Theodore Lyman, the Mayor, was standing on a barrel importuning the crowd to disperse. His voice was lost in the roar of the mob.
From down a stairway came a procession of women, thirty or so, walking by twos, very pale, but calm. The crowd gradually opened out on a stern order from some unknown person. The young lawyer threw himself against those who blocked the way. The women passed on, and the crowd closed in as water closes over a pebble dropped into the river.
The disappearance of the women seemed to heighten the confusion: there were stones thrown, sounds of breaking glass, a crash on the stairway, and down the narrow passage, with yells of triumph, came a crowd of men, half-dragging a prisoner, a rope around his waist, his arms pinioned. The man's face was white, his clothing disheveled and torn. His resistance was passive—no word of entreaty or explanation escaped his lips. A sudden jerk on the rope from the hundred hands that clutched it threw the man off his feet—he fell headlong, his face struck the stones of the pavement, and he was dragged for twenty yards. The crowd grabbed at him and lifted him to his feet—blood dripped from his face, his hat was gone, his coat, vest and shirt were in shreds. The man spoke no word.
"That's him—Garrison, the damned abolitionist!" The words arose above the din and surge of the mob: "Kill him! Hang him!"
Phillips saw the colonel of his militia regiment, and seizing him by the arm, said, "Order out the men to put down this riot!"
"Fool!" said the Colonel, "don't you see our men are in this crowd!"
"Then order them into columns, and we will protect this man."
"I never give orders unless I know they will be obeyed. Besides, this man Garrison is a rioter himself—he opposes the government."
"But, do we uphold mob-law—here, in Boston!"
"Don't blame me—I haven't anything to do with this business. I tell you, if this man Garrison had minded his own affairs, this scene would never have occurred."