American History Tellers - Coal Wars | Bloody Mingo | 3

Episode Date: December 30, 2020

In May 1920, Sheriff Sid Hatfield won the loyalty of Mingo County’s miners after a deadly gun battle that left seven Baldwin-Felts agents dead on the streets of Matewan, West Virginia. That summer, the coal companies brought in trainloads of strikebreakers to get the mines running again. But local miners were electrified by the Matewan Massacre and they waged an all-out guerilla war as Hatfield awaited trial for murder. For months, gunfire and explosions echoed over the hills of Mingo County as the coal companies and their hired guards fought back with equal force. As “Bloody Mingo” made national headlines, the Governor moved to stop the unrest, imposing martial law. Soon, the military regime ruling Mingo County unleashed new atrocities against the miners and their families. And a shocking assassination sparked calls for revenge.Listen to new episodes 1 week early and to all episodes ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App https://wondery.app.link/historytellers.Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's early morning in August 1920 in Mohawk, West Virginia. You're an operator for the Mohawk Coal and Coke Company. Local union miners have been on strike for months, but you're relieved your mine is finally back up and running again. And that's only because you've brought in strikebreakers. The workday won't start for another three hours, but you came in before sunrise to go over some paperwork. Profits are still far below

where they were last year, and you're desperately seeking a way to make up the shortfall. Uh, who's there? You rush outside in search of the source of commotion. For the past few weeks, Union men have been showing up to try to organize your loyal miners. You expect to see them again, but what you find stops you in your tracks. Half a dozen men are rigging dynamite around your pump machinery. You're just about ten yards away, so close you can see the matches in their hands. Hey, what are you doing? One of the men stops, turns, and smiles at you.

There's not an ounce of fear in his eyes. Please, we can't run this mine without that pump. Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you brought in your last trainload of strike breakers. Send them home, and we'll leave your property alone. I can't do that. We've got to keep this operation going. We've lost enough time this year as it is. We won't let these scab miners undermine this strike any longer. Beg you, please stop. Or else I'll just... Or else what?

You got an army back there we can't see? You gaze past the miners into the hills surrounding the mine. Daybreak is coming. You can spot other men, crouched in the woods, rifles trained on you. The miner is right. You have no army of your own, and it's clear you're out of options. It's a choice between shutting down the mine or risking more property damage or your life. All right, all right.

Take away the dynamite, and I'll suspend operations. See that you do. We'll be watching. You can count on it. The man grips the rifle slung around his shoulder and throws a meaningful glance to his fellow armed strikers. He looks down at the dynamite that surrounds the pump. We'll leave this here as an insurance policy. You nod and retreat back inside, helpless to respond,

already wondering how you'll explain this to your boss. How much longer can you run a business like this? The governor must step in and finally break the miners' chokehold on Mingo County. That dynamite didn't explode this time, but you fear that in the conflict over West Virginia's coal country, a fuse has already been lit. Kill List is a true story of how I ended up in a race against time to warn those whose lives were in danger. Follow Kill List wherever you true story of how I ended up in a race against time to warn those who lives were in danger.

Follow Kill List wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Kill List and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morb Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the most infamous scams of all time, the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. Music In the summer of 1920, the coal operators of Mingo County, West Virginia, brought in trainloads of strikebreakers to get their mines running again. But the striking miners were determined to fight back.

Mingo County was home to some of the most profitable coal fields in the state, but it was controlled by big anti-union coal companies and sympathetic government forces, and it remained the largest non-unionized coal region in the state, but it was controlled by big anti-union coal companies and sympathetic government forces, and it remained the largest non-unionized coal region in the East. The coal companies worried that if strikers gained a foothold here, it might prove the tipping point for organizing all of southern West Virginia. The strikers had already struck a blow to the coal companies at a violent confrontation known as the Meituan Massacre. Electrified by the

victory, Mingo's miners became more determined than ever to challenge the companies that oppressed them for so long. They dynamited mine equipment, fired on mine guards, and harassed strikebreakers. The escalating violence in the remote mountain wilderness made national headlines, and panic swept through the state capitol. But as West Virginia authorities prepared to push back, the strike erupted into an all-out war. This is Episode 3, Bloody Mingo. In July 1920, officials with the United Mine Workers sought to build on momentum caused by the victory at the Matewan Massacre. At the shootout, miners and their biggest ally, Matewan Police Chief Sid Hatfeld, had fought a deadly gun battle against coal company agents from the hated Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency. Seven agents and three

townspeople were killed, including the mayor. It was a rare defeat for the powerful coal companies, and the miners were thrilled. Union officials followed by launching a massive organizing drive. Union President John L. Lewis invested more than $1 million in unionizing Mingo County. He promised to spend even more on hiring organizers and supplying tents, food rations, and medicine to the striking miners. Union officials hoped Mingo would be the launchpad for capturing the whole of southern West Virginia. If the union could succeed, better wages and working conditions would finally be a possibility in the whole state, and it could protect the gains of union miners across America.

But it would not be easy. They were up against coal operators who were determined to keep the union out. In 1920, West Virginia supplied nearly one-quarter of the coal used for electric power in the nation. The Mingo County operators had invested huge sums in railroads, machinery, and mine and housing construction. For them, there was no bigger threat to their investments and their profits than the Union. So in July, the coal operators fired and evicted striking miners and hired trainloads of strikebreakers from New York, Chicago, and the South to get the mines running again. And they replaced the defeated Baldwin-Felts agents with new private guards. But the miners countered by taking up arms.

Their leader, District 17 President Frank Keeney, told a reporter, these men are not to be fooled with. And indeed, the sound of gunfire echoed through the county throughout the summer as the miners waged war against the companies. They dynamited coal company property and shot up trains carrying strikebreakers into Mingo. But as these miners seized more control of Mingo, the companies were determined to quash the violence and reassert their power over the region. They appealed first to Governor John Cornwell for reinforcements. In 1916, union leaders had helped elect Cornwell in exchange for promises of union protections.

But during his three years in office, Cornwell had grown increasingly wary of organized labor, fearing the threat of a socialist uprising in his state. Now Cornwell turned to the federal government for help, hoping to end the chaos and break the miners' hold on Mingo County. At the end of August, 500 federal troops arrived in Mingo, the first to enter the area since the Civil War. With soldiers guarding the mines and protecting the strikebreakers, the coal mines began running again. In November, the United States Secretary of War withdrew the troops, believing that order had been restored. But just days after the soldiers departed, the miners once again picked up their weapons and roamed the hills, killing a company guard and a state trooper. In response, Governor Cornwell announced that Mingo County was in a state of insurrection. Federal troops returned and again seized control

of the mines. This time, they also banned all public gatherings and confiscated weapons from the miners. By early December, the coal mines were running at 80% of their normal capacity. For the striking miners and their families, life was growing harder as winter approached. The miners' union was still assisting with groceries and medical care, but the strikers were struggling. Evicted from their homes, miners and their families camped out in tent colonies. The largest of these was at Lick Creek near Matewan. There, tents were pitched on frozen ground, with only rags and worn carpets covering the floors.

The families suffered from hunger, and several children died of pneumonia. The magazine The Nation reported on the abysmal conditions, calling Lick Creek Labor's Valley Forge. The miners, the magazine said, were fighting for the emancipation of themselves and their children from the worst economic serfdom in America. While the miners in Lick Creek struggle through winter, hunger, and cold, Sid Hatfield was awaiting trial for his role in the Matewan Massacre and the death of a Baldwin-Felts detective. Hatfield had become a hero to the miners in the eight months

since he stood up to the hated private agents. The union capitalized on his popularity, producing a propaganda film titled Smile and Sid and screening it in the tent camps. So by the time Hatfield's murder trial began, locals saw him as a living legend. His reputation in Mingo County would make the task before the prosecution team that much more difficult. Imagine it's January 1921.

You're a lawyer traveling deep into the hollows of the Tug River Valley to find potential jurors for the Hatfield murder trial. Your team has interviewed hundreds of people so far, but you've found it nearly impossible to find locals with no connection to Sid Hatfield murder trial. Your team has interviewed hundreds of people so far, but you've found it nearly impossible to find locals with no connection to Sid Hatfield. You approach a cabin on the edge of the woods, hoping that you're finally far enough away from Matewan to find an impartial juror.

Out front, an old man is chopping firewood. Hello there! The man gives you a glance before returning to his work. Excuse me, sir. Could you spare Mona your time? What do you want? Hello. I'm a member of the prosecution team for the upcoming trial of Sid Hatfield. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you? Hatfield trial? No, I don't know nothing about any Hatfields.

Ah, is that so? No connection or relationship to the Hatfield family. There's quite a few of them around these parts. Those wild animals? No, I'm not one of them. Now, if you'll excuse me. For the first time in weeks, you're starting to have hope you're getting somewhere. Sir, just a couple more questions, please. You're not a coal miner, are you?

Any relation to one? A miner? No, I could never stand the smoke and the fumes. I come from a long line of farmers and woodsmen. You smile at him. This may be just the man you're looking for. I understand. See, the reason I ask is we're trying to assemble a jury

for a trial regarding the murder of the Baldwin-Felts agents last May. I think you may be just the man we need. The man drops his axe and stares at you in disbelief. Aw, now, you didn't say anything about those Baldwin thugs. Cold-blooded brutes and murderers, the lot of them. I don't understand. I thought you had no mining connections. You don't need to be a union man to see who's right in the fight. Now, excuse me. The man goes back to work as you stare at him in disbelief. You're running out of time.

You're starting to wonder if anyone in this valley is unbiased. The trial is scheduled to start in just a few days, and you have no idea how you'll ever assemble a jury that gets Hatfield convicted. In January 1921, Mingo County was consumed by the fast-approaching trial of Sid Hatfield and his deputies. 27-year-old Hatfield had become a national figure in the eight months since the Matewan Massacre. Beloved by the miners and hated by the coal companies and their allies, he had only grown more notorious since the deadly clash. Just 12 days after Mayor Cabell Testerman was shot dead on the streets of Matewan,

Hatfield was arrested for illegally sharing a hotel room with the mayor's young widow, Jessie. He was thrown in jail on a charge of improper relations. The pair got married the next morning. Tom Feltz, the brother of one of the dead Baldwin-Feltz agents, began spreading rumors that Hatfield himself had killed Mayor Testament so he could steal his wife. But as much as the authorities were against him, Hatfield never lost his popularity with the people of Mingo County. Voters soon elected him constable of Magnolia District, which encompassed Matewan and nearby mining towns.

Hatfield continued to provide fodder for newspapers, smiling for cameras with his two pistols in hand. As trial preparations began, the United Mine Workers paid for Hatfield's legal defense. The Baldwin-Felts Agency paid for the prosecution. But Hatfield's popularity proved to be challenging for the prosecution team. The attorneys interviewed more than 1,000 candidates before they put together a jury they felt would be impartial. Then, on January 26th, spectators packed into Mingo County's biggest courtroom to witness the start of trial proceedings. Even more crowds gathered outside,

under the watchful eyes of federal soldiers. Hatfield was confident as he strode into the courthouse. He joked with reporters covering the trial, teasing them for dubbing him a terror. He told one journalist, I reckon you thought I had horns. During the trial, few locals were willing to testify against Hatfield and his cohorts. The prosecution tried to argue that Hatfield had committed premeditated murder. Their star witness was C.E. Lively,

a restaurant owner Hatfield thought was his friend. As it turned out, Lively had long been an undercover agent for the Baldwin-Felts detectives. But under cross-examination, Lively admitted that he purchased a machine gun and brought it to Matewan on the orders of Tom Felts, the brother of one of the dead agents. The defense was then able to put the blame for the bloodshed squarely on the coal companies and their hired guards.

Hatfield's lawyer told the jurors, It is time that Mingo County should be governed by the taxpayers and not by a private detective agency. In the end, the prosecution failed to persuade the jury that the Matewan massacre was anything but the fault of the coal operators. On March 21st, they found all 23 defendants, including Hatfield, his deputies, and a number of miners not guilty on all charges. Mingo's miners celebrated Hatfield's acquittal. He received a hero's greeting upon his return to Matewan. It took him an hour to shake hands with all his

supporters as he made his way home from the train station. But it wasn't long before West Virginia state legislators lashed out. They pushed through a jury reform bill that allowed criminal juries to be selected from other counties. The hope was that with this new law, Mingo miners and their allies would no longer face juries of sympathetic locals. Legislators also doubled the size of the state police force, shoring up the defense for West Virginia's biggest industry against any violence from the striking miners. Meanwhile, now a free man, Hatfield returned to his work as constable,

patrolling mining towns and defending miners against violence from the coal companies. But his supporters continued to struggle. By the spring of 1921, Mingo's miners had been on strike for more than a year. The coal companies brought in fresh strikebreakers, and the mines were running at near full capacity. The striking miners were in a weaker position than ever before, still struggling in tent camps and dependent on union supplies. But they weren't done fighting yet, and they soon launched new attacks on coal company property. But with the new year, West Virginia also had a new governor. Ephraim Morgan was like much of the state's political elite.

He was loyal to the coal companies, which had contributed three-quarters of a million dollars to his campaign. Consequently, he quickly resolved to crack down on the bloodshed. He deployed several units of the newly expanded state police to Mingo County to assist local mine guards and deputy sheriffs. Then in mid-May, the fighting spread through Matewan through the surrounding Tug River Valley. Over the course of three days, the striking miners battled state police along a 10-mile front stretching to the Kentucky border. Bullets rained down on a dozen mining towns. The strikers blew up bridges and mine tibbles. Schools and businesses closed, terrified families slept in their cellars, and strikebreakers fled the area. What became known as the Three Days Battle of the Tug finally ended after state police arranged a truce.

No one knew exactly how many had died, but local union leader Frank Keeney claimed that the dead were brought out of the woods for eight days. In the midst of the fighting, Governor Morgan begged President Warren G. Harding to deploy federal troops, writing, Are we compelled to witness further slaughter of innocent, law-abiding citizens with no signs of relief from the federal government? But Harding denied Morgan's request. He was well aware that Army units had failed to stop strike-related violence in West Virginia before. He believed the conflict was best left to state authorities.

So if Governor Morgan was going to control the chaos in Mingo County, he would have to do it alone. And so soon, the state would unleash its own military against the miners. But it wouldn't just be state troopers confronting the strikers. Angry armed civilians were gathering too, preparing to fight their neighbors and crush the strike once and for all. I'm Tristan Redman, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered that my wife's great-grandmother was murdered in the house next door to where I grew up, I started wondering about the inexplicable things that happened in my childhood bedroom.

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Essential, Wondery has made it ad-free for a limited time, only on Apple Podcasts. If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcasts to hear for yourself. Richard Bandler revolutionized the world of self-help all thanks to an approach he developed called neurolinguistic programming. Even though NLP worked for some, its methods have been criticized for being dangerous in the wrong hands. Throw in Richard's dark past as a cocaine addict and murder suspect, and you can't help but wonder what his true intentions were. I'm Saatchi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're

the hosts of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the most infamous scams of all time, the impact on victims, and what's left once the facade falls away. We recently dove into the story of the godfather of modern mental manipulation, Richard Bandler, whose methods inspired some of the most toxic and criminal self-help movements of the last two decades. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Scamfluencers and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid and Kill List early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening. On the night of May 18th, 1921, some 250 men crowded into the courthouse in Williamson,

West Virginia, where Sid Hatfield had been acquitted just a few months prior. Authorities had organized the meeting to recruit volunteers for what they were calling a vigilance committee. The committee was not intended for discussion. The intentions were clear. They wanted to provide armed backup for the state police in their efforts to crack down on minors. The next day would be the one-year anniversary of the Maitland Massacre, and many feared renewed violence. The crowd was made up of Mingo's middle-class residents, businessmen, lawyers, doctors, and clergymen who vowed to take up arms to bring law and order to the county. Most were concerned about threats to their property.

One reverend compared the miners to the enemies he encountered in World War I, saying, It is just as much a patriotic duty to clean up Mingo County as it was in France. The next day, Governor Morgan imposed martial law, transferring law enforcement power from Mingo County authorities to state police. He declared the region to be in a state of war, insurrection, and riot, and banned the carrying of guns. He also outlawed all forms of speech and public assembly deemed a threat to the state of West Virginia. Citizens could now be arrested and held in jail without charges. Governor Morgan was

appalled by the violence that had erupted during the three days' battle, and he had no sympathy for unions. So abandoned by the federal government, Morgan felt he had to take new, harsh measures to restore order or risk losing any semblance of control over the state. Morgan did make one small concession. Remembering the controversy caused by the military tribunals against Kanawha County miners seven years earlier, Morgan allowed local civil courts to continue to function. He then put Major Thomas B. Davis in charge of the military regime now ruling the state. Davis was a short and stocky man who wore wire-rimmed glasses. He'd once been a labor organizer himself and even served as president

of a local machinist union. But after fighting in the Spanish-American War, he returned to West Virginia and joined the state's National Guard. He'd helped enforce martial law during the first mine war in Kanawha County, earning the miners' hatred when he led a raid on a pro-labor newspaper. Now, Davis commanded state troops as well as hundreds of unpaid civilian volunteers, including the 250-person vigilance committee that had just formed in Williamson. The day after martial law was proclaimed, Davis banned the distribution of a pro-labor newspaper that had blamed Governor Morgan and the coal companies for the three-days battle. Several miners were arrested after being spotted reading the United Mine Workers Journal. Davis told a reporter, the big advantage of this martial law is that if there's any

agitator around you, you can just stick him in jail and keep him there. The union dubbed Davis the Emperor of the Tug River. He had nearly total control over the state, with the freedom to judge any activity as a violation of martial law. Davis banned almost all union activity, only permitting organizers to distribute food and supplies in the tent colonies, under supervision from his troops. District 17 President Frank Keeney was consumed by the crisis in Mingo. He had received multiple death threats, so he rarely saw his children and instructed his wife to sleep with a pistol under her pillow. Keeney tried and failed to persuade Major Davis into changing his tactics, and the clampdown continued. Desperate to maintain any of the Union's momentum,

Keeney called on all non-Union miners in Mingo to join the strike, promising them Union benefits and protections. And he appealed to officials in Washington to launch an investigation into the conflict in southern West Virginia. But by the end of May, the Mingo County Jail was overflowing with miners arrested for carrying guns or union literature or for speaking out against the military regime. Still, Davis and his men found it difficult to crush the union forces altogether. On May 25th, miners shot up a coal mine on the Kentucky border. A West Virginia state trooper, a Kentucky guardsman, and a striking miner were killed. The violence had occurred near the Lick Creek tent colony, the largest of all the tent camps.

It was where striking miners and their families had endured appalling conditions for months. Lick Creek was also close to the Kentucky border, and Major Davis feared that striking miners could too easily escape across state lines, seeking refuge beyond the authority of his military regime. So, despite his harsh measures, Davis became convinced that his tactics had been too lenient. He made plans to tighten his hold over Mingo County, with a special focus on taking control of Lick Creek. On June 5th, miners at Lick Creek saw a car speeding toward their camp and became paranoid that the car was full of armed vigilantes. A few of the miners fired warning shots and the driver sped away. It was all the provocation Davis needed. Soon after, authorities

raided the camp and arrested 40 miners. Davis warned them, if there is any more shooting up there, you can just line up on the road because we're going out and bringing everybody in. Nine days later, he made good on his word, with a shocking raid that changed the course of the strike. Imagine it's June 14th, 1921, a hot and sticky West Virginia summer's day. You, your husband, and your two sons have been living in the Lick Creek tent colony for nearly a year. Hey, would you stir that for me? Sure, Mom. Your 16-year-old is helping you cook lunch in a pot hoisted over the campfire beside your tent, while his little brother plays quietly beside you. Oh boy, do I miss having a real kitchen.

You wipe your hands on your tattered cotton dress and raise a cloth to wipe your face. You've gotten used to making do with whatever groceries the Union is able to provide, but you'll never get used to dealing with the daily harassment and intimidation by the police and state troops. Your son turns to you startled. What was that? Your stomach turns as you look up through the trees and see a line of dozens of men marching downhill into the wooded valley. They're closing in on the camp. Take your brother and run. I'm not going to leave you. I'm telling you. Get out of here before it's too late. Go, go. But your son just shakes his head. He turns a

bewildered gaze to something over your shoulder. You turn and see troops only 20 yards away. They're rounding up men, women, and children toward the center of your camp. Suddenly, an officer approaches you out of nowhere. He's wielding a large knife. What are you going to do with that? The officer turns away from you and begins slicing the tent with the knife, hacking away large pieces of canvas. Please stop. This is the only home we have left.

Should have thought about that before you people started kicking up trouble. The officer disappears inside your tent, returning with two wooden chairs. Please, those were my grandfather's. But he ignores you and then starts pouring oil onto the floor of the tent. What are you doing? Well, we're burning the tents down. You can't do this. The officer shakes his head and grins.

He's wild-eyed as he prepares to strike a match. But the sound of gunshots stops him. He drops the unlit match as you whip your head around to spot the source of the gunfire. Men and women are crowding around a body. Your heart sinks as it dawns on you that a man has just been murdered. In the blink of an eye, you've lost your home in any hope that this is going to be a fair fight. On June 14, 1921, 70 state troopers descended from the hills and raided the Lick Creek tent colony. They were following reports that one of its residents had been involved in a shooting

incident. The authorities sliced the tents open with knives, smashed furniture, and poured oil on the floors, preparing to burn down the tents. Then they rounded up the miners and their families. A state policeman pulled a miner named Alex Breedlove out of the group. Breedlove was one of the first men in the area to join the union, and he was singled out as an example to the others. The officer shouted, Hold up your hands, goddamn you, and if you singled out as an example to the others. The officer shouted, Hold up your hands, goddamn you, and if you've got anything to say, say it fast.

Breedlove held up his hands and said, Lord have mercy. Then the policemen shot him. Next, the state police marched four dozen men into town at gunpoint and hauled them to the county jail. They were locked up without charges and packed into a single, overcrowded jail cell. For four nights, the prisoners were forced to stand in water, polluted with human waste from clogged toilets. Finally, the police charged four men with violating martial law and released the rest. In the years since the Matewan Massacre, at least 26 miners had been killed, but always at the hands of private mine guards and vigilantes. Now, a miner had been slain by state authorities. News of the Lick Creek Raid enraged miners throughout the state.

Nearly 175 miles to the north, a thousand angry miners gathered and warned of the violence that would erupt unless the mine guards and the police were removed from Mingo County. They passed a resolution declaring, We wish to let the brothers of Mingo County know that we are with them to a man and ready to assist them in any way. Newspapers across the country drew the nation's attention to the violence in Mingo County, with headlines dubbing the region Bloody Mingo. Americans read about hungry children living in tents and citizens being locked up without charges.

Stories of skirmishes and bombings painted a picture of a region torn apart by civil war. Calls for a government inquiry had previously fallen on deaf ears, but the killing at Lick Creek changed that. After the deadly raid, the U.S. Senate announced an investigation into conditions in West Virginia. The Senate held hearings and questioned dozens of witnesses about the crisis, including Keeney, Mooney, and Sid Hatfield. But little changed on the ground. Back in West Virginia,

miners were still facing brutal treatment at the hands of state police. Hundreds were in jail without any formal charge. Frank Keeney was fed up, and so too were the miners throughout southern West Virginia. At a union convention, a group of miners announced their readiness to make any sacrifice to aid the Mingo County strike. Frank Keeney declared,

By the eternal gods, before I sacrifice these men, I will go and fight myself. But just as Keeney began contemplating a new campaign into Mingo County, he received shocking news. Four months had passed since Sid Hatfield was acquitted for his role in the Matewan Massacre. To the miners, he was a hero. To the Baldwin-Felts mine guards, he was public enemy number one. That summer, Hatfield was ordered to stand trial for blowing up a coal tipple at the Mohawk Coal Camp in neighboring McDowell County. Union officials suspected the charge was a ploy to force Hatfield to appear in court. McDowell County was

under the thumb of the coal operators, and they worried that if Hatfield went there for trial, he might not come back. On August 1st, Hatfield and his former deputy and co-defendant Ed Chambers arrived at the McDowell County Courthouse in Welch, West Virginia, to plead not guilty. They were unarmed and accompanied only by their wives. As they ascended the courthouse steps, a group of Baldwin-Felts agents standing at the top opened fire. Hatfield was shot four times and killed instantly. Chambers was hit and rolled down the steps. One of the agents then shot him point-blank in the back of the head, even as Chambers' wife begged him to stop. The assassination of Sid Hatfield made headlines from Charleston to New

York. For many West Virginia miners, Hatfield's murder was the last straw. The cold-blooded killing of their hero touched off a storm of protest. And in the following days, miners would pour out of the hills, vowing to get their revenge. How did Birkenstocks go from a German cobbler's passion project 250 years ago to the Barbie movie today? Who created that bottle of red Sriracha with a green top that's permanently living in your fridge? Did you know that the Air Jordans were initially banned by the NBA? We'll explore all that and more in The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast from Wondery and T-Boys. This is Nick. This is Jack. And we've covered over a thousand episodes of pop business news stories on our daily podcast. We've identified the most viral products of all

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Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Criminal Attorney early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's August 4th, 1921 in Matewan, West Virginia. Thousands of people have gathered for the funeral of Sid Hatfield and Ed Chambers. It's pouring down rain. You and your son have joined the massive throng of mourners following the coffins in a procession down Maid Street to the graveyard. You've never seen this town so

quiet. I can't believe Hatfield's really gone. Ringo would never be the same. Well, it was bound to happen, wasn't it? Those Baldwin felt-thugs had it out for him. Always. Ever since the shootout last year. Your son looks at you with cold, hard eyes. You've never seen him like this before, seething with rage. He's a miner just like you, just like your father before you. Something has to be done about this. They murdered an unarmed man in plain sight, and now his killers are free on bond, paid by the mine owners,

while our men continue to rot in jail. I'm sure the Union is planning something. They're lawyers, lawyers. Time has passed for waiting for someone to come and rescue us, Pop. The law is never going to be on our side. If we want justice for Sheriff Hatfield, we've got to take matters into our own hands. Justice? You're talking about revenge, son. Be reasonable. Reasonable?

Why should I be reasonable? It's time we take up arms and fight back against the corruption in this state. Companies, the mine guards, the police, the governor. They're not reasonable. They're all against us. Son, be that as it may, you know that taking up arms is only going to lead to more violence for us miners. I won't stand by and watch you get killed.

You nod your head at the scores of state police lining the street. You know what they're expecting. They'll fight back with greater force. I can promise you that. Too many have died already. Our cause is bigger than just Hatfield. We've got to focus on the big picture. Bringing down the mine guards once and for all.

But your son just shakes his head. There's no point if we don't send a message, loud and clear, that what's happened here is simply un-American. You sigh and look past your son to the mourners surrounding you, taking in the atmosphere of grief and anger. You're terrified that this funeral is just the first of many more to come. On August 4th, 1921, a summer rain fell down on Matewan as hundreds of mourners gathered for the funeral of Sid Hatfield and Ed Chambers. The eulogist captured the crowd's anger when he declared that until the rule of the private detective agencies was over, there can be no peace in West Virginia. For many miners, the murder of Sid Hatfield showed that the time was ripe for more drastic action. Tries for revenge swept

through the coalfields. Frank Keeney had been planning a massive civil disobedience campaign in Mingo County, but in the wake of the murders, he decided to hold off, declaring, My men are willing to go to jail if I am not willing to have them killed. But Mother Jones had other ideas. The celebrity organizer known as the Miner's Angel was back in West Virginia. In the eight years since her release from military jail during the first mine war, Mother Jones had continued fighting for workers' rights across the country. She'd spent the last two months traveling West Virginia and making speeches on behalf of the United Mine Workers.

Soon after Hatfield's assassination, Jones met with Keeney and his ally Fred Mooney at Union headquarters in Charleston and urged them to hold a mass demonstration. When the two men refused, she berated them in front of a small crowd outside the headquarters, calling them spineless. The incident showed the growing strain among the organizers. In the years since the first mine war, Jones's behavior had grown increasingly erratic, her speeches more rambling. And while Jones called for an aggressive strategy, the Union men on the ground were more cautious, knowing all too well the potential for violence. But under pressure from Jones, Keeney and Mooney gave in and planned a demonstration. Keeney's anger and sense of duty overcame his fear of the risk of fighting back. On August 7th, 5,000 miners gathered for a

rally on the grounds of the state capitol, just across from the governor's mansion. That same day, Keeney, Mooney, and Jones went directly to Governor Morgan to make their demands. They asked him to abolish the mine guard system and set up a labor management commission to negotiate wages and mediate conflicts. Morgan agreed to consider their proposals. In the meantime, Keeney traveled throughout the state to rally support for the Mingo miners. In a speech in northern West Virginia, he declared, If we meet any resistance, the Matewan Affair will look like a sun bonnet parade. After ten days of consideration, Governor Morgan finally gave his answer.

He rejected all of the Union's demands. He blamed the violence in Mingo County not on the mine owners, the state troopers, or the Baldwin Feltz Agency, but on Union agitators. As word spread of the Governor's decision, the drumbeat of anger and resentment grew louder, not only among Mingo's miners in the South, but across the coal fields of central West Virginia. By August 20th, some 600 armed men had converged in a hollow near the town of Marmette, about 70 miles north of Mingo County. They brought along every weapon they could get their hands on. The frenzied crowd planned to march on Mingo County and free the men jailed there under martial law. Just two years earlier,

Keeney had stopped miners from conducting a similar march on Mingo. But much had changed, and now he was prepared to let the miners take the lead. On August 24th, Keeney and Mooney drove to Marmette, where Mother Jones was scheduled to make a speech. The miners' ranks had swelled to several thousand. Just three weeks earlier, Jones was the one demanding action, but now she was having second thoughts. Governor Morgan had convinced her that an armed march on Mingo would result in untold deaths. Jones was also worried that the march would damage the National Union's reputation and long-term agenda. So desperate to stop them, Jones stood before the miners and held up a slip of paper.

She announced it was a message from President Harding, offering to banish the mine guards if the miners abandoned their plans and went home. Twelve years had passed since Frank Keeney knocked on Mother Jones' door and asked for her help organizing Cabin Creek. Now 39, he was no longer the inexperienced young miner ready to follow Jones' lead. And he had seen too much to trust the promises of government authorities. He was immediately suspicious of Jones' telegram. In his view, the woman who had once been the miners' biggest champion had become a sellout.

Keeney snatched the paper out of Jones' hands and told the crowd, Well, boys, that telegram is a fake, and so is Mother Jones, so we will just move on. Jones stormed out of the camp, humiliated and angry at Keeney for betraying her. That night, she fled West Virginia, never to return. Keeney went on to Charleston, where he confirmed that the president had offered no such deal to end the mine guard system. He sent word to the camp in Marmette.

The next day, nearly 10,000 men moved out of the hollow and began marching south through the mountain wilderness. They wore denim overalls and red bandanas around their necks, a local symbol of Union activism. Despite their ragtag appearance, the men were highly disciplined and very organized. World War I veterans among their ranks lent the march military precision. The marchers divided themselves into squads, platoons, companies, and battalions as they marched south. Their commander was Bill

Blizzard, a 28-year-old Union official who was a veteran of the First Mine War in 1913. Blizzard was fiercely loyal to the Union. Despite his youth, he had a natural leadership ability that made men want to follow him. But before he could lead the miners into Mingo County, they would first have to go through Logan County and its sheriff, Don Chafin. Chafin was the most feared and hated man in southern West Virginia. He was in the pocket of the coal companies, and he enforced their will with a notorious brutality. As the miner army mobilized, Chafin began marshalling his own forces. He informed the press that he planned to defend Logan County with every engine of modern warfare and gathered arms from his massive weapons stockpile, including 10 machine guns, 1,000 rifles, and 67,000 rounds of ammunition.

He even rented three biplanes from a local airport to provide air power. Chafin mobilized nearly 3,000 deputies, mine guards, and civilian volunteers. They took up defensive positions around Blair Mountain, the steep ridge that formed a barrier around the town of Logan. Chafin hoped that he could cut the miners off at the mountain and prevent them from moving further south.

On August 25th, the two civilian armies were posed for battle. Not since the Civil War had the United States seen an armed uprising of this magnitude. The miners were prepared to do whatever it took to end the oppressive martial law regime and win their freedom to organize. But they would have to overcome not only Chafin's forces, the coal companies, and the state of West Virginia. They would soon face the full might of the United States Army. Chafin's army along a 25-mile Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music.

And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Molly Bach. Sound design by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton. Edited by Dorian Marina. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis. Created by Hernan Lopez for Wondery. Dracula, the ancient vampire who terrorizes Victorian London. Blood and garlic, bats and crucifixes. Even if you haven't read the book, you think you know the story. One of the incredible things about Dracula is that not only is it this wonderful snapshot of the 19th century,

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