It was ten o’clock at night

   When this dreadful thing befell

The camp was wrapped in slumber

When there came the blast of hell.

 

We knew “t was an explosion;

     Oh, Heaven, the No 2!

And men are buried there alive.

     Oh God, what can we do?

 

The engine house was all in flames—

     ‘T was fearful to be seen.

They drove the people back in crowds,

     They feared the magazine.

 

The engineer stood at his post.

     With fire above, around,

Until the whistle, three times blown,

Gave its last warning sound.

 

Hundreds stood in biting frost

For hours, to watch the fire.

Women mourning for their lost

     All anxious to enquire---

 

For news of those in No. 2;

     Men in a living grave,

Whom willing hands, and anxious hearts

     But sought a way to save.

 

Who are the fatal six?

    Was asked in awe-struck tones.

Hugh Dooly, Charlie Parsons

     Bert French and Davie Jones.

 

Poor Willie Barns, Tom Jared, too;

     Oh, what is to be done?

The slope is closed, to reach the men

     We must go through No. 1.

 

Ten men, whom we should honor,

     While heroes we admire;

Unheeding dangers warning

     The deadly damp and fire,

 

 

 

 

Went down the slope—but six returned

     This tale of woe to tell

                                                                  Their comrades brave, o’erpowered with  damp,                                                                     

  Lay dying where they fell.

 

My tale of horror is not done;

       Unroll your parchment,  Fame---

Eight other names which I now tell,

       A place their own will claim.

 

George Hill’s aged father’s warning fell

       Upon unheeding ears,

He scorned his wife’s sad pleadings---

       Mocked at his children’s fears.

 

Jack William’s little orphan girls,

      Did he forget them?  No.

But he went with Tommie Needham

      To the black death below.

 

Poor Billie Hudson’s wife may weep---

       As many parents, sister, brother;

James Ward’s four children mourn his fate

       With their heart broken mother.

 

Robert Miller’s wife and babes----

       But oh his mother dear;

This boy she loved so fondly,

        This boy whose word of cheer,

 

Always spoken, when from work

         He passed her door at night;

Her heart is broken, death alone

        Can set sorrow right.

 

Pat Fagan’s wife pleaded piteously.

        “You are sick and weak, you know,

Oh, stay at home, or you’ll go in.”

         But the boss told him to go.

 

Tom Daniel’s wife, and children five,

         Believed him safe and well.

When he’d been hours lying dead

         In that black pit of hell.

 

 

These twelve men died in No. !;

          Alas! They died in vain!

Of the six men killed in No. 2

          Not one did they regain.

 

In these fatal mines, eighteen lay dead,

          Eleven widows mourn-----

And thirty orphans weep the sires

         Who never will return.

 

And gentle Christ, we do believe,

     Thou wilt be kind to them,

From fellow feeling, if no more,

      For they, too, died for men

 

April seventh, two more found

      And in waiting coffins placed;

Men say we cannot see them---

      They cannot be washed or dressed.

 

Burt French and Willie Burns, poor boys,

      Are done with life’s sad bother;

Place Burt beside the other men,

      Lay Willie by his mother.

 

How Willie’s poor, old father,

     Will weep his youngest born.

Sisters dear, and brothers, too

      His sad, sad fate will mourn.

 

Good Friday mourn, Hugh, Dooly

     And David Jones were found,

The open graves stood ready,

They were soon beneath the ground.

 

But, oh!  The breaking hearts,

    David’s wife and children small;

And kindly strangers friends,

    Who mourn poor Dooly’s fall.

 

‘T was Dooly whom Tom Needham

    Said he’d find or die in trying.

Oh, friends!  All honor to them,

    They were “buddies” e’en in dying.

 

How on  Good Friday evening,

     From that black death below,

The last two are recovered!

     But their faces none may know.

 

Miles Jared’s wife in anguish,

    Shrieked aloud in her despair,

And her baby boy was frightened

    The grief he could not share.

 

 

Mrs. Parsons, twice bereaved,

    By explosions in this place,

For one moment looked on Charlie

   Saw his poor distorted face.

 

Pat Glaney’s waiting bride

     Will never see him more;

He fell with James McInnis*

     Beside that fatal door.

 

Mike Kelley’s lovely wife now grieves,

    With helpless children three.

Poor Freddie Bartz fell with them ----

   Oh, God, the misery!

 

Now who will volunteer?

    We may find them still alive.

Nine men responded to the call----

    Of the nine, but two survived!

 

And still the summons came

    For other men to go.

And did not in vain,

    ‘Til twelve lay dead below.

 

You may call these men “fool-hardy”

     Aye, say, as some have said,

“They should have known better,

     Have known the men were dead.”

 

I call them heroes, and I’d ask

     To leave here for my heirs,

To crown a life of honest toil,

    No prouder name than theirs.

 

Now, comrades brave their bodies sought,

    And many ----scarce alive----

Were borne out to quickly return

    As soon as they’d revive.

 

Twelve bodies have been carried out,

   At risk of precious lives.

Twelve graves stand open, and around

  Are parents, children, wives.

 

Comrades, friends and neighbors,

   Hundreds from far away;

We’ve never had a funeral

    So sad as this to-day.

 

We ne’er before such sights have seen,

    And may we not again,

Three thousand people, men do say,

    Were in that funeral train.

 

 

Odd Fellows, Knights of Labor,

    And Knights of Pythias, too,

Followed their brave comrades;

    And gave them honor due.

 

O, sad, sad day! April sixth,

    Eighteen eighty seven,

Savanna laid her heroes down,

    God rest their souls in heaven.

 

God Pity all the mourners!

    And all who here do dwell;

For mark my word, in this we’ve heard

    Savanna’s funeral knell.

 

The shades of night are falling,

    As with a mournful sound;

The clods fall on the coffin lids

    As we stand in silence ‘round.

 

“Earth to earth,” and is this all?

   Oh, friends!  It cannot be.

There surely is some recompense

    In God’s eternity.

 

Now honor to our heroes dead,

    Who died their friends to save!

Honor to the fated six,

    Seeking bread they found a grave!

 

And honor to the living,

    The men of sterling worth,

Whether of Savanna or McAlister,

    Who brought the bodies forth.

 

For many from our sister town

    Did risk their lives that day;

Like brothers, with our men went down,

    And brought the dead away.

 

And honor!  We will give

     To the bosses, one and all,

Who did not shirk the fearful work,

    But went at duty’s call.

 

* James McInnis was the son of James McInnes and Mary Ann/Marian Rae McInnes of Massillon, Ohio.  James was born 12 January 1849, Lanarkshire, Cambusnethan, Scotland.  He died 4 April 1887, Savanna, Indian Territory, now Oklahoma.

 

From Eddie McInnes,  5 March 2007 E-mail

 

There is a white marble stone for James McInnes in the Savanna Cemetery. My understanding is that at the time of the mine disaster, most miners did not have the funds for a proper burial and stone. So the various civic (union) groups would provide such services. The Knights of Columbus for the Catholics, the Odd Fellows (Protestants including our James), and the Masons for their members.

I also did some research on the poetess with a great deal of help from one of the archivists at the Oklahoma Historical Society. The poem was written several years after the accident, hence the misspellings and published in the McAlester paper.

According to the book, Oklahoma Ghost Towns, following the Savanna Mine explosion, the mine owners did not reopen the mine and moved further south to Coal County taking the miners families with them. To provide homes for the miners, the coal companies literally put the homes in Savanna on railroad flat cars and moved them to places like Lehigh and Coalgate. Although, I have no proof, I believe, at least, William, John, & Peter McInnes were all at Savanna and moved with everyone else to Lehigh following James' death.

 

 

***********
Older Ohio relatives remember this poem having been framed on the wall of McInnes families.

 

Submitted by:  Marca Lee & Jim Murray Marca Lee & Jim Murray <bjmmlm@sbcglobal.net>

 

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