Colonel Thomas Blood, Crown-stealer, 1618-1680

by Wilbur Cortez Abbott

The fittest mask for one that robs the crown:

But his lay pity underneath prevailed.

And whilst he saved the keeper's life he failed;

With the priest's vestment had he but put on

The prelate's cruelty, the crown had gone.

The proceedings in Blood's case, therefore, excited extraordinary interest, which was not lessened by the unusual circumstances surrounding it. The prisoners were first brought before Sir Gilbert Talbot, the provost-marshal[7]. But Blood refused absolutely to answer any leading questions put him by that official as to his motives, accomplices, and the ultimate purpose of his exploit. This naturally deepened the interest in the matter, and increased the suspicion that there was more in it than appeared on the surface, the more so as the outlaw declared he would speak only with the king himself. To the further astonishment of the world this bold request was granted. Three days after his arrest, on May 12, he was taken by the king's express order to Whitehall and there examined by Charles, the Duke of York, and a select few of the royal family and household. The proceeding was not quite as unusual as it seemed, for in the earlier years of the Restoration it had been fairly common and the king had proved a master in the art of examination. But it had been given up of late and its revival seemed to indicate a matter of unusual gravity. "The man need not despair," said Ormond to Southwell when he heard that the king was to give Blood a hearing, "for surely no king would wish to see a malefactor but with intention to pardon him." But this opinion was not general and his conviction was never doubted by the world at large. A few days after his examination Secretary Williamson's Dublin correspondent wrote him that there was little news in Ireland save the talk of Blood's attempt on the crown, and he voiced the prevailing sentiment when he "hoped that Blood would receive the reward of his many wicked attempts." The coffee houses talked of nothing else and all London prepared to gratify itself with the spectacle of the execution of the most daring criminal of the time[8].

But in this, at any rate for the present, they were to be disappointed. Blood was remanded to the Tower, and there held for some time while certain other steps were taken to probe the case deeper. Two months later Sir John Robinson wrote to Secretary Williamson that Lord Arlington had dined with him the Saturday before, and had given into his hands certain warrants, not as every one supposed for Blood's execution, but for his release and that of his son. Two weeks later a grant of pardon was issued to him for "all the treasons, murders, felonies, etc., committed by him alone or with others from the day of His Majesty's accession, May 29, 1660, to the present," and this was followed by a similar grant to his son. Later, to complete this incredible story, his estates were restored to him, he was given a place at Court, and a pension of five hundred pounds a year in Irish lands. Not long afterward the indefatigable diner-out, John Evelyn, notes in his diary that, dining with the Lord Treasurer, Arlington, a few days before, he had met there, among the guests, Colonel Thomas Blood. It is no wonder that a Londoner wrote in early August of that same year: "On Thursday last in the courtyard at Whitehall, I saw walking, in a new suit and periwig, Mr. Blood exceeding pleasant and jocose—a tall rough-boned man, with small legs, a pock-frecken face with little hollow blue eyes." And in September Blood had acquired enough credit, apparently, not only to get a new grant of pardon confirmed for himself and his son, but others for certain of his former companions as well.

What is the explanation of this extraordinary circumstance? It is a question no one has yet answered satisfactorily, and it has remained one of the many unsolved mysteries of the period, along with the murder of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey and the Popish Plot. If we knew fully we could clear up many dark ways of Restoration politics. We have certain second-hand accounts of what took place in that memorable interview between the vagabond king and the Irish outlaw, from which we may get some light on the matter. The latter "as gallant and hardy a villain as ever herded with the sneaking sect of Anabaptists," in the words of a contemporary, we are told, "answered so frankly and undauntedly that every one stood amazed." Snatches of Blood's comments on his most recent exploit have floated down to us. "It was, at all events, a stroke for a crown," had been his remark to Beckman when he was captured, a cool witticism which must have pleased the wittiest of monarchs when it was repeated to him. "Who are your associates?" he is said to have been asked, to which he replied that he "would never betray a friend's life nor deny guilt in defense of his own." Blood explained to the king, it is said, that he thought the crown was worth a hundred thousand pounds, when, in fact the whole regalia, had he known it, only cost six thousand. He told the story of his life and adventures with much freedom, and it must have been a good story to hear. He confessed to the attempt on Dublin Castle, to the rescue of Mason and the kidnapping of Ormond. There was found on his person a "little book in which he had set down sixty signal deliverances from eminent dangers." And one may remark, in passing, that it is a pity that it, instead of the dagger with which Edwards was stabbed, is not preserved in a London museum. Perhaps it may turn up some day, and allow us the whole story as he told it to Charles. Several about the monarch contributed their information of Blood. Prince Rupert, in particular, recalled him as "a very stout, bold fellow in the royal service," twenty years before. But the thing to which rumor credited his escape and which was reported to have made his fortune, was a story in connection with the king himself. A plot had been laid by Blood and his accomplices, according to his account, to kill the king while he was bathing in the river at Battersea. But as they hid in the reeds, said the outlaw turned courtier, with their victim before them, the majesty of royalty was too great—he could not fire the shot. But, he continued, there was a band to which he belonged, three hundred strong, pledged to avenge his death on the king, in case of his conviction.

Doubtless truth lurks amid all this. It may all be true. Even so there is hardly material here for pardon, much less for reward. Other reasons not known at that time, must be assigned for such royal clemency. One, perhaps, lies in this letter written six days after the examination:

"May 19, 1671. Tower. Col. Blood to the King.