University of Virginia Library

THE FATE OF THE BLANCHE NAVIRE.[2]

The earliest dawning of a December's morning had not yet
tinged the eastern sky, when in the port of Barfleur the stirring
bustle which precedes an embarkation broke loudly on the ear
of all who were on foot at that unseemly hour; nor were these
few in number, for all the population of that town — far more
considerable than it appears at present, when mightier cities,
some rendered so by the gigantic march of commerce, some by
the puissant and creative hands of military despotism, have
sprung on every side into existence, and overshadowed its antique
renown — were hastening through the narrow streets toward
the water's edge. The many-paned, stone-latticed casements
gleamed with a thousand lights, casting a cheerful glare
over the motley multitude which swarmed before them with all
the frolic merriment of an unwonted holyday. All classes and
all ranks might there be seen, of every age and sex: barons

and lords of high degree, clad in the rich attires of a half-barbarous
yet gorgeous age, mounted on splendid horses, and attended
by long retinues of armed and liveried vassals; ladies
and demoiselles of birth and beauty curbing their Spanish jennets,
and casting sidelong looks of love toward the favored
knights curveting in the conscious state of proud humility beside
their bridle-reins — as clearly visible as at high noon, in
the broad radiance of the torches that accompanied their progress;
while all around them and behind crowded the humbler
throng of mariners and artisans, with here a solemn burgher,
proud in his velvet pourpoint and his golden chain, and there
a barefoot monk, far prouder in his frock of sackcloth and his
knotted girdle; and ever and anon a group of merry maidens,
with their high Norman caps and short jupons of parti-colored
serge, crowding around the jongleur[3] with his ape and gittern
— or pressing on to hear the loftier professor[4] of the gai-science,
girded with sword and dagger in token of his gentle blood, and
followed by his boy bearing the harp, which then had power to
win, not with the low-born and vulgar throng, but with the noble
and the fair, high favor for its wandering master!

The courts and thoroughfares of the old town — for it was
old even then — by slow degrees grew silent and deserted;
and, ere the sun was well above the wave, the multitudes which
thronged them had rolled downward to the port, and stood in
dense ranks gazing on its calm and sheltered basin. Glorious
indeed and lovely was the sight when the first yellow rays

streamed over the still waters: they waked the distant summits
of the hills behind the town into a sudden life; they kissed the
crest of every curling ripple that dimpled with its “innumerable
laughter” the azure face of ocean; but, more than all, they
seemed to dwell upon two noble barks, which lay, each riding
at a single anchor, at a short arrow-shot from the white sands
that girt as with a silver frame the liquid mirror of the harbor.

Fashioned by the best skill of that early day, and ornamented
with the most lavish splendor, though widely different from the
floating castles of modern times, those vessels — the picked
cruisers of the British navy — were in their structure no less
picturesque than in their decoration royally magnificent. Long,
low, and buoyant, they floated lightly as birds upon the surface;
their open waists already bristling with the long oars by which,
after the fashion of the Roman galley, they were propelled in
serene weather; their masts clothed with the wings which
seemed in vain to woo the breeze; their elevated sterns and
forecastles blazing with tapestries of gold and silver, reflected
in long lines of light, scarcely broken by the dancing ripples.
The larger of the two bore on her foresail, blazoned in gorgeous
heraldry, the arms of England. The second, somewhat
smaller, but if anything more elegant in her proportions, and
fitted with a nicer taste, although less sumptuous, was painted
white from stem to stern; her oars, fifty in number, of the same
spotless hue, were barred upon the blades with silver; and on
her foresail of white canvass, overlaid with figured damask,
were wrought, among a glittering profusion of devices, in characters
of silver, the words “La Blanche Navire.” Beyond
them, in the outer bay, a dozen ships or more were dimly seen
through the mist-wreaths which the wintry sun was gradually
scattering — their canvass hanging in festoons from their long
yard-arms, and their decks crowded, not with mariners alone,
but with the steel-clad forms of men-at-arms and archers, the

gallant train of the third Norman who had swayed the destinies
of England.

The youngest son of the sagacious Conqueror, after the death
of the “Red king,” by a rare union of audacity and cunning,
Henry, had seized the sceptre of the fair island — the hereditary
right of his romantic, generous, and gallant brother, who
with the feudatories of his Norman duchy was waging war
upon the Saracen, neglectful of his own and of his subjects'
interests alike, beneath the burning sun of Syria. Already
firmly seated in his usurped dominion ere Robert returned
homeward, nor yet contented with his ill-gained supremacy,
he had wrung from the bold crusader, partly by force but more
by fraud, his continental realms; and adding cruelty which
scarcely can be conceived to violence and fraud, deprived him
of Heaven's choicest blessing, sight, and cast him — of late the
most renowned and glorious knight in Christendom — a miserable,
eyeless captive into the towers of Cardiff, his dungeon
while he lived, and after death his tomb!

No retributive justice had discharged its thunders upon the
guilty one; no gloom sat on his smooth and lordly brow, no
thorns had lurked beneath the circle of Henry's blood-bought
diadem. Fortune had smiled on every effort; had granted every
wish, however wild; had sanctioned every enterprise, however
dubious or desperate: he never had known sorrow; and
from his restless, energetic soul, remorse and penitence were
banished by the incessant turmoil of ambition and the perpetual
excitement of success. And now his dearest wish had been
accomplished — the most especial aim and object of his life
perfected with such absolute security, that his insatiate soul
was satisfied. Absolute lord of England, and undisputed ruler
of the fair Cotentin, he had of late disarmed the league which
for a time had threatened his security; detaching from the cause
of France the powerful count of Anjou, whose daughter — the

most lovely lady and the most splendid heiress of the time —
he had seen wedded to his first-born and his favorite, William.
The previous day he had beheld the haughty barons tender the
kiss of homage and swear eternal loyalty to the young heir of
England, Normandy, and Anjou; the previous night he had sat
glad and glorious at the festive board, encompassed by all that
was fair, and noble, and high-born, in the great realms he governed,
and among all that proud and graceful circle his eye had
looked on none so brave and beautiful as that young, guiltless
pair for whom he had imbrued, not his hands only, but his very
soul, in blood! He sat on the high dais, beneath the gilded
canopy; and as he quaffed the health of those who had alone
a kindly tenure of his cold and callous heart, a noble knight
approached with bended knee, and placing in his hand a mark
of gold — “Fair sir,” he said, “I, a good knight and loyal —
Thomas Fitz-Stephen — claim of your grace a boon. My father,
Stephen Fitz-Evrard, served faithfully and well, as long as he
did live, your father William — served him by sea, and steered
the ship with his own hand which bore him to that glorious
crown which he right nobly won at Hastings. I pray you,
then, fair king, that you do sell to me, for this gold mark, the
fief I crave of you: that, as Fitz-Evrard served the first King
William, so may Fitz-Stephen serve the first King Henry. I
have right nobly fitted — ay, on mine honor, as beseems a
mighty monarch — here, in the bay of Barfleur, `the Blanche
Navire.' Receive it at my hands, great sir, and suffer me to
steer you homeward; and so may the blessed Virgin and her
Son send us the winds which we would have!”

“Good knight and loyal,” answered the prince, as he received
the proffered coin, “grieved am I, of a truth, and sorrowful, that
altogether I may not confer on you the fief which of good right
you claim: for lo! the bark is chosen — nay, more, apparelled
for my service — which must to-morrow, by Heaven's mercy,

bear me to that land whither your sire so fortunately guided
mine. But since it may not be that I may sail myself, as would
I could do so, in your good bark, to your true care will I intrust
what I hold dearer than my very soul — my sons, my daughters
— mine and my country's hope; and as your father steered the
FIRST, so shall you steer the THIRD King William, that shall be,
to the white cliffs of England!”

“Well said, my liege!” cried Foulke, the count of Anjou, a
noble-looking baron of tall and stately presence, although far
past the noon of manhood, the father of the lovely bride; “to
better mariner or braver ship than stout Fitz-Stephen and La
Blanche Navire, was never freight intrusted! Quaff we a full
carouse to their blithe voyage! How sayest thou, daughter
mine,” he added, turning to the blushing girl, who sat attired
in all the pomp of newly-wedded royalty beside her youthful
lover — “how sayest thou? wouldst desire a trustier pilot, or a
fleeter galley?”

“Why,” she replied, with a smile half-sweet, half-sorrowful,
while a bright tear-drop glittered in her eye — “why should I
seek for fleetness, when that same speed will but the sooner bear
me from the sight of our fair France, and of thee, too, my father?”

“Dost then, then, rue thy choice?” whispered the ardent
voice of William in her ear; “and wouldst thou tarry here,
when fate and duty summon me hence for England?”

Her full blue eye met his, radiant with true affection, and her
slight fingers trembled in the clasp of her young husband with
a quick thrill of agitation, and her lips parted, but the words
were heard by none save him to whom they were addressed;
for, with the clang of beakers, and the loud swell of joyous music,
and the glad merriment of all the courtly revellers, the toast
of the bride's father passed round the gleaming board: “A blithe
and prosperous voyage — speed to the Blanche Navire, and joy
to all who sail in her!”

Thus closed the festive evening, and thus the seal of destiny
was set upon a hundred youthful brows, foredoomed, alas! to
an untimely grave beneath the ruthless billows.

The wintry day wore onward; and, wintry though it was,
save for a touch of keenness in the frosty air, and for the leafless
aspect of the country, it might have passed for a more
lightsome season; the sky was pure and cloudless as were the
prospects and the hopes of the gay throng who now embarked
secure and confident beneath its favorable omens. The sun
shone gayly as in the height of summer, and the blue waves
lay sleeping in its lustre as quietly as though they ne'er had
howled despair into the ears of drowning wretches! There
was no thought of peril or of fear — how should there be? The
ships were trustworthy; the seamen skilful, numerous, and
hardy; the breezes fair, though faint; the voyage brief; the
time propitious.

The day wore onward; and it was high noon before the
happy king — his every wish accomplished, secure as he conceived
himself, and firm in the fruition of his blood-bought
majesty — rowed with his glittering train on board the royal
galley. Loud pealed the cheering clamors of his Norman subjects,
bidding their sovereign hail; but louder yet they pealed,
when, with its freight of ladies, the second barge shot forth —
William and his fair sister, and yet fairer bride, and all the loveliest
of the dames that graced the broad Cotentin.

Not yet, however, were the anchors weighed — not yet were
the sails sheeted home; for on the deck of the king's vessel,
beneath an awning of pure cloth-of-gold, a gorgeous board was
spread. Not in the regal hall of Westminster could more of
luxury have been brought together than was displayed upon
that galley's poop. Spread with the softest ermine — meet
carpet for the gentle feet that trod it — cushioned with seats of
velvet, steaming with perfumes the most costly, it was a scene

resembling more some fairy palace than the wave-beaten fabric
that had braved many a gale, and borne the flag of England
through many a storm in triumph. And there they sat and
feasted, and the red wine-cup circled freely, and the song went
round: their hearts were high and happy, and they forgot the
lapse of hours; and still the reveller's shout was frequent on
the breeze, and still the melody of female tones, blent with the
clang of instrumental music, rang in the ears of those who loitered
on the shore, after the sun had bathed his lower limb in
the serene and peaceful waters.

Then, as it were, awaking from their trance of luxury, the
banqueters broke off. Skiff after skiff turned shoreward, till
none remained on board the royal ship except the monarch and
his train, and that loved son with his bright consort, whom,
parting from them there, he never was to look upon again!
The courses were unfurled, topsails were spread, and pennants
floated seaward; and, as the good ship gathered way, the father
bade adieu — adieu, as he believed it, but for one little night —
to all he loved on earth; and their barge, manned by a score
of powerful and active rowers, wafted the bridal party to the
Blanche Navire, which, as her precious freight drew nigh,
luffed gracefully and swiftly up to meet them, as though she
were a thing of life, conscious and proud of the high honor
she enjoyed in carrying the united hopes of Normandy and
England.

Delay — there was yet more delay! The night had settled
down upon the deep before the harbor of Barfleur was fairly
left behind; and yet so lovely was the night — with the moon,
near her full, soaring superbly through the cloudless sky, and
myriads on myriads of clear stars weaving their mystic dance
around her — that the young voyagers walked to and fro the
deck, rejoicing in the happy chance that had secured to them
so fair a time for their excursion: and William sat aloof, with

his sweet wife beside him, indulging in those bright anticipations,
those golden dreams of happiness, which indeed make
futurity a paradise to those who have not learned, by the sad
schoolings of experience, that human life is but another name
for human sorrow.

Fairer — the breeze blew fairer; and every sail was set and
drawing, and the light ripples burst with a gurgling sound like
laughter about the snow-white stem; and, still to waft them the
more swiftly to their home, fifty long oars, pulled well and
strongly by as many nervous arms, glanced in the liquid swell.
The bubbles on the surface were scarcely seen as they flashed
by, so rapid was their course; and a long wake of boiling foam
glanced in the moonshine, till it was lost to sight in the far distance.
The port was far behind them; and the king's ship,
seen faintly on the glimmering horizon, loomed like a pile of
vapor far on their starboard bow. And still the music rang
upon the favorable wind, and still the rowers sang amid their
toil, and still the captain sent the deep bowl round. The helmsman
dozed upon the tiller — the watch upon the forecastle had
long since stretched themselves upon the deck — in the deep
slumbers of exhaustion and satiety.

“Give way! my merry men, give way!” such was the jovial
captain's cry; “pull for the pride of Normandy — pull for your
country's fame, men of the fair Cotentin. What! will ye let
yon island-lubbers outstrip ye in the race? More way! more
way!”

And with unrivalled speed the Blanche Navire sped on. A
long black line stretches before her bow, dotting the silvery
surface with ragged and fantastic shades; but not one eye has
marked it! On she goes, swifter yet and swifter, and still the
fatal shout is ringing from her decks: “Give way, men of Cotentin!
give more way!” Now they are close upon it, and
now the dashing of the surf about the broken ledges — for that

black line is the dread Raz de Gatteville, the most tremendous
reef of all that bar the iron coast of Normandy! The hoarse
and hollow roar must reach the ears even of those who sleep.
But no! the clangor of the exulting trumpets, and the deep
booming of the Norman nakir, and that ill-omened shout, “Give
way — yet more — more way!” has drowned even the all-pervading
roar of the wild breakers. On, on she goes, fleet as the
gazehound darting upon its antlered prey; and now her bows
are bathed by the upflashing spray; and now — hark to that
hollow shock, that long and grinding crash! — hark to that wild
and agonizing yell sent upward by two hundred youthful voices,
up to the glorious stars that smiled as if in mockery of their
ruin. There rang the voice of the strong, fearless men; the
knight who had spurred oft his destrier amid the shivering of
lances and the reading clash of blades, without a thought unless
of high excitement and fierce joy; the mariner who, undismayed,
had reefed his sail, and steered his bark aright, amid
the wildest storm that ever lashed the sea to fury — now utterly
unnerved and paralyzed by the appalling change from mirth
and revelry to imminent and instant death.

So furious was the rate at which the galley was propelled,
that, when she struck upon the sharp and jagged rocks, her
prow was utterly stove inward, and the strong tide rushed in,
foaming and roaring like a mill-stream! Ten seconds' space
she hung upon the perilous ledge, while the waves made a
clear breach over her, sweeping not only every living being,
but every fixture — spars, bulwars, shrouds, and the tall masts
themselves — from her devoted decks. At the first shock, with
the instinctive readiness that characterizes, in whatever peril,
the true mariner, Fitz-Stephen, rallying to his aid a dozen of
the bravest of his men, had cleared away and launched a boat;
and, even as the fated bark went down, bodily sucked into the
whirling surf, had seized the prince and dragged him with a

stalwart arm into the little skiff, which had put off at once, to
shun the drowning hundreds who must have crowded in and
sunk her on the instant.

“Pull back! — God's death! — pull back!” cried the impetuous
youth, as he looked round and saw that he alone of all his
race was there; “pull back, ye dastard slaves, or by the Lord
and Maker of us all, though ye escape the waves, ye 'scape
not my revenge!” — and, as he spoke, he whirled his weapon
from the scabbard and pressed the point so closely to Fitz-Stephen's
throat, that its keen temper razed the skin; and, terrified
by his fierce menaces, and yet more by the resolute expression
that glanced forth from his whole countenance, they
turned her head once more toward the reef, and shot into the
vortex, agitated yet and boiling, wherein the hapless galley had
been swallowed. A female head, with long, fair hair, rose
close beside the shallop's stern, above the turbulent foam. William
bent forward: he had already clutched those golden tresses
— a moment, and she would have been enfolded in his arms
— another head rose suddenly! another — and another — and
another! Twenty strong hands grappled the gunwale of the
skiff with the tenacity of desperation. There was a struggle,
a loud shout, a heavy plunge, and the last remnant of the Blanche
Navire went down, actually dragged from beneath the few survivors
by the despairing hands of those whom she could not
have saved or succored had she been of ten times her burden.

All, all went down! There was a long and awful pause,
and then a slight splash broke the silence, a faint and gurgling
sigh, and a strong swimmer rose and shook the brine from his
dark locks; and lo, he was alone upon the deep! Something
he saw at a brief distance, distinct and dark, floating upon the
surface, and with a vigorous stroke he neared it — a fragment
of a broken spar. Hope quickened at his heart, and love of life,
almost forgotten in the immediate agony and terror, returned

in all its natural strength. He seized a rope, and by its aid
reared himself out of the abyss; and now he sat, securely as he
deemed it, upon a floating fragment on which, one little hour
before, he would not have embarked for all the wealth of India.
Scarcely had he reached his temporary place of safety, before
another of the sufferers swam feebly up and joined him, and
then a third, the last of the survivors. The first who reached
the spar — it was no other than Fitz-Stephen — had perused
with an anxiety the most sickening and painful the faces of the
new-comers: he knew them, but they were not the features he
would have given his own life to see in safety — Berault, a
butcher of Rouen, and Godfrey, a renowned and gallant youth,
the son of Gilbert, count de L'Aigle. “The prince — where is
the prince?” Fitz-Stephen cried to each, as he arrived; “hast
thou not seen the prince?” And each, in turn, replied: “He
never rose again — he, nor his brothers, nor his sister, nor his
bride, nor one of all their company!” — “Wo be to me!” Fitz-Stephen
cried, and letting go his hold, deliberately sank into
the whirling waters; and, though a strong man and an active
swimmer, chose to die with the victims whom his rashness had
destroyed, rather than meet the indignation of their bereaved
father, and bear the agonies of his own lifelong remorse.

Three days elapsed before the tidings reached King Henry,
who in the fearful misery of hope deferred had lingered on the
beach, trusting to hear that, from some unknown cause, the galley
of his son might have put back to Barfleur. On the third
day, Berault, the sole survivor of that night of misery, was
brought in by a fishing-boat which had preserved him; and,
when he had concluded his narration, Robert of Normandy had
been revenged, although his wrongs had been a hundred-fold
more flagrant than they were. Henry, though he lived years,
NEVER SMILED AGAIN!