Sons of Fortune

He looked down at the packed congregation and remained silent for a moment. “Few politicians,” he began, “inspire respect and affection, but if Harry could be with us today, he would see for himself that he was among that select group. I see many in this congregation I have never come across before,” he paused, “so I have to assume they’re Republicans.” Laughter broke out inside the cathedral, and a ripple of applause outside in the street. “Here was a man who, when asked by the president to run for governor of this state, replied simply, I have not completed my work as the senator for Hartford,’ and he never did. As chairman of my party, I have attended the funerals of presidents, governors, senators, congressmen and congresswomen

, along with the powerful and mighty, but this funeral has a difference, for it is also filled with ordinary members of the public, who have simply come to say thank you.

“Harry Gates was opinionated, verbose, irascible and maddening. He was also passionate in the pursuit of causes he believed in. Loyal to his friends, fair with his opponents, he was a man whose company you sought out simply because it enriched your life. Harry Gates was no saint, but there will be saints standing at the Gates of Heaven waiting to greet him.

“To Martha, we say thank you for indulging Harry and all his dreams, so many achieved; one still to be fulfilled. To Jimmy and Annie, his son and daughter, of whom he was inordinately proud. To Fletcher, his beloved son-in-law, who has been given the unenviable burden of carrying the torch. And to Lucy his granddaughter, who became class president a few days after he died. America has lost a man who served his country at home and abroad, in war and in peace. Hartford has lost a public servant who will not easily be replaced.

“He wrote to me a few weeks ago,” Brubaker paused, “begging for money—what a nerve—for his beloved hospital. He said he’d never speak to me again if I didn’t send a check. I considered the pros and cons of that particular threat.” It was a long time before the laughter and applause died down. “In the end, my wife sent a check. The truth is, that it never crossed Harry’s mind that if he asked, you wouldn’t give, and why? Because he spent his whole life giving, and now we must make that dream a reality and build a hospital in his memory of which he would have been proud.

“I read in the Washington Post last week that Senator Harry Gates had died, and then I traveled to Hartford this morning and drove past the senior citizens’ center, the library and the hospital foundation stone that bears his name. I shall write to the Washington Post when I return tomorrow and tell them, ‘you were wrong. Harry Gates is alive and still kicking.’” Mr. Brubaker paused as he looked down into the congregation, his eyes settling on Fletcher. “Here was a man, when comes such another?”

On the cathedral steps, Martha and Fletcher thanked Al Brubaker for his words.

“Anything less,” said Al, “and he would have appeared in the pulpit next to me, demanding a recount.” The chairman shook hands with Fletcher. “I didn’t read out the whole of Harry’s last letter to me,” he said, “but I knew you would want to see the final paragraph.” He slipped a hand into an inside pocket, removed the letter, unfolded it and passed it across to Fletcher.

When Fletcher had read Harry’s last words, he looked at the chairman and nodded.

Tom and Nat walked down the cathedral steps together and joined the crowds as they quietly dispersed.

“I wish I’d known him better,” said Nat. “You realize that I asked him to join the board when he retired from the Senate?” Tom nodded. “He wrote—hand-wrote—such a charming letter explaining the only board he would ever sit on was the hospital’s.”

“I only met him a couple of times,” said Tom, “he was mad, of course, but you have to be if you choose to spend your life pushing boulders up a hill. Don’t ever tell anyone, but he’s the only Democrat I’ve ever voted for.”

Nat laughed. “You as well?” he admitted.

“How would you feel if I recommended that the board should make a donation of fifty thousand to the hospital fund?” asked Tom.

“I would oppose it,” said Nat. Tom looked surprised. “Because when the senator sold his Russell’s shares, he immediately donated a hundred thousand to the hospital. The least we can do is respond in kind.”

Tom nodded his agreement and turned back to see Mrs. Gates standing on the top of the cathedral steps. He would write to her that afternoon enclosing the check. He sighed. “Look who’s shaking hands with the widow.”

Nat swung around to see Ralph Elliot holding Martha Gates’s hand. “Are you surprised?” he said. “I can just hear him telling her how pleased he was that Harry took his advice and sold those shares in Russell’s Bank, and made himself a million.”

“Oh, my God,” said Tom, “you’re beginning to think like him.”

“I’m going to have to if I’m to survive during the coming months.

“That’s no longer an issue,” said Tom. “Everyone at the bank accepts that you’ll be the next chairman.”

“It’s not the chairmanship I’m talking about,” said Nat. Tom came to a halt in front of the steps of the bank and turned to face his oldest friend.

“If Ralph Elliot puts his name forward as the Republican candidate for governor, then I shall run against him.” He looked back toward the cathedral. “And this time I will beat him.”

Book Five

Judges

42

“Ladies and gentlemen, Fletcher Davenport, the next governor of Connecticut.”

It amused Fletcher that within moments of being selected as the Democratic candidate, he was immediately introduced as the next governor; no suggestion of an opponent, no hint that he might lose. But he recalled only too well Walter Mondale continually being introduced as the next president of the United States, and ending up as ambassador to Tokyo while it was Ronald Reagan who moved into the White House.

Once Fletcher had called Al Brubaker to confirm that he was willing to run, the party machine immediately swung behind him. One or two other Democratic heads appeared above the parapet, but like ducks at a shooting range they were quickly flattened.

In the end, Fletcher’s only opposition turned out to be a congresswoman who had never done any harm—or enough good—for anyone else to notice. Once Fletcher had defeated her in the September primary, his party machine suddenly turned her into a formidable opponent who had been soundly beaten by the most impressive candidate the party had produced in years. But Fletcher privately acknowledged that she hadn’t been much more than a paper opponent, and the real battle would begin once the Republicans had selected their standard bearer.

Although Barbara Hunter was as active and determined as ever, no one really believed she was going to head up the Republican ticket. Ralph Elliot already had the backing of several key party members, and whenever he spoke in public or private, the name of his friend, and even occasionally his close friend, Ronnie, fell easily from his lips. But Fletcher repeatedly heard rumors of just as large a group of Republicans who were searching for a credible alternative; otherwise they were threatening to abstain, even vote Democrat. Fletcher found it nerve-racking waiting to discover who that opponent would be. By late August, he realized that if there was to be a surprise candidate, they were leaving it tantalizingly late to come forward.