American History Tellers - Coal Wars | The Matewan Massacre | 2

Episode Date: December 23, 2020

In March 1913, famed labor activist Mother Jones was locked up in a shack in Pratt, West Virginia, suffering from pneumonia and a high fever as she awaited court martial. For a year, the striking miners she led endured hunger and violence as they waged their desperate battle for the right to organize. Now, their struggle hung in the balance. West Virginia was under martial law, and hope for victory over the powerful coal companies seemed dimmer than ever. Newly inaugurated Governor Henry Hatfield vowed to end the crisis. But the deal would drive a wedge through the miners’ movement. New leaders took charge of the union, steering the miners through World War I and a daring new campaign into the state’s isolated southern counties. Soon, a violent showdown in the mountain town of Matewan would ignite a new, dangerous escalation in the conflict. 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.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 March 10th, 1913. You're in a makeshift courtroom in Pratt, West Virginia, getting ready to argue a case unlike any you've argued before. This region has been in chaos with the striking miners fighting the coal companies. Once again, the governor has declared martial law. The military court has appointed you to be the defense attorney for the union hero, Mother Jones.

She's about to be formally charged with conspiracy to commit murder for an attack on the mine company's guards last month. Here you go. Miss Jones, please have a seat. Jones peers down at you over her spectacles. So you're my lawyer? Yes, ma'am. Please sit. We don't have a lot of time. We need to discuss your plea. I have no defense to make. Whatever I have done in West Virginia, I've done all over the United States. And when I get out, I'll do it again. I see. Does that mean you wish to plead guilty?

No, you misunderstand me. I won't be entering a plea in this court of any sort. That would recognize the jurisdiction of the military court and the suspension of the civil courts. At the end of the hall, a trio of military officers in full regalia sit at a table waiting to take testimony and pass judgment. They stare at you sternly, rifles by their sides. My arrest was unconstitutional. This trial is unconstitutional. So I refuse to enter a plea and I refuse to accept your legal representation. Mrs. Jones, you must be reasonable. My presence here is the one

concession they've made for you. I'm not even allowed to call witnesses on your behalf. The governor's declaration of martial law suspends the state and national constitutions, does it not? Well, yes, that's right. If I am being stripped of my rights as a citizen, if I am being reduced to a mere subject of this country, then I refuse to plead one way or the other. Then they'll just enter your plea as not guilty. Mrs. Jones, I don't think you quite realize what's at stake here. You're facing execution. If you accept my defense, if you plead guilty, we can at least try for a lighter sentence than death. Young man, I understand precisely what's at stake. I'm prepared to accept my fate,

whatever it may be, but I'm not going to legitimize this sham trial. Those men are still out there, fighting for their families. They have nowhere to go. All they have are the mines. And so as long as I can breathe, I will fight alongside them. You stare at the old woman. She reminds you of your late grandmother. She was stubborn as an ox, too.

To sit back and let Mother Jones be tried without a lawyer goes against everything you believe in. But you can't deny this whole business makes a mockery of the Constitution. You just hope she lives to fight another day. sriracha that's living in your fridge, or why nearly every house in America has at least one game of Monopoly. Introducing The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast about the surprising origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now, where aspiring entrepreneurs get 90 seconds to pitch to an audience of potential customers. If the audience liked the product, pitch them in front of our panel of experts. Gwyneth Paltrow.

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Our history, your story. In the spring of 1913, West Virginia was in turmoil. The state was under martial law, and the striking coal miner's beloved champion, Mother Jones, was facing trial by a military tribunal for conspiracy to commit murder. Her calls for protests had made her enemy number one for the powerful coal companies and their allies in government. Thousands of desperate miners and their families had spent a year fighting a bitter war against the coal companies of Paint Creek and Cabin Creek. Dragged out of their homes and subjugated to

brutal violence, they had finally picked up their rifles and fought back against the companies who ruled their lives. Their clash was a front line in a national battle for workers to secure basic rights and dignity on the job. West Virginia's new governor resolved to settle the conflict and bring peace to his state. But what he didn't count on was the intensity of the miners' determination to fight for their freedom to organize, a fight that would soon usher in a bloody new chapter of the Coal Wars. This is Episode 2, The Matewan Massacre. In February 1913, Mother Jones and 47 other civilians were locked up in a military jail in Pratt, the headquarters of the West Virginia National Guard.

Jones was placed in solitary confinement while she awaited court-martial. The charges against her stem from a February attack on the mine guard camp at Mucklow, in which a company clerk was killed. Jones, who was in her mid-70s, was forced to sleep on a straw mattress on the floor, with only her thoughts and the sound of soldiers pacing outside to keep her company. She fell ill with pneumonia, but Governor Glasscock refused to release her or the other jailed strikers. But Glasscock's time in office was almost up. During those long winter days in jail, the miners hoped their fortunes would change after the inauguration of the newly elected governor, Henry Hatfield.

Hatfield was a Republican and a progressive like his predecessor. He'd campaigned as a reformer, backing attacks on coal company profits and pledging to limit the use of private mine guards. But the most urgent matter on his agenda was to end the war raging in the coal fields. On March 4, blustery winds rolled through the state capitol as Hatfield rode past crowds gathered for his inaugural parade. Ignoring the warning from his aides, who said he could be killed by strikers, he immediately left for the front lines to investigate the desperate conditions in the tent colonies.

Formerly a physician, at dawn the next day, Hatfield packed his doctor's satchel and rushed to the coal fields to talk to the miners and treat the sick. From there, he traveled to Pratt, where he found Mother Jones lying on the floor of a shack,

suffering from pneumonia and a 104-degree fever. He ordered her to be removed to Charleston to receive proper medical care. He also released 30 of the strikers who were being held under martial law. But he stopped short of ending the military tribunals. Lawyers for the United Mine Workers of America had convinced a circuit court judge to issue an order halting the court marshals. But Hatfield stepped in to block the court order, telling the judge that if he refused to let the trials go on, bloodshed from the ongoing violence would be on the court's hands. Hatfield believed it was his responsibility as head of the state to

mediate the war between the miners and the companies. But despite his friendliness to the miners on the campaign trail, he let the court-martials continue, determined to keep the pressure on the miners to end the strike. In doing so, Hatfield subjected the prisoners to a form of prosecution government officials had rarely imposed on American civilians during peacetime. On March 7th, court-martial proceedings began for Mother Jones, who was now being held under house arrest in a boarding house in Pratt. She was still in poor health, and the case against her attracted nationwide publicity, which was exactly what Jones hoped for. She told a visiting journalist, I can raise just as much hell in jail as anywhere.

As a concession, the colonel in charge of the proceedings allowed the defendants civil defense attorneys, but they were still not allowed to call witnesses or appeal their sentences. Jones denied legal counsel and refused to enter a plea. She saw it as a statement of protest against a trial she declared unconstitutional. To draw further attention to her case, Jones smuggled out messages to her allies on Capitol Hill. Pro-labor Senator John Wirth Kern took the Senate floor to read a telegram from Jones, in which she described the groans and tears and heartaches of the mining families and urged lawmakers to investigate constitutional abuses. But back in West Virginia, if found guilty, Jones faced execution by military firing squad. So she used pressed interviews to paint herself

as a martyr for the movement. She exaggerated her age for effect. Times, I am 80 years old and I haven't long to live anyhow. Since I have to die, I would rather die for the cause to which I have given so much of my life. Jones' case helped draw public opinion to the side of the defendants. Workers from across the country sent hundreds of furious letters and telegrams to the Department of Labor, Congress, and the White House demanding Jones' release. But despite growing public outrage and limited hard evidence, the court convicted all of the accused for conspiracy to commit murder. Mother Jones was sentenced to 20 years in state prison. The United Mine Workers president said the court-martial set a dangerous precedent for civil liberties. But it was up to Governor Hatfield to impose the sentences, which he was reluctant to do.

While he debated the fate of Jones and her allies, he devoted his attention to the more pressing matter of ending the ongoing strike. Hatfield had ordered the operators to negotiate a compromise with the union officials. When the employers refused to meet with the union, Hatfield took matters into his own hands, deciding to dictate a settlement himself. On April 14th, he laid out the terms for what became known as the Hatfield Agreement. The miners were awarded a nine-hour workday, the right to shop at independent stores, and the right to have union men weigh coal loads to prevent miners from being shortchanged in their wages. Though the terms fell short of the miners' full demands, Hatfield pressured the union officials into supporting his terms, warning them of severe consequences if they refused.

So on May 1, the operators and the union signed the Hatfield Agreement. Hatfield ordered the miners back to work within 36 hours, threatening deportation from the state to anyone who refused. He also issued pardons for all who had been convicted by the military tribunals, including Mother Jones, who had by now been under house arrest for 85 days. She promptly set off on a speaking tour to raise awareness of the constitutional abuses in West Virginia. So after a year of chaos and bloodshed, the strike was officially over. Local newspapers applauded Hatfield's role in bringing the conflict to an end.

But many miners felt the deal didn't go nearly far enough. It left intact the mine company's tight grip on their lives and failed to guarantee them any long-term gains. They wanted complete recognition of the union and an end to the private mine guards, the hated security forces the company employed to harass workers into submission. Neither of these demands were part of the deal. The miners' leader was Frank Keeney, the man who had first brought Mother Jones to Cabin Creek almost a year earlier. And that summer, in defiance of the union joining the Hatfield Agreement, Keeney rallied thousands of rank-and-file miners in staging what were known as wildcat strikes, unauthorized strikes carried out without

the union's approval. When two local socialist newspapers also criticized the settlement, Governor Hatfield deployed National Guardsmen to destroy their printing presses. But still, the miners persisted in their demands. Meanwhile, the harsh suppression of the strike sparked outrage in Washington, and the U.S. Senate launched an investigation. Senate Majority Leader Kern declared that the people of West Virginia had been denied rights for which their fathers fought and died. The lawmakers were determined to hold the coal operators accountable for civil liberty violations.

Imagine it's June 1913. You're in Washington, D.C., sitting in a meeting of the Senate subcommittee investigating the strike in West Virginia. You're interviewing Paint Creek Coal Company operator Quinn Morton about conditions in his mines and the violence in the strike this past year. You've never stepped foot in a coal mine.

In fact, you're a farmer by trade. But to you, your cause is one and the violence and the strike this past year. You've never stepped foot in a coal mine. In fact, you're a farmer by trade. But to you, your cause is one and the same. You've devoted your entire political career to ensuring that the common man gets justice, and the reports from West Virginia have been enraging. The chairman calls your name and indicates you have the floor, so you stand to address the room. Mr. Morton, we've heard evidence of unsafe and unsanitary conditions in the coal mines from the company physician.

What do you say to this account? Morton lifts his chin. The conditions in the mines are as good as in any other. I reject the accusation that they're anything but standard. He's offering denials, just as you expected. You want to proceed in a calm and rational manner, but his arrogance gets the better of you. I'm exercising my prerogatives as a senator of the United States. You gentlemen must provide sanitary conditions

to protect the lives of these minors. West Virginia does not need to look to the mosquito-ridden swamps of New Jersey to learn sanitation. At least New Jersey isn't run by barbaric corporate thugs. The chairman gives you a look that's not hard to interpret. He wants you to tone it down, but you're already turning to your next line of attack. I want to turn the subcommittee's attention to the so-called Bull Moose Special, an attack against defenseless women and children in February. I'm speaking, of course, of Mr. Morton directing private mercenaries to drive an armored train, an armored train through the Holly Grove tent camp, a train equipped with a Gatling gun. Mr. Morton, I want to know, do you approve of the use of machine guns against civilians? I object to the tone of the question. Where's your proof?

This treatment is outrageous. I have a right to ask that question. I want to know whether this gentleman, a cultured gentleman and an educated gentleman, approves of the use of a machine gun in a populated village. Sir, I am tired of being browbeaten. My conscience is clear. I'll ask you to answer the question. I decline. The chairman pounds the gavel to interrupt the questioning. Enough, gentlemen. Mr. Morton, you are dismissed. Your colleagues begin to pack up their papers, but you push through the throng to confront Morton as he tries to lead the room. Maybe Morton's conscience is clear, but yours won't be unless you do something. Morton, stop there!

But just as you raise your fist, a fellow senator grabs your arm. Morton looks over his shoulder, amused. Senator, have some decency. You have forfeited all right to judge decency of character. You won't get away with this. But even as you say it, you're not sure you're right. The coal company still has powerful allies in government, but you won't rest until every American knows

about what's happening to the coal miners of West Virginia. In the summer of 1913, Kanawha Valley coal operators faced intense questioning from the U.S. Senate. New Jersey Senator James Martine grilled Paint Creek coal operator Quinn Morton about his role in the Bull Moose special incident. The exchange got so heated that the pair almost came to blows. The subcommittee's final report included 2,300 pages of testimony and evidence denouncing the Kanawha operators for maintaining deplorable and un-American conditions in the West Virginia coal fields. The report was also unequivocal in condemning Governor Hatfield for violating the U.S. Constitution and several West Virginia state laws. It was the first time that Congress had ever investigated the actions of a state government. So, with now-Governor Hatfield facing pressure from the Senate, the Cabin Creek mine operators knew there was no chance of another declaration of martial law to end the wildcat strikes that

still plagued them. In July, they finally agreed to come to the table with Frank Keeney and his supporters. They granted the miners their original demands, formal recognition of the union and an end to the use of private guards to intimidate miners. But the victory came at a heavy cost. Dozens of strikers had been killed in the mine war, and families had lost their homes and livelihoods. But the miners of Paint Creek and Cabin Creek had fought the combined power of the mine operators and the state and won. Union membership continued to grow in the Kanawha Valley. Even so, the miners emerged from the strike with a deep sense of betrayal by the National Union. They felt the Union had been too quick to bend to Hatfield's will and fallen short

of pressing for a total victory. So many thought it was time for new leadership, ordinary miners who would take up the mantle in future fights, men like Frank Keating. This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store, or maybe you're with your secret lover, or maybe you're robbing a bank. Based on the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, Incoming, a brand new fiction podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus, follows the journey of a variety of characters as they confront the unimaginable. The missiles are coming. What am I supposed to do? Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Henner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Edelstein, and many, many more, Incoming is a

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You can listen to Criminal Attorney early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in 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. Peace prevailed in the West Virginia coal fields in the years after the strikes at Paint Creek and Cabin Creek. After so much bloodshed and sacrifice, the foot soldiers in the mine war felt that it was finally their moment to step in and control the union they had fought tooth and nail to join. The battles and the hard-fought victory had driven a wedge between the rank-and-file miners and the Charleston officials representing the United Mine Workers of America. Under pressure from the governor, the union had accepted the Hatfield Agreement, even though it left out some key demands from the local miners. So in the summer of 1913, when Frank Keeney led several

wildcat strikes in defiance of the union leaders, it made clear that he wasn't afraid to take action. He and his supporters felt that the local and national union officials had sold them out in accepting Governor Hatfield's deal. By Keeney's side was his close ally, a Cabin Creek miner named Fred Mooney. Like Keeney, Mooney was born and raised in the coal fields and had worked underground since he was a boy. And like Keeney, he had become a socialist, frustrated that he dug coal for hours on end but still struggled to feed his young family. Mooney was more restrained than the fiery Keeney, but he was no less strong-willed. Over the next three years, Keeney and Mooney joined forces. They built a movement to challenge the Union officials in Charleston who led District 17, which encompassed the coal mines of southern

and central West Virginia. District 17 officials knew that their region was the linchpin for the Union's national strategy to organize miners. They had fed and housed thousands of miner families who had been thrown out into tent camps. They had accepted Hatfield's deal and fought to get the miners back to work because they feared that if they didn't, all their previous gains would be lost. But they had misjudged the loyalty ordinary miners felt toward their leaders on the ground and their determination to fight whatever the consequences. In 1915, Keeney and Mooney defected from the United Mine Workers and started an independent union. They called it the West Virginia Mine Workers Union. And with World War I raging in Europe, the demand

for coal was at an all-time high. The operators needed the miners more than ever, something Keeney and Mooney used to their advantage. In the spring of 1916, they persuaded the companies to negotiate a contract with their independent union. Rather than risk a strike, the operators gave in to their demands. Fearing a loss of power over the West Virginia coal fields, District 17 officials went on the attack. They used the official union newspaper to paint Keeney and Mooney as reckless socialists and rabble-rousers. But the Union officials again underestimated Keeney's influence among their rank-and-file members. He moved through the world with a confidence and a fierce determination that won over thousands of miners. At the same time, it horrified politicians and

mine operators. But while District 17 officials painted Keeney as a radical adversary, national union leaders were impressed. Keeney and Mooney had managed to successfully negotiate a new contract with the companies and were hugely popular with the miners. So the national leaders launched an investigation into District 17 officials and found rampant corruption. They ordered a new election. Keeney and Mooney had successfully struck out on their own, but now decided the time was ripe to seize control of District 17. In the fall elections, the National Union president made the unusual move of siding with Keeney and Mooney over the incumbent officers at District 17. The pair also received a crucial endorsement from Mother Jones.

Keeney and Mooney's opponents branded them as secessionists, a title they wore proudly. Keeney later remembered, I led a secessionist movement against the most degraded group of crooks, drunks, and double dealers that was ever known to infest the body politic of a labor movement. When the votes were counted, 34-year-old Keeney was elected president of District 17, and 28-year-old Mooney was named secretary-Treasurer. The rank-and-file radicals had become the establishment. In the spring of 1917, the war overseas could no longer be ignored, and the United States entered World War I. Coal became a critical resource for the

war effort. Orders poured in from steel plants and the U.S. Navy. Overnight, the coal companies of West Virginia saw their profits skyrocket by 500%. Privately, Keeney condemned the war. As a socialist, he saw the conflict as nothing more than imperial powers pitting the working classes of Europe against each other. But he put aside his beliefs, hoping that the miners' contribution to the wartime economy would translate into future rewards. In a speech to union members, he declared, There must be no laggards, no frivolous quibbling. We must stand shoulder to shoulder in this great battle for liberty and democracy. Following his call, West Virginia's coal miners set new production records during the war, and they demonstrated their loyalty with their dollars and their lives. Miners enthusiastically bought war bonds, hoping their efforts to bring democracy to Europe would pave the way for real democracy on the coal fields. And though they were exempt

from the draft, more than 50,000 miners volunteered to fight, and 3,000 died in combat overseas. To keep wartime production rolling, the federal government protected labor unions, and windfall profits from the mining companies brought wage increases for the miners. And so by the end of the war, membership in District 17 had ballooned from 7,000 members to more than 50,000. But peace in Europe meant falling demand for coal. Now facing a national recession, West Virginia's mine operators moved to protect their profits. And once again, they resolved to keep costs down by preventing their workers from joining the union. But just as the coal companies doubled down on preventing union organizing, union leaders were preparing for their next fight.

Keeney and Mooney hoped that the miners' wartime sacrifices would usher in further victories for the union. So now they turned their full attention to organizing the tens of thousands of remaining non-Union miners. And they set their sights on Mingo and Logan counties, located in the extreme southern part of the state. Mingo and Logan counties made up the largest non-unionized coal country in the eastern United States. They were also home to West Virginia's richest and most profitable coal fields. And they were also the most violent.

West Virginians referred to Mingo County as Bloody Mingo. This remote, rugged region was at the center of the notorious feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys. It was a place where men settled their disputes with bullets. On Mingo's northern border lay Logan County, dubbed the Kingdom of Logan. Its king was County Sheriff Don Chafin, who ruled the mountain enclave with an iron fist. Chafin was a hard-drinking bully who sported a fedora and a fine linen suit. Logan's coal operators paid him $30,000 a year to keep the union out,

nearly half a million in today's money. And for that hefty sum, Chafin unleashed brutal force on the miners and their families. He was a favorite of the mine companies, but he quickly became the most hated man in southern West Virginia. He and his deputies beat and jailed union organizers, and anyone suspected of attending union meetings. Not even clergymen could escape Chafin's callous rule. When a black minister spoke positively about the union during a prayer meeting, Chafin had his deputies pistol-whip the reverend before his Sunday sermon. And Chafin proved to be Keeney's biggest obstacle to his plan to organize Logan County.

When Keeney tried to send 50 experienced organizers to Logan, they were stopped at the county line and threatened with their lives. Zucchini tried another tech. He sought help from Washington, hoping to expose Chafin's ruthlessness to the world. Imagine it's August 1919. You're at the White House, sitting down for a meeting with President Woodrow Wilson's private secretary. The plush chairs and plaster ceilings are a far cry from your work as a reporter in West Virginia. Normally, you're on the crime beat, but union leader Frank Keeney has hired you to investigate civil liberties violations in the Logan County mines. And after all you've uncovered,

Keeney has dispatched you to Washington to seek federal support. Wilson's secretary, Joseph Tumulty, quickly enters the room, looking harangued and rushed. He immediately checks his watch. Oh, apologies for my tardiness. It's been quite a day. Oh, it's nothing. Thank you for seeing me. Tumulty takes a seat across the table from you. So, you're the man from West Virginia? Yes, originally from New York.

He raises his eyebrows. You've seen that look before. You can tell he's got a higher estimation of you now that you're a New Yorker and you feel a wave of dislike. My work with the Daily Gazette in Charleston brought me in contact with the Union men at District 17. I'm here to seek the White House's help in Logan County. Tumulty sneaks a swift glance at his watch again. His disinterest is starting to get to you. Mr. Tumulty, the situation for the miners is dire. Organizers are beaten, sometimes killed by the sheriff and his men. And all the while, the governor refuses to enforce the civil rights of the people he's sworn to protect. So I'm here to tell you, it's like it's not even America there. Well, that sounds like a problem for local law enforcement.

But that's just it. Sheriff Chafin is the local law. They are one and the same. So let me be brief. I'm looking for immediate assurances that the full power of the presidency will be used to enforce the Bill of Rights in West Virginia. I'm not sure this is our role. It's not really a federal matter.

After all these men did to support the war effort, what was the point of fighting for freedom in France if the Bill of Rights means nothing at home? Without support from their government, the miners of West Virginia will have no alternative but to defend their rights themselves. Let me be clear, each and every one of them has a gun. I'll look into it. I hope you do. And please, remember what happened seven years ago in West Virginia. I'm afraid if there is more blood, it's going to be on your hands. A door opens and an aide appears.

It's obvious that this meeting is over. You rise to shake Tumulty's hand, but he's already headed toward the door, off to his next appointment. You're more certain than ever that the miners won't abide this kind of blatant disregard from their government. They will exercise their rights, even if they have to use force. In the summer of 1919, Frank Keeney hired reporter Jack Spivek to seek help from the White House, but the journalist was rebuffed. The message from Washington was clear. The miners were on their own. Back in West Virginia, rumors were swirling of atrocities committed by Chafin and his men.

Miners picked up their weapons and began gathering on the outskirts of Charleston for a march on Logan County. By September 5, 1919, their numbers had reached 5,000, and the new state governor was growing anxious. West Virginia's governor John Cornwell had been elected in 1916 after Frank Keeney assured him of the miners' support. In exchange, Keeney had demanded a pledge to protect the Union and check the violence of the mine guards. But now, to stop the march, Cornwell threatened to call out federal troops against the miners, but he also promised to launch an investigation into the abuses of the coal operators. He also sent Keeney to the marcher's camp. Keeney knew the consequences of marching into Logan County could be dire, and he held out hope that the governor he had helped put in office would follow through on

his promise of an investigation. Eventually, Keeney convinced the miners to go home, but with a state legislature dominated by the coal companies, no action was taken to improve conditions. And in the governor's mansion, Cornwall was suspicious of the miners, telling the New York Times that some mysterious radical influence had brought on the march. He was not alone among government officials in painting labor activists as dangerous socialists. Their fears were part of a nationwide backlash against unions. During the war, the government had been eager to meet the demands of organized labor

to prevent snarls in production. But in 1917, the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia upended views about socialism. The world watched as Russia's working class overthrew the country's centuries-old monarchy and formed the world's first socialist state. The following year, in 1918, World War I ended. But with the end of hostilities came a post-war economic slump. Four million American workers went on strike. The thousands of walkouts sparked mass hysteria, and the federal government was determined to extinguish any threat of socialist revolution like the one that had just taken over Russia.

Soon, a full-blown Red Scare engulfed the halls of power in Washington, and officials worked to decimate the union protections put in place during the war. During World War I, the United Mine Workers had become the nation's largest and most powerful union. In November of 1919, they elected a new president, John L. Lewis. Famous for his bushy eyebrows and thundering voice, Lewis was an ambitious and tenacious fighter for miners' rights. Once he took office, he immediately called for a general nationwide coal strike. His call sparked widespread alarm. The Chicago Tribune warned that the miners were red-soaked in the doctrines of Bolshevism and were trying to start a communist revolution in America.

President Wilson's attorney general got a federal judge to issue an injunction to stop the strike. Lewis was furious. Just as leaders in Washington and Charleston were turning against labor, he dug in, announcing a new, audacious plan to take on the Mineworker Union's toughest opponents. So on January 30, 1920, Lewis and Keeney stood side-by-side before a group of miners in Bluefield, West Virginia, the headquarters of the Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency. The location was symbolic, a signal that Lewis had no intention of backing down against the companies or their violent security forces. Lewis announced that the Mineworkers Union would target all of the non-union mines of southern West Virginia.

For Lewis, the cheap coal coming out of Mingo and Logan counties in the south was the biggest threat to the wages of union miners in the north, and he refused to let it undermine the progress the union had made any longer. And he knew that with Frank Keeney, he had just the right man to lead the fight. Keeney had proved himself as a shrewd and charismatic strategist who commanded the miners' loyalty. He wouldn't stop until every miner in West Virginia was organized. 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

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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. I'm Tristan Redmond, 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. When I tried to find out more, I discovered that someone who slept in my room after me, someone I'd never met, was visited by the ghost of a faceless woman. So I started digging into the murder in my wife's family, and I unearthed family secrets nobody could have imagined. Ghost Story won Best Documentary Podcast at the 2024 Ambies, and is a Best True Crime nominee at the British Podcast Awards 2024. Ghost Story is now the first ever Apple Podcast series essential. Each month, Apple Podcast editors spotlight one series that has captivated listeners with masterful storytelling,

creative excellence, and a unique creative voice and vision. To recognize Ghost Story being chosen as the first series 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. In early 1920, John L. Lewis and Frank Keeney were ready to organize every miner in Logan and Mingo counties. But so far, they had struggled to find a way into the state's southern coal fields. But that spring, they finally got their chance. In late March of 1920, the U.S. Coal Commission recommended a 27% wage increase for all union members. But the salary hike did not apply to non-union miners like the ones who dug coal in Mingo and Logan counties. Mingo miners who heard about the wage increase resented being left out.

Dozens of miners walked off the job, and they sent representatives to the office of Keeney's ally Fred Mooney in Charleston to announce that Mingo miners were ready to join the union. Mooney promised to send organizers south. He and Keeney hoped that a foothold in Mingo would open the door to organizing all of the southern coal fields. So at the end of April, veteran organizers flocked to Mingo to launch a massive organizing drive. They set up their headquarters in Matewan, a small independent town on the Kentucky border. It was a rare coaling community that was largely free from company control. Matewan had long been a haven for miners, a place where they were able to organize outside the grasp

of the companies. In most coal communities, law enforcement were clearly in the pocket of the coal operators. But Matewan was governed by independent elected officials, who often sympathized with the miners and refused to bow to the operators' will. And when union organizers came to Matewan, Mingo County Sheriff George T. Blankenship promised to protect them from the companies. Blankenship himself belonged to a railway union, and he had campaigned for sheriff, promising to serve the masses regardless of fear or favor. And once elected, he worked to stall evictions in the company houses within Matewantown limits. The union also had a crucial ally in the town mayor, Cavill Testerman.

Testerman owned a soda fountain and a jewelry store in town, and he was committed to defending the laws of West Virginia and supporting the miners who had elected him. On April 22, 1920, the Union held its first rally at Matewan's Baptist Church. Three hundred men descended from the hills and took oaths, swearing their allegiance to the Union. Hundreds more joined the next day. All knew, though, it could cost them their homes and their jobs. Mingo's coal operators were horrified to see the Union sweep through their minds, and they quickly retaliated. They began demanding their employees sign what the miners called

yellow dog contracts, swearing not to join the union. Miners who refused were promptly fired. But the union organizers refused to back down. Instead, they ramped up their efforts, holding massive public rallies. By early May, 75% of Mingo's 4,000 miners had joined the union. The organizers and the miners were emboldened by Matewan's unique status as an independent town. And Mayor Testerman proved his commitment to the miners in his choice of a police chief, a gun-slinging 26-year-old former miner named Sid Hatfield. Hatfield was wiry and gaunt,

with high cheekbones and close-set eyes that intimidated anyone who crossed him. Aggressive and quick to anger, he was not actually related to the legendary Hatfield family, but he adopted the name because he liked the connection to the famously combative clan. Hatfield was a skilled fistfighter and an expert marksman. He toted two pistols and was known to shoot straight with both hands. He quit drinking after he realized that alcohol dulled his reflexes, but he could still often be found playing pool and poker in a saloon when he wasn't cavorting with the mayor's wife, Jessie. But above all, Hatfield was fiercely pro-union, having dug coal himself for a brief

time. Together, Sheriff Blankenship, Mayor Testerman, and Police Chief Hatfield shielded Mingo's miners from the kind of brutal retaliation other miners faced in company towns. But their resolve would be tested. Imagine it's a dreary May morning in Matewan, West Virginia, the town you're proud to serve as mayor. You're walking down Mate Street, the town's main thoroughfare, to open up your jewelry store when you notice a shiny roadster pull up and park in front of the local hotel. Three men in well-tailored suits get out of the car and walk toward you. You have a sneaking suspicion as to who they are.

One of them addresses you. Good morning. Mayor Testerman, isn't it? That's right. And you are? Detective Cunningham, with the Baldwin-Felts Agency. You're just the man we're looking for. Ah, is that so? Well, what can I do for you? We're here on business for the Stone Mountain Coal Company. This union organizing has gotten out of hand. We'd like your permission to place machine guns on the roofs of a few stores on this street. To help preserve the peace, of course. Like the shop on the corner here.

He points to the store you own. The nerve of this man. No, he will do no such thing. Not on my store and not in my town. The agent grins knowingly. Oh, don't you worry, Mayor. We'll pay handsomely for your cooperation. I'm prepared to invest $1,000 in your goodwill. I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline both the cash and the guns. It's for all of you men to come into my town and act like it's yours to run roughshod over. The man's smile fades. Now, how about you go ahead and tell me why you're really here? Suit yourself. We've come to evict strikers from the company houses. And before you start, before you start, you should know we have authorization signed by the magistrate.

Your authorization means nothing. The houses in question lie in Meituan's jurisdiction, which means the only person with the power to authorize evictions is the person you're speaking to and annoying quite successfully. Well, Mayor, I appreciate hearing your opinion on the matter. Come on, boys. The agents turn and start to walk away, but you're not done with them. Detective. The man whips his head around. I want you to know, you can bring as many agents as you want.

You will never evict those miners. That is a promise. With that, you turn around and set off in search of Hatfield and Blankenship. If you're not mistaken, you have grounds to arrest these Baldwin-Felts agents. You will protect those miners if it's the last thing you do. On May 19, 1920, a dozen Baldwin-Felts agents hired by the Stone Mountain Coal Company descended on Matuan, West Virginia, armed with eviction warrants and Winchester rifles. It was the same private security force that had brought death and destruction on the coal fields of Paint Creek and Cabin Creek nearly a decade earlier. When Mayor Testerman learned of the

agent's intentions, he alerted Police Chief Hatfield, who telephoned Sheriff Blankenship. Blankenship promised to dispatch warrants for the agent's arrest on the next train to Matuan. Hatfield promised, Those sons of bitches will never leave here alive. Meanwhile, the detectives headed to the company cabins and began evicting families. The families were forced to stand out in the rain and watch as the agents hauled their furniture out onto the street. That afternoon, the Baldwin-Felts agents prepared to head out of town on the next train.

Their party included Albert and Lee Felts, the brothers of the agent's owner. Mayor Testerman and Sheriff Hatfield confronted them outside the local hardware store. But Albert Felts just laughed. He produced a warrant of his own, declaring that Hatfield was under arrest. Mayor Testerman declared the agent's warrant bogus. Moments later, shots rang out. Witnesses disagreed as to who shot first, but the confrontation suddenly erupted into a full-blown gun battle. Over the next 15 minutes, nearly 100 rounds were fired in the middle of Meituan. When the shooting finally stopped, seven detectives were killed, including Albert and Lee Feltz. Mayor Testerman and two minors lay dying. Testerman was put on the next

train to the nearest hospital, but he died later that night. The gunfight in downtown Matewan made headlines nationwide. It quickly became known as the Matewan Massacre. Miners were electrified by the deaths of the hated Baldwin Feltz agents and Hatfield's passionate defense of their rights. They also mourned the death of the loyal local mayor, Testerman, and the slain miners. As a result, the miners became even more determined to organize. Fred Mooney told the New York Times that the shootout marked the end of thug rule in West Virginia. Over the next few weeks, more and more miners flocked to the Union ranks. The Union poured funds into a massive organizing drive,

and Mother Jones rushed back to West Virginia to rally her boys. In a letter to a fellow union official, Frank Keeney vowed that he refused to be blocked, bluffed, or browbeaten in this campaign until every minor is in the organization. By summer, 90% of Mingo County minors had joined the union. The organizing surge bolstered the confidence of union leaders. And on July 1st, Frank Keeney called for a general strike in Mingo County. The operators were stunned as thousands of miners walked off the job. Union leaders believed a new day of freedom had come to the southern coal fields. They had finally struck back at the Baldwin-Felts agents and the companies that

deployed them. What they didn't know was that their struggle against the oppressive coal companies of Mingo and Logan counties was only just beginning. Over the next 13 months, the Meituan Massacre would plunge southern West Virginia into civil war, building to the largest armed uprising in half a century. From Wondery, this is Episode 2 of The Coal Wars from American History Tellers. On the next episode, as Sheriff Sid Hatfield awaits trial for murder, he becomes a hero for the miners' resistance movement, who soon wage an all-out guerrilla war against strikebreakers.

In a move to stop the unrest, the governor imposes martial law, unleashing new atrocities against the minors that will spark calls for revenge. and ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, 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 Hernán Ló edited by Dorian Marina. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery. For more than two centuries, the White House has been the stage for some of the most dramatic scenes in American history. Inspired by the hit podcast American History Tellers, Wondery and William Morrow present the new book, The Hidden History of the White House. Each chapter will bring you inside the fierce power struggles, the world

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