American History Tellers - Coal Wars | The Most Dangerous Woman in America | 1

Episode Date: December 16, 2020

In the early 20th century, coal was the fuel that powered the nation. But the men who mined it in the rugged and remote hills of West Virginia endured harsh exploitation by the coal companies that controlled their lives. In the spring of 1912, miners in West Virginia’s Kanawha Valley rose up against the companies and their powerful allies in law enforcement with a strike for their right to join a union.But the mine operators responded with force. They hired private security agents to attack the miners and their families and evict them from their homes. Soon, the escalating conflict brought the era’s most notorious labor activist, Mother Jones, to the scene. A self-described “hellraiser,” Jones joined forces with miners on the ground, sparking a series of bloody armed clashes that would rage across West Virginia for the next decade. 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 December 1907 in Monongah, West Virginia. You and a friend have just emerged from a mine shaft. You collapse on the hillside, both covered in thick black dust. You spit into the dirt, pull out a bandana, and wipe your face. Below you, the hillside is swarming with people, hundreds of women and children. Many of them are immigrants, like you, pleading in Italian, Polish, Hungarian.

There are a few black families as well, all searching for loved ones. This morning, there was a massive explosion in two of the Fairmont Coal Company's mines. You and a friend rushed here to search for survivors, but there's only one miner you really care about, your 14-year-old brother. You see anything? Your friend spits into his bandana and shakes his head. No, nothing. I'm going back down. It's only been 12 hours. There's still a chance. Antonio. No, no, I'm sorry, but look around. This isn't a rescue mission. It's a recovery job now. Most of those men, if they haven't been crushed, have died by now from the fumes. And you might too if you keep going down there. A few feet away, a woman with gray hair is rocking over a man's body, stretched out on the ground.

You watch as she reaches out and with her handkerchief, gently wipes the black dust from his face. You drop your pickaxe and bury your head in your hands. How am I supposed to go home to my mother and tell her that her son is dead? The company promised the mines were safe. You know the company's promises don't mean anything. We've heard all that before. They probably care more about the mules they lost down there than the men. It's true, and the thought fills you with rage.

When will we rise up and fight to be treated like human beings? When will we get real safety? Someday, maybe. But not today. They hold all the cards. But what if we stack the deck? What if we refuse? What if we took the power back?

Your friend's eyes widen as he realizes you're serious. You're upset. I am too. But we can't do anything stupid. We've all got to work. Deep down, you know upset. I am too. But we can't do anything stupid. We've all got to work. Deep down, you know he's right. Mining is all you've done since you came to this country. And there's no other industry around here.

You'll mourn. You'll rage. But you've all got mouths to feed. When the repairs are done, you'll go back to work. And forget the dangers of the mines. Because the real risk is defying the power of the company. Hey, this is Nick. And this is Jack.

And we just launched a brand new podcast called The Best Idea Yet. You may have heard of it. It's all about the untold 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, it gets them in front of our panel of experts. Gwyneth Paltrow.

Anthony Anderson. Tabitha Brown. Tony Hawk. Oh, my God. Buy It Now. Stream free on Freebie and Prime Video. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. On our show, we'll take you to the events, the times, and the people that shaped America and Americans, our values, our struggles, and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday citizens as history was being made, and we'll show you how the events of the times affected them,

their families, and affects you now. On the 6th of December, 1907, a powerful explosion ripped through two coal mines in Monongah, West Virginia. It was the deadliest coal mining disaster in American history. Rescue workers pulled 361 bodies from the rubble. The carnage convinced many miners that the companies they worked for would readily sacrifice human lives in their chase for profit. In the early 20th century, coal was the fuel that powered American industry and drove staggering corporate wealth. But as the demand for coal rose, so too did the exploitation of the men who mined

it. In the steep hills and narrow valleys of West Virginia, powerful coal companies exercised tyrannical control over their workers' lives. But in the spring of 1912, oppressed miners fought back, rising up for their right to join a union. It was the start of the Coal Wars, when miners battled corporate power with strikes and shootouts, culminating in the largest armed insurrection since the Civil War. This long, blood-soaked struggle forced Americans to reckon with the tensions between profit and freedom in the Industrial Age, and it would shape the future of American labor and the rights of all workers to demand dignity and justice.

This is Episode 1, The Most Dangerous Woman in America. By the turn of the 20th century, the American economy ran on coal. It was this black gold that powered the nation's factories, trains, and steamships. It heated American homes and helped turn iron into steel. Three-quarters of a million men extracted coal from the depths of the earth, from Appalachia to the Mississippi River. But in West Virginia, the challenge of transporting coal over the Appalachian Mountains stalled the development of the state's coal industry. And so in the 1880s and 90s, competing railroad tycoons raced to carve up West Virginia's mountains,

laying down miles of track over the state's rough terrain. With the transportation problem solved, it wasn't long before northern speculators rushed in and threw homesteaders off their local farms in order to open mines. These land grabs were backed by sympathetic federal courts, and as the demand for labor in the mines exploded, unskilled laborers flocked to the region, drawn by the promise of good wages. By the early 20th century, the coal industry's takeover of West Virginia was complete. As mines sprang up in the isolated hollows and creeks of the West Virginia wilderness, the coal operators constructed company towns to house their employees, where they exercised total control over their workers' daily lives.

In these remote company towns, the mining companies owned the homes, stores, churches, and schools. Living conditions were appalling, with most families confined to one-room shacks. And miners were not paid in U.S. dollars, but in scrip, a form of currency that could only be used in company-owned stores. The mining companies also blocked competing merchants from opening rival stores. And because miners had no alternative, the company stores charged inflated prices to help make up for any profit losses in the mines. To meet growing production demands, the coal companies recruited large numbers of Southern and Eastern European immigrants who were arriving daily on U.S. shores. They also brought in black miners from the south.

The workers' housing was usually segregated, with sections of company towns designated as Little Italy and Colored Town. But inside the mines, the workers intermingled. Families shopped in the same company stores and endured the same squalid living conditions. These company towns were unincorporated communities with no elected officials or independent police forces. Judges, county sheriffs, and state representatives treated the towns as private property, deferring to the mine operators to run affairs. But it was soon that miners grew to resent the operators' control over their lives. This sense of oppression and exploitation extended underground, where the men endured

abysmal working conditions. They performed back-breaking work in dark, narrow tunnels filled with toxic gases, knowing that at any moment an explosion or roof fall could trap or kill them. And in the early 20th century, West Virginia mines had a higher death rate than any other state. But mine operators repeatedly blocked the passage of safety laws in the state legislator in order to keep costs down. Coal mining was the state's biggest industry, and lawmakers accepted workers dying as the price of doing business. In a 1901 address to the state legislature, the West Virginia governor declared,

It is but the natural course of mining events that men should be injured and killed by accidents. But across America, as the nation industrialized, workers were joining unions to fight for better wages and working conditions, seeking collective strength against corporate power. The dominant coal miners' union was the United Mine Workers of America. Founded in 1890, the union soon organized miners in Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. But the miners' union would face its toughest challenge in the coal fields of southern West Virginia. Beginning in 1892, Union organizers started arriving in the region's coal camps to try to reach the miners with a message of solidarity. The existence of a large, unorganized

mining region threatened to undermine their gains and the rest of the country. But the organizers met fierce resistance from local mine operators, who had invested huge sums in building coal mines in these remote, rugged mountain towns. And they were burdened by the expense of transporting their coal to market. If their miners joined the union, the operators would also be forced to pay them higher salaries that matched union pay scales. The West Virginia coal operators were determined to keep labor costs down, and so they would stop at nothing to keep the union out. Imagine it's just after dark in November 1902. You're riding on your horse on patrol in the woods near Cabin Creek, West Virginia. You're a member of the Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency, and it's your job to make sure the United Mine Workers stay out of these parts.

It's actually work you relish. You know that protecting the coal companies helps keep the economy running. It's the closest you've come to feeling like you're serving your country since you came home from the Spanish-American War. Then, somewhere in the dark, you hear a rustle. You tighten your grip on your rifle. Who's there? A middle-aged man walks out from behind a tree, a kerosene lantern in hand. The light illuminates his face, and you can see his eyes shift back and forth, like he's looking for a way out. Where are you going this time of night? Nowhere. Just going home. Well, then you're going in the wrong direction. Company housing's the other way. But you wouldn't be on

your way to the union meeting down river, would you? Nope. I don't know anything about no union meeting. Yeah, sure you don't. What's your name? The man narrows his gaze. Why should I tell you? If you don't tell me, I'll have to arrest you. I told you I'm just walking home. Fine, don't tell me your name. I'll make a few inquiries. Shouldn't take too long. And then once I find out you're a union sympathizer, you'll go on the blacklist. Either way, once I'm through with you, you'll never mind coal in this valley again. Oh, no, no, no. You have no right to do that. No, wrong. I have every right. These woods are company property, and I have orders to

ferret out any potential troublemaking. Now put that lantern down. Put your hands behind your back. You can't arrest me. You have no grounds. Sure I do. There's just one law here, and it's the law of the company, and I am a company man. Let's go. You point your rifle down at the man to lead him out of the woods. He looks over his shoulder, seething with rage. The Union will win. You can't keep them out forever. You jab him in the back with your rifle. He turns forward again. You smile.

The Union will never win in West Virginia. Not as long as you can help it. The coal companies hired private guards to harass and intimidate miners, but workers still found a way to meet in secret, at great personal risk. By 1902, the United Mine Workers of America finally broke through with a major recruiting drive and a strike in the coal fields of southern West Virginia. More than 8,000 miners won formal recognition of their union. But the union's grasp on the region was fragile. Local coal operators banded together and hired a private security force,

the Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency, to serve as mine guards and intimidators. Baldwin-Felts agents were professional strongmen and strikebreakers. They became notorious for brutal tactics and assaults against miners and union organizers, running activists out of town, forcing mining families out of their homes. And nine months into the inaugural strike, a band of Baldwin-Felts agents and deputy sheriffs raided a miner's village at dawn, murdering six men while they slept. The union called the Baldwin-Felts campaign a reign of terror. But despite the killings, state authorities continued to side with the coal operators, and county judges upheld the company's rights to kick miners out of company

housing. And just after a year, the strike was broken and the union was driven out. But not for long. The battle to organize the coal fields of southern West Virginia was just beginning. The first West Virginia coal country strike had lit a spark in a young miner named Frank Keeney. Keeney had been digging coal for three years when the union organizers first came to his community in Cabin Creek, 20 miles downriver from Charleston. At 21 years old, he was short and sturdy, with a square jaw and straight black hair. He spent his free time at the saloon, drinking whiskey and shooting pool with his friends. Keeley was descended from one of the first families to settle in the area. His father had died before his first birthday, and not long after, his mother lost their family farm to one of the coal companies buying up land in the region.

So with his family strapped for cash, Keeney left school when he was just 10 years old to work as a trapper boy, spending 11 hours a day opening and shutting the doors that led into the mines. When Keeney was 12, a partial collapse in the mine shaft caused a mule to panic and smash him against a wall. He bit the mule's ear off to escape, an act his family believed testified to his fearlessness. Then, once he turned 18, Keeney married a woman named Bessie, and the couple soon had three children. When the union first broke into West Virginia, Keeney attended meetings, but didn't join. Instead, he watched as the mine guards drove families out of their homes, forcing them to camp out in the snow. The union's failure to protect the miners fostered a deep sense of purpose within

him and a desire to fight the system. So Keeney resolved to educate himself to help his fellow miners. Over the next few years, he read as many books as he could. He grew to love Shakespeare and writing poetry. And like many workers of his time, Keeney became a socialist, convinced that workers, not owners, should control the means of production. Socialists had long-standing ties to the labor movement. Both socialists and union organizers shared a firm belief in the radical potential of collective action. But at the time, Keeney wasn't interested in fighting the coal fight. In 1909, Keeney and his wife sold their house and left Cabin Creek to start a new life planting cotton in Arkansas. But when he

and his children contracted smallpox and nearly died, the Keeneys gave up on their dream of farming and returned to West Virginia. Keeney was right back where he started, digging coal. But this time, Keeney had no home or land. His family was forced to live in company housing. The company reserved the right to search their mail and enter their home at any time. Keeney deeply resented this loss of liberty. And in the decades since the United Mine Workers had first come to southern West Virginia, life had grown even harder for the miners. Companies cheated them on their pay by tampering with the scales that weighed the coal they dug. Tensions worsened as miners faced even more brutal treatment under the mine guards. Soon, long-festering resentment of the companies reached their breaking point.

By 1912, more than 90% of West Virginia miners were still non-unionized, but the union had made a few inroads. One of them was in the Paint Creek coal field of Kanawha County. In the spring of that year, the union tried to negotiate a new contract with the operators for higher wages. But the operators refused and withdrew their recognition of the union. The Paint Creek miners had enough. On April 18th, they went on strike. And soon, they were joined by non-union miners from just across the ridge in Cabin Creek.

29-year-old Frank Keeney was one of them. But what started as a strike for higher wages soon turned into something much bigger. The miners demanded the right to organize, recognition of their union, an end to mine guards, and an end to the company stores. They also wanted recognition of their constitutional rights to free speech and freedom of assembly. The day after he joined the strike, Frank Keeney was called into the office of his employer. He was fired and evicted from his company-owned cabin. His manager told him that he would never mine coal in Cabin Creek again. His father-in-law and several of his friends met the same fate. So blacklisted and homeless, Keeney had no choice but to move his family to a tent camp.

Stripped of their homes and their livelihood, the miners of Paint Creek and Cabin Creek resolved to fight back. They had been cast out to face harsh conditions and meager prospects, but they also had glimpsed the possibility of change. They were going to press ahead, no matter what. Still, the mining companies they faced held enormous power, and they were backed by government force. These companies would do whatever it took to crush the strike and reclaim control. In a quiet suburb, a community is shattered by the death of a beloved wife and mother. But this tragic loss of life quickly turns into something even darker. Her husband had tried to hire a hitman on the dark web to kill her. And she wasn't the only target.

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The National Union leaders pledged full support, and peace prevailed with the Union making moves to work out a compromise with the mine operators. But in less than a month, their hopes were dashed when the mine operators brought in the Baldwin Feltz Detective Agency to break the strike. On May 10th, 300 agents arrived at the Paint Creek area, armed with the latest in weapons technology, machine guns, and Winchester rifles. They launched a violent campaign to intimidate the miners into going back to work. The detectives' first order of business was to evict striking miners from company housing. The agents swept the area, throwing families out of their company-owned cabins and destroying their furniture and belongings.

The mining families had no choice but to move to property outside the company's control and set up tent camps there. The union stepped in to house and feed thousands of these desperate men, women, and children, but the Baldwin-Felts agents didn't stop at simply evicting the miners. To scare and intimidate them, they built iron and concrete forts equipped with machine guns throughout the area. And to make sure the miners had no way out, they blocked train stations and guarded company-owned bridges.

At the end of May, with the miners outmatched and outgunned, hostilities escalated into guerrilla fighting. The strike was turning into a war, and each side had its own base. The miners were camped out in tents at Holly Grove, near the mouth of Paint Creek. The Baldwin-Felts agents set up their headquarters at Mucklow, near the main office of one of Paint Creek's largest coal companies. Early in the morning of May 29th, the Baldwin-Felts agents were eating breakfast at Mucklow when they heard rifle fire. Strikers hidden in the hills sprayed gunfire down into the detective's camp, wounding one agent. In retaliation, a few days later, the Baldwin-Felts agents launched a

surprise attack on a miner's tent camp. An Italian immigrant miner was shot dead, the first casualty of the mine war. Another miner was later killed while searching for a stray cow on company property. Skirmishes between the miners and the Baldwin-Felts guards ramped up through the summer, reaching new heights on July 26. That day, the miners attacked the guards' camp at Mucklow, sparking a two-hour battle that left 12 strikers and four guards dead. Tensions were escalating, but the situation was not improving for the miners, who were growing desperate. By the end of July, Frank Caney and his family had been living in a tent for weeks. His wife, Bessie, was eight months pregnant, and his children were still recovering from smallpox.

But the unionizing efforts were stalled. Some 7,500 non-union miners in Cabin Creek had joined the Paint Creek strike, but there were still several coal mines running, operated by miners who had not joined the union. Keeney knew that unless the union organized the remaining miners, the strike would fail. Determined to do something, Keeney took matters into his own hands. He boarded a train and traveled 20 miles to Charleston to visit the Union headquarters for District 17, which encompassed Central and Southern West Virginia. There, he met with Union officials and urged them to plan mass meetings in Cabin Creek to organize more miners. But amid worsening violence and the rising cost of housing the striking miners,

the Union officials felt like their hands were full. They were reluctant to invest further in the non-unionized, non-dues-paying miners of neighboring Cabin Creek. They refused Keeney's request. Keeney was furious. He told the officials, If you men are afraid to make the trip with me, I will find someone with nerve to go with me. As he walked out the door, he turned and told them,

And I know an old woman who would go up the creek with me. The woman Keeney was speaking of was Mary Harris Jones. America's workers know her as Mother Jones. She was the era's most notorious labor activist. Jones's life had been marked by tragedy and hardship. Born in Ireland, she immigrated to North America as a child to flee the Irish potato famine. Shortly after the Civil War, she lost her husband and four children to a yellow fever epidemic. And just a few years later, the Great

Chicago Fire destroyed her dressmaking business. So once again, Jones was forced to start over. Chicago was a major center of worker unrest in the late 19th century, and Jones began attending union meetings. Despite her grandmotherly white hair and wire-rimmed glasses, she was a self-proclaimed hell-raiser, and soon she gained a national reputation traveling the country, giving fierce, often profane speeches on behalf of workers' rights. By the turn of the century, Jones was working with the United Mine Workers. She came to be known as the miner's angel for her work in the nation's coal fields.

In the fall of 1901, she was arrested for spreading the Union's message in the coal camps of southern West Virginia. At her trial, the prosecuting attorney dubbed her the most dangerous woman in America. Jones was horrified by the violent intensity of the West Virginia coal operator's resistance to Union organizing. She failed to gain a real foothold for the union, but she never forgot the brutality she witnessed in what she called medieval West Virginia. And she never forgot the coal miners she referred to as her boys. In her first foray into West Virginia, Jones had met Frank Keeney and encouraged him to stop going to the saloon and instead focus on educating

himself and helping his fellow miners, advice that Keeney had taken to heart. A decade later, on a night in late July, Mother Jones was in Charleston when she heard a knock on the door of her hotel room. It was Keeney, fresh from his rejection from the Union officials. He told her he couldn't get the Union to help him in Cabin Creek and was looking for other allies. Jones agreed to step in, telling Keeney, I've been thinking of invading that place for some time. Jones had Keeney write up flyers announcing a meeting in Eskdale, a community in Cabin Creek that was independent from the coal companies. The flyers read, Will freemen submit to being driven and hounded by armed thugs? Exert your rights as freeborn American citizens. Organize yourselves for mutual protection and to protect your wives

and babies. Once Mother Jones decided to break into Cabin Creek, the Union had little choice but to support her efforts. On August 6th, Mother Jones arrived in Eskdale, where a large crowd of Cabin Creek miners had assembled. She gave them their marching orders, telling them to wake up in the morning, put on their overalls, go to work, and get the rest of the men to lay down their tools and join the strike. And indeed, the next day, more miners throughout Cabin Creek joined the strike for union recognition. But still many men resisted, all too aware of the risk of challenging the companies. Imagine it's August 1912. You're an experienced organizer for the United Mine Workers of America,

and your boss has just dispatched you to Cabin Creek, West Virginia. You walk into a saloon in Eskdale, checking over your shoulder to make sure no Baldwin-Felts agents are on your tail. Sure, you face risks just like any other union organizer in coal country, but you're also black, so you know there's an added danger. Tonight, you're meeting with a group of miners in secret, hoping to recruit them into the union. A dozen or so of them put down their drinks and stare at you expectantly as you walk into the room. Good evening. My name's George, and I've

come to talk to you about the United Mine Workers. Now, I know some of you have refused to join the walkout, and I get it. You're worried about your paycheck, where your family's got to sleep. An old miner takes a swig from his glass and interrupts you. I don't know why you think we should risk everything by joining a union led by a bunch of white men. You've heard about how difficult it is to recruit in West Virginia, but this already feels like it's going to be harder than you imagined. Sir, I can see why you feel that way. But we're not like other unions.

United Mine Workers bans discrimination. It holds integrated meetings. It even elects black men to serve as officials. Look, I was once just like you. But I rose up, out of the pits, and climbed the union ranks. That's the power of the union. A out of the pits, and climbed the Union ranks. That's the power of the Union. A few of the younger men perk up at that, but the older man isn't convinced. Maybe some men can climb the ranks, but most of us won't get that chance. Where are you from,

anyway? I was born in Iowa. The old man's lip curls as he takes a sip of whiskey. I know you haven't been here long, but I'll let you in on a secret. Things don't work like that here in West Virginia. There's nothing to do but dig coal and live under the company's thumb till the day you die. That's how it is around here. You stare at the miners. Most of them are the sons of slaves and sharecroppers.

Well, you, your mothers, your fathers, you came to this valley to leave bondage behind, right? But the way the operators treat you, your mothers, your fathers, you came to this valley to leave bondage behind, right? But the way the operators treat you, you've all traded one form of slavery for another. Those deputy sheriffs and mine guards, they don't see you as free men. The operators want you to feel powerless because they're scared. They know they can't fight you when you're united. So join us. Take the oath. Pledge yourself to the Union. I'll make a promise in return. I swear this is your best fighting chance. All around the room, the men are nodding their heads.

Everyone told you it couldn't be done, but you're starting to think there might be some hope for the Union in West Virginia after all. Union officials knew that to succeed in Kanawha County, they needed to bring black miners into the fray. They sent their most experienced African-American organizer, George H. Edmonds, to organize them. Edmonds spoke about solidarity, the power of collective action, and the specific struggles of Black miners, strengthening the union's foothold in Cabin Creek. And while organizers like Edmonds recruited miners on the ground, Mother Jones continued to lead the charge with her fiery rhetoric. In mid-August, she led 3,000 miners on a march to the steps of the state capitol in Charleston. There,

she urged the governor to banish the private mine guard from the state, declaring, I warn this little governor that unless he rids Paint Creek and Cabin Creek of these goddamn Baldwin-Felts mine guard thugs, there's going to be one hell of a lot of bloodletting in these hills. Then she told the miners to go home and arm themselves and kill every goddamn mine guard on the creeks. In response, the governor issued a proclamation warning citizens to lay down their arms and refrain from unlawful assemblies

and from using utterly inflammatory speeches calculated to incite riot. But Mother Jones and the strikers ignored his warning. They organized themselves into squads and began stashing weapons and ammunition. The union provided them with six machine guns, 1,000 high-powered rifles, and 50,000 rounds of ammunition. The Union provided them with six machine guns, 1,000 high-powered rifles, and 50,000 rounds of ammunition. The miners of Paint Creek and Cabin Creek had endured years

of punishing violence from the mine guards. Now they were determined to fight back with equal ferocity. As summer wound down in the hills of West Virginia, two armies mobilized for war. So the entrepreneurs get 90 seconds to pitch to an audience of potential customers. This is match point, baby. If the audience like the product, they pitch them in front of our panel of experts, Gwyneth Houch, Anthony Anderson, Tabitha Brown,

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Imagine it's the evening of September 1st, 1912, and you're sitting in the office of the governor's mansion in Charleston. You're an advisor to Governor Glasscock, who is sitting across from you, nervously tapping his foot. You've worked for Glasscock ever since he ran for office four years ago, but you've never seen him disworn down. His normally tidy desk is strewn with papers. Well, Governor, what are you going to do about this mess in Paint Creek? I haven't made up my mind. You consider it a minor miracle that you clawed your way out of the backwater hollow you were born in, making it through university and law school and all the way to the Governor's mansion. It disgusts you to see anarchy reigning in the coal fields.

Gives credence to every snide comment you've ever endured about your upbringing. Well, Governor, I know you're hoping to avoid force, but you've read the reports. We're not talking knives and revolvers. They've got machine guns, for heaven's sake. The unions armed them with more rifles and ammunition than they could possibly use. Though if you ask me, it's best not to wait to find out. The governor rises from his seat and opens the cabinet behind him to fix himself a drink. You notice his hand tremble as he pours a finger of whiskey into the glass.

I know all about the arsenal. But what of civil liberties? Only a handful of governors have dared impose martial law during peacetime. I don't want to be the next. But what of civil liberties? Only a handful of governors have dared impose martial law during peacetime. I don't want to be the next. But this isn't peacetime. The Constitution permits the suspension of habeas corpus in cases of rebellion and invasion as the public safety requires. And I would say this qualifies. I know what the Constitution says. Need I remind you what happened to Frank Stunenberg? Stunenberg? Idaho governor? Yes, back in 99. Stunenberg sent in troops to quell violence in the silver mines.

He was torn apart by the labor unions and the press. And six years later, a labor radical rigged a bomb to his gate and blew him up. He was assassinated for declaring martial law, for betraying the union movement. He sets his glass down and rubs his knuckles. Your rheumatism acting up again? It's worse at night. Sir, of course I know there's political and personal risk in declaring martial law, but I don't see what other choice you have. This bloodshed has gone on long enough. We can put an end to this and put an end to it quickly. Let's send in the troops, then bring the operators and the Union to the table to work out a settlement.

The governor doesn't look at you as he lifts his glass and in one quick motion drains the rest of his drink. Fine. Get General Elliott. You smile, satisfied you're doing the right thing in protecting the rule of law and in stopping this violence before it can get any worse. When the Kanawha Valley descended into chaos in the summer of 1912, West Virginia Governor William Glasscock was reluctant to intervene. A thin, balding ex-lawyer and school superintendent, Glasscock supported moderately progressive policies, including stronger mine safety laws and raising taxes on corporations.

In July, amid reports of mounting bloodshed, he admitted in a letter to a supporter that the trouble on Paint Creek had become a source of a very great deal of annoyance. But gun violence was not uncommon in the isolated hollows of coal country, and Glasscock believed the conflict was a private matter between the coal companies and their employees. But by late August, news of the miners' growing arsenal spurred him into action. On August 20th, Glasscock issued a warning to all citizens to stand down and disarm. He offered to oversee peace negotiations, but the operators refused.

So the conflict came to a head on September 1st. 6,000 Union miners from Paint Creek and Cabin Creek assembled on the Kanawha River. They declared that they planned to kill the mine guards and destroy the mines themselves. In response, the operators brought in reinforcements from the Baldwin-Felts Agency. With the two sides preparing for an armed clash, Glasscock finally decided to take harsher measures. It was a move that few government officials had ever imposed on American civilians during peacetime. On September 2nd, Glasscock declared martial law and sent the entire West Virginia National Guard to Paint Creek and Cabin Creek. 1,200 troops descended on the strike

zone and began disarming both the striking miners and the mine guards. They confiscated six machine guns, more than 2,000 rifles and revolvers, and more than 200,000 rounds of ammunition. Glasscock tried to bring the union and coal operators to the table to negotiate. The union agreed, but the coal companies refused. They were furious to see their guards disarmed on their private property. They made their position clear in a letter to the governor. We stand for law and order. The Union does not.

That organization has virtually invaded the state of West Virginia and is carrying on war therein. While the National Guard had disarmed the combatants, the strike still persisted, and the mine operators still refused to back down. They brought in strikebreakers from northern cities and the Deep South. Mobs of furious strikers and their wives greeted the new arrivals by assaulting them with broomsticks and kitchen utensils.

So to suppress the strike once and for all, the West Virginia National Guard trained its force against the strikers. They began arresting strikers without warrants and hauling them into makeshift jails. Offenses ranged from trespassing to congregating in groups of three or more. More than 100 civilian minors were tried in military tribunals, where they were denied the right to legal counsel and the right to have witnesses testify on their behalf. Most of them were sentenced to jail. Thereafter, for a brief time, peace reigned and martial law was lifted. But the threat of hostilities never abated.

Operators once again brought in strikebreakers, and by mid-November, violence broke out once more. Governor Glasscock imposed martial law for a second time, and once again civilians were arrested and tried by the military courts. Union lawmakers attacked the military trials as a violation of the West Virginia state constitution, which explicitly prohibited civilians from being tried by military courts. Mother Jones went to Washington to put a national spotlight on the civil liberties abuses, but the court-martials continued. Then at Christmas, Jones returned to West Virginia and visited the tent camps at Holly Grove and Eskdale, bringing food, clothes, and presents for the children.

Like thousands of others, Frank Keeney and his wife were facing a winter with no home, dependent on the Union to feed their family. Holly Grove was a tent colony nestled beside railway tracks near the mouth of Paint Creek. The Union had pitched long rows of canvas teepees where hundreds of men, women, and children crowded together. The families cooked what little food they had on outdoor stoves. Muddy tent floors and sodden blankets offered thin protection from the winter cold. But with the cold, fighting subsided, and over the holidays, Governor Glasscock sent the National Guard home. But the peace in Paint Creek proved to be all too brief.

On February 7th, miners fired on Baldwin Felt's mine guards at their fort in Mucklow. No one was harmed, but a Paint Creek coal operator was furious to find himself caught in the crossfire. He urged the county sheriff to do something about the miners camped out at Holly Grove. Later that night, the brutality of the coal companies reached new heights. On the evening of February 7th, the coal operator, the sheriff, and a group of Baldwin-Felts agents drove an armored train through Holly Grove. They called it the Bull Moose Special and it was rigged with dozens of machine guns and high-powered rifles.

The agents sprayed hundreds of bullets into the strikers' tents. As a minor named Chesco Estep tried to shield his wife and baby, he was shot in the face. Estep's murder enraged the miners more than any other casualty of the violence on Paint Creek and Cabin Creek. They were furious over the cowardice and cruelty of what they called the death train, and they resolved to retaliate. Two days later, Mother Jones delivered a eulogy at Estep's funeral. She told the crowd of mourners to find the guards and shoot them to hell. The miners took her commands to heart. When night fell, a band of strikers launched a surprise attack on the guards

camp at Mucklow, sparking a battle that raged for hours. When the smoke cleared, 16 people, mostly mine guards, lay dead. The next day, Governor Glasscock declared martial law for the third time and sent back the National Guard to Payne Creek. Troops swiftly arrested nearly 50 strikers. Mother Jones held a rally to protest the arrests, telling the crowd not to despair or be intimidated. She announced she would lead a committee of strikers to meet the governor and pressure him to release the prisoners. The next morning, Jones and a group of followers

boarded a train bound for the state capitol. They were armed only with a petition protesting conditions in the Kanawha coalfields. Jones believed public opinion was on their side, but what she didn't know was that the miners' assault on Mucklow had unleashed panic in the capitol. When Jones arrived in Charleston, she was promptly arrested for conspiracy to commit murder. The miners' leader, the woman they called Mother, was placed under house arrest. She would remain there for the next two months while awaiting a court-martial. With her arrest, the miners' hopes for a victory had never seemed so out of reach.

It seemed their desperate fight to form a union was sliding into defeat. But soon, the violence and civil rights abuses faced by the coal miners would reverberate across the nation and draw attention to the remote hills and hollows of West Virginia. Their struggle would no longer be ignored. From Wondery, this is Episode 1 of The Coal Wars from American History Tellers. On the next episode, new leaders take charge of the miners' union, steering the workers through World War I and a daring new campaign to the state's isolated southern counties. But soon, a violent showdown in the mountain town of Matawan ignites a new, dangerous escalation in the conflict. 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. 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 Hernan Lopez for Wondery. Wondery. We've made 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-Boy. This is Nick.

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