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.
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]](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5c1547768ab722e48ecf1942/1576625656873-H8MLTNYF3I89NE3BL89J/5.-HMS-Atalante-%28AGNS%29.jpg)
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]](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5c1547768ab722e48ecf1942/1603901980735-BL9BYSAVIH601YYINXI0/5_Shipwreck.png)
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.
[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.”
