The Eagle Turns

Book 4: Agents of Independence

by James Green

Genres: Historical Fiction; Thrillers; Spy Thrillers; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

1850 and America is violently divided on the issue of slavery. When President Zachary Taylor dies, suddenly and under questionable circumstances, it is left to his Vice President, Millard Fillmore, a weaker man, to find ways to keep the North and the South apart. In New York, child of Irish immigrants, Matthew O’Hanlon is fired from his job as a newsman on the Herald but, surprisingly, finds work as Foreign Correspondent for the Associated Press in Panama City. There he is given accommodation with a Dr Couperin, his wife, and beautiful daughter, Edith, but finds himself caught up with the secret agents protecting America’s commercial interests during the struggle for control of Panama’s trade routes and, as it crashes about him, realises that he has been living in a house of cards. Set against the Gold Rush and the opening up of California and the OregonTerritories, when the United States walked a narrow and dangerous line, The Eagle Turns charts the course of history as America’s Secret Services struggle to bring prosperity amid the conflict. James Green is well known as the author of the Jimmy Costello crime series, the first book of which, Bad Catholics, was short-listed for the 2009 Crime Writers Association Dagger Awards. A prolific writer, James, who is now working on the second of the five-book series which begins with Another Small Kingdom, is married and lives in Nottinghamshire.

Release date: April 3, 2014

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 334

Sample

Chapter One

The Yellow Oval Room, the White House, Washington

July 9th 1850, dawn



The heavy, velvet drapes of the Yellow Oval Room were drawn back and through the windows the pale, first light of dawn could be seen spreading over the South Lawns. The gas lamps still burned brightly and the light reflected from the walls, papered as they were in deep yellow with gilded stars, gave both men in the room a somewhat jaundiced tinge.

The man standing at the window looking out was fifty years old and wore a baggy black suit. Of middle height and full figure, his thick fair hair, fleshy jowls, and plentiful chin gave the impression of a man who would smile and chuckle easily, a comfortable, jolly man. But not imposing. In no way could he be described as a man whose bearing alone would command attention, respect, and obedience. His aspect was, if anything, avuncular. Yet in a few days this man would command considerable attention though not, regrettably, respect or obedience. It would be paid to him by the highest in the land in no less a place than Capitol Hill where he would be sworn in as the thirteenth president of the United States.

Millard Fillmore turned away from the window. He looked tired, as indeed he was. He had been working non-stop through the night and when he spoke there was no disguising the weariness in his voice.

‘President Taylor won’t last the day. The medical men are all agreed that he will probably die sometime this morning.’

‘Thank God they are finally able to agree on something.’

The man who spoke stood by the presidential desk. Daniel Webster was a man whose appearance very much might commanded attention and, among some, respect and obedience. Of no great height he was sixty-eight years old and thin, but he stood ram-rod erect in a superbly cut, dove-grey suit. He looked at the world through sunken, dark, eyes shaded by heavy eyebrows. What straggly hair he still possessed lay brushed back flat and his high, prominent cheekbones emphasised a cruel mouth. His face, his bearing and manner gave him an air of supreme arrogance. And they did not lie.

Vice President Fillmore nodded in agreement.

‘Aye, they haven’t covered themselves in any glory in this business.’ He let his eyes wander abstractedly around the room. ‘You know, once it was clear that Taylor would die, almost the first thing Abigail said was that she wanted to turn this room into a library. She wants me to ask Congress for the money.’

 ‘A fine woman, Abigail, but impetuous and disconnected from the greater affairs of the nation as women are. For myself, I doubt that upon the death of President Taylor a new presidential library will be one of your most pressing concerns.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it will.’

The vice president turned and gazed out of the window once more and the man by the desk waited in silence for a short while, but he was not a patient man.

‘Well, Mr Vice President, are you going to gaze out of that window much longer or will you tell me why you have brought me here at this ungodly hour?’

Millard Fillmore came back to the desk and sat down.

‘I want President Taylor buried.’

‘And when he’s dead he will be. When he’s gone his body will be put in the public vault in the Congressional Cemetery until it’s taken back to Kentucky.’

‘I mean I want him buried in every sense of the word. I want his remains in the ground with every ceremony proper to a president and a hero of the Mexican War.’ The new president-in-waiting sat back, folded his hands together, and looked at Webster, ‘And then I want him forgotten.’

Webster looked down his nose at the comfortable man gazing up at him.

‘As for putting him in the ground, that’s for his family. I suppose they’ll get round to it when they’re ready. But as to getting him forgotten, that’s a different matter and I’m not sure to whom one might apply to see it achieved.’

Millard Fillmore smiled, looking more than ever like a favourite uncle.

‘No?’ The smile disappeared and the tone became businesslike. ‘Well, more of that later. Now there’s other things to consider. For instance the late President Taylor’s Cabinet intend to resign en masse and they’ll do it as soon as I’ve taken my oath of office.’

Webster raised his ample eyebrows.

‘Are you sure?’

Fillmore nodded.

‘They want to show me where I stand, that once sworn in I will be as much their puppet as the country’s president. In everything but name I shall still be vice president. It is their intention to become the real power when Taylor’s gone.’

‘It would be a bold move.’

‘They think I can’t run this Administration without them, that I will have to refuse their resignations and concede to them becoming the ones who run the White House.’

 ‘And how, exactly, do you know of their intentions?’

‘Because I have always, since taking up office, made it my business to know what Thurlow Weed intends.’

Webster tried to keep the surprise out of his voice, but failed.

‘Weed? Has he put them up to it?’

‘Oh yes. He’s been manoeuvring to get me out and his own man in as vice president at the next election ever since Taylor was elected. As soon as Taylor’s condition looked like it might become terminal he got Bill Seward to set it up.’

‘Seward? A clever choice and fast work indeed on his part. I could almost admire it.’

The smile returned.

‘Could you, Daniel? Could you indeed?’ He gave a small, derisive laugh. ‘Weed. he thinks he owns the whole Whig party. He sees Taylor’s death as his chance to nominate both the next presidential candidate and the vice president on our ticket and through those nominees he intends to become the most powerful man in America.’

‘I see.’ Webster gave the news some thought. ‘With Seward and the anti-slavery movement at his disposal he’ll be a difficult man to oppose. What exactly do you intend?’

‘To accept their resignations and appoint my own Cabinet.’ Any hint of a smile was gone as the vice president looked up at Daniel Webster. ‘I’ve been working on it all night and now I have all the names I want but one, that of secretary of state. I want men about me who can get the Compromise through Congress, men I can trust. As for Taylor’s Cabinet, they despise me and I have no use for them, so we’ll be well parted. But there’s another reason I want them all out. I don’t want any of them in a position to press for an investigation into the circumstances of Taylor’s death.’ The smile returned and Webster found it more than a little uncomfortable as this new Millard Fillmore continued. ‘Now tell me, Daniel, seeing as how you’re the country’s sharpest constitutional lawyer, why do you suppose I wouldn’t want that?’

Webster shifted uneasily. This, he had begun to realise, was not at all the man he thought he knew. Vice President Millard Fillmore had been a cipher to fill a slot on a presidential ticket. A nobody to play the role of a nothing. The man, sitting back and smiling at him with his hands folded together, was someone new and it was this Millard Fillmore would soon be president of the United States.

Webster’s reply when he made it was suitably cautious. He had cross-questioned witnesses often enough, all the way up to the Supreme Court, so he recognised the question for what it was. He was being offered the position of secretary of state but, he felt, and rightly, his confirmation in that office was in no small way dependent on his answer.

‘Well,’ he paused, ‘Mr President,’

Fillmore’s smile widened and he gave an approving nod.

‘Go on, Daniel, you’re doing fine.’

‘Well, the circumstances which gave rise to President Taylor’s present condition are confused and unclear. He has been ill only a short time, a matter of a few days. As I understand it he seems to be suffering from some sort of abdominal fever brought on by something he ate or drank. All his doctors say his condition is the result of some sort of digestive malaise.’

‘As they’ve been told to say.’

‘Yes, perhaps so, but that changes nothing. They are unanimous in the general outline of their medical opinion. When the president is dead, to challenge their opinion as to the cause of death, what I’m sure will be their unanimous opinion, would be to suggest that something was,’ he paused, searching for the right words, ‘being withheld. That President Taylor may have died under questionable circumstances.’

‘Go on, Daniel, you’re still doing fine.’

‘Were such a suggestion to be framed by unscrupulous minds and placed before an uninformed public severe damage could be done to the proper running of the engine of state.’

Fillmore nodded encouragingly.

‘Proper running of the engine of state? I like that, powerful phrase. I might use it myself. Go on, go on.’

‘To sponsor, to support any such line of un-American activity would be to strike at the very security of the country at this difficult time, this very difficult time in our nationhood. In fact, with the divisions between North and South as fraught as they are, it would be tantamount to treason. No president could permit enemies of the government to cast such calumnies against Taylor’s physicians, all loyal men whose only wish was and is to serve their country …’

Webster stopped. He was a renowned speaker, one of the foremost advocates of the American Bar. Yet here he was before this chubby buffoon, babbling like a schoolboy. Why? Because this man, this petty man, was somehow about to become president of the United States and it was in his gift to make him secretary of state.

‘Finished, Daniel?’ Webster stood in sullen silence glaring. That look, however, which had intimidated so many, seemed not to discommode Millard Fillmore at all. He stood up, still smiling, placed his hands behind his back, and walked again to the window where he turned. ‘Finished? Yes? Good, because there is still much for me to do and much that I want you to do also. Firstly, as I said, I want Taylor, when he’s good and dead, safely back in Kentucky and in the ground. I want his reputation as a president intact and his status as a military hero perpetuated. And that’s all I want of him. Once that’s done I want him, and more especially the manner of his passing, forgotten. Understand, Daniel?’ Webster nodded. ‘I hoped you would because I am in great need of a co-operative and understanding secretary of state. You see, I’m not going to be a very popular president.’ That drew a look of surprise from Webster. ‘But that doesn’t bother me. I am not the stuff of greatness and I shall not try and use my office to change that. I won’t even make a speech at my inauguration at the Capitol. Such things as a place in history I can safely leave to others,’ the smile returned, ‘like you, Daniel.’ Webster was beginning to hate that smile, and be a little fearful of it. ‘You and others like you, I have no doubt, will make sure you are remembered. I am satisfied that, having done my duty, I shall, like Zachary Taylor, be forgotten.’

Webster had the good grace to recognise the truth of what the still-vice president had said about both of them. He certainly intended that he should be remembered, as much as Millard Fillmore seemed ready and even willing to consign himself to historical oblivion.

‘I’m sure your country will always remember and honour you as a good and worthy president.’

‘My country won’t get the chance. As I said, there are already those like Thurlow Weed and Senator Seward working hard to see that my name is not on the next Whig ticket either as president nor vice president. Weed has already selected his man, General Winfield Scott.’

‘Winfield Scott?’

‘I see that surprises you.’

‘It does.’

‘Weed persuaded Scott that he is the natural successor of Zach Taylor, not that he needed much in the way of persuasion. Weed wants another military hero, someone the people will see as a strong leader, a man of action, experience, and decision. But he also wants someone who will be completely guided by him once in the White House. Winfield Scott might have been made for the part. You know what he likes people to call him?’ Webster shook his head. ‘”The Grand Old Man of the Army”. You know what Zach Taylor said his senior fellow officers called him?’ Another shake. ‘“Old Fuss and Feathers”. No matter, Weed will try and replace me with Winfield Scott as Whig candidate for president when my term expires. I hope to God he fails, either in getting him on our ticket or, if managing that, getting him elected, for if by some miracle Scott was to become president the Cherokee Nation won’t be the only ones who will have had to endure a trail of tears at his hands.’ Fillmore shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I leave Weed and others to their plots and connivances. My job, the only job that matters when I am president, will be to do all I can to keep the North and the South off each other’s throats. Taylor liked people to see him as a bluff, straight-spoken military man incapable of guile, ‘“Old Rough and Ready”.’

 Fillmore gave a genuine laugh. ‘Simple and straightforward? He was as straight as a corkscrew and as devious as the best of them. But he was strong. A strong president. He could have held this country together. He knew how to give orders and how to get them obeyed.’ Vice President Fillmore came back to his desk and sat down heavily. The weariness returned in his voice. ‘I’m not that strong, Daniel. I can give orders but I’m not at all sure I can see that they’re obeyed so I must play the politician rather than the soldier and compromise. If Taylor had died only a week earlier I could have seen that Henry Clay’s bill got through Congress. As it didn’t I must re-present it myself.’

‘Including the Fugitive Slave Act?’

‘Of course.’

‘You know I gave it my support in the Senate and it cost me my seat?’

‘I know. But the slave states won’t let the bill pass without it.’

‘There are those in the North who call it the ‘“Bloodhound Law”.’

‘And those down South who call it taking their property back.’

‘Quite. But as you yourself have just said, Mr President, you can frame the law and perhaps get it passed. But can you make the people obey it?’

Fillmore’s face took on a mock surprise. 

‘Me? I will be president. The unenviable task of enforcement will fall to the secretary of state. Seeing it gets implemented to the hilt will be his task, not mine.’

Webster took the point.

‘Not an enviable one, as you say.’

Fillmore’s fist hit the desk.

‘Damn and blast, Webster, the Compromise is the only way I can keep this country from tearing itself apart and the best men on both sides slaughtering each other.’ His flare of temper subsided as quickly as it had arisen. ‘Or would you prefer to be remembered as the secretary of state who helped me take this country into a civil war?’ Webster didn’t reply. ‘No, I thought not. So, Daniel, on to foreign affairs, something else that might soon be your department. Taylor managed in an amazingly short time to ruffle the feathers of just about everyone, Portugal, France, Spain, most of them. I want those feathers smoothed again. Then there’s the damn Clayton-Bulwer Treaty, his last act of state, and his most consummate blunder.’

‘You want to renege on it?’

‘No. At the moment we’re on as good terms with the British as we’re likely to be for some time and I want it to stay that way.’ Fillmore paused. He had dangled the carrot of high office, now it was time for the stick. ‘But before any of that, before any appointment is announced, there is a little task I would like you to see to.’ Daniel Webster at once knew that this was why he had been summoned. There was to be a test. Something which would confirm in Millard Fillmore’s mind that he was the sort of secretary of state he wanted and could trust. ‘I want you to see that no one raises any questions over the circumstances of President Taylor’s death. As I said, Taylor’s Cabinet will, without realising it, give me their full co-operation by resigning. They will assume, wrongly, that I cannot begin my presidency without some sort of continuity. Once they’re gone I can easily see to it that they can’t do any real damage here in Washington. But there is the press. I need to be sure that nobody uses the newspapers to mount some sort of campaign or enquiry. I need a bully-boy to lay his stick about and make sure the main newspaper owners fall in line to a man. Do you understand, Daniel?’

Webster understood. The question he asked himself was, could it be done?

‘How do you suggest …’

‘Oh I don’t, Daniel. I suggest nothing and want to know nothing. I just want it done, done by you and done now. There’s a man already here waiting to talk to you. You’ll find him helpful in this matter, very helpful. His name is Jeremiah Jones. You won’t be familiar with the name, I know, but talk to him anyway.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Right now he’s no one. But he was the comptroller of the Fund of Foreign Intercourse under President Polk. He’s already aware of what is needed. Let him advise you. I will approve the use of any money needed from the Contingent Fund and see that it is available to you. You’re a well-connected man, respected, a gifted talker; organise a bit of persuasion. And if persuasion won’t work put the fear of God into any newspaper that tries to raise the idea that Taylor died of anything except natural causes. I can hold the official announcement of his death until late tomorrow. That will give you two or three days.’

‘That’s very little time.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? But don’t they say the very best men do their best work under pressure? And I’m sure you consider yourself one of the very best men, Daniel, so I expect this thing to be done.’

‘But why involve this Jones? Why not use the present comptroller?’

‘Dammit, Webster, I need a willing and compliant secretary of state, not one who questions my every decision. Make up your mind whether you want the job or not, and make it up now, this instant. I’ve no more time to spend on you.’

Daniel Webster disliked the position in which he found himself. He wanted to tell this clown of a man to go to hell. But he also wanted, nay, needed, to be secretary of state. The impassioned speech given in March in support of the fugitive slave law had lost him all of his Northern support and forced his resignation from the Senate. As a result, his finances, never robust given his tastes and lifestyle, were in a more than usually parlous state. Unless he did something to retrieve his fortunes he faced the very real prospect of bankruptcy. When he spoke it was almost humbly.

‘I will do my best.’

‘Good. You’ve made the right decision. And when I see that all our newspapers print the same story, that President Taylor died from whatever the doctors finally choose to call it, I shall announce your appointment. Now, Daniel, go and get it done.’ Webster was about to leave. ‘Oh, and when you meet with Jones, tell him I’m thinking of reviving the Polk Plan.’

‘The Polk Plan?’

‘Just that. He’ll know what I mean and, when you’re secretary, so shall you, Daniel,’ the smile returned, ‘so shall you.’

President Fillmore pulled some papers to him and Webster, realising he had been dismissed, went to the door where he paused to look back. The Yellow Oval Room was now filling with early morning sunlight and the gas flames had almost become redundant. Daniel Webster gave a brief, unflattering thought to the mysterious ways of divine providence. Today, in God’s good time, there would be a new president of the Union, this stranger sitting at the desk, ignoring him. He took hold of the door handle and quietly let himself out.

Chapter Two

The New Knickerbocker Theatre, 37-39 Bowery, New York City.



July 11th , 7.30 p.m.



A single word was sent soaring into the lofty gloom.

‘Friends.’

It was followed by a dramatic pause. Then with a voice full of emotion, two more words followed.

‘My friends.’

And at once stamping, wild cheering, and waving of hats burst forth welcoming the third, final, and most important orator of the evening’s programme.

Having spoken his first three words the orator now let his gaze sweep the crowd, packed tightly on the plain, tiered benches which surrounded the sawdust-covered floor of the amphitheatre. He stood, lit up by limelight flares, on the makeshift stage at one end of what, on other nights, was usually a circus ring. Having waited a moment to savour his welcome, he held up his arms dramatically and the audience, dutiful to his actions, fell silent and waited with eager anticipation.

‘My good friends all.’

The lime-lit figure paused with one hand raised to show that no more cheering was, for the moment necessary. Once more he looked around the ill-lit seating of the great, but rather shabby interior of the New Knickerbocker Theatre. This crowd had come together from many parts of New York to hear him speak, to receive his message. They would not be disappointed. He lowered his hand.

There was an almost tangible thrill of anticipation.

‘It is a notorious fact that the monarchs of Europe and the pope of Rome are at this very moment plotting our destruction and threatening the extinction of our political, civil, and religious institutions.’ The figure paused and this time the crowd, realising it had received its cue, reacted with more wild cries and shouts. The figure raised a hand and the noise once again subsided. ‘And we have the best reasons for believing that this horrible corruption has found its way into our executive chamber and that venerable place of government is already tainted with the infectious venom of Catholicism.’

As he uttered these words the speaker held up his hand and slowly closed his fingers into a fist as if to show how the very heart of the US government had been gripped by this poison of the pope in Rome. The crowd, well rehearsed by the previous two speakers, responded with renewed cries, angry jeers, boos, hoots, and much stamping of feet. Any nervous soul in the audience might well, at this point, have been forced to give serious consideration to the safety and solidity of the boardings supporting the benches on which the crowd acted out its part.

The orator held up his arms once again and the mob fell silent.

‘The pope has recently sent his ambassador of state to this country on a secret commission.’

Now there came a necessary pause, for the speaker moved slightly to one side and adopted a supercilious air by throwing back his head, placing his hands on his hips, and sticking his elbows out. He was now not the orator, but taking the part of some opponent to this last statement. In this new character turned to the audience and, in an offensive and sneering tone, addressed them.

‘And how, pray, are we supposed to know of this secret commission?’

Moving back, adopting a statesman-like stance, he once more became the orator. His hands held the lapels of his coat, partly in the manner of an attorney addressing a jury and partly as an elder might rebuke the people. Thus clearly instructed the crowd knew that he was once again his own honest self.

He looked at the space he had vacated and dismissed his imaginary opponent’s question with an angry frown and a gesture of contempt.

‘Never mind, it is sufficient that it is known.’

He moved back and resumed the arrogant pose of the opponent. There was an audible low gasp.

Did this opponent truly dare to return and attack once more? Surely such pride, such arrogance, were incredible in the face of such honesty and nobility.

The sneering voice assumed by the speaker confirmed that it was.

‘If the secret is known, then pray, how can it be seen?’

With a few steps and a change of pose the speaker was himself again, proud and confident with the final, demolishing answer ready.

‘Why, anyone with open eyes can see the truth of what I say.’ His arms swept the arena. ‘Look around you, see the boldness of the Catholic Church throughout the United States. Its minions, minions of the pope, boldly insulting our senators, reprimanding our statesmen, propagating the adulterous union of Church and State, abusing with foul calumny all governments but Catholic, and spewing out the bitterest execrations on all Protestantism.’ He stopped and, moving slightly, stood with legs wide apart straddling the space of both characters. Now he was the conquering hero, the nation’s saviour, and his opponent lay, albeit invisible to all except himself, vanquished beneath his feet. The orator stood defiant, with his chin up, his head back and his fists thrust hard onto his hips, bestriding scene of the recent, mighty struggle. He was victorious and unconquerable.

The crowd rose and a great and prolonged howl filled the air.

One young man standing like the rest of the all-male audience and clapping wildly, turned excitedly to his neighbour who, strangely, had remained seated with his hands inactive.

‘Isn’t he great, Matthew?’

The young man beside him looked around at the standing, stamping, waving, cheering throng.

‘Breathtaking. Truly unbelievable.’

But though his words fitted the occasion, his manner of speaking them suggested that he was distinctly less enthusiastic in the giving of his answer than had been his friend in the asking the question.

The speaker raised and lowered his arms several times. At this signal the noise diminished and the audience subsided. The young man sat down and looked at his friend doubtfully for a second. The words, he felt, were right, but there was something, he wasn’t sure what, lacking in the manner of their speaking.

The colossus of the platform raised and lowered his arms one final time and silence slowly fell. The young man turned again to listen to the speaker.

‘Catholics in the United States receive from abroad more than $200,000 annually for the propagation of their creed. Add to this the vast revenues collected here …’

The young man’s friend, Matthew, took his watch from his waistcoat pocket, looked at it, put it away, and nudged the young man with his elbow. His friend turned.

‘What is it?’

‘I must go. I have an appointment.’

‘But he’ll be speaking for at least another hour.’

Matthew tried to look disappointed.

‘I guess so, but it’s a story. I have to follow it up. You know how it is in my line of work.’

His friend shrugged. He wasn’t a journalist himself but he understood. A story was a story.

‘Well, go if you must.’ As Matthew rose his friend grabbed the sleeve of his coat and held him. ‘But say you’re glad you came. Tell me you’ve had your eyes opened tonight.’

Matthew found that this time he was able to answer his friend’s question with total conviction.

‘John, I can honestly say that tonight I have indeed had my eyes well and truly opened.’

A voice came from the bench behind them.

‘Stay or go, friend, but don’t stand there blocking my view.’

His friend let go of the sleeve and Matthew shuffled his way passed the men on the bench to the aisle, headed off up towards the exit and made his way to the front doors of the theatre.

Outside the summer evening was pleasantly warm and the Bowery was looking its best. Elegant, well-proportioned terraces of late eighteenth-century buildings rose up above sidewalks which, burnished by a million boots, had taken on an almost polished appearance. Matthew stood for a moment at the top of the stone stairs that led down to the street. Along the dry, hard-baked dirt of the broad thoroughfare some of the more affluent citizens were driving in their carriages, taking the evening air. Young ladies in bonnets with fluttering ribbons, wearing dresses of brightly coloured silks and satins, sat with parasols still open even though the sun was now well below the rooftops. Beside these dainty demoiselles sat dashing young gentlemen in shining top hats, sporting fashionable whiskers which, eschewing the upper lip, met under the chin.

Wide, soft shirt collars, it seems, are being worn open and turned down this year and fashion also dictates that the coats worn by these young Lochinvars are of many colours, greens, blues, browns, nankeen, and even, by some of the bolder bloods, wide stripes.

Most of these younger folk favour sprightly, two-wheeled gigs pulled by a single horse. The older generation, of whom there is also a goodly number, favour the more solid four-wheeled phaetons often pulled by handsome matched pairs. The gentlemen of these carriages still wear tight neckerchiefs with their stiff collars high. They also prefer more subdued colours for their jackets and their coats are mostly black, brown, or dark blue. But the ladies, even those admitting to thirty-five in society but, dare one say it, will not see forty again, rival their daughters in an exuberance of bright colours, flowing ribbons, and dancing tassels.

All, young and old alike, travel with the hoods of their carriages dropped to allow their occupants to enjoy the warm evening air and in taking their own pleasure give pleasure in turn to the many loungers and pedestrians who, like Matthew, gaze upon the scene, all enjoying the end of a fine Manha. . .