Post by readilygrey on Oct 9, 2012 2:53:59 GMT -5
This is a school assignment that I did in about 24hrs and in only two drafts--not nearly enough time or revision for me! I hate that I waited until the last minute, but all of my time seems to be eaten up lately by all the issues with my son 
I don't really like how this turned out and I'm sure it's full of errors that I didn't have time to find let alone iron out.
I guess I'm posting it with the hopes that someone will read this and either make me feel better about it, or at least let me cry on their shoulder when I get back what's likely to be an awful grade.
The assignment was to rewrite and embellish a local legend. I chose this one about the coal mines in our county:
www.coalcreekaml.com/GhostsConvicts.htm
All of the info about the mining disasters I got off the rest of their site.
(Ug, I just re-read it and all the mistakes are glaring at me. Choppy paragraphs, random character mentions I forgot to delete, heavy handed delivery on details, and I don't give the right details for those unfamiliar with coal mines. Why isn't there more time in the day? Why did I decide to return to college? Arg...)
I’ve heard folks talk about how much better it used to be back when convicts were forced to do the work that no one else wanted to do. “Almost, but not quite as good as when they were slaves,” they’d say with that wistful look that suggested they thought they ought to be idle rich and up to their waxed mustaches in free labor. Since I’m not one to start a fight, I’ve kept quiet about the nonsense they’re spouting. But seeing as how just about every man capable of speaking the truth on the matter is either dead or about to be I thought I should write this down. May Jesus forgive me for using the sole source of paper in my possession, but it’s only that way because I’ve always chosen to keep the word of the Good Lord close.
I was nine years old in 1891 when the war of Coal Creek broke out. At the time I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about the convicts. If there was work need’n to be done, it seemed only right that the coloreds who refused to obey the law and be good God-fearing folk be put to good use—and if they got stuck with the worst of the grunt-work then maybe that’d make them think hard about mending their ways.
But I didn’t understand that mining jobs weren’t as plentiful as they once were. Or that the owners of the mines would see convicts as an easy, cheap, and unending source of labor.
My pa was among the many miners to strike over in Briceville, only to have their jobs filled by convicts. The result was the two year battle between the mining companies (aided by the state militia) and the miners. My pa was never one to be afraid of a fight, and he bravely fought along with the other miners. There were times though when that bravery got the best of him, such as the night Lieutenant Fytte and his men intruded on a local festivity. Pa stood up to him, and I reckon he must’ve won the tussle. At least that’s the only reason I can see, other than that Fytte was a dishonorable coward, that my pa would be found the next morning swinging by the neck from a railroad trestle. The bridge would later be named in his honor, but I thought it was poor compensation considering I’d lost my pa.
The miners retaliated for his murder by burning Fort Anderson, and the war escalated. Luckily it wasn’t long afterward that Turney was elected Governor, and he put an end to the leasing of convicts. Although from what I’ve heard, he didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart or solely to appease the miners, but because he came up with an even better means to make a profit. He had Bushy Mountain Mine and Prison built, and made a sizeable fortune by allowing convicts to work in exchange for a reduction of their sentences.
With the war won, the men and boys returned to the mines. We moved to Fraterville to be closer to my ma’s side of the family. Without my pa’s income, my older brother had no choice but to take a job at the mine. A few years later so did I.
Working beside the miners I learned the truth about the convicts. I heard tales of abuse unfit to be mentioned in polite company—or in any company for that matter. Even the old timers with nothing pleasant to say about coloreds still spoke of the convicts with an air of sympathy. Along with the mistreatment and indignities forced upon the convicts, they also suffered from a high level of neglect. The mining companies must not have seen any reason to spend time and money training the convicts in their trade, or in making their working conditions safe—not when upon the death of one convict the state would send another one completely free of charge. As a result the convicts made careless, unnecessary mistakes. In Tennessee Hollow convicts were known to handle powder recklessly, with their head lamps burning and dust blowing up in great, white clouds. It’s whispered that in Mine No.1 they were driven mad with starvation, and were caught many a time trying to ignite the gas leaks in the joints. Not so that they could end their misery as might be expected, but to cook what little food they had. Since what meat they got came from rats (one of the only things that can survive in a coal mine) as often as not, I imagine the risk of dying in an explosion would be preferable to eating the flesh raw.
But the worst part I learned, the part that made me rethink everything I knew, was that most of the convicts had never been criminals and that the few that were had the most minor of offenses. Colored men with able bodies were intentionally sought out, arrested, and given long sentences for false crimes solely to provide a free workforce.
I’m beginning to lose my train of thought and I haven’t even gotten to how what’s happened today is connected to the convict miners. The bird’s been dead for hours so the air, what little of it is left, can’t be good. It’s starting to affect me so I need to write fast.
It began when we broke into a tunnel that connected to the abandoned Mine No.1. Not only was the tunnel exceptionally far off course, but there was evidence that the digging was fresh.
Those of us that found the tunnel were instructed to tell everyone that we never ventured inside, and that the only reason we boarded up the entrance was because of Mine No.1’s lack of ventilation and excess of gasses. While the latter part was true, the former was not, and what we saw inside is something I never would have gotten out of my nightmares all the days of my life if I’d only had the chance to live it.
During the Coal Creek War the miners would set upon a mine and free the convicts. But at Mine No.1, someone must’ve decided that they weren’t willing to let the slaves go free, that when they realized they were about to be over run, they forced the convicts into the tunnel, and sealed them in. We found what was left of them, after time and the rats had taken their toll. But even worse than the knowledge of their fate was the suggestion made by the placement of some of the bodies, and the piles of clothing that were found in neat little stacks, that after a while they must have even run out of rats as food.
So we boarded it up, and that was when the accidents started to happen. It was little things at first: spilled powder, a rat in a stew pot, lamps that seemed to ignite of their own accord. Sometimes we saw figures just at the edges of our vision, but whenever we turned to look nothing could be found.
The boards wouldn’t stay up over the tunnel, and the accidents started becoming less harmless. Miller lost three fingers and White broke his wrist. Cutlery and other possessions disappeared from the bath baskets with the locks still intact.
Then Jim Thurman, an old timer with enough of a limp that he should’ve been retired, went missing. We found his body in the tunnel. His skin and flesh had been eaten by rats, at least that’s what my superior said but we knew better. Ben found him and he said no rat could leave bites that big.
We told the other workers and Thurman’s kin that he died in a cave-in, and that his body was irretrievable. Instead we hid it in the tunnel like some kind of heathen peace offering and another addition to our list of sins.
But this morning more were found dead. Their bodies were charred and blackened like in the aftermath of a dust burn, except for one small thing. Everything they’d been wearing, from their crucifixes to their shoes, lay in neat little stacks by the wall with not a single thread singed.
If Bob saw anything else he never got the chance to say it because that was when the explosion happened. Seven of us have been trapped and wait for rescue. The few that could write wrote letters to their families in the back pages of this bible, and I wrote some notes for those that could not. I’ve been filling in these lines but I think my time is about out. It’s getting harder and harder to think.
I don’t know whether the rescue teams will dig out our bodies first or the ghosts will. Either way, we won’t have enough air left to tell.
Author’s note: This account was written in between the lines of a bible found during a rescue attempt in the Fraterville mining disaster. The bodies of 213 men and boys were recovered, but none of the identities matched the men mentioned by the author, and the back pages of the book had been mysteriously torn out.
I don't really like how this turned out and I'm sure it's full of errors that I didn't have time to find let alone iron out. I guess I'm posting it with the hopes that someone will read this and either make me feel better about it, or at least let me cry on their shoulder when I get back what's likely to be an awful grade.
The assignment was to rewrite and embellish a local legend. I chose this one about the coal mines in our county:
www.coalcreekaml.com/GhostsConvicts.htm
All of the info about the mining disasters I got off the rest of their site.
(Ug, I just re-read it and all the mistakes are glaring at me. Choppy paragraphs, random character mentions I forgot to delete, heavy handed delivery on details, and I don't give the right details for those unfamiliar with coal mines. Why isn't there more time in the day? Why did I decide to return to college? Arg...)
Mine No.1
I’ve heard folks talk about how much better it used to be back when convicts were forced to do the work that no one else wanted to do. “Almost, but not quite as good as when they were slaves,” they’d say with that wistful look that suggested they thought they ought to be idle rich and up to their waxed mustaches in free labor. Since I’m not one to start a fight, I’ve kept quiet about the nonsense they’re spouting. But seeing as how just about every man capable of speaking the truth on the matter is either dead or about to be I thought I should write this down. May Jesus forgive me for using the sole source of paper in my possession, but it’s only that way because I’ve always chosen to keep the word of the Good Lord close.
I was nine years old in 1891 when the war of Coal Creek broke out. At the time I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about the convicts. If there was work need’n to be done, it seemed only right that the coloreds who refused to obey the law and be good God-fearing folk be put to good use—and if they got stuck with the worst of the grunt-work then maybe that’d make them think hard about mending their ways.
But I didn’t understand that mining jobs weren’t as plentiful as they once were. Or that the owners of the mines would see convicts as an easy, cheap, and unending source of labor.
My pa was among the many miners to strike over in Briceville, only to have their jobs filled by convicts. The result was the two year battle between the mining companies (aided by the state militia) and the miners. My pa was never one to be afraid of a fight, and he bravely fought along with the other miners. There were times though when that bravery got the best of him, such as the night Lieutenant Fytte and his men intruded on a local festivity. Pa stood up to him, and I reckon he must’ve won the tussle. At least that’s the only reason I can see, other than that Fytte was a dishonorable coward, that my pa would be found the next morning swinging by the neck from a railroad trestle. The bridge would later be named in his honor, but I thought it was poor compensation considering I’d lost my pa.
The miners retaliated for his murder by burning Fort Anderson, and the war escalated. Luckily it wasn’t long afterward that Turney was elected Governor, and he put an end to the leasing of convicts. Although from what I’ve heard, he didn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart or solely to appease the miners, but because he came up with an even better means to make a profit. He had Bushy Mountain Mine and Prison built, and made a sizeable fortune by allowing convicts to work in exchange for a reduction of their sentences.
With the war won, the men and boys returned to the mines. We moved to Fraterville to be closer to my ma’s side of the family. Without my pa’s income, my older brother had no choice but to take a job at the mine. A few years later so did I.
Working beside the miners I learned the truth about the convicts. I heard tales of abuse unfit to be mentioned in polite company—or in any company for that matter. Even the old timers with nothing pleasant to say about coloreds still spoke of the convicts with an air of sympathy. Along with the mistreatment and indignities forced upon the convicts, they also suffered from a high level of neglect. The mining companies must not have seen any reason to spend time and money training the convicts in their trade, or in making their working conditions safe—not when upon the death of one convict the state would send another one completely free of charge. As a result the convicts made careless, unnecessary mistakes. In Tennessee Hollow convicts were known to handle powder recklessly, with their head lamps burning and dust blowing up in great, white clouds. It’s whispered that in Mine No.1 they were driven mad with starvation, and were caught many a time trying to ignite the gas leaks in the joints. Not so that they could end their misery as might be expected, but to cook what little food they had. Since what meat they got came from rats (one of the only things that can survive in a coal mine) as often as not, I imagine the risk of dying in an explosion would be preferable to eating the flesh raw.
But the worst part I learned, the part that made me rethink everything I knew, was that most of the convicts had never been criminals and that the few that were had the most minor of offenses. Colored men with able bodies were intentionally sought out, arrested, and given long sentences for false crimes solely to provide a free workforce.
I’m beginning to lose my train of thought and I haven’t even gotten to how what’s happened today is connected to the convict miners. The bird’s been dead for hours so the air, what little of it is left, can’t be good. It’s starting to affect me so I need to write fast.
It began when we broke into a tunnel that connected to the abandoned Mine No.1. Not only was the tunnel exceptionally far off course, but there was evidence that the digging was fresh.
Those of us that found the tunnel were instructed to tell everyone that we never ventured inside, and that the only reason we boarded up the entrance was because of Mine No.1’s lack of ventilation and excess of gasses. While the latter part was true, the former was not, and what we saw inside is something I never would have gotten out of my nightmares all the days of my life if I’d only had the chance to live it.
During the Coal Creek War the miners would set upon a mine and free the convicts. But at Mine No.1, someone must’ve decided that they weren’t willing to let the slaves go free, that when they realized they were about to be over run, they forced the convicts into the tunnel, and sealed them in. We found what was left of them, after time and the rats had taken their toll. But even worse than the knowledge of their fate was the suggestion made by the placement of some of the bodies, and the piles of clothing that were found in neat little stacks, that after a while they must have even run out of rats as food.
So we boarded it up, and that was when the accidents started to happen. It was little things at first: spilled powder, a rat in a stew pot, lamps that seemed to ignite of their own accord. Sometimes we saw figures just at the edges of our vision, but whenever we turned to look nothing could be found.
The boards wouldn’t stay up over the tunnel, and the accidents started becoming less harmless. Miller lost three fingers and White broke his wrist. Cutlery and other possessions disappeared from the bath baskets with the locks still intact.
Then Jim Thurman, an old timer with enough of a limp that he should’ve been retired, went missing. We found his body in the tunnel. His skin and flesh had been eaten by rats, at least that’s what my superior said but we knew better. Ben found him and he said no rat could leave bites that big.
We told the other workers and Thurman’s kin that he died in a cave-in, and that his body was irretrievable. Instead we hid it in the tunnel like some kind of heathen peace offering and another addition to our list of sins.
But this morning more were found dead. Their bodies were charred and blackened like in the aftermath of a dust burn, except for one small thing. Everything they’d been wearing, from their crucifixes to their shoes, lay in neat little stacks by the wall with not a single thread singed.
If Bob saw anything else he never got the chance to say it because that was when the explosion happened. Seven of us have been trapped and wait for rescue. The few that could write wrote letters to their families in the back pages of this bible, and I wrote some notes for those that could not. I’ve been filling in these lines but I think my time is about out. It’s getting harder and harder to think.
I don’t know whether the rescue teams will dig out our bodies first or the ghosts will. Either way, we won’t have enough air left to tell.
The End
Author’s note: This account was written in between the lines of a bible found during a rescue attempt in the Fraterville mining disaster. The bodies of 213 men and boys were recovered, but none of the identities matched the men mentioned by the author, and the back pages of the book had been mysteriously torn out.
It is based on a true story. In 1902 some coal miners in the Fraterville mine broke into a tunnel from the Knoxville Iron Company's Mine No.1 which had been abandoned. The tunnel was far off course. Since Mine No.1 only used primarily African American Convicts (who were given life sentences for minor things like violating Jim Crow laws/segregation/jay walking, etc.) they never bothered with safety considerations, including not bothering to ventilate a very gaseous mine. The Fraterville miners immediately boarded up the tunnel to reduce the noxious fumes. It was never explained why the tunnel had been dug such a great distance off course. A short while later there was an explosion and over 200 miners were killed outright, while 10 men were trapped in a small area while they slowly suffocated from the gases and lack of oxygen. They wrote letters to their families which can be found here