by Allen Drury
“The Chair presents,” the Speaker grated, turning away and staring straight out, “a delegate from Wyoming, to make a nomination,” and for just a second it was obvious that Fred wanted to make some bitter and violent rejoinder to this terse and disparaging introduction.
Then in one of those lightning changes of mood that his colleagues in the Senate knew so well, he shook his head with a sudden crudely pitying grin and stepped forward to the lectern to acknowledge the dutiful but somewhat uncertain applause of the Jason delegates. No one had expected him to be where he was doing what he was, and it was clear that he enjoyed it. In Fred’s mind it obviously ranked as a victory, and so it probably was: a victory over the Speaker, who had no choice but to give him the platform again, and a deeper victory, too—a victory over Ted Jason, that high and mighty bastard who thought he could use Fred and COMFORT and then tell them to run along. He had found out, in a bitter, shouting argument earlier this afternoon (at least Fred had shouted, the Governor had been infuriatingly calm even when surrendering) that he could not. Fred had made the proud son of a bitch with his Spanish ancestors toe the line. The triumph of it was in his face as he raised his hands above his head and clasped them together in a victory gesture that brought some laughter and applause from the convention, though it did not know exactly why it applauded, or what.
He stepped forward quickly to the microphones and began to speak.
“Members of this great convention,” he said, ignoring the Speaker, “did you see this morning’s headlines?
“Gorotoland is going badly for us.
“Panama is going badly for us.
“The world fears and despises us.
“American boys are dying right this minute.
“And no peace is in sight.
“This,” he said, and suddenly his voice sailed up into the angry, whining shout the Senate knew—“this is what your man of honor—your man of consistency—your straightforward man—your decent man—your fearless man—has done! “This is the low state to which Harley M. Hudson and his sidekick the Secretary of State have brought America to!
“And that,” he said, and his voice dropped to a contemptuous snarl, “that is what you want for President of the United States? That is the sort of record you want your nominee to have? That is the policy, and those are the leaders, we are asked to endorse?
“Mr. Chairman,” he said, and this time he did turn around and grin his savagely contemptuous grin straight at the Speaker, “don’t make me laugh.”
“You heard a few minutes ago,” he said, turning back, “a renegade that the Governor of California had trusted to manage his campaign because he thought he was an honorable and decent man. Well, the Governor found out! He found out what he was, just as a while back we in the United States Senate found out what Robert A. Leffingwell was!”
“Do you remember, Orrin,” Stanley Danta asked dreamily at the Fairmont, “all those frantic speeches Freddy made for Bob during the nomination fight?”
“I remember,” said the Secretary of State.
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Fred Van Ackerman cried, and in the New York delegation a chorus of boos began to rise to greet his words, and soon it was taken up elsewhere, so that he found himself shouting ever louder to drown it out, “this man is a Judas goat, pretending to be one thing as long as it suited him and then turning on the great Governor at the last minute and trying to lead you to destruction with Harley Hudson and Orrin Knox!
“Go ahead and boo me, then!” he cried in the sudden wild, psychotic yell that was characteristic of him when hard-pressed. “Yes, get your stooges to boo me when I tell the truth! But it won’t change the truth about this Administration and what it has done to America! It won’t change the truth about what it has done to the UN! It won’t change the truth about what it has done to Gorotoland and Panama!
“Go on and boo!” he shouted. “Maybe you can wake up the American boys who have died for the Hudson-Knox foreign policy!”
“Jesus!” Governor Jason exploded in a terrible voice, so savage and uncharacteristic that it actually frightened his secretaries. “Can’t somebody do something about that—” But he remembered abruptly that no one could, for he himself had put him there. As suddenly as he had spoken, he was silent.
“Yes,” Senator Van Ackerman cried into the shocked silence, “you’d better think about it, I say to all of you in this great convention! This is where we decide, right here and now today, what kind of candidate and what kind of party and what kind of President we’re going to have from now on. So listen to me well.
“We have an honorable candidate—honorable in all his life.
“We have a consistent candidate—consistent in his support for world peace.
“We have a straightforward man—straightforward in his dealings with his state, his nation, and all men.
“We have a decent man—decent in his approach to the problems of humanity.
“We have a fearless man—fearless in his fight for genuine peace.
“It is time for us to turn away from old tired men and policies of disaster,” he concluded, sounding calmer and almost like any other relatively sane convention orator.
“It is time to turn to a youthful, dynamic leader of vision and integrity who can lead the world to peace.
“It is time to turn to the next President of the United States, the Honorable Edward M. Jason, Governor of California!”
And the world exploded again, though this time many who were watching thought they could detect a curious defensiveness in the shouting, dancing, whooping demonstrators, a certain edgy belligerence, a curiously insistent, almost forced enthusiasm that contrasted rather oddly with the claims of Jason victory and the genuine warmth of the Hudson demonstration. But it went on for better than half an hour, and after it ended Roger P. Croy, Esmé Stryke, the Governor of Ohio, the Governor of Hawaii, and two Negro delegates from Mississippi and South Carolina made seconding speeches.
***
Chapter 5
There now have arrived those tense final moments before the vote for President, that time of final tightening-up and gathering-together of all the strands of promise, appeal, threat, commitment, arrangement, alliance, certainty, hunch, impulse, equivocation. Yes, No, Maybe, Could-Be and Perhaps that always precedes that particular Call of the States which above all others gives meaning to the American method. It is too late for anything further: it has all been done. Stand or fall, win or lose, the event no longer lies in the hands of those who have attempted to control it, be they candidates waiting tensely at headquarters, managers frantically shouting last-minute directions over walkie-talkies, campaign aides scurrying desperately about the floor, even Walter’s world making its last suavely urgent pitch for its chosen candidate in the booths and along the worktables from which it informs and admonishes a not always obedient world.
Now the event is no longer in the hands of Roger P. Croy or Esmé Stryke, Bob Munson or Cullee Hamilton, Joe Smitters, Bob Smutters, John Smotters, Walter Dobius or Frankly Unctuous. Now it is in the hands of all those hundreds who have come to San Francisco in their noisy anonymity, each called Delegate, each being One Vote or Half-Vote, otherwise nameless and faceless; the hundreds who have not huddled in the confidential rooms where things are decided; the hundreds who have not been buttonholed and interviewed to make pompous or hopeful or self-serving predictions; the hundreds who have just been here, and have spent their time outside convention hours shopping at Gump’s or I. Magnin’s, eating at Canlis or Pauline’s, riding the cable cars, having drinks at the Top o’ the Mark and the Fairmont, exclaiming ecstatically at the glamorous City by the gorgeous Bay.
This is their moment and nobody better make fun of them now, by God: this is when they get their revenge for being patronized and pushed around like helpless chips on a table. They have proved already, in yesterday’s votes, that they are not to be taken for granted. Now they know, with some grim amusement at the uncertainty they realize must be p
revalent everywhere “up top,” that they will prove it again.
“The convention will be in order,” the Speaker says, pounding his gavel vigorously. (He has taken mercy on Anna Hooper Bigelow and decided to preside after all, calling the roll will be enough of a strain for her today—and also, nobody knows what may happen in the voting and he wants to be in charge should it be necessary to gavel down a disturbance or strong-arm something through.)
“The Secretary will call the roll of the States for the selection of a nominee for President.”
For a moment or two longer the world hangs suspended while Anna Bigelow, patriotically clad in a red tweed suit topped by a blue toque with a white feather, fusses a bit at the lectern and looks about with an ill-concealed nervousness. A silence, profound, breath-held, attentive, quivering—the sort of silence that can’t be triggered in an instant into screaming sound—settles on the enormous room. The voting charts furnished at every seat by the soft-drink companies and the major periodicals are ready, the pens and pencils are poised.
“A—la—bama!” cries Anna Hooper Bigelow, and a great expulsion of breath hisses out from everywhere.
“Mr. Chairman,” Alabama says gravely, “Alabama casts five votes for Harley M. Hudson, five votes for Edward M. Jason.”
There is a rush of sound. Hudson supporters and Jason supporters attempt to outdo one another. The Speaker gavels it down. The edge-of-hysteria silence settles again.
“A—laska!” cries Anna Bigelow.
“Alaska casts six votes for Harley M. Hudson.” ‘
A shout goes up.
“A—rizona!”
“Arizona casts seven votes for Harley M. Hudson,” says Arizona matter-of-factly.
“Arkansas!”
“Arkansas casts nine votes for Harley M. Hudson, six for Edward M. Jason.
Again there is a surge of sound, again the Speaker gavels. Frankly Unctuous has just time to murmur to Walter, “It is obvious that the Speaker is attempting to give an air of nonpartisanship to his presiding, even though it is an open secret that he favors the President,” when Anna cries,
“California!”
Abruptly the great hall is as still as tension will allow.
“Mr. Chairman!” Esmé Stryke shouts, and even as she speaks a wave of sound begins to break across the room to greet her words, “California requests a poll of the delegation.”
The Speaker bangs his gavel hard and demands silence.
“The Secretary will poll,” he says calmly, and the better part of an hour goes by while the Secretary does. During it people in the galleries rise and stretch, delegates mill about the floor, Walter and Frankly speculate with great perspicacity and knowledge on what is happening.
Despite their rather emphatic confidence, however, it is apparent as the marks go on the tally sheets that there is still, the furious all-day efforts of Jason managers notwithstanding, a grave and fundamental split in the Governor’s delegation.
“California,” Anna Bigelow reports finally, “casts 57 votes for Edward M. Jason, 47 votes for Harley M. Hudson.”
And again the hall erupts.
Five minutes later the Speaker has succeeded in silencing it again. Anna goes on. An exhausted lull falls temporarily on the convention as she manages to get through Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, and Idaho. None demands a poll, all report promptly, few outcries greet their declarations, and when they have finished the President had gained 61 votes, the Governor 55.
“Illinois!” cries Anna Bigelow. Everyone tenses again.
“Illinois, Mr. Speaker,” the chairman booms, “finds it must request a poll of the delegation.”
Loud shouts, cries, roars. The Speaker gavels. Anna tries to talk. The Speaker gavels. Everybody shouts and stirs for two minutes. Tension eases—a very little.
Anna polls.
“Illinois,” she reports half an hour later, “casts 51 votes for Harley M. Hudson, 27 votes for Edward M. Jason.”
In Walter’s world quick comparisons are made between the Jason inroads on Illinois and the Hudson inroads on California. A certain tension begins to appear in Walter’s world. The convention shouts and stamps, exchanges rumors and makes biting and sardonic jokes, for the convention is not really so dumb. It can make comparisons, too.
“Indiana!” cries Anna Hooper Bigelow, and is permitted to move on with reasonable dispatch through Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, and Massachusetts.
The sum total of this is 70 more votes for the President, 64 more for Governor Jason.
The vote now stands at 260 for Harley M. Hudson, 213 for Governor Jason.
“Michigan!” says Anna and Michigan replies with a heavy emphasis that rises to a shout at the end, “Michigan casts 53 unanimous votes for its greatest son, Harley M. Hudson, present and next President of the United States!”
A great roar goes up, figures are totaled, gleeful or worried comments are exchanged, analysis is offered, wonderment or satisfaction expressed. Five minutes pass in exaltation or concern. So near and yet so far dances the golden prize.
“Minnesota!” says Anna Bigelow.
Minnesota casts 17 votes for Edward Jason, 10 for Harley Hudson. Exultation and concern change sides, remain so as Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, and New Mexico report a total of 69 votes for Governor Jason, 71 for Harley M. Hudson.
“New York!” cries Anna Bigelow, and is rewarded with an abrupt, straining silence.
“New York,” says the chairman calmly, “requests a poll of the delegation.”
But when it comes the quick-rising hopes of the Jasonites are as quickly dashed. Robert A. Leffingwell—who is booed by many but applauded by more when he firmly casts his vote for Harley M. Hudson—has not told them false. Forty-four members of the New York delegation break to the President; the Governor holds 50.
The vote stands Harley M. Hudson 414, Edward M. Jason 409 as Anna Hooper Bigelow heaves an audible sigh into the microphones that produces a burst of not-really—amused, tension—tight laughter from the convention.
“North Carolina!” she calls, and goes doggedly on through North Dakota, Ohio (which splits 33 for President Hudson, 30 for Governor Jason), Oklahoma, Oregon (where Roger P. Croy manages to hold the entire delegation, to the accompaniment of great whoops and cries, for the Governor), and Pennsylvania (where Mary Buttner Baffleburg and 42 of her colleagues stand firm for President Hudson but Governor Jason still manages to pick up 32).
And the vote stands Harley M. Hudson 526, Edward M. Jason 522.
“It certainly looks as though this is going to be a contest right down to the wire, doesn’t it, Walter?” Frankly suggests with a brightness born of worry and unease.
“It certainly does,” Walter agrees dryly, his instinct at work, his mind already leaping beyond the outcome, calculating the realities then, the possibilities, the likelihoods, the thing he knows should be, and perhaps can be, done.
“Rhode Island!” cries Anna Bigelow. “South Carolina!… South Dakota!… Tennessee!… Texas!… Utah!… Vermont!… Virginia!”
And now the sound hardly dies down at all, it keeps coming in recurrent waves each louder than the last, as everyone moves in for the kill. No one knows exactly who the victim will be, for from those eight states Harley M. Hudson harvests 80 votes, Edward M. Jason 79.
The President had 606 votes, the Governor 601, and on Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming, and the U.S. possessions the golden prize depends.
At the Mark Hopkins the Governor’s face is impassive as he watches the screen. At the Fairmont the Secretary of State and his wife lean forward tensely. At the Huntington the First Lady is close to tears, but from some deep well of confidence—or just plain bullheadedness, she thinks with a frustrated despair as she observes his comfortable calm—the President has drawn the necessary strength to remain steady, unshaken, and undismayed. Now and then the fingers of his righ
t hand tap out a little rhythm on the arm of his chair, but other than that, his aspect, while sensibly concerned, is not alarmed as Anna Bigelow cries,
“Washington!”
“Washington casts 12 votes for Harley M. Hudson, 12 votes for Edward M. Jason,” the chairman says and a great “Whoosh!” of sound goes up.
“West Virginia!”
“West Virginia casts 11 votes for Harley M. Hudson, six for Edward M. Jason”—and another whoosh.
“Wisconsin!” cries Anna Hooper Bigelow, her voice thin with the excitement that now is so intense that it seems minds and hearts and bodies must crack wide open with the terrible strain of it.
“Wisconsin casts 15 votes for the next President of the United States, Governor Jason,” shouts Wisconsin and the great roar begins, “and nine votes for Harley M. Hudson!”
“Walter,” Frankly Unctuous says in an oddly thin and trembling voice far from his warm plum-pudding tones, “you realize this gives the President 638 votes, the Governor 634, and if Senator Van Ackerman can hold Wyoming—”
“You are so right,” Walter Dobius says sharply, his expression adding. And so obvious. “Please let us listen!”
“Wyoming!” screams Anna Bigelow and the universe simply cannot stand the tension now.
“Wyoming demands a poll of the delegation.”
“Oh, NO!” cries the convention.
“Oh, YES, damn it!” shouts the chairman. “How about it, Madam Secretary?”
“The Secretary will poll,” the Speaker agrees, and Anna does.
Nine voices, one by one, record their votes, and by the time the tenth is reached it is all over and the Cow Palace is in so great a sea of sound that he can hardly be heard.
But his voice sails up in a high, almost insane whine anyway, and when Anna Hooper Bigelow can finally screech, “Senator Van Ackerman!” he yells, “I cast my vote for Edward M. Jason! Oh, God damn it, I cast my vote for Edward M. Jason!”
