TOPIC ; The summary of ghost ship

ASSIGNMENT; FUNCTIONAL ENGLISH IV

TEACHER; MA`AM AATQA

SUBMITTED BY; PALWASHA KHAN

ROLL NO 21

DEPARTMENT; BS (HONS)ZOOLGY SEMESTER 4TH

Summary of “The Ghost-Ship” By Richard Middleton
In this story, the writer tells them about the ghostliest spot in London. The Fair field was a little
town lying near the Portsmouth Road about half-way between the London and the sea. A
stranger discovers it occasionally, called it pretty and antiqued place; the people to live in it,
calls home doesn’t find anything pretty about it, but ought too sorry to live anyplace else. He
assumes that their minds have taken the form of a hotel, church, and green. At, all events never
feel comfortable out of Fairfield. The citizens with their large houses, noisy streets if choosing it,
they can call it rural. The Fair field is a better place to live than in London. He had to live there
himself a little boy, but he knows better at this point. The delicate man may laugh on it. Some
of them originate from London way. He can’t think that witness is a well worth gallon of
competition.

They may consider all things stupid. He ensures them that I've tuned in to all the London yarns
have spun today around evening time; they’re nothing to the things that occur at Fairfield. This
is a direct result of their perspective and staying out of other people's affairs. If one of your
Londoners was set down on the green of a Saturday night; when the ghosts of the boys who
died in the war keep tryst with the girls who lie in the churchyard. He was unable to help to be
interested and meddling; afterward, the ghost would turn away to someplace where it was
calmer.

They just let them come and go and don’t make any complaint, and in the outcome, Fairfield is
the ghostliest place in all England. He has seen a headless man sitting on the edge of the in
huge daylight hour, and the children playing about his feet as if he were their father. He
believes spirits know when they are wealthy as great deal as human beings.

He must concede that the thing he is going to tell you about was strange even for their part of
the world, where three packs of ghost-hounds hunt regularly during the season, and
blacksmith’s great-grandfather is busy all night shoeing the dead gentlemen’s horses. Now
that’s a thing that wouldn’t happen in London, because of their interfering ways, but blacksmith
he lies up aloft and sleeps as quiet as a lamb. Once when he had an awful head he shouted
down to them not to make so much noise, and in the morning, he found an old guinea left on
the Blacksmith's iron as a statement of regret. He wears it on his watch-chain now. He must get
on with my story; if he starts telling, you about the strange happenings at Fairfield he’ll never
stop.

Everything happened to the extraordinary storm in the spring of ‘97, the year that they had two
incredible storms. This was the first one, and I recall it very well because he found in the
morning that it had lifted the cover of my pigsty into the widow’s garden as spotless as a boy’s
kite. When he investigated the fence, widow-Tom Lamport’s widow that was goading for her
nasturtiums with a daisy-grubber. After he had watched her for a little I went down to the “Fox
and Grapes” to mention the landlord, she had said to him.

He laughed, being a married man and quiet with the sex. The tempest has blown something
into the Landlord's field. It would be kind of ship.

He was shocked at that until he clarified that it was only a ghost-ship and would do no damage
to the turnips. They discussed that it had been exploded from the sea at Portsmouth, and then
they talked of something else. There were two slates down at the parsonage and a big tree in
Lumley’s meadow. It was an uncommon storm.

He figures the breeze had blown our ghosts all over England. They were returning for days
while later with foundered horses and as footsore as possible, and they were so happy to
return to Fairfield. Some of them walked up the street crying likes little youngsters. Assistant
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, he should think it was a week before they got straight again,
and then one afternoon I met the landlord on the green; he had a stressed face. Landlord
wishes he’d come and have look at that ship in my field. It appears hard on the turnips. He can’t
endure about the missus will say when she sees it.

He walked down the lane with him, and sure there was a ship in the middle of his field; but such
a ship as no man had seen on the water for tong time, let alone in the middle of a turnip-field. It
was completed painted blacks and secured with carvings, and there was an extraordinary cove
window in the harsh for the entire world like the Squire’s drawing-room. There was a crowd of
the little black gun on deck and watching out of her port-holes. She was anchored at each end
to the hard ground. He has seen the wonders of the world on picture-postcards, but he has
never seen anything to equal that.

The landlord was in trouble when seeing the ship appears to be strong for a ghost. It is unsure
going to ruin fifty turnips and misses will want to move it. They went up to ship and touched the
side; it was as hard as a real ship. People in England would call that very curious.

The author doesn’t know much about ships, but he imagines ghost-ship gauged a strong two
hundred tons, and he couldn't suspect that she had come to stay, so he felt frustrated for the
landlord. All the horses in Fairfield won’t move her out of my turnips.

Just then they heard a noise on her deck, and they upward and saw that a man had come out of
her front lodge and was looking down on them very peaceably. He was dressed in a black
uniform set out with corroded gold lace, and he had a great cutlass by his side in a metal
sheath. It was Captain Bartholomew Roberts seems to have brought her rather far up the
harbor landlord cried that captain ship's fifty miles from the sea but Captain Roberts didn’t turn
a hair. He said coolly that it’s of no result.

The landlord was a bit upset and don’t want to become in neighbor and want captain hadn’t
brought his ship into this field. His wife sets great store on these turnips

The captain took a pinch of snuff out from the fine gold box that he pulled out of his pocket and
clean his fingers with a silk handkerchief in a respectable manner. He was here for a few
months, but the event of declaration would pacify your good lady, so, he loosed a great gold
brooch from the neck of his coat and threw it down to the landlord.

Landlord blushed as red as a strawberry. His wife was fond of jewelry but it’s too much for half
a sacksful of turnips. Indeed, the brooch was handsome.

The captain laughed for forced sale and deserves him a good price. He turned on his heel and
went into the cabin. Landlord walked back up the lane like a man with a load off his mind. That
tempest has blown him a bit of luck. His missus will be much pleased with that brooch. It’s
better than blacksmith’s guinea.

Ninety-seven was Jubilee year, the year of the second Jubilee, they had great doings at Fairfield
so that they hadn’t much time to bother about the ghost-ship through anyhow it isn’t their way
to interfering in things that don’t concern them. The landlord saw his inhabitant more than one
occasion when he was hoeing his turnips and breathed easy of the day; the landlord’s wife
wore her new brooch to church every Sunday. But they didn’t mix much with the ghosts at any
time, all except a foolish boy there was in the village, and he didn’t know the difference
between a man and a ghost, poor innocent.

On the festival day, however, somebody told Captain Roberts why the church bells were
ringing, and he raised a flag and fired off his guns like a loyal Englishman. The guns were slotted
and one of the round shot knocked a hole in Farmer Johnston’s barn, but nobody thought much
of that in it wasn’t till our celebrations were over that they noticed that anything was wrong in
Fairfield. Twas shoemaker who revealed him first about it one morning at the “Fox and
Grapes.” Shoemaker asked him what know my great-great-uncle Joshua, the quiet lad. He knew
him well.

Joshua coming home at three o’clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking up
the whole house with his noise. He knew him for one of the most respectable young ghosts in
the village. One of these nights he’ll find himself out in the street if he isn’t careful.
This kind of talk shocked him, he can tell shoemaker he doesn’t like to hear a man mishandling
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
and keep saying the young puppy. It was sometime before shoemaker and he found out that he
was talking about his ancestor that fell at Senlac.

Shoemaker said hopefully they all like a company in our misfortunes, and butcher nodded
grimly, exhausted his mug.

He 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 move home in the small hours of the morning
the awful for alcohol. I used to wake up in the night and hear them stumble past his house,
singing unbelievable tunes. The most awful of it was that they were unable to keep the scandal
to ourselves and the folk at Greenhill began to discuss “sodden Fairfield” and taught their
children to sing a song about them;

“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.

They soon found out where the young fellows went to get the drink, and the landlord was cut
up that his tenant should have turned out so badly, but his wife wouldn’t hear of parting with
the brooch so that he couldn’t give the Captain notice to quit. But as time went on, things grew
from awful to more awful, and at all hours of the day, they would see those young reprobates
sleeping it off on the village green. Nearly every afternoon a ghost-wagon used to shock down
to the ship with a filling of rum, and though the older ghosts seemed inclined to give the
Captain’s friendliness the pass-by, the youngsters were neither to hold nor to bind.

So one afternoon when he was sleeping he heard a knock at the door, and the parson was
looking very serious, like a man with a job before him that he didn’t altogether relish. He wants
to go down to talk to the Captain about all this drunkenness in the village, and he needs him to
accompany him. He visits a lot, himself, and tried to insight to parson that as, after all, they
were only a lot of ghosts it didn’t very much matter.

“Dead or alive, parson responsible for the good conduct, he going to do his duty and put a stop
to this continued disorder. John Simmons was coming with him. So he went with parson being a
persuasive kind of man. They went down to the ship and approached her he could see the
Captain tasting the air on deck. When he saw parson he took off his hat very politely and he can
tell him that he was relieved to find that he had appropriate regard for the cloth. Parson
recognizes his salute and spoke out strongly. “He should be glad to have a word with him.”

He could tell by Captain's voice that he knew why we were there. Parson and I climbed up an
uncomfortable ladder, and the Captain brought us into the great cabin at the back of the ship,
where the straight window was. It was the most wonderful place they ever saw in their life, all
loaded with full of gold and silver plate, swords with jeweled scabbards, carved oak chairs, and
great chests that look as though they were overflowing with guineas. Even parson was shocked,
and he did not shake his head very hard when the Captain brought down some silver cups and
poured us out a drink of rum. Simmon tasted his rum, and he doesn’t mind saying that it
changed his view of things entirely. There was nothing uncertain about that rum, and I felt that
it was absurd to blame the boys for drinking too much of stuff like that. It seemed to fill my
veins with honey and fire.

Parson put the case soundly to the Captain, but Simmon didn’t listen much, he was busy sipping
his drink and glance the window at the fishes swimming to and fro over landlord’s turnips. It
seemed the most natural thing in the world that they should be there, though afterward, of
course, I could see that that proved it was a ghost-ship.

But even then I thought it was strange when he saw a drowned sailor float by in the thin air
with his hair and beard all full of bubbles. It was the first time I had seen anything quite like that
at Fairfield. All the time he was regarding the wonders of the deep parson was telling Captain
Roberts how there was no peace or rest in the village owing to the curse of drunkenness, and
what a bad example the youngsters were setting to the older ghosts. The Captain listened very
attentively and only put in a word about boys being boys and young men like there is no
tomorrow. But when parson had finished his speech he filled up our silver cups parson with a
twist, “he should be sorry to cause trouble anywhere where he has been made welcome, and
they will be glad to hear that he put to sea tomorrow night. And now he must drink him a
prosperous voyage.” So we all stood up and drank the toast with honor, and that noble rum
was like hot oil in his veins.

After that Captain showed us some of the interests he had brought back from foreign parts, and
they were greatly amazed, though afterward, he couldn’t clearly remember what they were.
And then he found himself walking across the turnips with the parson, and he was telling him of
the glories of the deep that he had seen through the window of the ship. Parson turned on him
severely and said he should go straight home to bed. He has a way of putting things that
wouldn’t occur to an ordinary man, has parson, and I did as he told me.

The next day it came on to blow, and it blew harder and harder, till about eight o’clock at night
Simmon heard a noise and looked out into the garden. He dare say he won’t believe him, it
seems a bit tall even to me, but the wind had lifted the cover of my pigsty into the widow’s
garden a second time. He thought he couldn't wait to hear what widow had to say about it, so
he went across the green to the “Fox and Grapes”, and the wind was so strong that he danced
along on tiptoe like a girl at the fair. When he got to the inn landlord had to help me shut the
door; it seemed as though a dozen goats were pushing against it to come in out of the storm.

It’s a powerful tempest drawing the beer. There’s a chimney down at Dickory End. “It’s a funny
thing about how these sailors know about the weather. The captain said he was going tonight,
he was thinking it would take a capful of wind to carry the ship back to sea, but now here’s
more than a capful.”

According to the landlord tonight he goes true enough, Captain treated him handsome over the
rent, and it’s a loss to the village. He doesn’t hold with generic that fetch their drink from
London instead of helping local traders to get their living.”

Simmon said; the landlord hasn’t got any rum-like him. His neck grew red above his collar, and
Simmon was afraid I’d gone too far, but after a while, he got his breath with a grunt. This windy
night to talk a lot of fool’s talk, he has wasted a journey.” the landlord said.

Simmon had to smooth him down with praising his rum, and Heaven forgives him for swearing
it was better than Captain. For the like of that rum, no living lips have tasted save mine and
parsons. But somehow or other he brought landlord round, and presently we must have a glass
of his best to prove its quality.

They both raised their glasses to mouths, only to stop half-way and look at each other in amaze.
For the wind that had been howling outside like an outrageous dog had all of a sudden turned
as melodious as the carol-boys of a Christmas Eve. Landlord whispered; Martha being his great-
aunt that lived in the loft overhead.

They went to the door, and the wind burst it open so that the handle was driven clean into the
plaster of the wall. But they didn’t think about that at the time; for over our heads, sailing very
comfortably through the windy stars, was the ship that had passed the summer in the
landlord’s field. Her portholes and her bay-window were blazing with lights, and there was a
noise of singing and fiddling on her decks. “He’s gone,” shouted landlord and he has taken half
the village with him!” Simmon could only nod in answer, not having lungs like bellows of
leather.

In the morning they were able to measure the strength of the storm, and over and above his
pigsty there was damage enough wrought in the village to keep us busy. True it is that the
children had to break down no branches for the firing that autumn since the wind had strewn
the woods with more than they could carry away. Many of our ghosts were scattered abroad,
but this time very few came back, all the young men having sailed with Captain; and not only
ghosts, for a poor half-witted lad was missing, and we reckoned that he had stowed himself
away or perhaps shipped as cabin-boy, not knowing any better.

What with the lamentations of the ghost-girls and the grumbling of families who had lost an
ancestor, the village was upset for a while, and the funny thing was that it was the folk who had
complained most of the carryings-on of the youngsters, who made most noise now that they
were gone. He hadn’t any sympathy with shoemaker or butcher, who ran about saying how
much they missed their lads, but it made me grieve to hear the poor bereaved girls calling their
lovers by name on the village green at nightfall. It didn’t seem fair to me that they should have
lost their men a second time, after giving up life to join them, as like as not. Still, not even a
spirit can be sorry forever, and after a few months we made up our mind that the folk who had
sailed in the ship were never coming back, and they didn’t talk about it anymore.

And then one day, he dares say it would be a couple of years after, when the whole business
was quite forgotten, who should come trapesing along the road from Portsmouth but the
foolish boy who had gone away with the ship, without waiting till he was dead to become a
ghost. You never saw such a boy as that in all your life. He had a great rusty cutlass hanging to a
string at his waist, and he was tattooed all over in fine colors so that even his face looked like a
girl’s sampler. He had a handkerchief in his hand full of foreign shells and old-fashioned pieces
of small money, very curious, and he walked up to the well outside his mother’s house and
drew himself a drink as if he had been nowhere in particular.

The worst of it was that he had come back as soft-headed as he went, and try as we might we
couldn’t get anything reasonable out of him. He talked a lot of gibberish about keel-hauling and
walking the plank and crimson murders — things which a decent sailor should know nothing
about so that it seemed to me that for all his manners Captain had been more of a pirate than a
gentleman mariner. But to draw sense out of that boy was as hard as picking cherries off a crab-
tree. One silly tale he had that he kept on drifting back to, and to hear him you would have
thought that it was the only thing that happened to him in his life. “We were at anchor,” he
would say, “off an island called the Basket of Flowers, and the sailors had caught a lot of parrots
and we were teaching them to swear. Up and down the decks, up and down the decks and the
language they used were dreadful. Then we looked up and saw the masts of the Spanish ship
outside the harbor. Outside the harbor they were, so we threw the parrots into the sea and
sailed out to fight. And all the parrots were drowned in the sea and the language they used was
dreadful.” That’s the sort of boy he was, nothing but silly talk of parrots when we asked him
about the fighting. And we never had a chance of teaching him better, for two days after he ran
away again, and hasn’t been seen since.

That’s my story, and he assures him that things like that are happening at Fairfield all the time.
The ship has never come back, but somehow as people grow older they seem to think that one
of these windy nights she’ll come sailing in over the hedges with all the lost ghosts on board.
Well, when she comes, she’ll be welcome. There’s one ghost-boy that has never grown tired of
waiting for her lad to return. Every night he’ll see her out on the green, straining her poor eyes
with looking for the mast-lights among the stars. Faithful boys do not call her,

Landlord’s field wasn’t a penny the worse for the visit, but they do say that since then the
turnips that have been grown in it have tasted of rum.