IN the cold winter nights leading up to Thursday February 19, 1857, Charlie Milner is experiencing some horrific nightmares.

He dreams he’s working underground at Lundhill Colliery when it explodes.

Charlie wakes up in a panic, convinced it’s a divine warning – an omen of unspeakable terror. He’s so spooked he refuses to go into work that morning. But his wife, who he’s been on bad terms with recently, somehow changes his mind.

Perhaps she coaxes him with: “Oh, come on, Charlie. They’re only bad dreams! You’ll be okay and we need the money!”

Then at 12.20 that very afternoon, Lundhill Colliery erupts like a volcano. From the pit shaft, a deafening boom is followed by shooting flames, billowing black smoke and remnants of scorched clothing.

Hundreds of people from the surrounding villages race to the pit-head, shrieking and wailing.

Miners, above ground, volunteer to rescue their friends and workmates but the conditions are so horrendous, only 19 survivors are lifted to the surface.

By Friday, with the pit still burning, and another explosion likely, the rescue is abandoned and the fire brigade flood the mine by diverting a nearby stream.

All hope is lost. Sympathetic folk, from miles around, join the mourners in an act of solidarity. It’s estimated that up to 15,000 people flock to the scene, but the picture painted of them by a London journalist, is one of cold-heartedness.

The ‘Illustrated London News’ reporter claims the visitors are ‘sightseers’ and ‘excursionists’, out for a good time.

These people “by their conduct seemed bound to a fair or a country fete rather than visitors to the scene of a frightful calamity.”

It’s two months before all the water is pumped out of the mine so that most of the bodies can be retrieved for burial. 189 miners had perished – many unidentifiable. Charlie’s wife can’t force herself to see her husband’s charred remains and no one else is able to identify him with certainty. So a ticket, bearing a number, is pinned to his shroud before he’s lowered into the mass grave as one of the ‘unrecognised’. The Kellet family suffer even worse – losing seven sons in one fell swoop. Two 10 year-olds and a nine year-old also die.

As I learn about this terrible incident, I’m particularly horrified at the way the London journalist dehumanises the witnesses. Allegations of disgusting behaviour are reminiscent of the 1989 Hillsborough catastrophe.

Following that tragedy, the Sun newspaper claimed the Liverpool fans “urinated on brave cops”, and “picked the pockets of the dying victims” and “beat up a PC giving the kiss of life.”

The full truth of Hillsborough took more than a quarter of a century to expose, after an intensely ferocious campaign. Then finally, in 2016, it was officially announced that the 96 Liverpool fans were unlawfully killed, that they were innocent of any wrong-doing, that the Sun newspaper lied, and that the police hierarchy covered-up their own failings.

The Lundhill miners and families got no such justice, despite the overwhelming evidence. The investigation found that there was inadequate ventilation of the pit, allowing firedamp (methane gas) to build up to critical levels and rendering the Davy lamp useless. With no safe light, digging so much as a skerrick of coal was impossible. But instead of improving the air-flow, the mine-owners allowed candles to illuminate the coal seams. The choice presented to the workers was simple: use a naked flame to continue production, or starve.

When the investigation couldn’t pinpoint a single specific cause for the explosion, it decided to declare the tragedy an accident and no criminal negligence charges were pursued against the owners.

Justice had been perverted and the conclusions rigged.

The cover-up of the truth is not peculiar to the Lundhill and Hillsborough disasters, either. Similar appalling antics occurred after the Oaks and Aberfan disasters, which makes you wonder whether hiding the facts has always been built into the system.

Today, Janet and I will visit the Lundhill memorial at the Hillies Golf Course and pay our respects at the needle monument in Darfield Churchyard.

It’s impossible for us to correct the wrongs that our forefathers suffered all those years ago. But at the very least we must make sure that the crimes visited upon Charlie Milner, the seven Kellet sons, and the other 181 slain men and boys, are never forgotten.