Master of the Senate (95 page)

Other journalists were aware of the same ambition. After an off-the-record conversation with Johnson, a member of
Time
magazine’s Washington bureau informed his editors in New York that “despite his Southern origins,” Johnson “is interested in the Number 1 spot.”

But 1952 was to be the year Richard Russell ran for President himself.

Although Russell’s “sense of the sweep of history” made him feel, as George Reedy realized during their long conversations together, “that the only way to ever really put an end to the Civil War, to heal the breach, would be to elect a Southerner President,” the Georgian also appears when he first entered the race to have been aware that, as
Time
said on March 19, “Russell has as much chance of being nominated as a boll weevil has of winning a popularity contest at a cotton planter’s picnic.” “The chances of any Southern Democrat residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue during our lifetime are very remote,” the Senator had written a friend a few months earlier; when, in December, 1951, John Stennis urged him to run, Russell replied, “I’m under no illusions about any Southerner being elected President of the United States.”

He appears to have begun running more for the South than for himself. The South’s great stronghold was Capitol Hill, the keys to the stronghold were the House and Senate committee chairmanships, the southerners would hold those chairmanships so long as the Democrats held the majority in Congress—but holding the majority wasn’t going to be easy. Foreseeing who the Republican candidate would be, Russell was uneasily aware of the genial Eisenhower’s popularity. A large Eisenhower plurality might sweep the GOP into the majority in Congress; Democratic unity in the face of this threat was crucial. The party could simply not afford to be split again, as it had in 1948, over the civil rights issue. And beyond the political considerations were the historical: his desire to make the South part of the United States again. Should the Democrats renominate Truman, or nominate another candidate with similarly unacceptable views on race, the South would break away from the party again, thereby reemphasizing the gulf between it and the rest of the country. The candidate might, in fact, be Estes Kefauver, who, detested though he was in the Deep South, was viewed by the rest of the country as the “southern” candidate. A Kefauver victory at the Democratic Convention—an event which in the Spring of 1952 seemed more likely with every passing week as he won a string of primaries—would trigger another walkout by southern delegates, and Russell believed that this would weaken the South by revealing the split within its own ranks. The way to avoid these scenarios would be for the South, a unified South, to have a candidate who would arrive at the convention with a bloc of votes large enough so that even though the candidate himself might not be able
to win the nomination, he would have sufficient influence to force the selection of a candidate, and the writing of a platform, acceptable to the South. Russell knew that the old Confederacy would unite behind him, and that he would be its strongest candidate; it seems that he began running more to keep the South and the party together than because he felt he could win the nomination.

Nonetheless, illusions came, particularly after Truman, buffeted by seemingly endless revelations of corruption in his Administration (nine of whose members, including his appointments secretary, would go to prison), by his inability to end the war in Korea, and by “soft on Communism” allegations, was defeated by Kefauver in the New Hampshire primary in March and then announced that he would not run for re-election. Entering the May 6 Florida primary against Kefauver to prove that he, not the Tennessean, was the true candidate of the South, Russell won an easy victory. The announced candidates—Kefauver, Vice President Alben Barkley, and Averell Harriman—were hardly formidable. The big-city bosses whose machines had been embarrassed by the Kefauver investigations were determined that he would not get the nomination, no matter how many primaries he won. Barkley, at seventy-four, was considered too old, Harriman had never run for national office. Truman had in mind another candidate, Adlai Stevenson, landslide victor in the 1948 race for the Illinois governorship and a noted orator, but Stevenson had declined the President’s offer of support in language so firm that the
New York Times
said in April that he “has to all intents and purposes taken himself out of the race.” When Russell, fresh from his Florida victory and “exuding optimism,” spoke to the National Press Club on May 8, the assembled journalists realized to their shock that he had come to believe that he could win the nomination, and the general election as well. “That,” Russell told the Press Club, “would destroy a fable of long standing that no citizen from the southern part of our nation can be elected President.”

His optimism, at least about the nomination, was, in some ways, understandable. With 1,230 votes to be cast at the Democratic Convention, 616 were needed for nomination, and Russell could count on the votes of every Confederate state but Tennessee: 262 votes, a solid base. And he was counting on a substantial number of nonsouthern votes because of the support of senatorial colleagues. Big Ed Johnson of Colorado had agreed to be his national campaign manager, Pat McCarran of Nevada had enthusiastically endorsed him, and not a few senators from the Midwest and West, while not actually endorsing him, had spoken warmly of his candidacy: having lived for almost twenty years in a world in which these men possessed genuine power, Richard Russell could be excused for assuming that they possessed it in their states as well. And senators from farm states had been appearing for years before Appropriations’ agricultural subcommittee asking for his support for their projects; pointing out that “Those in the Midwest who are concerned about agriculture would be wise to support Russell,” Senator Milton Young of North Dakota now said that “if
the Democrats have sense enough” to nominate the Georgia Giant, he, although a Republican, would support him.

Calculations relating to the general election, and to Dwight Eisenhower’s immense popularity in the South, were also feeding Russell’s belief that his party would turn to him. There were 146 electoral votes, vital to Democratic chances, in the thirteen “contiguous” states—the eleven Confederate states plus border states Kentucky and West Virginia—and polls were showing that, as Russell put it, “I am the only Democratic candidate who can defeat a certain military personage” in those states. And if he did so, he said, “it will only be necessary to obtain an additional 118 votes from the other 35 states to win in … November.”

Beyond such rational calculations there was the euphoria produced by a national campaign: the enthusiastic applause from audiences in Florida, and the rolling cheers from the huge throng that lined the streets of Atlanta as he paraded through it, seated high atop the back seat of an open convertible as the bands marching before it played “Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech,” a song to which new words had been written: “The Senator from Georgia / Dick Russell is his name—/ Will Take His Place among the Great / of U.S. History’s Fame. / His Years of Public Service Devoted to our Nation / Will Lift him from his Senate seat / the Presidential station!” (Flying down from Washington that morning for the parade, Russell had landed first in Winder, so that he could visit his mother [who so long ago had written him that she had not brought “my R. B. Russell, Jr.” into the world “to ever
fail
in anything he might undertake”].) For so many years now, his colleagues had been telling him that he was the man in Washington best qualified to be President, and that they hoped that one day he would be. He still kept close to hand the cherished note Harry Truman had written him in 1945: “Dick: I hope you [will] be recognized next. And you will be.” Was Truman’s prediction to come true at last?

In addition, once Russell had entered the race, Johnson had put his own ambitions on hold, and thanks to him the Georgian’s campaign organization was of impressively high caliber. Although John Connally was now working for one of Eisenhower’s most generous financial backers—Sid Richardson had, in 1951, hired him away from Alvin Wirtz’s law firm—he was a key part of it; Johnson had persuaded Richardson to lend Connally to the Russell campaign, because, Connally explains bluntly, “We felt that he [Russell] was going to be a power in the Senate, win, lose or draw.” Furthermore, “Richardson regarded Russell as one of the greatest public servants this country ever developed”; had he won the Democratic nomination, Richardson “would have supported
both
[him and Eisenhower].” Although Atlanta banker Erie Cocke Sr. had the title of Russell’s “convention manager,” most of the contacts with individual delegates were handled by the young Texan whose political competence was already well known in Washington. And, thanks also to Johnson, working in offices near Connally’s at Russell campaign headquarters in the Mayflower
Hotel were two speechwriters whose competence Russell admired: Reedy and the conservative Booth Mooney. Johnson had arranged for ample supplies of money as well as talent. Russell’s Georgia campaigns hadn’t required much money, and he was astonished and at first daunted by the amount required for a presidential campaign. This, he wrote to a supporter, was “a new league.” It was, in fact, Johnson’s league, and he made playing in it easy for Russell, arranging for lavish financing by ex-Texas regulars H. R. Cullen and E. B. Germany, and by the three conservatives whose wallets were always open to Johnson: Richardson, Murchison, and of course, Herman Brown. The dignified Georgian didn’t even have to soil his hands. When at one point the campaign ran short of ready cash, Connally simply flew down to St. Joe Island and returned with an envelope, and, Connally says, Russell may not even have known about the trip.

Johnson was, in fact, working very hard for Russell in every area of the campaign. The Texas Democrats were split, with liberals supporting Kefauver, but Johnson, in alliance with the state’s Dixiecrats, including reactionary Governor Allan Shivers, arranged for the announcement, the day Russell won the Florida primary, that Texas’ fifty-two votes would be cast for him as a block. All through the campaign, Johnson would use his contacts across the nation on Russell’s behalf, always making sure that Russell knew he was doing so, and in Chicago, his tall figure was conspicuous as he roamed hotel corridors and convention floor, draping an arm around delegates’ shoulders and urging them to vote for Russell. Johnson even provided Russell with a campaign slogan, which he said had been coined by a Texas constituent: “Let’s Hussle for Russell.” (“A number of others have suggested the same slogan, though they spelled it differently,” Russell wrote back.) The staff, the money, the national contacts—all these added to Russell’s optimism.

A
MEETING WITH
T
RUMAN
on June 10, a meeting Russell requested in an attempt to translate the President’s 1945 sentiment into a 1952 endorsement, might have made the Georgian recognize the folly of his hopes. Russell came as close as he could to pleading. “I told him [Truman] that I would like to have his support and that with a little more help than I now had there was no question about my nomination and election. He then said, substantially: ‘I would give my right eye to see you President, but you know that the Left-Wing groups in Chicago, New York, St. Louis and Kansas City must be kept in the Democratic Party if we are to win and they will not vote for you. We must keep these groups in the party.’” According to Russell, Truman also said: “Dick, I do wish that you lived in Indiana or Missouri. You would be elected President hands down. We have differed on a great many issues but we have always understood each other. You are a great Democrat and I respect you….”

But Russell was by this time beyond the reach of logic. His aide William
Darden says that “When he started [his campaign], he was realistic. But as he progressed, and had a little bit of success here and there, and nobody else pulled out of the pack, I think he got a little bit of hope in a way that was very uncharacteristic of him.” John Connally says that “He had convinced himself he had a chance. Any man who [runs for President] has convinced himself there is a way he can be successful. And he had convinced himself.” Deriding the idea that a southerner could not be elected President “as more a fixation of timid politicians than it is any widespread feeling on the part of the American people,” Russell told reporters that he expected to arrive at the convention with between 300 and 400 votes, that neither Kefauver, Barkley nor Harriman would be able to amass the necessary 616, and that by the seventh or eighth ballot, he would win. The depth of his hopes can perhaps be measured by the fact that, in an effort to remake his image with liberals, he even attempted for a time to portray himself as a “moderate” on racial issues, stating that he was for “constitutional” government and that the Constitution “enumerated the basic and fundamental rights which are the heritage of every citizen without regard to race or creed.” His long opposition to the FEPC, he added, was not based on racial considerations but on his opposition to government interference in private business. (“He could not,” however, as his biographer Fite notes, “muster enough moderation to criticize segregation,” and the attempted makeover didn’t last long. Pressed by reporters to comment on segregated food counters at Washington drugstores, Russell said that he was “American enough to believe that, if a drug store owner wants to serve only red-headed people with brown eyes, he can do it.” Even his desire to be President couldn’t overcome his prejudices. After Kefauver said he would feel “morally bound” to accept a strong FEPC plank, reporters pressed Russell on what he would do if the convention adopted such a plank; he would, Russell said, ignore it.)

Then, in the latter part of June, Russell made the same mistake that Lee had made—the mistake that led to Gettysburg. He took his campaign into the North.

The Democratic Party officials and convention delegates whom Richard Russell met on this trip responded to his personality as people always responded to his personality. One of the men who met him in Maine, Edmund Muskie, who would later be that state’s Governor and a United States Senator, was then a young county committeeman meeting all the potential candidates for the first time. “Of all of them, Russell made the biggest impression on me,” Muskie would recall years later. “He had the look of an eagle. There was strength there. He knew he was coming to a Northern state. He made no apologies. He was coming so we could see what he was. When he walked into a room, instantly you knew here was a man you could trust. You knew from his demeanor, the way he moved: that quiet projection of authority, authority in the sense of knowing what they’re about, who they are. And when he spoke—Russell’s intellect was very impressive.”