Rendezvous with Destiny: Ronald Reagan and the Campaign that Changed America (110 page)

“That is really the question before us tonight: for the first time in our memory many Americans are asking: does history still have a place for America, for her people, for her great ideals? There are some who answer ‘no’: that our energy is spent, our days of greatness at an end, that a great national malaise is upon us. They say we must cut our expectations, conserve and withdraw, that we must tell our children … not to dream as we once dreamed.”

Reagan's eyes glistened, his voice became husky, as he told of his old friend John Wayne. The Duke, said Reagan, was “more than a symbol of the Hollywood dream industry; to millions he was a symbol of our country itself. And when he died, the headlines seemed to convey all the doubt about America, all the nostalgia for a seemingly lost past. ‘The
Last
American Hero,’ said one headline. ‘Mr. America Dies,' said another. Well, I knew John Wayne well, and no one would have been angrier at being called the ‘
last
American hero.'”

Reagan spoke of the heroes of Vietnam, the prisoners of war whom he and Mrs. Reagan had welcomed to America and entertained in their home. The Reagans had heard their tales of torture, of “tapping code on the wall that divided their solitary confinement cells. One night … I asked Nancy, ‘Where did we find such men?’ The answer came to me as quickly as I had asked the question. We found them where we've always found them. In our shops, on our farms, on our city streets, in our villages and towns. They are just the product of the freest society the world has ever known.”

Reagan turned to spiritual matters. “Since her beginning America has held fast to this hope of divine providence, this vision of ‘man
with
God.’ It is true that world peace is jeopardized by those who view man not as a noble being, but as an accident of nature, without soul, and important only to the extent he can serve an all powerful state. But it is our spiritual commitment—more than all the military might in the world—that will win our struggle for peace.… It is humility before God that is ultimately the source of America's strength as a nation.”

After telling his story about the Puritans and their “city upon a hill,” Reagan moved toward his conclusion, talking about the past year on the campaign, meeting and talking with so many of his fellow Americans. “I find no national malaise,
I find nothing wrong with the American people. Oh, they are frustrated, even angry at what has been done to this blessed land. But more than anything they are sturdy and robust as they have always been.” Reagan then offered not an empty promise but a wish, a hope, and a pledge to “stand by” the oppressed of the world, the tortured, the enslaved, the victims of persecution. He challenged Americans, quoting Dr. Joseph Warren, who had been killed at the battle of Bunker Hill and who said to his fellow patriots before the clash, “Act worthy of yourselves.”

In closing, the Gipper reminded Americans of the past four years, the dire economy, and America's diminished standing across the globe. He quoted Lincoln's admonition etched at his memorial: “Let us bind up the nation's wounds.” And then, as always, Reagan returned to the young men and women of his country.

“At this very moment, some young American, coming up along the Virginia or Maryland shores of the Potomac, is seeing for the first time the lights that glow on the great halls of our government and the monuments to the memory of our great men. Let us resolve tonight that young Americans will always see those Potomac lights; that they will always find there a city of hope in a country that is free. And let us resolve they will say of our day and our generation that we did keep faith with our God, that we did act ‘worthy of ourselves,’ that we did protect and pass on lovingly that shining city on a hill.”
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T
HE ELECTION-EVE SPEECH COST
$400,000 to broadcast on all three networks.
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It was worth every penny.

Reagan's hard-bitten press aide, Jim Brady, shed tears when he saw the speech. Lisa Myers wrote in the
Washington Star
, “It was a speech of hope, designed to soothe and stir rather than incite.” It was, she said, “presidential in tone.”
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Howell Raines of the
New York Times
was also impressed, calling it “evocative.”
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Time
magazine called it “superbly moving.”
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The remarkable address, which Reagan did on the second take, had been drafted by one of Reagan's favorite speechwriters, Ken Khachigian. Word had already leaked out that if Reagan won, Khachigian was favored for the top speech-writing post in the White House. Khachigian had been traveling on the plane with Reagan throughout the fall, banging out speech after speech on his IBM Selectric II. Stu Spencer, who had seconded Ed Meese's decision to bring Khachigian aboard, years later said, “He was the best speechwriter I ever saw.”
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Khachigian and Reagan's other favorite speechwriter, Peter Hannaford, were so successful at least in part because they understood Reagan and listened to him. Before they touched a keystroke, they would sit with Reagan and take notes, getting
direction on content. They would then draft the speech and give it to Reagan, who would edit it—adding, deleting, moving paragraphs around.
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I
N ACCORDANCE WITH TRADITION
, Election Day voting began in Dixville Notch, New Hampshire, just after midnight. Reagan crushed Carter in this tiny New England village, 17–3.
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He had finally won Dixville Notch, after losing there to Ford in the 1976 primary and tying with Bush in the 1980 primary.
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Democratic leaders knew their base was demoralized, while the Republicans were energized. In St. Louis County, Missouri, GOP chairwoman Pat Keyes called Kenny Klinge and said, “I've got a problem.” Klinge expected her to say no one had shown up to work the twenty-five phones. Instead, she said, “I've got five hundred people, what am I supposed to do?” A platoon system was hastily arranged.
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The pollsters were working the phones, checking key precincts in early states, trying to determine a trend, if any. Dick Wirthlin was detecting unusual strength for Reagan among Catholic and blue-collar voters in the Northeast.

Bill Casey and others were also working the phones, calling their CIA and military contacts around the world, trying to find out about any unusual troop movements or unexplained activity by American military planes. Casey, even on Election Day, was worried that Carter might pull the hostages out of a hat.

A
BOUT TWO HOURS AFTER
the old cranks of Dixville Notch voted, Jody Powell took a phone call on Air Force One as the big plane was on approach to the Seattle airport. It was from the White House. On the other end of the line were Hamilton Jordan and Pat Caddell. The connection was bad, but Powell could hear well enough to know the news was bad. “We need to talk to the president,” his friend Jordan said. “The bottom has fallen out. It's all over.”
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As soon as the plane landed, Powell called back on a land line and pressed for more information. Caddell told him that on Saturday his polling had had the race statistically tied, with Carter at 41 and Reagan at 40 percent. On Sunday night, his polling had had Reagan going up by 5 percent over Carter. And by Monday night, Reagan had opened up 7 to 10 percent lead over the president.
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The young press secretary, grasping at straws, asked whether the poll was an aberration. Caddell told him that a trend had begun over the weekend and was only accelerating. A landslide was coming their way and there was nothing they could do to get out of its path. Dejectedly, Powell hung up. He then watched as the president spoke to a hangar full of enthusiastic Democrats. Though Carter's voice was nearly gone, he gave a good performance, even as he choked up a bit. Powell remorsefully thought that it was the best rally of the year.
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He decided not to tell the president yet; he would wait until they were alone on the Boeing 707 and headed back to Georgia. Problem was, he couldn't get Carter alone. Around 11:30
P.M.
pacific time, as the plane took off, Powell went to the galley, fixed himself a stiff drink, and waited.
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Carter had come out of his two-room private compartment to chew the fat with the staff in their section of the plane and have a rare double martini. The president was “joshing around … that sort of thing,” Powell recalled. “I thought, ‘This is such a nice one that I cannot break into this and take him back up there and tell him he's got a call, because I know what he is going to hear.’”
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Carter decided to invite reporters into his private quarters for a chat. Finally, as the plane was halfway across the country and the reporters had been dismissed, Powell went to the forward section of the plane and told Carter about his phone call with Jordan and Caddell. It was now almost 4
A.M.

“What did they find?” Carter asked.

“They said it looks bad,” Powell told him. “It's probably all over.”
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Carter was first shocked and then disheartened. “So finally,” Powell remembered, “one of the stewards came … and said, ‘Mr. Caddell and Mr. Jordan are on the phone and they said they need to talk to the president.’” Caddell's latest numbers showed an utter and complete collapse for the Georgian, across the board, with nearly all groups and in nearly all regions. He was losing whites overwhelmingly, he was losing the Catholic vote, and Reagan was extremely competitive with union voters. Carter was being wiped out in the suburbs and in the rural areas. Reagan was scoring impressively with Hispanics and Jewish voters. Carter's beloved South had also apparently found a new hero in Reagan. Carter was running far behind in every category from four years earlier, even among the evangelicals he'd carried so handsomely in 1976.

“Are you sure about this?” Carter asked.

“Yes. There is just no way.”

With little else to say, both men apologized to the president. Carter hung up. Powell, weeping, said, “I'm really sorry, Mr. President.… We could have done a better job.”
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Carter called Rosalynn at their home in Plains and told her, “We are going to lose.”

The president, alone in the darkened Air Force One, gently wept.
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S
OMETIME LATER
, P
OWELL ASSEMBLED
White House staffers and told them what he'd told the president. In the dim plane racing over the slumbering countryside, they learned that the election was “hopeless.”

All cried but promised Powell that they would not tell anybody else. Understandably,
Powell described the rest of his day as “miserable.” He did tell his wife, Nan, and daughter, Emily, that the president was going to lose. His twelve-year old daughter burst into tears. “No! That cannot be! That cannot be!”

Powell ruefully remembered all the insults piled on the Carter gang by the Washington establishment. “They were all cheerleaders for Camelot.” He also remembered the false story in the
Washington Post
accusing him of having an affair. His family saw the awful story and Powell furiously demanded a retraction, which the paper published. He said the Style Section of the
Post
was “totally out of control” in those days and that his wife never forgave the paper.
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T
HE MORNING OF THE
election, George Bush met with his campaign team in Houston and spoke to them affectionately about the trail, the travails, and now, a possible triumph. Earlier, a thick fog had enveloped Houston as he and Mrs. Bush went to their polling place. Later that day, friends, campaign workers, and reporters milled about the Bush home in Houston. The Bushes were born blood donors, always kind to strangers, even those they did not depend on. Their door, it seemed, was always open to friends. In the evening, the entire Bush clan gathered in a hotel suite. George and Barbara Bush sat on the floor watching the returns on three television sets as their four sons joyously roughhoused with one another. Bush several times had to gently admonish them, “Respectful, respectful.”
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A photographer was attempting—vainly—to get the Bush boys to knock off the horseplay and stand still for the historic photograph.

Vice President Mondale voted that morning in the Afton, Minnesota, town hall, accompanied by his wife, Joan, and their children.
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Mondale, of all the candidates, may have pulled the toughest duty. It was up to him, the old New Dealer, to convince wavering Democrats, distrustful of Carter, to come back to the fold. He loved campaigning but had been on a whirlwind tour for months and was exhausted. And he knew. Carter had called him earlier to tell him they were going to be wiped out.
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Carter spent the afternoon in the Oval Office and the family residence of the White House. He knew the end was coming but believed it was not a reflection on him. He blamed Walter Cronkite for trumpeting Election Day as the anniversary of the hostage taking and for heightening the American people's frustration.
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He blamed the personal problems of his staff, including Bert Lance and Hamilton Jordan. He blamed the increases in the cost of oil from the Arab countries, the fight over the Panama Canal treaties, and the appointment of “so many minority members” to federal posts.
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Only later, in a moment of private candor, did he say, “I lost it myself.”
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After Carter spoke to the staff on the South Lawn, the bad news raced through the White House complex. By late afternoon, almost everybody knew the election was going to go badly. Carter went for a jog alone in the rain, lost in thought. He asked Powell to arrange a meeting in the Oval Office at half past five with Jordan, Robert Strauss, Stuart Eizenstat, and Jack Watson, who had replaced Jordan as chief of staff. The depressing discussion was about what he should say to the Democrats gathered at the Sheraton Washington Hotel and when he should call Governor Reagan. All agreed that he should not concede until the polls had closed on the West Coast.
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