Part 4

This, it will be remembered, was one Leving. And with him we come upon a character, and a plot beneath a plot, which well illustrates the times. William Leving, or Levings, or Levering, or Leonard Williams, as he was variously called, was very far from being the man his guards thought him. It must have been a surprise to them after the fight to see one of their prisoners instead of making off with the rescuers, render himself again into their hands. But the explanation, though the good corporal and his men did not know it, nor yet the governor of York gaol to whom Leving was delivered, was only too well known to Captain Mason's friends, and explains the strange conduct of the Captain's fellow prisoner on other grounds than mere cowardice. Leving had been deeply implicated in the plots of 1661 and 1662, perhaps in that of 1663 as well. He had been caught, and, to save his life, he had "come in," to use an expressive phrase of the time. He was, in short, one of the most useful of the government's spies. It was he who had given news of Blood and his companions in Ireland. It was he who had furnished some of the information on which the government was then acting, and who proposed to furnish more, acquired, possibly, by this very ruse of sending him North with Mason. And it was he who now gave to the justice and the officers the names of the principal rescuers, Captain Lockyer, Major Blood, and Timothy Butler, and wrote to Secretary Arlington suggesting that the ways into London be watched as they would probably seek refuge there. It was little wonder that Mason's rescuers had sought to kill Leving, or that he had sought refuge in flight and surrender.

These indeed availed him little. He was kept a prisoner at York even after it appeared from his examination who and what he was. This was doubtless done more for his own safety than for any other reason, but even this was not effectual. Not many weeks later he was found dead in his cell. Some time after another informer, similarly confined there, wrote Arlington a terrified letter begging protection or release, "that he might not, like Leving, be poisoned in his cell." Thus, it appears, his enemies found him out even there. And that you may not think too hardly of the poor spy, it may be added that on his dead body was found a letter, apparently one he was engaged on when he died, completely exonerating certain men then in hiding for the great conspiracy. It would, perhaps, be uncharitable to hint that this was part of an even more subtle plot beneath the other two, and that his murderers sought to shield their friends outside by this device. York gaol, in any event, was no place to keep men disaffected toward the government. From the Lord-lieutenant down the place was thick with discontent and conspiracy. Indeed no great while before the Council had arrested the Lord-lieutenant himself, no less a person than one of their own number, the great Duke of Buckingham, on the charge of corresponding with the sectaries, and had confined him for some time in the Tower.

But what, meanwhile, had happened to Mason and his friends? On August 8th they were proclaimed outlaws by name and a hundred pounds reward was offered for Lockyer, Butler, Mason and Blood. But they had disappeared, as usual. Blood, it was said, had been mortally wounded, and was finally reported dead. That part of the story, at least, was greatly exaggerated, and was, no doubt, spread by Blood himself. He seems, in fact, to have retired to one of his hiding places and there recovered from his injuries, which were severe. The rest dispersed, and Mason, we know, found his way to London where three years later he appears in the guise of an innkeeper, still plotting for the inevitable rising. To us this seems strange. Our minds conjure up a well-ordered city, properly policed and thoroughly known. But apart from the fallacy of such a view even now, the London of Charles II was a far different place from the city of to-day in more ways than its size and the advances wrought by civilization. The City itself was then distant from the Court. The long thoroughfare connecting them, now the busy Strand, was then what its name implies still, the way along the river, and was the seat of only a few great palaces, like the Savoy, and the rising pile of Buckingham. Beside what is now Trafalgar Square stood then, as now, St. Martin's in the Fields. But the fields have long since fled from Piccadilly and Whitehall. Beyond and around in every direction outside the purlieus of the Court and the liberties of the City, stretched great collections of houses and hovels, affording rich hiding places for men outside the law. The inns abounding everywhere offered like facilities. Beneath the very walls of St. Stephen's where Parliament devised measures to suppress conventicles, those conventicles flourished. Among their numbers, among the small and secluded country houses round about, among the rough watermen and sailors along the river, in wide stretching districts where the King's writ ran with difficulty or not at all, and a man's life was safe only as his strength or skill made it so, or, it was whispered, even among some of the great houses like that of the Duke of Buckingham, men flying from justice might find safety enough.

Later Mason seems to have been joined in London by Blood and the old practices were renewed. But the Major, for Blood had now by some subterranean means arrived at that title, was apparently not wholly content with this. He retired, it would appear, to the little village of Romford, in Surrey, and there, under the name of Allen or Ayloffe, set up--amazing choice among all the things he might have chosen--as a physician. His son-in-law was apprenticed to an apothecary, and thus, with every appearance of quiet and sobriety, the outlaw began life again. But it was not for long, at any rate. Most likely, indeed, this whole business, if it ever existed at all, was a sham. For on May 28th, 1670, we find Secretary Trevor, who had succeeded Arlington in office, ordering the Provost Marshal to search out and take in custody Henry Danvers and William Allen, alias Blood. In December of that same year came the assault on Ormond, with which our story began, and Blood, under his alias, was for the third time proclaimed an outlaw, and for the third time had a price set on his head. Surely, you will say, this is enough of that impudent scoundrel who so long disturbed the slumber of His Majesty's secretaries, and flouted the activities of their agents. And, in spite of the stir raised by the attempt on Ormond, if Blood had disappeared after that for the last time, he would not have lived again in the pages of history. For that he is indebted to the great exploit which at once ended his career of crime and raised him above the ordinary herd of outlaws and criminals.

At the time of which we write the Tower of London served even more numerous and important purposes than it does to-day. It was then, as now, a depository of arms and ammunition, and the quarters of a considerable body of troops, which served to overawe possible disturbance in the city. But in 1670 it was also the principal prison for political offenders, and it was the place where the state regalia, the crown, the orb, and the scepter, were kept. Then, as now, the various functions of the great fortress were quite distinct. The visitor of to-day passes through a wide courtyard to the main edifice, the White Tower of William the Conqueror, whose chambers are filled with curious weapons and armour. He may climb the stone stairs to see the grim apartments once reserved for men reckoned dangerous to the state, and gaze with what awe he can muster upon the imitation crown jewels set out for the delectation of the tourists. Everywhere he finds in evidence the guardians of these treasures, the unobtrusive attendant, the picturesque beefeater, the omnipresent policeman, and if he looks down from the high windows he may see far below him the red tunics or white undercoats of the soldiers on parade or at work. In some measure this was true in 1670, and it is to this spot we must now turn our attention. We have already seen some of the characters in this story taken to or from the custody of the lieutenant of the Tower, and our steps in trace of our hero or villain, as you choose to call him, have often led perilously near its grim portals. At last they are to go inside.

Among the various functionaries in and about the Tower in the year 1670 was one Edwards, the Keeper of the Regalia, an old soldier who lived with his wife and daughter within the walls, his son being away at the wars on the Continent. Some time after the attack on the Duke of Ormond there appeared one day, among the visitors who flocked to see the sights of the stronghold, a little party of strangers from the country, a clergyman, his wife and his nephew. They visited the usual places of interest, and presently under Edwards' guidance, were taken to see the regalia. They were pleasant folk and much interested in what they saw. But unfortunately while looking at the royal paraphernalia the lady fell ill with some sort of a chill or convulsion. Her husband and nephew and Edwards were greatly alarmed. They carried her to Edwards' apartments where his wife and daughter took her in charge, and administered cordials and restoratives until she recovered. The clergyman was deeply grateful. He rewarded Edwards generously for his attention and they were all profuse in acknowledging the kindness of the Keeper's family. Nor did the matter end here. From this little incident there sprang up an acquaintance which rapidly ripened into friendship between the two families. The clergyman and his nephew came in from time to time on visits. The nephew was young and dashing, the daughter was pretty and pleasing[5]. They were obviously attracted to each other, and their elders looked on the dawning romance with favor. So rapidly did the matter progress that the clergyman presently proposed a marriage between the young couple. Edwards was not unwilling and on the 9th of May, 1671, the clergyman, his nephew, and a friend, with two companions rode up about seven in the morning to make the final arrangements. Mrs. Edwards, however, was not prepared to meet guests at so early an hour and some delay occurred. To fill in the time the clergyman suggested that Edwards might show the regalia to his friend who had never seen it. So the four mounted the steps to the room where the treasures were kept. Edwards went on before to take the regalia out for exhibition. But as he stooped over the chest to get them he was seized suddenly from behind, a cloak was thrown over his head, he was bound and gagged, knocked on the head with a mallet, and all these measures having failed to prevent his giving an alarm, he was finally stabbed. One of the men with him seized the crown and bent it so that it went under his cloak. The other put the orb in the pocket of his baggy breeches, and began to file the scepter in two that it might be more easily carried. But as they were thus busied, by a coincidence, surely the strangest out of a play, at this precise instant Edwards' son, Talbot, returned from the wars, bringing a companion with him. They accosted the third man who had remained as a sentinel at the foot of the stairs. He gave the alarm, the two men ran down the stairs and all three hurried off toward the Tower Gate. But there fortune deserted them. Edwards roused from his stupor, tore out the gag and shouted "Treason and Murder!" The daughter hurried to his side and thence to Tower Hill crying, "Treason! the crown is stolen!" Young Edwards and his companion, Captain Beckman, took up the alarm and hurried to the Keeper's side. Gaining from him some idea of the situation they rushed down and saw the thieves just going out the gate. Edwards drew his pistols and shouted to the sentinels. But the warders were apparently terrified and young Edwards, Beckman, and others who joined the pursuit closed in on the outlaws. They in turn aided the confusion by also crying "Stop Thief" so that some were deceived into believing the parson a party to the pursuit. Beckman seems to have caught him and wrestled with him for the crown, while a servant seized one of the other men. Beckman and Blood had a most "robustious struggle." Blood had fired one pistol at Beckman, and when they grappled drew a second and fired again, but missed both times. The accomplices waiting outside, mounted and rode off in different directions. But the pursuit was too close. Two of the three principals having been taken almost at the gate, the third might have got away but was thrown from his horse by running into a projecting cart pole, and captured at no great distance. The other accomplices, two apparently, seem to have escaped. The prisoners were brought back to the Tower at once and identified. To the astonishment of their captors the clergyman was found to be our old friend Blood, the so-called nephew was his son[6], the third man an Anabaptist silk dyer, named Parret. Warrants were immediately made out to the governor of the Tower, Sir John Robinson, for their imprisonment; Blood's on the ground of outlawry for treason and other great and heinous crimes in England; young Blood's and Parret's for dangerous crimes and practices.

[5] The Somers Tracts account says that it was Edwards' son and a pretended daughter of Blood, but this is almost certainly incorrect.

[6] Though there is some confusion here. The cobbler who seized him exclaimed, "This is Tom Hunt who was in the bloody business against the Duke of Ormond," and Edwards' account to Talbot (_ Biog. Britt._ II, 366) speaks of him as Blood's son-in-law. But his pardon was certainly made out to Thomas Blood, Jr., and there is no mention of the name Hunt. The explanation probably is that he was Thomas Hunt, Blood's son-in-law, but was called Blood by his father-in-law, and, like many men in that time, used either of the two names indifferently. It appears from Talbot's account that the cobbler and a constable who came up took Hunt to a nearby Justice of the Peace, one Smith, who was about to release him when news came of the attempt on the crown, and Hunt was then taken back to the Tower.

Thus fell the mighty Blood in this unique attempt at crime. The sensation caused by his extraordinary undertaking was naturally tremendous. Newsletters and correspondence of the time are all filled with the details of the exploit, for the moment the gravest affairs of state sunk into insignificance before the interest in this most audacious venture. An infinite number of guesses were hazarded at the motive for the theft, for it was felt that mere robbery would not account for it. It was even suspected that it was a prelude to the assassination of the king and the proclamation of a usurper who hoped to strengthen himself by the possession of the regalia. This view was reenforced by the fact that the Chancellor's house was entered at about the same time and nothing taken but the Great Seal. The darkest suspicions were afloat, and the relief at the capture of the noted outlaw and the failure of his attempt on the crown was intensified by the sense of having escaped from some vague and terrible danger which would have menaced the state had he succeeded. Broadsides and squibs of all sorts were inspired by the exploit. Among others the irrepressible Presbyterian satirist, Andrew Marvell, characteristically improved the occasion to make it the subject of a satire on the Church, as follows:

_ON BLOOD'S STEALING THE CROWN._

_When daring Blood his rent to have regained Upon the English diadem restrained He chose the cassock, surcingle and gown, 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].

[7] He seems also to have been examined by Dr. Chamberlain and Sir William Waller.

[8] It was hinted that Buckingham had set Blood on to steal the crown in pursuance of some of his mad schemes for ascending the throne. And it is also charged that the King himself had employed the outlaw to get the jewels, pawn or sell them abroad and divide the proceeds. Beside such suggestions as these even Blood's letter sinks into the commonplace. At all events, as in the Ormond affair, it was and is generally believed that there were other influences at work behind his exploit.

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.