Churchill had been attacked unmercifully in his early days in politics. As First Lord of the Admiralty he was excoriated for the Gallipoli disaster, then flayed again as Chancellor of the Exchequer during the Depression. Economists blamed his gold policy for the debacle. Then came attacks by Socialists who railed against his colonialist objections to ending British Raj in India.
Adding insult to injury he had been bludgeoned for his furious objections to Chamberlain’s pro-peace policies, which he had characterized as appeasement. The man had been a punching bag for most of his political career. The Russians particularly amused him by battering him for his damning of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact that had divided Poland. And, of course, Mr. Goebbels was predictably harsh, portraying him as a satanic monster.
Some of the information he learned about Churchill was extraordinary: He had missed death numerous times. During World War I, he had left a bunker five minutes before it was blown up. He was nearly killed during the Boer War, captured, imprisoned, and then escaped. Again, he was nearly killed in an automobile in Manhattan on a lecture tour in the States.
Little-known, odd facts tickled Benson: In 1900, Mark Twain introduced Churchill at the Waldorf Astoria in New York while on a lecture tour describing his exploits in Africa. Churchill was a correspondent in Cuba during the time Theodore Roosevelt led his Rough Riders up San Juan Hill. He was a close friend and admirer of Lawrence of Arabia. His research on Churchill was so extensive; Benson barely slept on the journey.
Sarah picked him up at the station in a pre-war Lincoln Continental convertible. Wearing white shorts and a green jersey to set off her green eyes, she looked radiant. He kissed her on both cheeks in the Continental manner.
“You look like a million, Sarah,” Benson said, meaning it.
The sun was bright, the air clear. Sarah’s hair caught the breeze of the speeding car as it moved through the Miami streets. She asked about the trip, his children, the usual amenities, and he probed in kind.
“Father is sitting this morning for Douglas Chandor, the portrait painter,” she said. “He was a bit crotchety earlier, but a touch of brandy settled him down. Douglas has him all decked out in a winter suit, not exactly the proper attire for this climate.”
“Have you explained why I’m here?” he asked, hopefully.
“I told him you’re my journalist friend from Washington, and you’re researching a future article. I wouldn’t be too specific about your intentions.”
“Will he be amenable? I mean, he’s sitting for a portrait, and Mr. Chandor might object.”
“Not at all, darling, Douglas doesn’t mind. And Father will welcome the interruption. As I told you, he hates the process, especially his costume. Father is into legacy these days.”
Sarah introduced Benson to Mrs. Churchill, whom they met just as they entered the house. Her silver hair and aristocratic poise was a well-known photographic image, mostly taken while welcoming her husband home from his many journeys. She was shorter than he imagined. Mrs. Churchill smiled, nodded politely, and reached out her hand.
“So good to meet you, Mr. Benson. Sarah has told me a great deal about you.” She looked beyond them to a waiting limousine. “So sorry, but I must be off. The ladies of Miami have kept me busy. Today we are touring an art museum. They have been so generous.”
“A great deal about me?” Benson whispered to Sarah, when Mrs. Churchill had moved out of earshot.
“Mother is an old political pro. She understands the protocol of ingratiation. I merely told her you are a friend, only that. We Brits are expert apple polishers, polite to a fault. It masks our disdain.” She laughed, tucked an arm under his, and moved him through the house.
They found Churchill sitting in an enclosed glassed-in terrace. Just outside was a large swimming pool in an area surrounded by a high wall fronted by tall, exotic plants.
The artist had placed him in a large chair, where he sat somewhat stiffly, using a magnifying glass to read the London Times. The magnification apparently was necessary so that Churchill would not break the pose. He was dressed to the nines in a navy blue, pinstriped, woolen suit, a gold watch chain slid through a middle button of his vest. He wore a maroon polka-dot bow tie on a white shirt.
A fan hummed behind him. His baby pink complexion belied his seventy-one years. In his right hand, he held a lit cigar.
“Father, this is Mr. Benson.”
Churchill looked up from his reading. The artist, a short squat man with a tiny moustache, concentrated on his work behind a large easel.
“It’s all right, Mr. Churchill,” the artist said. “You can stand down.”
Churchill shrugged and pulled a smile of relief, showing a wet lower lip, in which he quickly slipped his cigar for a brief puff.
“This man is a tyrant. Look at this costume. I am a chained prisoner in a tropical cell.”
“It will look wonderful in the portrait, Father. Or would you rather be painted in the altogether?”
“With an arrow and quiver, I could pass as Cupid.”
He took a deep puff on his cigar then used it as a pointer to a chair. Benson settled in and took out his dictation-style notebook.
“I’ll leave you two together.”
Sarah kissed her father’s cheek and patted Benson on the knee.
“I was one, you know,” Churchill said, when she had sauntered off.
“One what, sir?”
“Foreign correspondent. Pretty good one, I must say.”
“I’m well aware of that, sir. I spent the night reading very extensive material on your career.”
“How boring.”
Churchill winked and smiled. He took another deep puff and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Benson felt his cerulean blue eyes assessing him.
“I can tell you this: It is far better making the news than merely taking it down,” he said.
“Unfortunately,” Benson responded. “I have never had the opportunity to do the former.”
“The Washington Star is it? Sarah said something about you wanting to do a story about how this old, has-been hulk is faring in his so-called tranquil retirement.”
“That would hardly be my theme, sir.”
“Tranquility!” Churchill boomed suddenly, as if it were an expression of contempt. “There is nothing more tranquil than the grave. It is not my intention to repair there in the near future.” He paused and then muttered, “Although there are some who would like to hasten such a journey.”
Benson was taken aback by the sudden outburst and wasn’t sure how to respond. Churchill suddenly relaxed and took another puff on his cigar, blowing the smoke upward.
“I hadn’t planned any meetings with the fourth estate for the time being. But my daughter is quite persuasive. I thought perhaps, in a fair exchange, you might give me some insight into what’s happening in Washington.”
“Be my pleasure, Mr. Churchill.”
“How is our new president faring these days?” Churchill asked. “We did get a chance to know each other in Potsdam. Perhaps if I hadn’t attended and stuck to my political last, I might still be living at Number 10.”
A brief shadow of regret seemed to pass over his eyes, dulling them for a moment. He paused, recovering, and then asked cheerfully, “Do you think Mr. Truman has a chance to be elected on his own?”
Benson felt flattered by the question and determined to give the answer his best shot.
“Too early to tell, sir,” Benson said. “He’s got two years to solidify himself. At the moment, I’d put him in the political danger zone. There are stirrings on his left and right flank. He may find himself in a real fight. I think it will be a Republican win, although I’m only speculating. The bomb thing gave him heft, but most pundits think his days are numbered in the White House.”