Other editions of book The Phantom Death, etc.

The Phantom Death was first published in 1906 with the following acclaim:OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE PHANTOM DEATH.“No other writer so effectually carries his readers down to the sea in ships, and even in steamers he never fails to give us the true salt atmosphere.... ‘The Lazarette of the Huntress’ is undoubtedly one of the most exciting tales ever written by a past-master in the art of thrilling his readers, while the other ten yarns are all thoroughly interesting.”—Manchester Courier.

The Phantom Death was first published in 1906 with the following acclaim: OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE PHANTOM DEATH.“No other writer so effectually carries his readers down to the sea in ships, and even in steamers he never fails to give us the true salt atmosphere.... ‘The Lazarette of the Huntress’ is undoubtedly one of the most exciting tales ever written by a past-master in the art of thrilling his readers, while the other ten yarns are all thoroughly interesting.”—Manchester Courier.“There is not one which is not entertaining, and many are positively thrilling.”—Sun.“We can cordially recommend it as being, in its way, equal to anything that Mr. Clark Russell has yet written. Higher praise than this could hardly be given to a collection of stories.”—Speaker.“There is plenty of variety, and all are as good reading as those which have previously come from the same author’s pen.”—Scotsman.“All full of adventure, and form capital reading.”—Lloyd’s Weekly News.“A collection of thrilling tales of the sea from the ever-felicitous pen of Mr. Clark Russell, the most inventive and picturesque of modern writers on maritime subjects.... In point of merit no distinction can be made between these stories, for they are one and all absolutely first-class.”—Daily Telegraph.“Marked by Mr. Clark Russell’s genius, in which the horrible, the grotesque, and the humorous are well contrasted. No other writer so realises for us the moods of the sea, or tells tales of the sea with such faithful and vivid presentation.”—Leeds Mercury.“All alike intensely interesting, and instinct with the life and motion of the ‘ever-changing, never-changing sea.’”—Weekly Dispatch.“One thing is certain about Mr. Clark Russell—whatever the story he has to tell, he cannot write a page without imparting to it the briny savour of the sea. His storms are impressive, his bright breezes are exhilarating, but his rendering of a dead ocean calm is as unique as the thing itself. It is a master’s work.”—Academy.“Mr. Russell keeps up a remarkable freshness of tone in his sea-stories.... These stories vary a good deal in purport and incident, but they are all attractive and ingenious.... Eleven half-hours of thoroughly diverting fiction.”—Athenæum.“There is something picturesque, or weird, or sensational, in all of them.... All are entertaining, all are especially suitable for readers in a hurry, or readers who want something that will let thought be quiet.”—Bookman.“The wonderful fertility of invention which we have once or twice referred to as specially characteristic of Mr. Russell’s maritime novels is well in evidence in this collection of stories. The best of them are really excellent, and even those which are less good than the best stand on an exceptionally high level.”—Spectator.“‘The Phantom Death’ has all the best characteristics of Mr. Russell’s style—stirring plot, mastery of exact detail, and power of bringing each picture vividly before the mind’s eye of the reader.”—St. Paul’s.“All racy of the real sea, vigorously told, and exciting some admiration at the fertility of the imagination which has contrived to create so many diverse sensational incidents out of such similar materials without a single instance of repetition.”—Guardian.

On the 24th of April, 1840, having finished the business that had carried me into the Brazils, I arrived at Rio de Janeiro, where I found a vessel lying nearly loaded, and sailing for the port of Bristol in four or five days. In those times, passenger traffic between Great Britain and the eastern coast of South America was almost entirely carried on in small ships, averaging from 200 to 500 tons.The funnel of the ocean mail steamer, with her gilded saloons and side wheels, which, to the great admiration of all beholders, slapped twelve knots an hour out of the composite fabric, had not yet hove into sight above the horizon of commerce, and folks were very well satisfied if they were no longer than three months in reaching the Brazilian coast out of the River Thames.The little ship in which I took passage was a barque called the Lord of the Isles; her burthen was something under four hundred tons. She was a round-bowed waggon of a vanished type, with a square, sawed-off stern, painted ports, heavy over-hanging channels, and as loftily rigged, I was going to say, as a line-of-battle-ship, owing to her immense beam, which gave her the stability of a church. I applied to the agent and hired a cabin, and found myself, to my secret satisfaction, the only passenger in the ship. Yes, I was rejoiced to be the sole passenger; my passage out had been rendered memorably miserable by the society of as ill-conditioned, bad-tempered, sulky a lot of wretches as ever turned in of a night into bunks, and cursed the captain in their gizzards in a calm for not being able to whistle a wind up over the sea-line.The name of the skipper of the Lord of the Isles was Joyce.William Clark Russell

“No other writer so effectually carries his readers down to the sea in ships, and even in steamers he never fails to give us the true salt atmosphere.... ‘The Lazarette of the Huntress’ is undoubtedly one of the most exciting tales ever written by a past-master in the art of thrilling his readers, while the other ten yarns are all thoroughly interesting.”—MANCHESTER COURIER. This is a book of remarkable nautical ghost and horror stories written by William Clark Russell in 1893. The stories are for the most part set on ships and bring the reader on board for ghostly nights, wonderful sights, and strange occurrences.

On the 24th of April, 1840, having finished the business that had carried me into the Brazils, I arrived at Rio de Janeiro, where I found a vessel lying nearly loaded, and sailing for the port of Bristol in four or five days. In those times, passenger traffic between Great Britain and the eastern coast of South America was almost entirely carried on in small ships, averaging from 200 to 500 tons. The funnel of the ocean mail steamer, with her gilded saloons and side wheels, which, to the great admiration of all beholders, slapped twelve knots an hour out of the composite fabric, had not yet hove into sight above the horizon of commerce, and folks were very well satisfied if they were no longer than three months in reaching the Brazilian coast out of the River Thames. The little ship in which I took passage was a barque called the Lord of the Isles; her burthen was something under four hundred tons. She was a round-bowed waggon of a vanished type, with a square, sawed-off stern, painted ports, heavy over-hanging channels, and as loftily rigged, I was going to say, as a line-of-battle-ship, owing to her immense beam, which gave her the stability of a church. I applied to the agent and hired a cabin, and found myself, to my secret satisfaction, the only passenger in the ship. Yes, I was rejoiced to be the sole passenger; my passage out had been rendered memorably miserable by the society of as ill-conditioned, bad-tempered, sulky a lot of wretches as ever turned in of a night into bunks, and cursed the captain in their gizzards in a calm for not being able to whistle a wind up over the sea-line. The name of the skipper of the Lord of the Isles was Joyce. He was unlike the average run of the men in that trade. Instead of being beef-faced and bow-legged, humid of eye and gay with grog-blossoms, he was tall, pale, spare; he spoke low and in a melancholy key; he never swore; he drank wine and water, and there was little or nothing in his language to suggest the sailor. His berth was right aft on the starboard side; mine was right aft also, next his. Three cabins on either hand ran forward from these two after-berths. Two of them were occupied by the first and second mates. Between was a roomy “state-cabin,” as the term then was: a plain interior furnished with an oblong table and fixed chairs, lighted by day by a large skylight, by night by a couple of brass lamps. We sailed away on a Monday morning, as well I recollect, out of the spacious and splendid scene of the harbour of Rio, and under full breasts of canvas, swelling to the height of a main-skysail big enough to serve as a mizzen topgallant-sail for a thousand-ton ship of to-day, and with taut bowlines and yearning jibs, and a heel of hull that washed a two-foot wide streak of greenish copper through the wool-white swirl of froth that broke from the bows, the Lord of the Isles headed on a straight course for the deep solitudes of the Atlantic. All went well with us for several days. Our ship’s company consisted of twelve men, including a boatswain and carpenter. The forecastle hands appeared very hearty, likely fellows, despite their pier-head raiment of Scotch cap and broken small clothes, and open flannel shirt, and greasy sheath-knife belted to the hip. They worked with a will, they sang out cheerily at the ropes, they went in and out of the galley at meal-time without faces of loathing, and but one complaint came aft before our wonderful, mysterious troubles began: the ship’s bread crawled, they said, and, being found truly very bad, good white flour was served out in lieu.