Capable of Honor

by Allen Drury

  “Or repudiated it, either,” Lizzie Hanson McWharter couldn’t resist in an indignant undertone. The Speaker chose to ignore it.

  “Very well,” he said, subsiding slowly into his chair and turning back to face Old Joe Smitters, who looked as though he didn’t quite know how to take hold of things again. “Now, maybe we can all proceed like ladies and gentlemen.…I’ve been doing a little talking around, Mr. Chairman, and it appears to me there is a genuine split in this committee on these two disputed delegations. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, you are, Mr. Speaker,” Old Joe said, still breathing hard himself and thinking, Damn it, Doc told me not to get too excited this time or I may have a stroke, feeling the pressure behind his eyes, having intimations of mortality right there in the Hilton, thinking, Oh, God, why did I want to attend another one, I’ve been to eight already, why can’t I let go and let the young fellows take over.

  “Well, then,” the Speaker said blandly, “I think some sort of compromise ought to be worked out, don’t you?”

  “The compromise the President proposes,” Senator Munson said calmly at the Fairmont, and at his use of word “compromise” there was a snort from somewhere in the Platform Committee, “goes like this—ready, Esmé?—I quote:

  “‘Believing that the interests of world peace can best be served by opposing Communist aggression and infiltration, armed or otherwise, wherever they may exist, we applaud the action of the President in opposing such Communist aggression and infiltration in the nations of Gorotoland and Panama. We wholeheartedly support his determination to bring peace and stability to those troubled areas through the medium of peaceful and honest negotiations as soon as the Communist threat has been removed.”

  There was a silence when he concluded, and into it Esmé Harbellow Stryke wrinkled her permanently disapproving nose, and sniffed.

  “I doubt very much, Mr. Chairman,” she said in a spiteful tone, “that the people of California would support such language.”

  “The distinguished National Committeelady has the duty of speaking for twenty-five million people, which she handles magnificently,” Bob Munson said smoothly. “I only have the duty of speaking for one.” He paused for a moment to let them think about who that one was. “This language, Mr. Chairman, is what your candidate for President wants. Surely the committee will not wish to ignore his wishes.”

  But at this there was an uneasy stirring in the committee. Roger P. Croy, former Governor and now National Committeeman from Oregon, a regular troublemaker in Platform Committee for four conventions hand-running as the Majority Leader could well remember, raised his hand.

  “That’s another thing, Mr. Chairman,” he said dryly. “This assumption that everything’s all cut and dried here. Except for Vice President, that is, and I’m not so sure that that isn’t, either, in spite of what we hear. (Well, foo you, Roger P. Croy, former Governor and now National Committeeman from Oregon, the Majority Leader told him in the privacy of his own mind.) I don’t doubt, of course, Mr. Chairman, that our great President will be the unanimous nominee of this convention, but wouldn’t it be a little more polite, now, to just at least pretend a little humility about it? We may be sheep,” he said, and here was an appreciative snicker from a good many areas of the room, “But at least we like to think we’re independent sheep. We don’t like to be told we’ve got to bleat when some of us, maybe, might like to try a whinny.” The snicker grew to laughter and with an elaborate haste he added, “Not that we’d dream of trying it, Mr. Chairman. Certainly not. It’s just a thought. And so’s the language of this proposed plank in the platform, which the Senator assumes will be so easy to get through just because our candidate for President wants it. It may not be, Mr. Chairman. It may not be. Some of us might want to start a little whinny, Mr. Chairman, just to see how it sounds, and this is the place where some of us might try—aside from voting on the Vice President, of course. Tell me, Senator,” he said, suddenly dropping the pseudo-banter and sounding hard-boiled himself, “I assume this language you propose also has the endorsement of the Secretary of State?”

  “I don’t know whether the President has consulted him or not,” the Majority Leader said. There was a skeptical snort somewhere down the table.

  “But you wouldn’t seriously say that the Secretary would oppose the President’s language, would you?” Roger P. Croy pressed, and Bob Munson thought impatiently, Oh, why don’t you go back to your law practice in Salem and run for Governor again.

  “The Governor knows I wouldn’t say that,” he said calmly. Roger P. Croy’s next remark was inevitable.

  “Then we can of course regard this as a Knox as well as a Hudson substitute, can’t we, and we can regard the present committee language as Jason language. That puts the whole thing in a different light.”

  “You can if you’re looking for headlines,” Senator Munson said sharply. Roger P. Croy of Oregon shrugged.

  “That’s how the battle’s going to be won, Senator,” he said. “With headlines.”

  And by one o’clock, of course, it looked as though Ted Jason was comfortably ahead in the opening skirmishes. CREDENTIALS COMMITTEE IN UPROAR OVER KNOX DELEGATE “STEAL,” the typical banner had it. REPORT PLATFORM COMMITTEE BALKING AT KNOX FOREIGN POLICY PLANK. ADMINISTRATION SENDS MUNSON, SPEAKER TO QUELL REVOLT.

  By the time the two gentlemen met in the Senator’s room for lunch at one-thirty they realized they had their work cut out to keep the convention from breaking wide open. They so reported, somewhat glumly, to the President when they called him at two. His calmness annoyed them rather more than the situation perhaps warranted at that moment, but they were in the midst of a steadily tightening tension and he was not. However, they were unable to budge him from his plan to wait until Wednesday before flying in, nor would he yield a word on the foreign policy plank. At the two vice presidential headquarters the incessant stream of visitors who come and go at headquarters came and went, bringing their characteristic burden of information, rumors, worry, and advice. In two inner rooms that looked much the same, sounded much the same, and had the same electric smell and feel of mounting though not yet overwhelming crisis, two ambitious men and those closest to them tried to assess what was going on as objectively as they could: though objectivity, along with many other virtues of a quieter day, was increasingly difficult to achieve in the increasingly hectic tempo of the increasingly blurring hours.

  “They look bad,” the Secretary said, pushing back the remnants of a hasty late lunch, surveying the early afternoon papers from all over the country with their near-unanimous chorus of triumph for the Governor of California.

  “They’re slanted,” Hal Knox said bitterly. “Just as slanted as hell.”

  “That may be,” his father said, “but it doesn’t have much bearing here. The point is, how much are they going to stampede the delegates. Stanley?”

  Grave, judicious, gentlemanly, and calm as always, the senior Senator from Connecticut shook his head.

  “Not much so far. We have good men in almost every delegation, and all the reports I get are that nobody much is slipping at the moment. I don’t think we need to worry just yet.”

  “All my life,” Hal said, “it seems to me I’ve been attending conventions at which good men assured my father that he wasn’t slipping. Then they began counting and suddenly it appeared that all the good men were mistaken, I’m afraid I haven’t much confidence in good men. I’ve seen complacency at Knox headquarters before.”

  Stanley Danta gave his son-in-law a startled look, began to smile, and then thought better of it.

  “If you’re worried, why don’t you get out and around and do some checking yourself? You’re a good man, I’ve been wondering where to use you. You may be able to find out things the staff can’t.”

  “Cultivate the press,” Orrin suggested. “They’ll be glad to see you. Just be very guarded in what you say, though. They’re waiting to put the worst light on everything out of this headquarters.”
r />   Hal snorted.

  “You don’t need to worry. I can see them coming. When are you going to have a press conference?”

  “I think I’ll stand by my original plan to have one at ten tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s too late,” Hal said flatly. “The Jason people are starting a tide. You’ve got to get a few headlines yourself.”

  “With what?” his father asked skeptically. “Claims of strength every hour on the hour? I’ve gone through that phony business in two conventions and I don’t think any more of it now than I did the first time.”

  “It helps, though,” Hal said, “At least it gives you headlines.”

  “For once,” Orrin said with a certain weariness, “I’d like to fight a convention on issues instead of headlines. I know it isn’t done, but I’d like to do it. Look: Hotspur. When I make a claim tomorrow morning at ten it’s going to be a solidly based one with as much of the water squeezed out as Stanley and I can possibly squeeze. I think right now I’ve got close to six hundred delegates, which isn’t too bad at this stage. But I’m not going to claim them until we’re as near to certainty as it’s possible to be in this game. I notice Ted isn’t rushing into a press conference either, today.”

  “As far as we know,” Hal said darkly.

  “O.K.,” his father said, “If you’re worried, go out and find out what’s going on.” He smiled. “We’re always receptive to inside information, Stanley and I. Bring us some.”

  “Well,” Hal said, somewhat mollified and with the start of an answering smile, “I just don’t want you to become complacent, either. And if Ted suddenly pops a press conference, I want you to hold one, too. I don’t care what you have to say. Say something.”

  “Yes, sir,” Orrin said obediently. “If the occasion arises. Meanwhile, thank you for your excellent advice, Mr. Knox. Give my love to the family, and when you’re in Washington, do stop in and see me. It’s great to know that this great convention is composed of such great delegates from such great states as—where did you say you came from?—and if there is anything I can do to make things any greater, let—me—know. Now, skedaddle, and let us think for a while. O.K.?”

  “O.K.,” Hal said, “but you remember what I said.”

  “I’ll remember,” Orrin said. “Stanley,” he added when the door closed, “the solemnity of the young.”

  “That’s a good boy,” Senator Danta observed comfortably. “I like my son-in-law. Thank you for him.”

  “Thank you for my daughter-in-law,” the Secretary said. He grinned. “Wasn’t it nice we chose them for each other.”

  “As I recall,” Stanley said, “that is one claim we cannot make. It was all decided before I even knew they were really interested.”

  “Me, too. Ah, well, it seems to be working out for the best—Grandpa.”

  Stanley smiled. “Not just yet, but it won’t be long.…You really do want to wait until tomorrow morning?”

  “Oh, I think so; if he will, anyway. I agree with Hal—if he makes a claim, I suppose I’ve got to counter, just to show I’m alive. But I’d really rather wait until the picture is a little clearer.”

  “You came through the outer offices,” Senator Danta said. “A hundred people are working out there, and as many more are out with the delegations. We do have a really good organization this time, Orrin.

  “If we fail the reason won’t be there. It will be things like”—he gestured to the newspapers strewn over his desk—“the Knox Steal.”

  “Two months from now, if they’ve tricked me,” Orrin said dryly, “they’ll be writing pitying, patronizing columns and editorials about ‘an obviously bewildered Secretary Knox, who just didn’t realize what hit him in the Ohio-Mississippi issue.’ Hell, I know what’s hitting me: they’re hitting me.”

  “And Bob Leffingwell, I suppose,” Senator Danta suggested. The Secretary frowned.

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think he really wanted to use the term ‘steal.’ It was Joe Smitters who got him into it. Honestly, I have observed that old fool for twenty years and if he has ever done one uncrafty or generous thing in his entire political life, I’ll eat it. Good old grassroots America, that’s our friend from Ashtabula: salt of the earth!” He started to chuckle, then his expression changed. “I must say I feel sorry for Bob, though. Apparently Mary Baffleburg really let him have it.”

  “Speaking of the salt of the earth,” Senator Danta observed, “But,” he added softly, “he did he, didn’t he?”

  The Secretary sighed.

  “Yes, he did. But I’m not as adamant about it as I was then. I can understand it better, maybe. We’re all human—we’re none of us perfect—who knows what we might do—and so on.…Well,” he said, suddenly brisk, “the Speaker called to tell me he hopes to submit a compromise idea on credentials to me by tonight some time, which”—he frowned—“I think we may have to accept, I’m not sure, yet—and Bob Munson’s busy in Platform Committee—so we’ll just have to see what develops. Can you have a report on delegates for me by tonight?”

  “Oh, yes, I think so. Are you going to Dolly’s party at the Palace of Fine Arts?”

  “Everybody’s going to Dolly’s party.”

  “I’ll have it for you then.”

  “Good,” Orrin said. He nodded toward the television set, where crowds, faces, commentators, newscasters, reporters, delegates. Governors, Cabinet members, Congressmen, and Senators had been steadily marching past, uttering profound things, giving portentous analyses, all in absolute silence in this room, though elsewhere in the headquarters stenographers were recording every word and campaign aides were studying every hint of sentiment. But now the scene was shifting to the Cow Palace, and it was obvious that things were soon to get under way. “Better turn up the sound, I guess. We wouldn’t want to miss the opening prayer.”

  Stanley Danta smiled.

  “I should say not. Some of us need it. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “I think we should all listen to the opening prayer,” Governor Jason said solemnly. “It may improve us all.”

  “Perhaps,” Bob Leffingwell said with a halfhearted smile but a sad expression he could not entirely conceal. Ceil, who had been standing with Patsy staring down at the crowds milling back and forth between the Mark and the Fairmont, turned and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t feel so badly,” she said softly. “You know Mary Baffelburg. She’s one of the characters of these conventions. It’s a special type you see in politics: Mary Buttner Baffleburg, Lizzie Hanson McWharter, Ann Hooper Bigelow, and—God help us here in California—Esmé Harbellow Stryke. The old biddies—or in our case, the young ones—who have the time and the money to make politics their hobby and finally reach the National Committee, there to appear at convention after convention, four years older and four times more irascible each time you see them. I wouldn’t worry about her too much.”

  Bob Leffingwell sighed with a grateful but unconvinced smile.

  “You’re very kind, Ceil—genuinely so, which is one of the things that makes you a great lady—in case you don’t know it,” he said to her husband, who replied, “But I do, I do!” with an elaborate bow that was quite genuine beneath its mocking air. “But,” Bob Leffingwell said, and his smile faded and his voice became somber, “it isn’t just Mary Baffleburg, of course. She isn’t alone.…I don’t think I’m good for this campaign, Ted. I think I ought to get out right now. This would give me an excuse. I could issue a statement that I don’t want the slightest hint of scandal to detract from the great campaign of a great—you know the routine when somebody has to be sacrificed. I think I should be. I’m too much of a handicap to you. I’m not worth it.”

  “And you’re heart isn’t in it,” Patsy said with a sudden note of genuine anger that brought them up short. “It never has been. I remember talking to you three months ago before anybody had done anything about this campaign, including the President, and you weren’t sure then that you wanted to b
ack Ted. You aren’t sure now. You want OUT, and this is your excuse. That’s what comes,” she said, turning upon her brother, “of trying to work with a weakling.”

  “Patsy,” Ted said in a level voice. “I think you had better leave us, now. Go back and talk to Val and the others, or go get a drink, or something. You’re not contributing much here.”

  “It’s true,” she said, beginning to cry but not yielding an inch. “I’m not retracting one word of it. He’s the President’s stooge in this campaign and he always has been. He thinks the President’s policies are right. He doesn’t really know what he wants, but it isn’t you. You mark my words, he’s going to wind up backing Orrin Knox. You wait and see!”

  “That,” the Governor said softly, “will be enough. Do you hear me, Pat? Enough.”

  “Well—” she said, and then cried, “OH!” and hurried from the room in a flurry of defiantly swinging hips and agitated garish colors.

  “My goodness,” Ceil remarked gently. “Let me add Patsy Labaiya-Sofra to the list of characters at conventions.”

  “She’s tired and upset,” Ted said, “and it’s been a long strain for her, about Felix, and about trying to get me to run. That’s what comes,” he echoed with a strange little ironic pain about his mouth, “of working with a weakling. We’re in the same boat. Bob. I still don’t know what’s best, either. But”—and his voice became increasingly stronger—“here I am. And here you are. And although some people have fancied a convention as the best setting in which to admire themselves playing Hamlet, I’ve about decided against it, myself. So I think we should both snap out of it and get ready to win.” He gestured wryly at the glaring, helpful, eager, encouraging, partisan headlines. “We’ve got plenty of help, haven’t we? If they ask me about you at my press conference I shall simply shrug and point and say, ‘He’s here, isn’t he?’…Now,” he said, suddenly brisk, and for the moment there was no mistaking who was Doña Valuela’s descendant, “have you spoken to Stanley Danta so that Orrin and I won’t have a conflict with our press conference times?”