Easily, but for the favour of Fortune, he might have been one of those haled, on the morrow of the battle, more or less haphazard from the overflowing gaol at Bridgewater to be summarily hanged in the market-place by the bloodthirsty Colonel Kirke.  There was about the Colonel of the Tangiers Regiment a deadly despatch which might have disposed in like fashion of all those prisoners, numerous as they were, but for the vigorous intervention of Bishop Mews, which put an end to the drumhead courts-martial.

Even so, in that first week after Sedgemoor, Kirke and Feversham contrived between them to put to death over a hundred men after a trial so summary as to be no trial at all.  They required human freights for the gibbets with which they were planting the countryside, and they little cared how they procured them or what innocent lives they took.  What, after all, was the life of a clod?  The executioners were kept busy with rope and chopper and cauldrons of pitch.  I spare you the details of that nauseating picture.  It is, after all, with the fate of Peter Blood that we are concerned rather than with that of the Monmouth rebels.

He survived to be included in one of those melancholy droves of prisoners who, chained in pairs, were marched from Bridgewater to Taunton.  Those who were too sorely wounded to march were conveyed in carts, into which they were brutally crowded, their wounds undressed and festering.  Many were fortunate enough to die upon the way.  When Blood insisted upon his right to exercise his art so as to relieve some of this suffering, he was accounted importunate and threatened with a flogging.  If he had one regret now it was that he had not been out with Monmouth.  That, of course, was illogical; but you can hardly expect logic from a man in his position.

His chain companion on that dreadful march was the same Jeremy Pitt who had been the agent of his present misfortunes.  The young shipmaster had remained his close companion after their common arrest.  Hence, fortuitously, had they been chained together in the crowded prison, where they were almost suffocated by the heat and the stench during those days of July, August, and September.

Scraps of news filtered into the gaol from the outside world.  Some may have been deliberately allowed to penetrate.  Of these was the tale of Monmouth’s execution.  It created profoundest dismay amongst those men who were suffering for the Duke and for the religious cause he had professed to champion.  Many refused utterly to believe it.  A wild story began to circulate that a man resembling Monmouth had offered himself up in the Duke’s stead, and that Monmouth survived to come again in glory to deliver Zion and make war upon Babylon.

Mr. Blood heard that tale with the same indifference with which he had received the news of Monmouth’s death.  But one shameful thing he heard in connection with this which left him not quite so unmoved, and served to nourish the contempt he was forming for King James.  His Majesty had consented to see Monmouth.  To have done so unless he intended to pardon him was a thing execrable and damnable beyond belief; for the only other object in granting that interview could be the evilly mean satisfaction of spurning the abject penitence of his unfortunate nephew.