After 44 Hours, Hope Showed Its Cruel Side

Anna Casto and Deborah Nuzum react to a mistaken report that 12 of 13 miners were safe. (Jason Cohn -- Reuters)

Rescue teams brought a miner later identified as Randal McCloy Jr., 27, to the surface about 1:20 a.m., and the ambulance carrying the survivor sped to St. Joseph's, with news crews following. News of the miners' miraculous survival had come right at deadline for East Coast newspapers.

Medical teams descended into the mine to examine the remaining men and provide urgent care or to confirm that they were dead. At that point, Hatfield said, the company tried to send word through state police to the church that they didn't know whether there were more survivors. But that word never got through, and mining officials didn't go to the church themselves to relay the doubt. It was nearly 2:30 a.m. when Hatfield received definitive word from the medical teams inside the mine: All 11 remaining men were dead.

The crowd in the church had grown restless. People huddled in blankets on the front porch, waiting for their loved ones to appear. "I could just see Marshall walking out and saying, 'Huh. Mom, what're you doing here?' " Helen Winans said. "He's always been cool and calm as a cucumber."

Lynette Roby didn't know anyone in the mine, but she lives nearby and pulled her three young children from bed and headed to the church to join the celebration when she heard the miraculous news. Three hours had passed since the church bells first pealed when the governor accompanied Hatfield and a large police escort to face the families. "Everyone was screaming and clapping and yelling," Roby said, but their gleeful anticipation was quickly shattered. The governor was hanging his head. Hatfield was saying something about miscommunication, and then blurted out the soul-crushing news: Only one man had made it.

People lunged forward, and shouts rose from the crowd.

"Liar!"

"Hypocrite!"

Inside the church, people began screaming. Elizabeth Buton, 20, a Red Cross volunteer, was frightened. Some in the crowd had been drinking, she said, and people started threatening to go home and get guns and go after the mining officials.

The ministers implored people to pray for the lost men, but Murrell remembers the bitter cries in reply.

"What good would it do to pray now?"

Helen Winans was appalled by the ugliness. "You don't carry on like that in the house of the Lord," she said. Roby saw people fainting, others lunging for the officials. "I grabbed the kids and took off. It was awful."

By Wednesday evening, a shaken Hatfield had told a news conference that "the presumption is that these miners tried to exit when they became aware of the explosion. They felt the percussion and heard the noise, perhaps. We believe they probably encountered heavy smoke, very dense smoke."

McCloy, a father of two, remained in critical condition Wednesday night at West Virginia University Ruby Memorial Hospital. The Associated Press reported that he was experiencing problems from oxygen deprivation, which affected his heart, liver and kidneys, and perhaps his brain. He was on dialysis because of kidney damage caused by dehydration, the AP reported. The bodies of the 12 other miners were all recovered by Wednesday morning and were sent to the Upshur County medical examiner.

At the tiny church, the crowds were gone, but people trickled back for a candlelight service. Church bells rang in a haunting reminder of lost happiness, as fellow miners of the dead men gathered to sing hymns and honor their "brothers."

None of the families returned to the church where they had waited and prayed and finally left in anger and despair. But a young coal miner spoke in a choked voice of the fallen veterans who mentored him as a "red hat," or newcomer, to the dangerous trade.

"Every time I go in that mine, I'll be thinking of the men who didn't make it out," said Ricky Black, a third-generation miner who worked just last week with the ill-fated crew.