off Chebucto Head. Fortunately, she had successfully towed the freighter to a good holding ground, where she set two anchors and held fast until the storm blew over and the tug crew could reattach the hawser. With all hands accounted for, eventually the Foundation Franklin arrived in Halifax—the freighter in tow. Four months later, another of Emile Jacque’s sister ships, Jean Jadot, experienced rudder trouble 300 miles southeast of Newfoundland. She was underway in a fierce gale and had jammed her rudder, putting the ship and crew at the mercy of heavy seas. The USCG cutter Mendota was the first to arrive on the scene and got a towline to the big freighter, but the size disparity between the Mendota and the Emile Jacque forced the small cutter to let go of the tow. The Franklin arrived on the scene and managed to get a hawser over to the freighter. The Emile Jacque’s rudder had jammed at an angle that made it difficult to steer the ship. The tug fought desperately for two days to keep the big freighter off the lethal shoals surrounding Sable Island, the famous “Graveyard of the Atlantic.” In time, the seas settled somewhat to give the tug a reprieve and the jammed rudder finally broke off, making the tow more manageable. Another rescued ship was delivered triumphantly into Halifax Harbor. During World War II, rescue tugs like the Franklin were unescorted and at the mercy of U-boats out in the Atlantic. Forty-one-year-old Harry Brushett was Foundation Franklin’s captain during this period, and after many close calls, he started to browbeat the naval authorities to provide an escort; they eventually conceded. Of all the extraordinary rescues this tug performed, the one that strained her to the limit took place 1,000 miles east of Halifax. The British freighter King Edward was in extreme weather and taking on water after a collision left her with a massive
gash in her bow. The Franklin eventually reached the beleaguered ship and successfully got her to port in St. Johns, Newfoundland. The whole operation had taken 20 days. The Franklin had steamed approximately 2,500 miles and arrived to the dock with only a half-ton of coal left in her bunkers. In 1944, the tug rescued no fewer than 22 ships, followed by another eight in 1945. By the end of World War II, oil had become the preferred fuel to drive boats longer distances. Franklin was converted to oil, resulting in her range increasing by 50 percent, but it was only a matter of time before her future was in jeopardy. Foundation Maritime purchased a Bustler-class tug and renamed her Foundation Josephine. The Franklin performed her final salvage operation in 1948. The Norwegian motor ship Arosa became disabled in an Atlantic hurricane, 870 miles from Halifax. With the Foundation Josephine undergoing repairs, the gutsy Franklin ventured into the storm. After four grueling days, Franklin found the Arosa on the open ocean. Fortunately, at that moment she was located in the eye of the hurricane, making the job of connecting the hawser between the two vessels manageable. As soon as they steered out of the eye, the Franklin was blasted with fierce northwest winds, forcing the tow to less than one knot. It became obvious to the captain that her fuel would be spent shy of Halifax. As the Franklin battled gale force winds, her crew chipped away the crippling ice from her superstructure. Her radio went out of commission, and the towline was stretched beyond its capacity. It wasn’t long before the winch ripped from its mounts, and the Franklin slowly left the Arosa astern, disappearing in the poor visibility. The Norwegians broadcast a new S•O•S and the urgently repaired Foundation Josephine put to sea to rescue them. Eleven days later, she towed the
big freighter into Boston Harbor. Meanwhile, with water pouring in from her damaged deck, almost out of fuel, and her tired engine failing, the Franklin was in desperate peril. To the astonishment of those along the Halifax waterfront, five days later the Foundation Franklin slowly emerged like a disembodied specter out of the mist. The damage to the tug was extensive, and she was deemed beyond repair. All that is left of the mighty tug today is her bridge and much of her heavy tackle, which have been preserved in Halifax at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, along with a plaque along the city’s boardwalk commemorating her many rescues. The ship’s bell bearing her original name, “Frisky,” was also saved. The Stockwell in the “Pool of London”
In early 1950, I lived in Roehampton, just outside of London, about a ten-mile bicycle ride to the city center. On my way to work, I would cross the Tower Bridge, associated with the “Pool of London.” Unless I was running late, I always stopped on the bridge, especially in the early morning when the sky was murky, overcast by the plumes of dark smoke from the tugs and barges that lined the wharves on both sides of the Thames. With my bike parked, I would lean over the rail and light a Woodbine between cupped hands and dream about going to sea. I could see in my imagination the sailing ships of earlier years, while I listened to the punctuated staccato of the steam-driven engines and the occasional blast from a tug’s horn. To say that navigating the river seemed hazardous is an understatement. It was so busy on some mornings that I thought I might have been able to go from one side of the river to the other just stepping on a bridge of boats. When the tide was low, I could smell the river, an ugly pungent aroma of sewage SeaHistory.org
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