Miners tunneling efforts nearly ended Civil War nine months sooner

"We could blow that damned fort out of existence if we could run a mine shaft under it!," claimed one Union soldier eyeing Bobby Lee's Petersburg defense line protecting Richmond and Jeff Davis. Puncture the line, take the hill behind, and the Confederate capital would celebrate Yankee jubilee, 1864. That was June. At 4:15 am, July 30, mine boss Henry Reese, sergeant, 48th Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers, gingerly entered the mine, dark and muddy. Something had gone wrong. The mine, set to go off at 3:30, hadn't exploded. It had to be checked. The main mine gallery, 1.5 m high x 1.4 m wide (5 x 4 ft) narrowing at the top to 0.6 m (2 ft), forced Reese into a tuck run. Some¬where up there in that 155 m (511 ft) stretch running 6 m (20 ft) under the rebel works, moisture may have doused the charge. Or maybe a fuse splice went awry. Or maybe there was live fire steaming like a locomo¬tive towards 3.6 t (4 st) of black powder. Perhaps now Reese wished this sprint was shorter. For the mine boasted a record break¬ing distance in military annals. Lieut. Col. Henry Pleasants Credit goes to Lieut. Col. Henry Pleas¬ants, commander of the 48th, who overheard the soldier's claim for what a mine could do. In peacetime, Pleasants had been a railroad engineer working on the Sand Patch Tunnel. He later switched to mining, working for the Philadelphia & Reading Coal & Iron Co. He even married the daughter of the editor of The Miners Journal. Grieving over his wife's early death, Pleasants plunged into the ven¬ture of war. This Union officer took the mine idea to the brass. Headquarters was less than enthu¬siastic. "The chief engineer of the Army and the rest of the regular Army wiseacres said it was not feasible," Pleasants wrote to his uncle. The pros scoffed, ticking off a list of horribles: No mine has ever gone that far, men will suffocate and be crushed, the rebs will countermine, the men will be trapped. Still, Pleasants eked out a signal to proceed. In the meantime, the miners of the 48th had commenced to dig anyway. It was like the 48th to proceed against the odds. The 48th Pennsylvania Volunteers The 48th had been recruited from Penn¬sylvania's Schuylkill County, anthracite coal mining country. The mines had been torn with strife over wages. Strikes and rioting were prevalent. Murder was not unknown. This "Buckshot" resistance centered in Pottsville, PA. It forced the governor to call in troops. Coal was in high demand to run the war machine. Pennsylvania operators worried that a military draft would stir up violence, closing the mines altogether and further shift¬ing business to emerging Illinois mines. Men lit out for the western gold fields in the tens of thousands. Secret societies bred in the mining camps invited draft agents to dance at the end of a rope. Jobs threatened by cheap, victorious South¬ern labor were one warning intended to get immigrant miners interested in the war. Operators gave miners time off to help de¬fend Philadelphia during Lee's thrust to Gettysburg. Even so, the draft spawned new violence and troop intercession. Soldiers were not welcome. The dust had barely settled when into this Pennsylvania "minefield" marched the 48th on a recruitment drive. The 48th had been in Lexington, KY on guard duty. When it came time for the regiment to pull out, the townspeople had prevailed upon authorities to extend the regiment's stay. Finally ordered to move out, the 48th was feted by a hanky-waving, tear-dropping send-off to the lyrical lament Auld Lang Syne. And Kentucky fancied itself to be rebel. Striding smartly into the Pennsylvania coalfields, the 48th attracted 400 recruits and marched off under regimental colors specially made by the proud citizens of none other than Pottsville, PA.