Henry I, king of England, went over to Normandy with his son Prince William and a great retinue to have the prince acknowledged as his successor, and to contract a marriage between him and the daughter of the Count of Anjou. Both these things were triumphantly done, with great show and rejoicing; and on the 25th of November, in the year 1120, the whole company prepared to embark for the voyage home.

On that day, there came to the king, Fitz-Stephen, a sea-captain and said, “My liege, my father served your father all his life upon the sea. He steered the ship with the golden boy upon the prow, in which your father sailed to conquer England. I have a fair vessel in the harbor here, called The White Ship, manned by fifty sailors of renown. I pray you, Sire, to let your servant have the honor of steering you in The White Ship to England.”

“I am sorry, friend,” replied the king, “that my ship is already chosen, and that I cannot, therefore, sail with the son of the man who served my father. But the prince and his company shall go along with you in the fair White Ship manned by the fifty sailors of renown.” An hour or two afterwards, the king set sail in the vessel he had chosen, accompanied by other vessels, and, sailing all night with a fair and gentle wind, arrived upon the coast of England in the morning. While it was yet night, the people in some of these ships heard a faint, wild cry come over the sea, and wondered what it was.

Now the prince was a dissolute young man of eighteen, who bore no love to the English, and who had declared that when he came to the throne, he would yoke them to the plough like oxen. He went aboard The White Ship with one hundred and forty youthful nobles like himself, among whom were eighteen noble ladies of the highest rank. All this gay company, with their servants and the fifty sailors, made three hundred souls aboard the fair White Ship.

“Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,” said the prince, “to the fifty sailors of renown. My father the king has sailed out of the harbor. What time is there to make merry here, and yet reach England with the rest?”

“Prince,” said Fitz-Stephen, “before morning my fifty and The White Ship shall overtake the swiftest vessel in attendance on your father the king, if we sail at midnight.” Then the prince commanded to make merry; and the sailors drank the three casks of wine; and the prince and all the noble company danced in the moonlight on the deck.

When, at last, the ship shot out of the harbor, there was not a sober seaman on board. But the sails were all set, and the oars all going merrily. Fitz-Stephen had the helm. The gay young nobles and the beautiful ladies wrapped in mantles of various bright colors to protect them from the cold, talked, laughed, and sang. The prince encouraged the fifty sailors to row yet harder, for the honor of The White Ship.

Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the cry the people, in the distant vessels of the king, heard faintly on the water. The White Ship had struck upon a rock,—was filling,—going down! Fitz-Stephen hurried the prince into a boat with some few nobles. “Push off,” he whispered, “and row to the land. It is not far off, and the sea is smooth. The rest of us must die.” But as they rowed fast away from the sinking ship, the prince heard the voice of his sister calling for help. He never in his life had been so noble as he was then. He cried in agony, “Row back at any risk! I cannot bear to leave her!”

They rowed back. As the prince held out his arms to catch his sister, such numbers leaped into the boat that it was overturned. And in the same instant, The White Ship went down. Only two men floated. They both clung to the main-yard of the ship, which had broken from the mast and now supported them. One asked the other who he was. He replied, “I am a nobleman,—Godfrey by name, son of Gilbert. And you?”—”I am a poor butcher of Rouen,” was the answer. Then they said together, “Lord be merciful to us both!” and tried to encourage each other as they drifted in the cold, benumbing sea on that unfortunate November night.

By and by another man came swimming towards them, whom they knew, when he pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. “Where is the prince?” said he. “Gone, gone!” the two cried together. “Neither he, nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the king’s niece, nor her brother, nor any of all the brave three hundred, noble or commoner, except us three, has risen above the water!” Fitz-Stephen, with a ghastly face, cried, “Woe! woe to me!” and sank to the bottom.

The other two clung to the yard for some hours. At length the young noble said faintly, “I am exhausted, and chilled with the cold, and can hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!” So he dropped and sank; and, of all the brilliant crowd, the poor butcher of Rouen alone was saved. In the morning some fishermen saw him floating in his sheepskin coat, and got him into their boat,—the sole relater of the dismal tale.

For three days no one dared to carry the intelligence to the king. At length they sent into his presence a little boy who, weeping bitterly and falling at his feet, told him that The White Ship was lost with all on board. The king fell to the ground like a dead man, and never, never afterwards was seen to smile.

—Charles Dickens.