street to hear their famous band play the Navy hymn; on Fifth Avenue over five thousand Jews filled Temple Emanu-El, and another thousand were turned away. It was the one moment in those shredded days when Americans seemed genuinely responsive to religion. In the back of St. Matthew’s Bob Foster described the antics of “Jasper the Jet” to young John. The boy was inattentive. It was very warm in their anteroom. He squirmed. A Marine colonel came in. The agent tried to interest John in his medals, without luck. Then Foster took a church leaflet from a rack. He began telling stories of Jesus, and John, engrossed, sat quietly.

  From the altar the Cardinal’s voice rose, harsh as a file.

  Kyrie eleison.

  Christe eleison.

  Lord, have mercy.

  Christ, have mercy.

  His Eminence had recited the 129th Psalm, verses from Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians, the thirteenth-century Dies Irae, and the Gospel reading; he had made his own confession of sin, and was preparing to consecrate the Eucharist.

  Sursum corda.

  Habemus ad Dominum.

  Turn your hearts heavenward.

  We are facing the Lord.

  In the cathedral, as in the country, individual reactions to the rites depended almost entirely upon one’s Catholicism or lack of it. To Arthur Schlesinger the changing of vestments, the kissing of the altar, and the singsong chants were “incomprehensible.” Lady Bird, shivering, felt the ceremony was “just ceremonial.” Bundy reflected that he was listening to “the most grating priestly voice in Christendom,” and Bunny Mellon was musing over how much more striking the urns would be had she had a few more hours and some magnolia. But Hubert Humphrey thought the rites had “a purity of simplicity.” And the Cardinal, clearly moved, was comforting most of those who understood him. With the exception of Eunice and one other—Eunice thought that “the service was sad instead of hopeful, and Jack was never sad in his life”—the family and friends felt strengthened. For O’Donnell the ritual was “crisp, clean, and dignified.” O’Brien and Radziwill were proud of being Catholics, and to Ted Reardon the Mass was “beautiful, typically Cushing. He was so great, and I knew how the Boss loved him so, that I was half in and half out of the world.”

  Agnus Dei, qui tollis pcccata

  mundi, dona eis requiem…

  Lamb of God, who takest away

  the sins of the world, grant

  them rest eternal…

  The second exception in the family was Jacqueline Kennedy. She was unstrengthened and uncomforted, not because the liturgy was meaningless, but because it was altogether too rich in meaning. Everything was unbearably evocative—the “Ave Maria” in the balcony, the prayers she had shared with her husband for ten years of Sundays, the celebrant who had married her and christened her daughter. And there was the coffin right next to her: “There was everything going.” She filled up and commenced to cry uncontrollably. She couldn’t stop shaking. Clint Hill reached over and gave her his handkerchief. It didn’t help. She was racked by sobs. Then Mrs. Kennedy felt a hand tighten. Caroline couldn’t see her mother’s face, but she had felt her spasms; she was comforting her. Presently the violent trembling subsided, and the widow prepared for Communion, praying three times with the others:

  Domine, non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum mcum; sed tantum die verbo et sanabitur anima mea.

  Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come under my roof; but only say the word and my soul will be healed.

  The wafers had been blessed:

  This is My Body.

  And the wine:

  This is the chalice of My Blood.

  And now Jacqueline, Robert, and Edward Kennedy led the family to the rail while the Cardinal prayed over each, “May the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve thy soul unto life everlasting. Amen.” To the infinite relief of Archbishop O’Boyle, the number of communicants was small. More than family came—some Irish, who, understandably, considered this was the most important Eucharist in their lives—but not many more; the choir finished the “Sanctus” and “Benedictus,” and Bishop Hannan mounted the triangular ambo midway between St. Joseph Chapel and the family pews just fourteen minutes after Mrs. Kennedy had received the Host.

  “Your Eminence, Cardinal Cushing; Your Excellency, the Most Reverend Representative of the Holy Father; Your Excellency, the Archbishop, and Bishops; Mrs. Kennedy and children; members of the family, the President of the United States and distinguished Heads of State, and Representatives of the Heads of State; distinguished friends of President Kennedy all—”

  The Bishop read the five Scriptural passages Mrs. Kennedy had approved last evening, from Proverbs, the Prophecy of Joel, Joshua, Isaiah, and Ecclesiastes. “And now,” he said, “as the final expression of his ideals and aspirations, his inaugural address:

  We observe today not a victory of party but a celebration of freedom, symbolizing an end as well as a beginning, signifying renewal as well as change. Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans.…

  As he spoke, Hannan’s mind was traveling backward to the days when the young Congressman from Boston and the young ex-paratroop chaplain had talked about the art of public speaking. He remembered the morning of January 21, 1961, when the new President had called him at his office and asked, “Well, how did it go?” And he remembered his reply: “It’s a masterpiece, the best inaugural address in one hundred years. But you should have spoken more slowly, to wait for the crowd reaction.” And here he himself was, delivering an abridged version of it in measured tones:

  Now the trumpet summons us again—not as a call to bear arms, though arms we need; not as a call to battle, though embattled w
e are; but a call to bear the burden of a long twilight struggle.…

  His voice was bland, almost without inflection. And the cadences were so familiar, the message so relevant still, that there were those who yearned with an almost physical longing to hear once more the vibrant, exhorting, impassionate, inciting, ringing accents of the leader who would not wait, who was impatient with the biders of time, who was eager to get on with the job. If anything, the national audience felt this loss more keenly than those inside the church, for as the Bishop reached Kennedy’s peroration and the most famous sentence the President had ever spoken, the pool camera focused on the lonely coffin:

  And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.

  With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God’s work must truly be our own.

  The Bishop left the lectern, and the Cardinal, at the altar, removed incense from hot coals—the rising smoke symbolizing rising prayers of supplication. The people recited the Lord’s Prayer in unison as he slowly circled the bier three times, sprinkling each side with incense and holy water. He prayed:

  Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda: Quando caeli movendi sunt et terra: Dum veneris iudicare saeculum per ignem.…

  Deliver me, O Lord, from everlasting death on that day of terror when the heavens and the earth will be shaken, when You come to judge the world by fire.…

  Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.

  Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.

  Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda: Quando caeli movendi sunt et terra: Dum veneris iudicare saeculum per ignem.

  At this point the Cardinal, to his own surprise as much as to everyone else’s, broke into English. It was, he said afterward, “an inspiration, like Pope John calling the Ecumenical Council. I hadn’t thought of it at all before. But suddenly I wanted the human touch.”

  He cried:

  “May the angels, dear Jack, lead you into Paradise. May the martyrs receive you at your coming. May the spirit of God embrace you, and mayest thou, with all those who made the supreme sacrifice of dying for others, receive eternal rest and peace. Amen.”

  One didn’t have to be a Catholic to understand that. The new First Lady thought it “a plea, almost a wail; it didn’t betray the dignity of the scene, and yet there was a human note at last. The Cardinal’s personal anguish was showing through. It wasn’t just a ceremony anymore. He was saying good-bye to a man.” Across the aisle the widowed First Lady noticed that Cushing was crying. He was, she thought, one person who had a right to call her husband “dear Jack,” and the poignancy of it was too much; she began to shake again. She looked away, and Caroline saw her tear-streaked face. The small hand again reached up to clutch hers. Mrs. Kennedy heard her daughter say, “You’ll be all right, Mummy. Don’t cry. I’ll take care of you.”

  The Mass was over. The casket team shouldered the coffin and bore it out. Outside, Jacqueline Kennedy watched them lash it to the gun carriage for the third time. The Cardinal had quickly changed vestments by the altar; he had seen the little girl consoling her mother, and swooping out in a scarlet miter and scarlet robes he leaned over and embraced the child. “I’ll never forget you calling him ‘dear Jack,’ ” Mrs. Kennedy said. Her eyes were still damp. She was controlling herself with obvious effort, and it was a relief to see Foster come up with John, trying to wrestle the church leaflet away from him; handling the boy was something to do, a distraction when she needed one.

  It lasted but an instant. The momentum of the pageant had caught them up again, and even as she firmly put John to her left, in front of the Attorney General, the band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” This was the last time it would be played for President Kennedy. Soldiers snapped from parade rest to present arms. Officers, policemen, and the lead rider of the matched grays saluted. The clergy folded hands; laymen straightened. Jacqueline Kennedy, remembering how the boy had loved to play soldiers with his father, leaned over and took the booklet from him. She said, “John, you can salute Daddy now and say good-bye to him.”

  The small right hand rose stiffly. Behind him Robert Kennedy’s face crinkled in pain, and Bishop Hannan, glancing across the street, saw the spectators there crumple as though struck. Of all Monday’s images, nothing approached the force of John’s salute. Mrs. Kennedy, standing erect, missed it, and when she was shown the photographs afterward she was astounded. She had expected an unimpressive gesture; in the past his saluting had been both comic and, in her words, “sort of droopy.”

  But not now. Somehow the mood and meaning of the day had reached the President’s son. His elbow was cocked at precisely the right angle, his hand was touching his shock of hair, his left arm was rigidly at his side, his shoulders were squared and his chin in. His bearing was militant, and to see it in a three-year-old, with his bare legs stiff below his short coat, his knees dimpled and his blunt red shoes side by side—to hear the slow swell of the music, and recall how the President had idolized him—was almost insupportable. Cardinal Cushing looked down on the small face. He saw the shadow of sadness crossing it and felt a burning sensation in his chest. Eight months later he could scarcely speak of it. “Oh, God,” he whispered hoarsely, “I almost died.”

  The band began “Holy God, We Praise Thy Name,” which, luckily, is a long hymn; fifteen minutes were to pass before the cortege got under way, and even then it left scenes of wild disorder behind. The first car, with the prelates, and the second, with Jacqueline Kennedy and her brothers-in-law, were quickly loaded. Robert Kennedy took her arm and deftly guided her in. They then sat—and sat. To her the wait seemed endless. She wondered what could possibly be the matter.

  The thousand men and women who had emerged from St. Matthew’s after her were also wondering. At the end of that quarter-hour most of them weren’t even seated. Everything had gone awry. Chief Justice Warren’s escort officer told him to wait on the sidewalk; he’d return in a jiffy with a limousine. The officer was never seen again, and Warren blundered around until he found a place at the tail of the line. The Joint Chiefs lacked transport because Agent Wells, in desperation, had evicted their Defense Department driver and confiscated the car for Caroline and John. Throughout the procession the distribution of seats was highly irregular. The limousines were like lifeboats after a badly managed “abandon ship.” One had twelve passengers—Bill Walton remembers it as “solid flesh”—while Sergeant Joe Ayres had another all to himself. Rank meant nothing.

  There were nine cars in front of President Johnson. For a long time the Prime Minister of Great Britain’s car wasn’t even allowed in the line. Eisenhower and Truman were way back, but Evelyn Lincoln, George Thomas, and Provi Parades were seated in No. 4.

  Angier Biddle Duke had once more been flung into the fires of a protocol officer’s hell. Emerging from the church he had been asked by Ken O’Donnell, “Who should go first?” He had replied, “There’s no basis for discussion, there’s nothing to argue about”; after the family and President Johnson, the men next in line “should obviously be the chiefs of state.” This had been agreed upon in Ralph Dungan’s office. Yet it wasn’t working out that way. Angie suspected where the trouble lay. O’Donnell’s very presence on the steps meant that people were coming out of the cathedral in the wrong order. The White House staff had bolted, and Angie had a strong hunch that the unruly Jack McNally was to blame.

  He was dead right. To McNally the precedence was plainly unfair. The staff members had loved the President more than any foreigner, he reasoned. Putting them at the end was wrong; they might miss the graveside service. Therefore he had slipped away during Communion and reconnoitered Rhode Island Avenue’s three lanes. Lane one was occupied by the Kennedy cars, lane two by the leading cars of the dip
lomatic corps. The third lane was vacant. Chief Stover of the White House police told him it was reserved for an emergency. This, Jack decided, was an emergency. He found the nineteen White House limousines parked a block away and ordered them into the emergency lane. Then he posted a White House sergeant in front of lane two and told him to block the foreign presidents and royalty until the staff had been threaded into the cavalcade.