It was a rare
storm. I reckon the wind had blown our ghosts all over England. They were coming back for days afterwards with foundered horses
and as footsore as possible, and they were so glad to get back
to Fairfield that some of them walked up the street crying like
little children. Squire said that his great-grandfather's
great-grandfather hadn't looked so dead-beat since the battle
of Naseby, and he's an educated man. What with one thing and another, I should think it was a week before
we got straight again, and then one afternoon I met the landlord on
the green and he had a worried face. "I wish you'd come and have a
look at that ship in my field," he said to me; "it seems to me it's
leaning real hard on the turnips. I can't bear thinking what the
missus will say when she sees it." I walked down the lane with him, and sure enough there was a
ship in the middle of his field, but such a ship as no man had
seen on the water for three hundred years, let alone in the
middle of a turnip-field. It was all painted black and covered
with carvings, and there was a great bay window in the stern
for all the world like the Squire's drawing-room. There was a
crowd of little black cannon on deck and looking out of her
port-holes, and she was anchored at each end to the hard
ground. I have seen the wonders of the world on picture-postcards,
but I have never seen anything to equal that. "She seems very solid for a ghost-ship," I said, seeing the landlord
was bothered. "I should say it's a betwixt and between," he answered, puzzling it
over, "but it's going to spoil a matter of fifty turnips, and missus
she'll want it moved." We went up to her and touched the side, and it
was as hard as a real ship. "Now there's folks in England would call
that very curious," he said. Now I don't know much about ships, but I should think that that
ghost-ship weighed a solid two hundred tons, and it seemed to me
that she had come to stay, so that I felt sorry for landlord, who was
a married man. "All the horses in Fairfield won't move her out of my
turnips," he said, frowning at her. Just then we heard a noise on her deck, and we looked up and saw that
a man had come out of her front cabin and was looking down at us very
peaceably. He was dressed in a black uniform set out with rusty gold
lace, and he had a great cutlass by his side in a brass sheath. "I'm
Captain Bartholomew Roberts," he said, in a gentleman's voice, "put
in for recruits. I seem to have brought her rather far up the
harbour." "Harbour!" cried landlord; "why, you're fifty miles from the sea." Captain Roberts didn't turn a hair. "So much as that, is it?" he said
coolly. "Well, it's of no consequence." Landlord was a bit upset at this. "I don't want to be unneighbourly,"
he said, "but I wish you hadn't brought your ship into my field. You
see, my wife sets great store on these turnips." The captain took a pinch of snuff out of a fine gold box that he
pulled out of his pocket, and dusted his fingers with a silk
handkerchief in a very genteel fashion. "I'm only here for a few
months," he said; "but if a testimony of my esteem would pacify your
good lady I should be content," and with the words he loosed a great
gold brooch from the neck of his coat and tossed it down to landlord. Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. "I'm not denying she's fond
of jewellery," he said, "but it's too much for half a sackful of
turnips." And indeed it was a handsome brooch. The captain laughed. "Tut, man," he said, "it's a forced sale, and
you deserve a good price. Say no more about it;" and nodding good-day
to us, he turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walked
back up the lane like a man with a weight off his mind. "That tempest
has blowed me a bit of luck," he said; "the missus will be much
pleased with that brooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea, any
day." Ninety-seven was Jubilee year, the year of the second Jubilee, you
remember, and we had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn't
much time to bother about the ghost-ship though anyhow it isn't our
way to meddle in things that don't concern us. Landlord, he saw his
tenant once or twice when he was hoeing his turnips and passed the
time of day, and landlord's wife wore her new brooch to church every
Sunday. But we didn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, all
except an idiot lad there was in the village, and he didn't know the
difference between a man and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee Day,
however, somebody told Captain Roberts why the church bells were
ringing, and he hoisted a flag and fired off his guns like a loyal
Englishman. 'Tis true the guns were shotted, and one of the round
shot knocked a hole in Farmer Johnstone's barn, but nobody thought
much of that in such a season of rejoicing. It wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed that
anything was wrong in Fairfield. 'Twas shoemaker who told me first
about it one morning at the "Fox and Grapes." "You know my great
great-uncle?" he said to me. "You mean Joshua, the quiet lad," I answered, knowing him well. "Quiet!" said shoemaker indignantly. "Quiet you call him, coming home
at three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking up
the whole house with his noise." "Why, it can't be Joshua!" I said, for I knew him for one of the most
respectable young ghosts in the village. "Joshua it is," said shoemaker; "and one of these nights he'll find
himself out in the street if he isn't careful." This kind of talk shocked me, I can tell you, for I don't like to
hear a man abusing his own family, and I could hardly believe that a
steady youngster like Joshua had taken to drink. But just then in
came butcher Aylwin in such a temper that he could hardly drink his
beer. "The young puppy! the young puppy!" he kept on saying; and it
was some time before shoemaker and I found out that he was talking
about his ancestor that fell at Senlac. "Drink?" said shoemaker hopefully, for we all like company in our
misfortunes, and butcher nodded grimly. "The young noodle," he said, emptying his tankard. Well, after that I kept my ears open, and it was the same story all
over the village. There was hardly a young man among all the ghosts
of Fairfield who didn't roll home in the small hours of the morning
the worse for liquor. I used to wake up in the night and hear them
stumble past my house, singing outrageous songs. The worst of it was
that we couldn't keep the scandal to ourselves and the folk at
Greenhill began to talk of "sodden Fairfield" and taught their
children to sing a song about us:

 "Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield, has no use for bread-and-butter,
 Rum for breakfast, rum for dinner, rum for tea, and rum for supper!" We are easy-going in our village, but we didn't like that.