Capable of Honor

by Allen Drury

  It was now the Secretary’s turn to fall silent and look moody. But it did not last long, for he realized that he was fairly caught, and, being Orrin, he had the grace and humor to admit it, though there was a last protest he felt he must make, in fairness to himself.

  “You just don’t know how I’ve been feeling these past few hours,” he said lamely. “You can’t just ask me to jeopardize my whole family. What would Crystal and—”

  “They’ll be with you whatever you decide. Anyway, I’m sure they don’t want you to withdraw, any more than I do or any of your friends do. Isn’t that right?”

  “They did seem a little vehement about it, half an hour ago,” the Secretary confessed with a rueful smile.

  The President nodded. “You’ve given me all the arguments: think them over.”

  Again there was a pause, and this time it was the President’s turn to maintain a careful silence. When the Secretary spoke it was with the reluctant beginnings of a smile.

  “I just thought of something.”

  “What?”

  “You said Lucille had given you a pep talk and it didn’t do any good. That wasn’t consistent with your character, either. I should have known then that—”

  “This office,” the President said, permitting himself a sudden grin, “has made an actor of me, among other things.” He held out his hand and said crisply, “All right, then, Orrin?”

  The Secretary hesitated for a moment. Then he gave the President a firm handshake.

  “All right. I’ve made arrangements with Cullee to nominate me—”

  “Call him off.”

  “But—”

  “Just trust me and don’t argue,” the President said. He stood up and the Secretary perforce did the same. “Very good, then. Now I’d suggest you get back and write yourself an acceptance speech. I’ll be in touch later in the day.”

  “You think I still have a chance?” Orrin asked, with a curiously wistful hesitation that touched the President.

  “I’d say it was pretty good. And if it shouldn’t be—what was that lecture I got on being true to one’s life and record? You were right. Better us two sad old cases go down fighting than give up to that”—he paused and something of his real outrage at what was being attempted against him finally came through in the tone of utter contempt with which he concluded—“that gang.”

  And so one’s absolute resolves became not so absolute under the imperatives of politics, the Secretary thought as his two Secret Service protectors elbowed him through the angrily protesting newsmen again, into the service elevator, out of the Huntington, and back down Powell Street to the St. Francis. He had fallen neatly into Harley’s trap, he realized with a rueful smile—but, then, he was honest enough to admit, if he hadn’t really wanted, subconsciously, to fall into it, he wouldn’t have. He must have known all along that his agonized rejection of his hopes and plans had been only surface, though it had seemed so deep and sincere an hour ago that he had thought nothing could change it. But the President’s appeal for help, the President’s own doubts and dismays—exaggerated for the purpose of winning him over, the Secretary decided, but still a fairly accurate disclosure of how he must be feeling at this moment of attempted betrayal by his party—these had been too much for one trained to a lifetime of public duty. The President had said he couldn’t win without him, and in a sense this was true. It had to be a cooperative effort among all who were loyal to the policies he and Harley deemed best for the country and the world. They were all in it together.

  He was not under any illusions about his own future, however, when he reached the St. Francis and gave Beth the news she seemed not at all surprised to hear. When Ted failed in his assault on Harley, as Orrin firmly believed he would, he would inevitably return to his drive to capture the Vice Presidential nomination. There would then be tremendous pressures on Harley to accept Ted on the ticket.

  Once again, Orrin would be right where he had been from the outset—on his own. And he did not have many hopes, as he prepared to leave for Central Emergency to see his daughter-in-law and then go on to his headquarters at the Fairmont, that Harley would be able to help him much. Harley would have expended too many energies, cashed too many I.O.U.’s, perhaps have given away too much to the Jason forces by that time, to assist his Secretary of State.

  So the outcome would be the same, probably, in any case.

  The only difference would be that he would have gone down with honor; and how many troops, he wondered dryly as he walked through the lobby to his car and received a heartwarming surge of applause from many delegates, does honor have?

  ***

  Chapter 4

  Now it was time to gather again in solemn convention assembled, and out from the gleaming city in the bright blue afternoon the cars and taxis and buses and limousines were beginning to pour down U.S. 101 to the Cow Palace off-ramp and from there back through the pastel residential areas against the hills to the mammoth auditorium sitting stolid in its little vale filled with the echoes of past climactic moments in the nation’s history, stirring now with the portent of new climactic moments on the verge of vociferous delivery. Much would be decided here in the next few hours: the always exciting and awesome moment in which a presidential candidate is chosen, the lesser but still dramatic selection of his running mate given an extra tension today as the forces of the contenders prepared to stretch themselves to the outmost limits of barter, negotiation, promise, and appeal, the farthest reaches of physical stamina and emotional endurance.

  The sullen faces and sinister ranks were gone, the menacing chorus from the galleries had been disbanded. National Guardsmen reinforced police in the maintenance of order as the crowds flocked in, but actually fearsome faces, scornful voices, and the smell of violence were no longer needed. The news from Gorotoland and Panama was filled this day with new delays and frustrations, there had been a sudden new outbreak of riots around the world, three American embassies had been attacked, two more U.S. Information offices had been burned, in seventeen Afro-Asian nations and on twenty-three American university and college campuses members of the newly created “Booker T. Saunders Clubs” were at this very moment paying bitterly anti-Administration homage to the fallen hero of Union Square. The Soviet Union had just launched another violent attack on the Secretary-General for not moving vigorously enough to stop American aggression, Cuba had followed with a resolution demanding American withdrawal from all bases around the world, Zambia, Tanzania, and Malawi had introduced a resolution condemning U.S. racial practices. All in all, it looked like a great day for the forces of world, law and order gathered around the candidacy of the Governor of California. The forces of the President of the United States were a little ragged and groggy this day, and their complete and final route seemed only a few hours away as the parking lots began to fill up and visitors and delegates jostled in to take their places beneath the festive bunting and the high free-floating balloons.

  So it seemed, at any rate, to many of those who were asked to comment as they entered the hall. Patsy Labaiya and her aunt Valuela Randall, waylaid by CBS on their way to their box, were calmly confident.

  “Everything seems to point to my brother’s victory,” Patsy said. “My nephew,” Valuela agreed graciously, “really does appear to be the people’s choice.” Selena Jason Castleberry and her brother Herbert were not with them, as they were out in the staging area in back getting ready to join in the Jason demonstrations, and it was noted, too, that Mrs. Edward Jason was absent. “She will be closely observing too, you can be sure of that,” Patsy said coolly, and the world was left with the impression that Ceil would soon be there.

  Similarly confident were the junior Senator from Wyoming, Hon. Fred Van Ackerman, representing the Committee on Making Further Offers for a Russian Truce (COMFORT); Mr. LeGage Shelby, chairman of the Defenders of Equality for You (DEFY); and Mr. Rufus Kleinfert, Knight Kommander of the Konference on Efforts to Encourage Patriotism (KEEP). “Hairbreadth Harle
y and Oddball Orrin are going to have to put on some burst of speed if they want to overtake the Governor,” Fred Van Ackerman said. Rufus Kleinfert, with his pinched little smile that somehow looked always disapproving and never happy, predicted that, “Governor Jason will triumph here today, and then this insane policy of foreign entanglement and endless foreign war will, thank God, be ended.” Mr. Shelby was not very cooperative. His clever dark face wore a scowl, and instead of elaborating he simply snapped, “Hell, yes!” when his NBC interviewer suggested, “It really looks as though Governor Jason has it sewed up, doesn’t it?”

  Also confident, though usually a little more cooperative, were such leaders of the Jason drive as National Committeeman Roger P. Croy of Oregon and Mrs. Esmé Harbellow Stryke, National Committeewoman from California. Governor Croy predicted a Jason win on the first ballot, Mrs. Stryke, a little more cautious, picked the second. Governor Croy was asked if he expected to receive the vice presidential nomination if Governor Jason won; his response was an uproarious laugh and a vigorous, “No, no!” which immediately convinced his listeners that he had second place in his hip pocket. Mrs. Stryke was referred to by her interviewer as “very likely to be our next Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare,” and burst into a girlish giggle which contrasted oddly with her sharply clever, hag-ridden little face.

  For the Hudson forces—or the Hudson-Knox forces, as Frankly Unctuous and Walter’s world continued to call them—those who appeared on the screen against the background bustle of the gathering delegates were stoutly optimistic despite the rather skeptical tone in which they were questioned.

  “Does it really seem to you, Senator,” CBS asked after Stanley Danta had just said that it did, “that the President can win the nomination now?”

  “Isn’t it true,” NBC inquired of a Speaker obviously anxious to get away to the platform, “that the Hudson-Knox forces face an almost insurmountable handicap this afternoon?”

  “You don’t really see any chance of reversing the Jason tide, do you?” they asked Cullee Hamilton.

  “Now if the President should be defeated, Senator,” they said to Lafe Smith, “by what margin would you estimate that it will be?”

  “It is obvious from the comments we have already heard this afternoon,” Frankly Unctuous was able to report cheerfully a few moments later, “that, while the Jason forces are riding a high and confident tide this afternoon, the Hudson-Knox supporters seem to be definitely on the defensive. Wouldn’t you agree with that curbstone impression, Walter?”

  “I would,” Walter Dobius said gravely. “The whole aspect of the Jason campaign is one of a well-organized mechanism, based on idealism and unity in a great cause—that of world peace—preparing to function with perfect smoothness to bring its man the nomination. The whole appearance of the Hudson-Knox camp, on the other hand, is that of a collapsing, disintegrating campaign of loosely-held-together forces, each of which is beginning to find that its selfish self-interest cannot be sufficiently rewarded by the leadership it has chosen to support.”

  “Would you say that historically this has been the pattern of coalitions formed for political advantage, Walter, as distinct from those that have gathered around some great and stirring idea or ideal?”

  “It has indeed,” Walter agreed. “Events here seem to be following that classic pattern.”

  “Can you tell us, Walter, if there is anything to the persistent rumors of the past few hours that Secretary of State Knox may withdraw his candidacy for Vice President in the wake of the outbreaks of nasty violence which marred yesterday’s proceedings?”

  Walter shook his head.

  “That was going around earlier, but it seems to be false now. Or so,” he said with a satisfied, pardonable little smile, “I was informed by the President himself just a few minutes ago. Apparently the Secretary intends to remain in the race, presumably supporting the President and then seeking to win the vice presidential nomination.”

  “Which might be a little difficult,” Frankly said with a smile, “should Governor Jason wrest the nomination from the President this afternoon. Allowing Secretary Knox to be on the ticket would be, I should think, the last thing he would permit if he wins.”

  “Or if he loses,” Walter Dobius said, and Frankly Unctuous, after a second’s startled look, nodded and laughed and said, “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  But on the floor among the delegates there was no such aura of confidence, no calm certainties, historical parallels, or encouraging indications to the convention as to the best course for it to follow. There Lafe and Hal and Cullee and Bob Munson and Stanley Danta and even the Jason aides were finding a great uncertainty and a vast confusion. Even more than usual, many delegates seemed to be feeling that inevitable third-day disillusionment that comes over a convention when what the press refers to as “rank-and-file delegates” begin to get the inner conviction that it doesn’t matter a damn what they do, because “the boys up top” have got it all worked out between them.

  Senator Munson’s instructions to his co-workers had taken note of this with more vehemence than diplomacy:

  “Go out and tell those silly bastards that this thing is wide open and they’ve got to stand on their own two feet, damn it, and vote what they really believe.”

  This attitude of stern realism, itself perhaps a good example of what the “up top” mentality is like, nonetheless accurately reflected the situation on the floor as the band swung into “The Star-Spangled Banner” and the convention rustled to its feet to listen to the ponderously stirring old up-and-down tune and watch the single flag at the podium fluttering in its artificial breeze, experiencing all those swirling, inchoate, inextricably entangled emotions of love, reverence, annoyance, and impatience that the contemplation of one’s country can induce at this familiar moment.

  There were, in fact, very few indications as to which way the balloting would go. The harried chairman of Illinois told Hal Knox that he couldn’t really determine how many would defect to Ted Jason—“everybody’s being so damned close-mouthed.” Esmé Stryke, though insisting on her right to be publicly confident, nonetheless had to acknowledge to Cullee that he would be far from the only one in the California delegation to favor Orrin. And as for Joe Smitters, Bill Smatters, Bob Smutters, John Smotters, Buddy Smetters and all their friends and cohorts on what might be called the “second level,” (below “up top” but above rank and file”) they were in a daze from staying up all night, drinking too much, talking too much, arguing and estimating and telephoning and wheeling and dealing, even though they knew in their hearts that all their hectic activity didn’t mean much, because of course when the word came down from “up top” they would obediently do their best to throw their delegations onto whichever bandwagon appeared to be heading for the wire.

  Basically, everybody was in a daze because nobody could quite believe that the convention had actually reached a position in which it might very well repudiate a sitting President. How had they arrived there? Did they really want to be there? Was there any way to get out of it if they did not? Or must they plunge ahead, as the Jason forces—who seemed to be everywhere—and Walter’s world—which assaulted their eyes and ears in a steady hum from every transistor radio and miniature television set on the floor—told them over and over that they must do?

  “It’s all too much,” Mary Buttner Baffleburg, panting and red-faced and fanning herself with a tally sheet despite the air conditioning, confided to Lizzie Hanson McWharter in the aisle near the Kansas delegation. “Too much.”

  “And the Speaker wants poor Anna to preside again,” Lizzie said.

  “Oh, my God!” said Mary Baffleburg, her shrewd little eyes almost disappearing in their many rings of flesh as she closed them in desperate thought. “What does that mean?”

  “A busy time for Anna,” Lizzie said, not without satisfaction. “But I couldn’t say what it means for anybody else.”

  “I suppose the Speaker knows what he’s doing,” Mary
Baffleburg remarked, opening her eyes to peer about at the corn-fed faces of Kansas, the dark eyes and gay leis of Hawaii.

  “If so he’s the only one,” Lizzie Hanson McWharter said tartly.

  And as a matter of fact, as these two ladies, one so tall and bony, the other so short and fat, perhaps rather ridiculous in appearance but filled with hard-boiled knowledge of a dozen campaigns, seemed to suspect, the Speaker was quite as uncertain as anyone else when he stepped to the rostrum after the playing of the national anthem and brought the gavel down with a series of impatient raps.

  “Hurry up there, now!” he muttered. “It’s half-past three already, hurry it up, come on, hurry it up!”

  The admonition, delivered too close to the microphone, boomed out clearly to the nearer delegates. There was a burst of laughter and some indication of annoyance, but prompted by the habit of obeying him for five conventions—though his control was somewhat shattered now by the disrespect shown to him yesterday—first the nearer rows, then the farther, gradually settled down. In about five minutes the great hall was reasonably silent except for the delicate splatter of clicking, bell-ringing sound from the racing typewriters in the press section, the low-voiced murmur of television reporters addressing their walkie-talkies in the aisles, the echoes from all the transistors of floor and galleries, the steady susurrus of thousands of excited, whispered conversations, and the endless rush of rumors chasing each other around the floor until it seemed that they must finally, like the Tiger and Little Black Sambo, end up in a great pool of butter in the middle of the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Speaker said, “we come now to the unfinished business of approving the foreign policy plank of the platform—”

  But he was interrupted by Lafe Smith, who seized the Iowa microphone and shouted, “Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!” in an urgent voice. Immediately the hall filled with uneasy noise.