This was a delicate and a dangerous crisis. The question in the last resort was, whether the town of Boston should become a scene of carnage and desolation or not? Humanity to the soldiers conspired with a regard for the safety of the town, in suggesting the wise measure of calling the town together to deliberate. For nothing short of the most solemn promises to the people, that the soldiers should, at all hazards, be driven from the town, had preserved its peace. Not only the immense assemblies of the people, from day to day, but military arrangements from night to night, were necessary to keep the people and the soldiers from getting together by the ears. The life of a red coat would not have been safe in any street or corner of the town. Nor would the lives of the inhabitants have been much more secure. The whole militia of the city was in requisition, and military watches and guards were every where placed. We were all upon a level; no man was exempted; our military officers were our only superiors. I had the honor to be summoned in my turn, and attended at the state house with my musket and bayonet, my broadsword and cartridge box, under the command of the famous Paddock. I know you will laugh at my military figure; but I believe there was not a more obedient soldier in the regiment, nor one more impartial between the people and the regulars. In this character I was upon duty all night in my turn. No man appeared more anxious or more deeply impressed with a sense of danger on all sides, than our commander Paddock. He called me, common soldier as I was, frequently to his councils. I had a great deal of conversation with him, and no man appeared more apprehensive of a fatal calamity to the town, or more zealous by every prudent measure to prevent it. Such was the situation of affairs, when Samuel Adams was reasoning with lieutenant governor Hutchinson and lieutenant colonel Dalrymple. He had fairly driven them from all their outworks, breastworks and entrenchments, to their citadel. There they paused and considered and deliberated. The heads of Hutchinson and Dalrymple were laid together in whispers for a long time: when the whispering ceased, a long and solemn pause ensued, extremely painful to an impatient and expecting audience. Hutchinson, in time, broke silence; he had consulted with colonel Dalrymple, and the colonel had authorized him to say that he might order one regiment down to the castle, if that would satisfy the people. With a self-recollection, a self-possession, a self-command, a presence of mind that was admired by every man present, Samuel Adams arose with an air of dignity and majesty, of which he was sometimes capable, stretched forth his arm, though even then quivering with palsy, and with an harmonious voice and decisive tone, said, "if the lieutenant governor or colonel Dalrymple, or both together, have authority to remove one regiment, they have authority to remove two; and nothing short of the total evacuation of the town by all the regular troops, will satisfy the public mind or preserve the peace of the province."
These few words thrilled through the veins of every man in the audience, and produced the great result. After a little awkward hesitation, it was agreed that the town should be evacuated and both regiments sent to the castle.
After all this gravity it is merry enough to relate that William Molineaux, was obliged to march side by side with the commander of some of their troops, to protect them from the indignation of the people, in their progress to the wharf of embarcation for the castle. Nor is it less amusing that lord North, as I was repeatedly and credibly informed in England, with his characteristic mixture of good humour and sarcasm, ever after called these troops by the title of "Sam Adams's two regiments."
The painter should seize upon the critical moment when Samuel Adams stretched out his arm, and made his last speech.
It will be as difficult to do justice, as to paint an Apollo; and the transaction deserves to be painted as much as the surrender of Burgoyne. Whether any artist will ever attempt it, I know not.
JOHN ADAMS.
TO THE HON. WM. TUDOR.
Quincy, April 23, 1818.