Honouring Jane Austen’s Naval Brother Charles: The Story of His Naval General Service Medal

Fig.1: Charles Austen’s Naval General Service Medal[1]

In 1849 Charles Austen received a distinguished award, the Naval General Service Medal. It was created by Queen Victoria in recognition of participation in significant naval actions between 1793 and 1840, such as an important single-ship capture of an enemy vessel, a larger naval engagement, like the Battle of St Domingo (1806), or a major fleet action, such as the defeat of the Franco-Spanish fleet at Trafalgar (1805).[2] The medal shows a left facing effigy of the Queen on one side and the figure of Britannia on the other. It hangs by a white ribbon edged with dark blue. Clasps, each designating the action for which the participant is honoured, are affixed to the ribbon.

Charles’s ribbon carries two clasps: “Unicorn 8 June 1796,” a reference to a single ship action by the 38 gun frigate, HMS Unicorn,[3] and “Syria” which refers to an extensive campaign in Syria in 1840.[4]  These actions are like bookends to a 42 year period during Charles Austen’s long naval career. He was a 16 year old midshipman when the Unicorn triumphed over the much larger French frigate, La Tribune (44 guns). By 1839, during the action in Syria, he was the 60-year-old captain of HMS Bellerophon (80 guns). In this blog, I will explore the two naval actions which Charles’s medal recognizes and consider the significance of this award for Charles. 

HMS Unicorn vs La Tribune: A dramatic chase and capture

Those aboard HMS Unicorn on 8 June 1796 would long remember that day. As dawn broke, the Unicorn, while cruising west of the Scilly Islands, sighted and gave chase to an enemy frigate, La Tribune.[5] During the day, the French ship ran before the wind, and although the Unicorn gained on her target, she was also subjected to well directed fire, resulting in damage to her mast and rigging. Undeterred, the Unicorn kept up the chase and a running fight for 10 hours. According to her captain, Thomas Williams, “at half past ten at night, having [run 210] miles, we [came] up alongside our antagonist and gave him [broad] sides for 35 minutes.”

As the smoke cleared, the Unicorn realized that she was still in considerable danger. La Tribune was, in Williams's words, “attempting by a master manoeuvre to cross our stern and gain the wind.”[6] Williams and his men responded by “instantly throwing Unicorn’s sails aback, by which means the ship gathered stern way, passed the enemy’s bow, regained her former position”[7]  and renewed the attack. The triumphant Williams continued: “the effect of our fire soon put an end to all manoeuvre for the enemy’s ship was completely dismantled,[8] her fire ceased, and all further resistance appearing ineffectual, they called out they had surrendered.”[9] It was a spectacular triumph of seamanship and bombardment for all those aboard the Unicorn.

Fig. 2: Capture of La Tribune by HMS Unicorn on June 8th 1796.[10]

Only similarly significant single ship actions during the French Revolutionary Wars (1793-1802)  were deemed worthy of the Naval General Service Medal.[11] The Admiralty recommended only those actions which counted as exceptional accomplishments in which the captain and the men had displayed marked courage and excellent seamanship, and the action was completed with as little loss of British lives as possible. The capture was also deemed praiseworthy if the enemy vessel, although damaged, could readily be repaired and refitted.  In such instances, the ship could be recommissioned into the British Navy, thereby adding to the British fighting forces while at the same time reducing the enemy’s fleet.

Evidently, the taking of La Tribune by the Unicorn satisfied these expectations. With a crew of 251 compared to the enemy’s 337, Williams and his men undertook a daring and challenging action, which required bravery, stamina and perseverance. They managed to sustain a running fire for 10 hours over a distance of 210 miles. Moreover, Captain Williams’s leadership was exemplary. Throughout the action he displayed “judicious and seamanlike conduct.”[12] The enemy’s final desperate strategy to cross the Unicorn’s stern and gain the wind was “skillfully defeated”[13] by Williams’s quick thinking and his men’s rapid response. An extraordinary feature of the action was that La Tribune failed to inflict any casualties aboard the Unicorn, whereas 37 men on the Tribune were killed, and 15 were wounded, including her captain, Commodore Moulson. In addition, La Tribune was a valuable prize - only three years old, well built and well designed. She was repaired and commissioned into the British navy as HMS Tribune.[14]

To be a participant in an action of this importance surely thrilled the young Charles Austen. It was his first experience of a long and complex pursuit and capture. We don’t know what specific part he played. As a senior midshipman, he might have been involved in commanding a group of guns in action during the prolonged chase. Charles must have felt some reflected glory, given the public praise for the Unicorn’s remarkable feat. Certainly, the Austen family rejoiced when, soon after the Unicorn’s return to port, King George III knighted Captain Thomas Williams as a reward for his gallant bravery. The Austens had a personal reason for being delighted since Captain Williams had married Mrs Austen’s niece, Jane Cooper, two years earlier. For Charles, the Unicorn action demonstrated what fame and fortune a naval career might bring. If he developed expert naval skills and was lucky enough to have auspicious future commissions and assignments, he too might enjoy a life of adventure, honour and riches. That Charles did come by adventure and honour, at last, is signalled by his award of the second clasp designated “Syria.”

HMS Bellerophon (80) and the Syrian campaign 1840

 “Syria” refers to the capture of the Egyptian held fort, St Jean d’Acre, on 4 November 1840 by Austrian, British and Turkish forces and the operations connected with it along the coast of Syria. What was Charles’s involvement in this offensive?

In April 1838, Charles was commissioned as captain of HMS Bellerophon, an impressive ship of the line with a crew of 650, and mounting on her lower, upper and quarter decks seventy-two 32 pounder guns and six 68 pounder guns. Among her crew were Charles’s only sons, nineteen-year-old Charles John, as master’s mate, and fourteen-year-old Henry. When the Admiralty dispatched reinforcements to the western Mediterranean that year, the Bellerophon was among the ships deployed on this mission.[15]

The political mood in the western Mediterranean at that time was tense as Mehemet Ali, the Viceroy of Egypt, had forcibly expanded his control into Syria. Britain and other allied powers demanded he withdraw. Hostilities began when the combined fleets of Britain, Austria and Turkey assembled close to Beruit in August 1840. The Bellerophon, together with HMS Hastings (74 guns) and HMS Edinburgh (74 guns) bombarded the town, which surrendered on 3 October. Tripoli was evacuated by October 22nd, leaving Ali with one last stronghold, the reputedly impregnable fortress of St Jean d’Acre with its surrounding town.[16]  

Fig. 3: Bombardment of St Jean d’Acre, 3 November 1840[17]

At 2:00 pm on 3 November, the British and her allies mounted an intensive attack on the town of St Jean d’Acre,[18] its citadel and adjacent fortifications. The first division of British ships, initially led in by HMS Powerful and followed in order by the Princess, Charlotte, Thunderer, Bellerophon, and Revenge, was supported by a second division led by the Turkish admiral[19] with seven additional British warships, three Austrian and two Turkish vessels. The firing, once begun, “waxed furious.” The smoke obscured visibility even before the ships anchored.  “The defenders, … [who] wrongly supposed the enemy would not venture close to the fortifications, were deceived as to the exact stations of the [attacking] ships, and thereby gave their guns too great an elevation.”[20] As Clive Caplin has described the scene, “the roar of the cannon was tremendous and incessant. A hail of enemy missiles whistled in all directions over the fleet, while a tempest of shot and shell poured down on the batteries and citadel of the town.”[21] 

At 4:30 pm, the defenders suffered a catastrophe. A large powder magazine in the town blew up with a frightful explosion causing dense clouds of smoke. Upwards of 1200 people were killed. Quantities of debris fell on the Bellerophon, which continued to fire at any indications of resistance. During three and a half hours of constant action under Charles’s effective leadership, the Bellerophon expended 160 barrels of gunpowder and 28 tons of cannonballs.

Fig. 4: HMS  Bellerophon leading the bombardment of the Syrian fortress at Acre[22]

By 6:00 pm all firing ceased. In addition to the devastation of property and lives caused by the explosion in the town, 300 were killed in the batteries and almost all the guns at the sea face were disabled. The Austrian Archduke Friedrich, who commanded the troops, led a landing party of allied soldiers to capture the citadel. This force, united with 5000 men who arrived from  Beruit, took possession of the town of St Jean d’Acre. The combined navies’ action in this last Allied victory in the Egyptian-Ottoman war was complete. The only task left was the transfer of 2000 prisoners to Beruit, a task which Charles Austen shared with three other vessels.

What might this campaign have meant to Charles? Personally, he had the satisfaction of being part of a combined international force which successfully completed a large and significant naval action. He could be proud of his men who had deployed Bellerophon’s gun power with steady and effective industry. To his great relief, Charles's two sons survived unscathed, in fact he lost no men in the intense bombardment.

Subsequently, in addition to being awarded the “Syria” clasp for his participation in the campaign, Charles was picked out for further honour for his particular performance in the action.  On 18 December 1840 he was one among only thirteen British captains and one Lieutenant who were made Companions of the Order of the Bath (Military Division), a prestigious British order of Chivalry founded by King George 1 in 1725. Moreover, the Syrian action, which illustrated his competence in battle, enhanced Charles’s naval record and likely contributed to his selection for what would be his last commission, his appointment in1851 as Commander-in-Chief of the East Indies and China Station.  

Fig.5: Badge of the Companion of the Military Division of the Order of the Bath

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[1] Owned by Charles’s direct descendent David Willan, the medal in currently on display at the Historic Dockyard, Chatham in the exhibit, “Command of the Oceans.”

[2] Other fleet actions include: Camperdown (1797), the Nile (1798), Copenhagen (1801), Abukir (1801).

[3] Only four individuals from the Unicorn action were still alive at the time this clasp was awarded.

[4] 6,978 individuals received this clasp.

[5] Unicorn’s action began as a pursuit, in company with HMS Santa Margaritta, of two French frigates the Tribune, and the Tamise. The Santa Margaritta quickly took the Tamise. The Unicorn continued to chase the Tribune.

[6] Thomas Williams to Admiral Kingsmill, 8 June 1796. The text of Williams’s letter is from a cutting of a newspaper report affixed to the back of a print, titled “The capture of  La Tribune by HMS Unicorn …,” after Francis Chesham, in the possession of the National Trust, Gunby Estate, Lincolnshire.                                                                                          

[7] See “Sir Thomas Williams, Royal Naval Biography, ed. John Marshall, 1827.

[8] Only her mizen mast was left standing

[9] Thomas Williams to Admiral Kingsmill, 8 June 1796.

[10] After a painting by Thomas Whitcombe, published in The Naval Achievements of Great Britain from the year 1793 to 1817, London, 1817.

[11] Only 32 single ship actions were recognized.

[12] “Sir Thomas Williams, Royal Naval Biography, ed. John Marshall, 1827.

[13]“ Sir Thomas Williams,” J.K Laughton, revised Andrew Lambert, Oxford Dictionary of Biography.

[14] La  Tribune was originally the French frigate, Galathee, launched in 1793. As HMS Tribune, her career in the British navy was short lived. See my blog “Jane Austen’s Naval Brother, Charles, and La Tribune: Milestones in a Naval Career, 1 August 2022.

[15] My account draws on Clive Caplan’s article, “The Ships of Charles Austen,” JAS Report for 2009, 154-5.

[16] See W.L Clowes on the 1840 Syrian campaign, paragraph 17, URL https://pdavis.nl/Syria.htm. The fort had been considerably strengthened since its occupation by the Egyptians in 1837. The defences were very strong towards the sea, where the works mounted 130 guns and about 30 mortars.

[17] By Lt  Col William Freke Williams, published in England’s Battles by Sea and Land, 1857.

[18] According to Clowes, “the town was low standing on an angle presenting two faces to the sea, both walled and covered with cannon - in one place a double tier.” See paragraph18.

[19] He was Captain Baldwin Wake Walker RN.

[20] See Clowes, paragraph 11.

[21] See Caplan, 155.

[22] Signed and dated by John T. Baines, Dec. 19, 1840.

Captain Frederick Hickey and the Loss of HMS Atalante

Introduction

My last blog (25 September) considered the importance of brotherly relations between Charles Austen and his naval colleagues on the North American Station. One of those fellow officers was Captain Frederick Hickey, who became a friend of Charles and Fanny Austen and their family. His naval experience on the Station mirrored Charles’s life in many respects except one. Each had his first solo command on the Station in an eighteen-gun sloop of war built in Bermuda to the same design - Charles in HMS Indian and Frederick in HMS Atalante. Both had cruised North American waters defending British naval and commercial interests and taking enemy vessels as prizes when they could. Each suffered the rigours and violence of North Atlantic storms on his small wooden sailing ship, but on one occasion Captain Hickey faced an emergency which would have tested Charles to the utmost, as it did Frederick, and filled Fanny with terror even though she understood the enormous hazards of a career at sea. The story of Hickey’s avoidance of imminent death for himself, his officers and his men provides a vivid insight into the risks that Charles and Fanny, fellow officers and their families had to accept, with courage, as part of their naval lives.

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Fig.1: Captain Frederick Hickey (1775-1839), painted by Gilbert Stuart, c.1810.

Frederick Hickey, commander of the sleek sloop of war, HMS Atalante, had been enjoying a successful career. He was fortunate in his pursuit of naval prize, capturing at least 7 enemy vessels since the hostilities with America began in June 1812.[1] But his luck changed dramatically in early November 1813.[2] The following account is a story of courage and quick thinking in the face of imminent disaster. It is a narrative enhanced by passages from Hickey’s own description of the catastrophe which befell him and his beloved Atalante.[3]

Fig 2: HMS Atalante Passing Sambro, Halifax, N.S.[4]

On the morning of 10 November, the Atalante stood in for Halifax harbour, even though it was shrouded in excessively thick fog. Ordinarily a captain would not risk his ship approaching the rocky and shoal strewn entrance to the harbour in such a fog but would wait offshore until it thinned. Yet Captain Hickey was committed to arrive in port as fast as possible because he was carrying urgent dispatches for Admiral Sir John Warren, commander-in-chief of the Station. The dispatches described the movements of the American fleet, which were reported to have “determined to put to sea at all risks.”  Hickey understood the potential hazards of his situation and acted accordingly. He stationed extra lookouts, ordered frequent depth soundings, and had the sails reduced to lower the Atalante’s speed. He also tried to take advantage of a navigational aid. It was a common practice for ships on the Station to sail into the harbour under foggy conditions guided by the gun on Sambro Island at the harbour’s outer approach. During thick weather, an incoming naval ship would intermittently fire a gun, which would be answered “gun for gun from the [Sambro] Lighthouse,”[5] thus giving the captain some idea of his ship’s location.

Fig. 3: In the distance, the Lighthouse on Sambro Island. The Sisters and Blind Sister shoal is located to the left of the lighthouse.

The Atalante repeatedly fired a signal gun from 8:15 until past 9:00 am. Ominously, what they assumed to be answering gun fire, actually came from HMS Barrosa, which was similarly trapped in the fog. Mistaking Barrosa’s gun fire for the signal gun from the lighthouse, the Atalante proceeded in what was thought to be the direction of Halifax. Then disaster struck. At about 10 am the ship ran up on the dreaded Sisters and Blind Sister,[6] a rock studded shoal, about 1½ miles east north east of the Sambro Island Lighthouse. According to Hickey, “in a few minutes the rudder, the stern post and part of the keel were knocked off [the Atalante]. Perceiving immediately that there was no hope of saving the ship, my whole attention was turned to saving the lives of my valuable crew.” Hickey’s subsequent leadership marks him out as a courageous and insightful officer. He would have barely 15 minutes to save all those on board before the vessel broke and sank.

Fig. 4: Hydrographic Map showing the Sisters and Blind Sister shoal, top right-hand corner of map

Picture Hickey exercising command on deck on a cold November morning, clothed only in “a pair of drawers, a shirt, and a hat.”[7] He first ordered the boats to be launched but, as he later  recounted, “the jolly boat was stove and filled with water immediately after being launched, and there remained but three boats (the pinnace, the cutter and the gig).” Hickey then ordered the guns to fire a distress signal prior to the men casting them overboard. Yet only those guns above water were capable of firing, and the ship filled before any guns could be jettisoned. She was now fast falling over on her beam ends. Directions were given to cut away the main and foremast. As the masts fell, “the ship parted in two places.

Fig. 5: Wreck of the Atalante as she broke right across between the fore and main masts [8]

Hickey’s words dramatically capture the desperation of the situation. [When the ship broke apart], “a few of the crew were on the larboard[9] side of the ship, the only part above water, and the remainder clinging about the masts and on the booms. About 60 men got into the pinnace,[10] which was still supported by the booms; but as there was no hope of saving the boats with that number in her, I persuaded about 20 to 30 to come out and endeavour by main strength to launch her clear of the wreck, which they succeeded in a most miraculous manner.[11]… Nothing being now left to trust our lives to except the boats and a raft, as many men as the former would apparently contain got into them, some by swimming from the wreck, whilst others were hauled off by means of oars and small spars.”[12]

Yet not all the men had found a place in the ship’s three boats. Once the pinnace had been launched, Hickey had ordered the booms to be joined to make a raft. It was here that he and 37 others were stranded for a considerable time, with no chance of getting the raft clear of the wreck, while it drifted into worse breakers. Hickey ordered the smaller boats to come near the raft and each take some more men. It was to his credit that the men complied immediately, even though overloading the small vessels might jeopardize their own chances of survival. As Hickey later reported: “I succeeded in getting every man and boy safe off the raft.” As the boats moved away, the men gave three cheers and the wreck was abandoned.[13] Except for the official dispatches in Hickey’s possession, and a chronometer carried off the ship by a clerk, everything aboard was lost.[14]

The officers and men were still in a perilous position. The fog continued as dense as ever and the boats were dangerously overloaded. The pinnace held 80 men,[15] the cutter, 42 and the gig, 18. The survivors initially had no way of knowing in what direction to steer. The hazardous rocky coast and the threat of other nearby shoals were very much in their minds.

Fig 6: The forbidding coast with Sambro Island and its hazardous rocks on the horizon

Fortuitously, the quarter master produced a small compass attached to his watch fob. This he turned over to Captain Hickey. Thus encouraged, the men rowed the three small, vulnerable vessels for about two hours, when, to their great good fortune, they encountered a local fisherman who led them to nearby Portuguese Cove. By about 2 pm they arrived safely in the Cove, one of the few possible landing points along the very treacherous coastline.

Fig.7: Entry to Portuguese Cove, Nova Scotia

The inhabitants lit great fires to warm and dry out the shivering survivors, many of whom were scantily clothed as they had been obliged to discard all but their trousers when they swam for their lives from the sinking Atalante. Hickey later praised the “poor inhabitants of the Cove, who behaved towards us with every possible mark of hospitality, kindness, and attention, that humanity could dictate.”

Fig. 8: At Portuguese Cove where the survivors were fed and cared for

Once on shore, Hickey acted with alacrity. The dispatches had to be taken to Halifax with no delay. This he did, by means of the pinnace, taking the other boats with him in company. They carried those who had suffered most from fatigue and cold during the ordeal. The remainder of the survivors had to march across country to Halifax, 20 miles away, no mean feat given their inadequate clothing and the rough terrain. That evening, Hickey delivered the dispatches safely to Admiral Warren. He was informed that a Court Martial would be held on the morning of 12 November in Halifax harbour, aboard HMS Victorious (74 guns) “to inquire into all the particulars attending the loss of HM sloop Atalante, and to try Captain Hickey, the officers and crew of that sloop for the same.”[16]

At the Court Martial, Captain Hickey spoke eloquently in his own defence. None of those present could fault his diligence in attempting to get crucial information to Admiral Warren in wartime. According to Hickey’s perception, such a commitment to complete his mission justified the risks he took in proceeding in thick fog through shoal filled waters. He also told the Court of his concerns for the well being of his men and the state of the Atalante. His ship was short of provisions at a time of year when inclement weather could keep a vessel from making port for days. Moreover, the very seaworthiness of the Atalante was at risk due to the condition of her cables, which a recent survey had condemned as unfit to trust. Hickey knew that both these requirements could be satisfied in Halifax. He also praised “the conduct of my officers and the ship’s company, under the most trying circumstances in which human beings could be placed. [Their conduct] was orderly, obedient, and respectful, to the last extremity.” To Hickey’s great relief, the Court acquitted him, his officers, and the company of HM late sloop Atalante of all blame.

Frederick Hickey had another reason to be thankful in addition to his acquittal. That evening a hurricane force wind blew up the harbour, which caused great confusion and considerable damage to those ships in its path. All the warships got to shore but some were dismasted, and the merchant men in port suffered dreadfully. Had this destructive storm occurred two days earlier, there would most likely have been no survivors from the Atalante.

Public sentiment was warm in praise of Hickey’s superior leadership and the singular co-operation of his men.[17] A passenger on the Atalante, Jeremiah O’Sullivan, who had recently escaped from New London, Connecticut, wrote a letter of appreciation. He dedicated some of his remarks “to the honour of Captain Hickey. He was the last who left the wreck; his calmness, his humanity, and his courage, during the entire of this awful scene, was superior to man: everything  lost but our lives.”[18] On 12 November, the Halifax newspaper, the Weekly Chronicle, acknowledged they were “extremely sorry to state the loss of H.M.S Atalante, Captain Hickey”, continuing that, “happily, by the great exertions of the Captain and Officers, the crew were saved in the boats.”[19]

Frederick Hickey’s career was not blighted by the loss of the Atalante. To his great delight he was promoted to post captain rank on 19 February 1814. He subsequently commanded the HMS Prince Regent (56 guns) on Lake Ontario. There followed an appointment as flag captain to Commodore James Yeo on HMS St Lawrence, a 112-gun first rate warship, launched on the lake on 10 September 1814. Hickey continued in the St Lawrence on Lake Ontario until the peace with America in 1815. Thereafter his career took him to the South American Station.

For Hickey, the loss of the Atalante was the source of bitter personal regret, but in the eyes of others, his behaviour revealed his excellence as an officer, who deserved  praise for his courage and commitment to those under his care. In later years, he had reason to reflect with some satisfaction on the events of 10 November 1813, knowing that, in extremis, he had done his duty well.   

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[1] In July 1812 Hickey took a ship of 359 tons, laden with wines, brandy, silks, and sundries.

In December he captured the American privateer, the Tulip. Five months later he towed five other prizes into Halifax carrying cargoes of cotton, indigo and other commodities.

[2] Photographs at Figs. 3, 6, and 8 by Hugh or Sheila Kindred.

[3] Hickey’s account of the disaster and his defence at his subsequent court martial are found in royal naval biography: or memoirs of the services of all the flag-officers; superannuated rear-admirals, retired captains, post-captains and commanders, hereafter RNB, by John Marshall, 1827, 232-34.

[4] The image of the Atalante is plate CCCCXV, in the Naval Chronicle, vol.31, 1814, engraving by W.E Bailey.

[5] For a description of this protocol see Admiral Hugh Pullen, The Sea Road to Halifax, 1980, 22.

[6] The origin of this name has to do with the local story of two jealous sisters who abandoned their blind sister on Blind Sister Rock to be swept away by the rising tide. See Pullen, 24.

[7] For a description for the narrative read at the Court Martial, see RNB, 232-34.

[8] See Captain Basil Hall, Fragments of Voyages and Travels Vol. 1, First series, (Fragments), 1831, 280.

[9] Port side.

[10] A pinnace was a small, light boat, usually rowed, but could be rigged with a sail. 

[11] According to Captain Hall’s account, the pinnace floated but was upset by a sea, … [but] the men by great exertions righted her.” See Capt. Basil Hall, The history of a ship from her cradle to the grave, 1848, 126 ff.

[12]Those seeking the safety of the boats included 12 American refugee slaves, who were among the first of the Black Refugees of the War of 1812 to reach Canada.

[13] The cheering may have been a way of raising spirits, of expressing relief that everyone had got off the Atlalante. Perhaps it was also a way of paying tribute to a fine ship, which had brought prize money to the officers and men and had been their home for over 5 years. 

[14] There was a fiddler among the crew who was determined to save his instrument. Finally, he realized he could no longer grasp it and reach one of the ship’s small boats. He put his life before his music. 

[15] There was apparently one woman in the pinnace. She has not been identified. Possibly she was a passenger.

[16] RNB, 232.

[17] In later years, the story of the Atalante was revisited by naval officer Capt. Basil Hall in his book, Fragments, 262-282. He focused on the drama of the wreck, the discipline of the men under extreme conditions and the superior leadership of Captain Hickey. In effect, the story of the Atalante became an exemplum in naval circles of the admirable discipline of a ship’s company and the courage and quick thinking of a commanding officer in a dire situation at sea.

[18] Quoted in RNB, 234. O’Sullivan’s letter also included a graphic description of the disaster. “In 12 minutes the Atalante was literally torn to pieces; the crew swam to the boats; and to see so many poor souls struggling for life, some naked, others on spars, casks, or anything tenable, was a scene painful beyond description. I was in the cabin when the ship struck; the shock told me our fate.”

[19] News of the Atalante’s sinking appeared in the next issue of the British publication, the Naval Chronicle, January to June, vol. 31, 1814. A short, in passim, reference reported the total loss of the Atalante, under the section “Shipwrecks”, and noted that the officers and crew were saved. Surprisingly, this volume also carried a smart engraving of the Atalante, which the caption identified as “His Majesty’s late sloop.” (See Fig: 2 above). This jaunty image, published in May 1814, shows the ship under full sail, passing the Sambro Island Light. It was intended to give an idea of the harbour approach to Halifax and the high land on shore. However, given the ship’s recent, tragic fate, it seems odd to celebrate her as she once was, after she has been completely wrecked. Instead of focusing on the loss of the ship, the caption continues with promotional material about Halifax. The town is “estimated to contain 20,000 people before the present war with the United States. From the accession of commerce, from a great number of prizes brought in by our fleet, and from it being the principal American naval station, it is no doubt at the present moment more rich and populous than ever.”