Advise and Consent (101 page)
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Authors: Allen Drury
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Genre Fiction, #Political, #Contemporary Fiction
Book Five
Advise and Consent
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Chapter 1
For a day and a night, as tradition dictated, the dead President lay in state in the White House, and then on Saturday morning he left it for the last time and began the long, slow procession through the city to Union Station and the black-draped train that would carry him home to the great valley in California, now bright with poppies and strewn with spring, where he had been born. By order of his successor the Mansion was thrown open to the public on Friday, and all day long, in an endless line two abreast, shuffling and slow, native and foreign and black and white, they moved patiently up the curving drive, under the portico, into the East Room and around the candle-lit catafalque and slowly, slowly, out the door and down the other drive and out the East Gate. It was estimated by the press, which kept round-the-clock vigil as the day passed and the night came on and the city went fitfully to sleep and the dawn came again, that more than 200,000 people passed through 1600 Pennsylvania on this last farewell; and when the coffin on its horse-drawn caisson moved out the West Gate at 10 a.m., turned and started along Pennsylvania Avenue with its procession of sleek black limousines following behind, it was estimated that more than a million more lined the route.
On this day the weather was beautiful, the sun bright, the sky clear, a soft wind rising, a delicate felicity upon the world; and in the somber hush that held the city only the clop-clop of horses’ hooves, the jingling of accoutrements, a sudden sob or outcry from some overcome citizen, and now and then the high, silver sound of birds disturbed the awesome solemnity of the hour. America buries her Presidents well, and this one, greatly loved and greatly hated, was no exception.
In the second car back, following the late President’s widow, his daughter and son-in-law and twin grandsons, the figure of the new President and First Lady could be glimpsed by the crowds; a rather portly, kindly-looking couple, the man not very handsome, not very commanding, but friendly—they could all sense that. “He looks nice,” they said to one another, and it pleased them, and he felt their pleasure. A warmth flowed out to him from his countrymen, compounded of their good will, their innate friendliness, their appreciation of his great burden, and their desperate hope that for all their sakes he might carry it well; and feeling this, he was comforted as he passed by, good-hearted and decent and well-meaning, shaken by the events of the past thirty-six hours but not shattered by them. He was not shattered at all, in fact, now that the event was actually here, and somehow this knowledge passed back to them, and they were comforted in turn.
In succeeding cars there came the members of the Cabinet, the leaders of the Congress and the Supreme Court (save for Mr. Justice Davis, who had gone three days ago to Jamaica, for his health), the Chief Justice riding with the Speaker of the House and the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, the senior Senator from South Carolina; behind them the Majority and Minority Leaders of the Senate and the Majority and Minority Leaders of the House; other Justices, senior members of both chambers including the senior Senator from Illinois and the senior Senator from Arkansas, and then a commingling of House and Senate, sub-Cabinet members and members of the late President’s official family. One hundred and seven limousines were in the procession, and according to the AP, which clocked it at Treasury Corner, it took half an hour to pass a given point. It was fitting and proper that it should be so, for this was a man who had dreamed great dreams and done great things, and persuaded his country to dream and do them too, and it was right that he should be so honored.
So the cortege passed slowly along the silent Avenue under the bright blue sky, and as it did the thoughts of the men who had known him well, as the thoughts of those who had known him hardly at all, rode in the caisson up ahead with its trimmings and its trappings and its even-stepping grays with their slow-measured, jingling tread. The senior Senator from South Carolina, author of the severest and perhaps the only truly honest expression of opinion the press had received on that hectic midnight—“He was an evil man, and the Lord has rendered judgment upon him”—sat silent, bland, and unblinking as they rode along, his face impassive; men did not dare imagine what he might be thinking in that shrewd, unforgiving old mind. The Speaker too was silent, lost in thoughts of his own, not sad, not happy, simply accepting what time and politics had brought and planning how best he might adjust to the new personality in the White House. In their car following, the Majority Leader of the Senate caught from time to time the eye of the Minority Leader of the Senate, and between them there passed on several occasions a look of mingled regret, relief, and concern, regret as one regrets the passing of any major force of nature terrible and magnificent in its ability for good and its capacities for evil, relief that they no longer had to deal with him, concern for the pleasantly undistinguished man who had taken his place and now bore all their hopes.
And coming next in a car which he shared with Senator August and Senator Richardson, an ironic little expression in his eyes and around his mouth, the senior Senator from Illinois too was thinking of the figure
who was gone. Their long, curious duet of affection and hate was over now, and aided by the blow of Providence, the Senator had won. Or had he been the instrument of Providence, forcing upon an overburdened heart the final pressure which had crushed it? And if he had been, had that too been Providence’s purpose, or had he done something forever unforgivable to a fellow being?
He did not know, nor, as the cortege slowly turned off Pennsylvania into Constitution and then into Louisiana Avenue, moving on through the silent, massed spectators, did he know whether he should even bother to wonder. Things happened. Sometimes you controlled them, sometimes you forced them, sometimes they ran away with you or left you behind or suddenly did something you had not intended. If God has asked him, “Do you wish to kill the President?” he would have said no, like any decent man. But if God made him so act in a way that had in all probability helped to bring about that result, who was he to question the wisdom or the mystery of it? Being himself, he could have done no other. It did not seem to him profitable, in that hushed and solemn hour, to worry himself with doubts about it now.
In the final analysis, he knew honestly, he was glad his opponent was dead. He had regarded him for so long as both a personal obstacle and as the author of policies that were in some ways gravely detrimental to the country, that he could not help but be relieved in the private candor of his heart. Even he had not had the courage to say what Seab had said—only a years-long anger and the impregnable citadel of age permitted such shocking honesty—but he too felt a certain Old Testament judgment by Jehovah in the recent course of events. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—and a death for a death. He could not be too sorry.
As for what the man had accomplished, the lasting record he would leave in the history he was always so concerned about, that too the senior Senator from Illinois could not accurately discern. It took a long time to assess so dominant a personality and so forceful a career. Many men would be born and live and die before, looking back, their children could say with certainty, This was a good man, or, This was a bad.
The cortege reached the station, the caisson went slowly in, the limousines began to park in ordered ranks, their occupants got out and began walking soberly forward. There would be brief trainside ceremonies, the casket would be placed aboard the train, the mourners and the crowds would disperse; the long journey home across a sorrowing continent would begin.
Going in gravely with the Senator from Minnesota and the Senator from Arkansas, the eye of the Senator from Illinois fell suddenly upon an inscription carved high on the face of the great gateway building.
He that would bring home the wealth of the Indies
, it said,
must carry the wealth of the Indies with him.
And he thought of his opponent as he had seen him last on television, the commanding presence, the magnificent defiance, and as he had seen him in their last talk together, laying the Presidency itself on the line in one supreme gamble to save his political reputation and his political power; and he thought with a grim, inescapable admiration that he had indeed brought home the wealth of the Indies, and indeed had carried the wealth of the Indies with him; and what it had all meant for his country, of good or ill, what man in this hour could truly say?
***
Chapter 2
“Bob,” the President said, and the Majority Leader, scarcely back in his office from the ceremonies at the station, was startled by the vigor in that heretofore hesitantly amiable voice, “I would like you to have Seab and the Speaker call both houses into session this afternoon—not jointly, but so they can transact business. Will you do that for me?”
“Harl—” Senator Munson started to say reassuringly, and then stopped and started over again. “Mr. President,” he said, “I’m sure we can do that. It’s eleven-thirty now, nearly everybody is still in town, we can round them up without much trouble. Suppose we go in at one o’clock.”
“Fine,” the President said. “I want you to pass a joint resolution for me, if you will, expressing the support of Congress for me when I go to Geneva.”
“Oh, you are going?” Bob Munson asked, for the silence on this since the late Chief Executive’s death had caused great speculation and two arrogantly petulant calls at the State Department by the Soviet Ambassador. “You can probably duck it if you want to, you know. It was his obligation, not yours.”
“It was the obligation of the President of the United States,” the President said, rather tartly. “Certainly I’m going. Furthermore, I want you to go with me. Also Tom. Also Warren. Also—” He stopped abruptly. “Also somebody else you’ll find out about later.”
“The Secretary of State,” the Majority Leader suggested. “I suppose you’ll keep Howie on now and not make any change for a while, won’t you?”
“No, indeed,” The President said. He chuckled. “Now figure that one out,” he said. Senator Munson chuckled, too.
“I think you’re beginning to like the job,” he said.
“It’s growing on me,” the President admitted, and he didn’t sound at all displeased. “I want to talk to the Senate about the State Department later in the afternoon.”
“How do you mean, talk?” Senator Munson said.
“What I said, talk,” the President told him. “After you’ve got the resolution out of the way, just stand by and I’ll be coming along to tell you about your new Secretary of State. Sometime around 3 p.m., I imagine—it shouldn’t take you long on the resolution, should it?”
“Ten minutes,” the Majority Leader said.
“Good,” the President said.
“What’s the news from outer space?” Bob Munson asked.
“All good,” the President said. “We’re on our way, high, wide, and handsome. We’ll be there by Sunday, just as the Pres—just as my predecessor said. Not that it will solve very much.”
“Nothing ever solves anything, very much,” Senator Munson said, “particularly these days. But at least it will give us a little more equal standing.”
“On the edge of hell,” the President said. “I’ll expect the three of you to go with me, then.”
“Right,” the Majority Leader said. “And, Harley,” he added, “—Mr. President: don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” the President said firmly, and it was quite apparent that he wasn’t. “I just want my old friends with me.”
“Nothing,” Bob Munson said, “could honor your old friends more.”
“By the way,” the President added casually, “where is the senior Senator from Illinois at this moment?”
“We’re meeting for lunch in fifteen minutes,” Senator Munson said.
“No, you’re not,” the President said. “I’m going to appropriate him to have lunch with me. Send him on down, will you?”
“Are you sure you can handle him alone?” Senator Munson asked dryly. “He’ll be bursting with ideas on how you ought to run the government, you know.”
“I can handle him,” the President said.
The Majority Leader chuckled.
“All right, Mr. President,” he said. “You’re the boss.”
“I aim to be,” the President said cheerfully.
***
Chapter 3
He didn’t know why Harley wanted to see him, Senator Knox thought as he caught a cab once more for the East Gate, but it was a good thing he had asked to, it would save a lot of time, they would have a good chance to talk about the government and get things squared away for the new Administration. He felt that at the moment Harley needed plenty of good advice, for all his outward calm in the cortege this morning. Orrin could not forget the daze in which he had taken the oath, white and stunned, shortly after midnight in the oval office at the White House. The Chief Justice, hastily routed out of bed, had administered the awesome words in the presence of everyone who could possibly crowd into the room, and Harley’s response had been barely audible. Many people had cried, and the new Chief Executive had looked as though he might,, too. He had started to say something and then stopped, overcome; finally, “I want you all to know I shall do my best” was all he could manage. It had hardly seemed enough at the moment, but the press had made a great thing out of it on Friday morning, its sincerity, its humility, its simple goodness.
And those, the Senator reflected, were qualities that Harley could genuinely claim, and they were not by any means such inadequate qualities to have. In fact, they were about what he needed to meet this new situation; they and a little starch in his backbone which Orrin and his other friends might be able to give him. Certainly they had a duty to try, at any rate, for everyone who knew the President intimately must come to his assistance in this fearsome hour.
Thinking these thoughts, which brought a look of frowning concentration to his face, he walked past the Rose Garden and came again to the door he had entered two days ago. Curiously, it seemed to have changed with the change in personality that sat behind it. It no longer looked ten feet tall; there was no longer the sense of an imperial personality on the other side, looming over the nation. It was only Harley. He knocked briskly, was invited to enter, and walked in, still frowning in deep thought.
“My goodness,” the President said mildly, “what have I done?”
“What?” Orrin asked, startled, and then smiled. “Nothing, Harley,” he said. “I was just thinking.”
“About the President, I suppose,” his host said, and the Senator said, “No, about you.”
“I am the President,” his host pointed out gently, and before Orrin had time to really digest the kindly but ironic way in which he had said it, he gestured him politely to a chair. “Do sit down, Orrin,” he said. “I’m awfully glad you could come. I’ve told them to send lunch for two in here. What would you like?”
“What are you having, Harl—” Senator Knox said and stopped. “Mr. President,” he amended with a smile, and the President smiled, too.
“I thought,” he said, “that I would have some soup and a sandwich and coffee.”
“That would be fine for me—Mr. President,” Orrin said. He grinned. “You’ll have to give me a little time, Harley. I’m not quite used to it yet.”
“Me, either,” the President admitted, “but I’m getting more so by the minute.” He looked more serious. “I asked you down, Orrin, because I wanted to talk to you about the government. I wanted your advice.”
“Why, Harley,” the Senator said, looking pleased. “I think that’s very nice of you, Mr. President.”
“Oh, I expect you thought I should,” the President said lightly. “Now, didn’t you? I’ll bet when you walked in here you were thinking, Well, I’m damned glad Harley had the sense to call on
me
. Isn’t that right?”
Senator Knox had the grace to laugh. In fact he laughed quite hard, in honest amusement.
“You know me too well,” he said.
“That’s what I thought,” the President said. “I told myself, if anybody thinks he ought to be advising me, it’s Orrin Knox. And,” he added seriously, “I told myself that if there was anybody I wanted advising me, it was Orrin Knox.”
The Senator from Illinois gave him a sudden smile.
“Watch it, now,” he said. “You’re in danger of becoming as crafty as he was.”
“Oh, I mean it,” the President said honestly. “Of course,” he added with a chuckle, “I didn’t say to myself that I had to
take
Orrin’s advice, you understand. I just felt I ought to have it.”
Senator Knox smiled again.
“I swear,” he said, “I think you’re going to be good. I really do.”
“I’m going to try,” the President said. “I’m certainly going to try. Excuse me, and I’ll order.” He lifted the phone, did so, and turned back.
“What changes do you think I ought to make in domestic policy, Orrin?” he asked. Senator Knox answered promptly.
“Not too much,” he said. “Maybe a little more liberalizing of things here and there. And a great deal more tightening up all along the line. He wasn’t a very good administrator, for all his brilliance.”
“No,” the President agreed gravely. “He wasn’t. I’d like to appoint a committee, mostly Cabinet but a few others, to go into that for me. Would you like to serve?”
“Anything you say,” Orrin said. “Any way I can help.”
“Good,” the President said. “And in foreign policy, I think you’ve made your views pretty clear in recent days.”
“I think so,” the Senator said with a frown. “I’ve tried to do what I thought necessary and still explain it so people wouldn’t think I was just being obstructionist.”
“I think you’ve succeeded quite well,” the President said. “I noticed the papers conceded you your sincerity yesterday morning after it was all over, even while deploring your actions.”
“That’s a pet trick of theirs,” Orrin said dryly. “You’ll find out.”
“I expect,” the President said as lunch arrived, “I’ll find out a lot of things before I’m through here.”
They were silent for a little. Presently the Senator from Illinois looked up. “You know, Harley,” he said and added with a smile, “I won’t call you anything but ‘Mr. President’ after this, but just for a minute be Harley for me again—there’s one thing I’ve always regretted, and one thing I’ve always wanted to do. And that’s what I said at the convention. I want to apologize to you for it.”
The President looked surprised, touched, and pleased.
“Why, thank you, Orrin,” he said warmly. “You needn’t. I knew you were under terrific strain, so I tried to forget it right away. I’ve never held it against you.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” Senator Knox said, feeling quite emotional. “It really has disturbed me many times, over the years.”
“It’s gone,” the President said, and they shook hands solemnly. Then a little twinkle came into the President’s eyes.
“By the way,” he asked curiously, “what made you so sure that night that I was going to announce for him? The delegation voted unanimously to leave it to me and back whatever I decided to do. I was on my way up there to announce for you.”
And having by this piece of true and hitherto undisclosed history silenced, for once, his volatile and determined friend, he proceeded to tell him what he had in mind; finding that Senator Knox, as he gradually revived from the appalled silence into which he had fallen, had many arguments and objections to offer; but finding also that as he went on further to outline his idea and explain its advantages the practical politician and responsible citizen before him began the grasp its possibilities and find them good. And so he should, the President thought with a tartness to match Orrin’s own, for they were certainly hand-tailored for him.
When the Senator from Illinois returned to his own office he called his wife. She laughed as he related the conversation and a curiously light and relieved note came into her voice.
“You see?” she said. “Patience does it, Senator. Patience does it.”
He gave a rueful laugh.
“Maybe I’m beginning to learn that,” he said. “At last.”
***