Capable of Honor

by Allen Drury

  “Maybe you should warn him,” Lafe said.

  “I’m going to see him, sometime today. I’ll tell him. I don’t expect it’ll do any good, but I’ll tell him.”

  “Maybe it had better be before the committees meet,” Lafe said, “if you got an assignment last night like I did.”

  “Oh, did you?” Cullee asked with a pleased smile. “Yes, the Speaker came by and gave me the word. I’m on-stage in Platform Committee in about one hour from now.”

  “And I in Credentials,” Lafe said. He smiled with a frank enjoyment. “I’m looking forward to it. I’m not sure Orrin’s going to win, but it will be a chance to state a few home truths.”

  “In Platform Committee, too,” Cullee said. “Too bad you girls can’t come see me, but I guess you can go listen to Lafe, all right.”

  “Why don’t we?” Mabel said. “I have a young lady who was still sleeping when I got up, so I asked one of the maids to sit for me, but I’ll go get her and give her a quick breakfast and then we’ll meet you at the Hilton, Sarah, O.K.?”

  “My pleasure,” Sarah said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Excuse me, then,” Mabel said. “I’ll see you soon. Thanks, Lafe.”

  “My pleasure,” Lafe said.

  “How’s it going?” Cullee asked as they watched her, a pleasant girl, a little dowdy, perhaps, but obviously as nice as she could be, go through the door, saying hello to a couple of her fellow delegates from Utah as she went.

  “No rush … no rush at all. We’ve got a lifetime.”

  “Ho!” Cullee said with a smile. “Like that, eh?”

  “Like that,” Lafe said quietly. Then he smiled. “If you’ll tell me what the Speaker told you to do I’ll tell you what Bob Munson told me to do.”

  Cullee laughed.

  “Oh, no, you don’t! We’ve got secrets, you and I. Big, dark secrets.”

  “Which boil down to: fight like hell,” the Senator from Iowa said. His expression became serious. “I only hope they work.”

  Congressman Hamilton nodded somberly. “I only hope Ted’s people let them work.”

  The President, too, hoped they would work, as he sat at his desk in the White House and, like most of his countrymen, tried to do his job with half his mind on the little box blabbing from San Francisco. Something was rising there he did not like. Twice in the last half-hour there had been shots of Powell Street from Union Square to Nob Hill, companion glimpses of the major hotel lobbies: in each the demonstrators stood solidly packed, virtually expressionless, barely moving, hardly speaking, silent, hostile, and, yes—menacing. The easygoing college kids of yesterday, the happy delegates who formed the impromptu parades and whooped it up in the convention’s opening hours, seemed to be still there but pushed back, shoved aside, elbowed out, relegated to the outer fringes where the cameras still caught them from time to time, but only briefly, sporadically, almost absentmindedly. Some people might still be having a good time, the ubiquitous lenses seemed to be saying, but they were rapidly becoming a minority. Not since the pictures of the defacing of the U.S. delegation headquarters at the UN three months ago, the President thought, had such grim and unpleasant white and black faces appeared upon the screen—and at least those had been screaming and yelling and there had been some animation, no matter how forced and phony. These were deliberately cold and impassive, deliberately ominous; pompous and childish in their ostentatious posing, yet with the pomposity and childishness of monstrous idiot infants who might at any moment go mad. And their banners were all of war, and of the fear of war, and of the hatreds of vicious minds let loose, as though their masters had pried open some giant manhole cover and out of it they had crawled from the sewers of the race to hold their savage placards denouncing Orrin and calling with a threatening insistence for Edward Jason.

  “What in thunderation is going on out there?” he asked aloud, looking out suddenly at the beautiful lawn sloping to the Ellipse, silent and somnolent in Washington’s sweltering July. A squirrel bounced across his vision, bound on its secret business from tree to tree, a cardinal called hurriedly and was still. He could not see the distant cars or hear the muted hum of the half-deserted summer city. He might have been one of his predecessors a hundred years and more ago, in some older, sleepier, perhaps as difficult, yet basically much gentler, time.

  Not so, apparently, the convention of his party, which was being transformed before his eyes and the eyes of the world into—well, he didn’t know into what. A Nuremberg rally, he was tempted to say, except that the bland voice accompanying the pictures (Frankly Unctuous the Anchor Man, using the same plum-pudding tones with which he had commented upon conventions, moon shots, astronauts, racial crises and other phenomena for twenty years) assured him suavely that it was not so.

  These new demonstrators, the voice said confidently, “seem to have sprung spontaneously from the three democratic groups that are gradually coalescing behind Governor Jason as the forces of Secretary Knox prepare to make their all-out bid to win this convention.” These groups, the voice explained, were “COMFORT, DEFY, and KEEP—a combination that under other circumstances might well cause surprise, since their domestic politics range from the most liberal to what some might call the most conservative.” But, the voice went on smoothly, “their cooperation here is being brought about by an apparently genuine fear of the foreign policies of the Hudson administration—which might almost be termed (and Frankly Unctuous smiled, a trifle coyly) the Hudson-Knox administration—and a determination to aid, if they can, the man they believe—rightly or wrongly (and again he smiled), we would not presume to say—to be more genuinely concerned with America’s safety and good name than either the President or the Secretary of State.” The lifeless faces of the new demonstrators, the voice went on, “if they seem somewhat more serious than some faces you saw on the screen yesterday, may be due to the fact that the convention itself is becoming more serious, as delegates begin to grasp that they are truly charged here with a great responsibility—to choose, in effect, between two policies: one which many believe can lead only to deeper involvement and greater war—and one which can ultimately lead to a restored and revitalized American prestige in a peacefully united world.”

  In fact, Frankly Unctuous concluded with an approving blandness, the injection of “this new, united, democratic force behind Governor Jason may perhaps guarantee that this convention will truly be what the President has said he wants it to be—a genuine expression of grassroots American democracy at its most vigorous and thrilling. This may, indeed, be America’s finest hour.”

  So it must be, the President thought tartly as the plum-pudding tones died away, the shrewd, patronizing face faded from the screen, and the cameras moved once again along the grim, sullen ranks up Powell Street, because television says it’s so. And if television says it’s so, then everybody must believe it, right?

  On a sudden impulse—though he had talked to them only a couple of hours ago, and to Lucille more recently than that—he picked up the direct telephone to Senator Munson’s rooms at the St. Francis. (JASON FORCES CHARGE SECRET COMMAND POST IN MUNSON SUITE DOMINATING CONVENTION, the Washington Post had cried this morning, and the view—halloo had been taken up by most of the others by this time.) His voice was disturbed but determined as he asked Bob and the Speaker for their opinions, received them, and began to make his plans accordingly.

  Even as he put down the phone and turned back to the set, a bulletin appeared upon the screen. KNOX DEMONSTRATOR SEVERELY BEATEN IN CLASH AT PALACE HOTEL, it said: followed by a phalanx of grim faces meeting a straggling group of college boys, running figures, contorted bodies, raised clubs, viciously pounding placards, and then a bloodied and battered face, perhaps nineteen, hanging from a limp and dangling body being hastily carried away by police.

  The plum-pudding tones, slightly shaken but still suave, were back immediately to assure the country:

  “It is believed the incident occurred when the youthful Knox demonstrat
or made some joking comment to the Jason group standing in the lobby of the Palace. The remark apparently was misinterpreted, but our reporter, who was standing close by, tells us he is convinced there was no real malice in the spontaneous and probably quite unthinking reaction of the Jason backers. They were apparently just carried away for a moment by the feeling here, which is beginning to run”—and Frankly Unctuous gave his comfortable, soothing smile—“a little high, as you can see.”

  “I certainly can,” the President said grimly to George Washington, whose eye he happened to catch as he swung away from the set with an angry concern. “And I’m going to do something about it, too,” he promised George, who looked back with his rather prim and disapproving stare from the wall and offered his successor only the memory of courage and integrity that always enfolded him. It might be enough, the President thought stoutly, if he could only manage to apply its lessons here.

  In their press conferences at ten, both candidates discussed the same general topics with the shoving, pushing reporters who jammed their respective offices to overflowing. Each claimed at least six hundred sure votes as of that moment. The Secretary was asked again to explain the Administration’s position in Gorotoland and Panama and did so in blunt, uncompromising terms. Governor Jason was questioned on the same subject and managed to get through a graceful little discussion of the world’s need for peaceful negotiation without once mentioning either conflict. Both were asked about violence in the convention, both pledged themselves to oppose it whenever and wherever it cropped up. KNOX REAFFIRMS PRO-WAR POSITION, the Knox headlines said. JASON CALLS FOR “FAIR-PLAY CONVENTION,” “HITS “EXTREMISTS,” the Jason headlines said. Their questioners hurried back to their vigils at the Platform and Credentials Committees. The convention tumbled on, steadily picking up speed and tension as it went.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Chairman Bill Smatters of Atlanta said calmly at the Fairmont, looking around the closed and tightly guarded room at Esmé Harbellow Stryke, Roger P. Croy, Senator August, Congressman Swarthman, and the rest, “this committee this morning faces the duty of completing work on this platform so that it can go to the convention this afternoon. It seems to me, therefore, that it is about time to conclude discussion of the foreign policy plank, which is really the only remaining issue, and take some votes.”

  “That’s all right with me, Mr. Chairman,” Roger P. Croy said in his lazy, homespun drawl, “providing it is understood that we vote first on the committee language, then on the so-called Knox substitute.”

  “Mr. Chairman,” said Cullee Hamilton, towering up suddenly out of the audience, “I would like to speak to that point, if I might.”

  “Mr. Chairman,” Roger P. Croy said blandly, “I don’t believe the Congressman is a member of this committee, is he? I think the distinguished National Committeewoman from California, Mrs. Stryke, is quite competent to speak for her great state here.”

  “Esmé,” Cullee suggested, “defend me.”

  “For what purpose,” she inquired in a hesitant voice, “do you want recognition?”

  “I want to speak to this plank in the platform,” Cullee said patiently. “Now, surely, you aren’t going to join a conspiracy to silence a Congressman from California, your candidate for the United States Senate, are you?”

  “Now, Mr. Chairman,” Roger P. Croy said with a show of annoyance, “I don’t believe this committee should permit the distinguished committeewoman to be bullied by the Congressman, here. I really think we must maintain order.”

  “Nobody’s violating order here, Mr. Chairman,” Cullee said, calmly but allowing a hint of anger to enter his voice, “and nobody, except the delegate from Oregon who is trying to silence me, is doing any bullying. Esmé, dear,” he added, “I think you’d better decide whether you’re siding with me or with this gentleman. I’ll want to tell the press about it if you aren’t siding with your own candidate for United States Senator.”

  “Why,” she said hastily, her pinched little face looking flustered, her shrewd little dark eyes for once perturbed and defensive, “I can say to my distinguished fellow delegate from California, our great candidate for the United States Senate, that of course I am for him. What else would I be, Mr. Chairman?” she demanded indignantly. “Whatever else would I be? Of course you can speak. Congressman. I ask the committee to please allow our distinguished Congressman Hamilton, the next United States Senator from California, to speak to us on the pending amendment—plank—substitute—whatever it is!”

  “I’m sure the committee has no objection, Congressman,” Bill Smatters from Atlanta said blandly. “You-all just tell us all about it, now, and we-all will just sit here and listen.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Cullee said, refusing to rise to the bait offered by Bill Smatters’ deliberately patronizing tone, “and thank you, Esmé. I can’t tell you,” he said, keeping it solemn, “how much your support means to me. Mr. Chairman, my friend from Oregon, that great distinguished former Governor, Mr. Croy, calls the language pending before this committee ‘the Knox substitute.’ That’s the label the press would like to have us use here, so they can attack the Secretary of State with it. We know differently, don’t we? This is the Hudson substitute—or rather, I should say it isn’t a substitute at all. It is what your President wants in this platform. Anything else is the substitute. This is the official language.”

  “Now, just a minute, Mr. Chairman,” Roger P. Croy said angrily, while stirrings and grumblings came from around the table. “I’ll just ask the distinguished chairmen of the Senate Foreign Relations and the House Foreign Affairs committees of the Congress whether this language the committee has been getting ready to approve—up until yesterday when the Majority Leader of the Senate barged in here with this new disruptive language—I’ll ask Senator August and Congressman Swarthman whether they agree that the President’s language is the only language and we can’t discuss anything else. How about it?”

  He swung demandingly upon Tom August, who quivered a little and then replied in the aggrieved voice he adopted when he felt he was being pushed into too much controversy.

  “It is my belief,” he said, “that the language in the tentative draft before this committee is the language a majority of this committee wants.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Chairman,” Jawbone Swarthman spoke up from down the table next to Esmé Stryke. “I will say to my dear old friend from the House, there, whom I hope to see along with me in the United States Senate next January, that this is the case here. We tried to tell the distinguished Majority Leader that yesterday but he wouldn’t believe us. I guess now he’s sent you to do the same thing, but it won’t work, Cullee, it just won’t. These folks are so riled up—this whole convention is so riled up—that any language stronger than what we’ve got here is going to cause a terrible rumpus, Cullee, it really is, now.”

  “The President is aware that there is some division in the committee and in the convention,” Cullee said calmly, “but the only thing that matters is that he is the President, he’s our candidate for re-election, and we’ve got to stand by him. That’s all there is to it. Let me read this language again, and then let’s stand by our President. Anything else will blast this convention wide open and may make us lose the election. We’ve got to present a united front. We can’t win divided.”

  “I would suggest to the Credentials Committee,” Lafe Smith said quietly at the Hilton, “that unless we can work out some reasonable compromise on seating these delegations, the convention may get into a situation of such bitterness that it could have serious effects on the campaign and the election. After all, we’re here to select a winning ticket and back our President for re-election. We can’t jeopardize his success because of a petty squabble over what is essentially a vice presidential matter. We can’t expect to win if we’re divided.”

  “Mr. Chairman,” Mary Buttner Baffleburg said, “it seems to me every convention that’s ever held, sooner or later we get soft-soaped with t
his talk that we’ve got to bury all our troubles or we might hurt the President. I say there’s a matter of principle involved—”

  “Hear, hear!” said Lizzie Hanson McWharter, barely able to keep her eyes open after last night’s partying but full of combativeness still.

  “A matter of principle,” Mary Baffleburg repeated firmly. “This is no ‘petty matter’ as the Senator from Iowa calls it. This is a deliberate attempt to steal delegates—not,” she said, her face flushing and her voice rising sharply, “by Orrin Knox, who’s the most honest man that ever lived, but by a slick, conniving schemer from Sacramento that the press seems to let get away with blaming everything he does on Orrin Knox! That’s who’s stealing, Mr. Chairman!” she cried as the committee began to stir, the audience leaned forward with excited anticipation, the press went to work, and the television cameras trained upon her pudgy, indignant face. “That’s where the problem is! Tell the Senator to go talk to Governor Jason! He’s the smart boy behind all this!”

  “Mrs. Baffleburg,” Old Joe Smitters from Ashtabula said with as much force as he could muster after staying up until 3 A.M. drinking with some old cronies in the Texas delegation, “I must remind you that these proceedings are being carried to the nation by television and we should conduct ourselves with some dignity here. Now, the Senator, as I understand it, is about to propose a compromise which is agreeable to both sides—”

  “That’s a lie, Mr. Chairman!” Mary Baffleburg cried. “That’s a lie!”

  “The distinguished delegate from Pennsylvania,” Lafe Smith said with some asperity, “is awfully free with her charges of lying these days, it seems to me. Maybe she has information I don’t have, but I have been given to understand by both campaign chairmen, less than half an hour ago, that the proposal I am about to suggest is agreeable to both sides.”