John Clum – The Early Years

Claverack is a picturesque, bucolic little town nestled in the Hudson River Valley in the heart of Columbia County in upstate New York.  The “center of town” is the intersection of two state roads, the corners playing host to a fire house, general store and post office, library and a small park that, among other things, features a small plaque that commemorates the launch of the 1956 movie, “Walk The Proud Land” – the story of Claverack’s most famous son, John Philip Clum.

The town was almost 100 years old when on September 1 1851, William Henry Clum and his wife, Elizabeth Van Deusen Clum welcomed child number six, John Philip into the world.  The couple would eventually have three additional children.

Seemingly untouched by the Civil War, the Clums engaged in farming and prospered.  In September, 1867, John Clum entered the Hudson River Institute, a military academy.  A contemporary account describes the institute:  “It has eleven departments of instruction, --classical, French, German, English, normal, musical, painting, military, commercial, telegraphic, and agricultural, -- each in charge of by a trained principal and assisted by a corps of able teachers.”  One must wonder what a class in “normal” would consist of!

He also attended religious services at the Dutch Reformed Church, founded in Claverack in 1767.  The church still stands today, serving local residents, the building remaining virtually unchanged for over 240 years!  Little did John Clum know it at the time, but the church would play an important part in the direct his life would take!

Graduating from the Hudson River Institute, Clum then moved on, in the fall of 1870, to higher learning at Rutgers College in New Jersey where he engaged in sports along with several of his friends from the Claverack area.  Clum wrote, “We were all husky farmer boys, neighbors and schoolmates from our infancy.  We were all keen on athletics, which at Rutgers in 1870 meant football and rowing.”  Clum referred to himself and his friends as “The Big Four from Columbia County.”

But Rutgers was more than athletics.  There were classes to take, lectures to attend, and exams to pass.  John Clum signed on for, what was then known as the “Classical Department” at Rutgers.  In his first term he took classes in Latin, Greek, Mathematics (including algebra), Natural History (including physiology) and Rhetoric (also known as lectures or, how to give a lecture).  This is likely where Clum gained his love of the theatre, and theatrics, and gained a good basis for the public lectures for which he would later become so well known.

Unfortunately, Clum’s love for strenuous activity and competitive athletics became his undoing as it made him ill, and unable to earn enough money to pay his college tuition for a second year.  And so he languished at his father’s farm in the summer of 1871, wondering what to do with his life.

The answer came soon enough.

Clum read a newspaper account about how the War Department in Washington, D.C. was organizing a nationwide Meteorological Service.  It sparked an idea!  One does not need the healthiest feet to watch the weather!  Clum traveled to Washington, to apply for the job of weather-watcher.  In a 1931 magazine article, Clum related, “In spite of my slightly rheumatic feet, I passed the necessary examinations and was promptly enrolled as a member of the Signal Corps, US Army, with the rank of Observer Sergeant.”  Clum was inducted on September 14, 1871; two weeks after celebrating his 20th birthday.

A few weeks later, he left New York for his new post in Santa Fe, New Mexico where, on November 15, 1871, he transmitted his first weather report back to his superiors in Washington, D.C.

This may have seemed, at the time, to be a most inauspicious beginning to a young easterner, fresh out of school, and on his first real job.  It may have seemed mundane to observe wind, clouds and sun four times a day, and telegraph the findings to an office 3,000 miles away.  But consider the time in the context of America’s history.  The Civil War was over, the Indian Wars and manifest destiny was entering full swing, advances in transportation technology made it easier and quicker to move people west, and John Clum was standing at the threshold of it all.  He was truly the right man for his times, adventurous, brave, sometimes brash, occasionally impudent, and always adaptable to his surroundings and situation.  He was perfectly poised to be a witness, and be a part of, some of the most colorful times in American history.

While Clum was gaining the sobriquet of “Storm Sergeant”, bestowed upon him by his Rutgers friends, President U.S Grant, on December 14, 1872, established the San Carlos Apache Reservation in Arizona Territory setting the stage for what would be one of Clum’s finest – and worst hours.

In November, 1873, John Clum was offered a job as Indian Agent for San Carlos.  During that period in history, various religious orders were made responsible for tending to the welfare of the various Indians tribes placed on reservations.  The care of the Apaches fell to the Dutch Reformed Church.  Officials from the church went looking at Rutgers for a suitable candidate to manage the Apache reservations.  It was pointed out that Clum was a pretty sharp and capable man, strong, intelligent… and already familiar with life on the frontier – and should be considered for the job.

But Clum was skeptical about leaving a bucolic existence in Santa Fe.  His present job as a weather reporter had little pressure and allowed him plenty of free time; but also afforded little opportunity for growth and adventure.  He knew the reservation had already seen a number of agents come and go.  There was friction between the civilian agents who were charged with the general welfare of the Apaches, and the military who were assigned to keep the Indians on the reservation and quell any disturbances – with force if necessary.  The military commanders and civilian agents fought for political control over the reservation and the Apaches, who were supposed to benefit at the hands of their caretakers, suffered horribly.

Soldiers and commanders, without a war to fight, took out their frustrations on the Indians, sometimes brutally torturing or killing them for sport.  Some Indian agents were no better, but in different ways.  Many lined their own pockets at the expense of the Indians, selling government-supplied food and clothing rations in the retail market and keeping the profits for themselves while the Indians went hungry and became destitute.  Some agents accepted their positions, stayed long enough to scam and embezzle what they considered to be enough money to “retire” on, and returned east.  Many agents despised the people they were paid to care for, seeing them only as a means to an end.

Government bureaucrats didn’t help matters any and in many cases, because of their lack of understanding of the situation, made things far worse.  To the cigar-puffing, whisky-sipping denizens of Washington, D.C drawing rooms, an Indian was an Indian was an Indian.  To Washingtonians, one Indian was the same as the next.  No thought was given to the different tribes and even factions within tribes, each with their different cultures, customs and language.  Most important was the political difference between the tribes, who each aligned themselves with, and who were their enemies.  So, in their desire to create a “one-size-fits-all strategy in answering the “Indian problem”, friends and foes alike were thrust into close proximity to one another, not unlike rival gangs in a modern-day prison. 

To exacerbate matters, requests for the most basic items, like clothing and medical supplies were often unduly scrutinized.  People in Washington constantly second-guessed the Indian Agents they were paid to support in the field.  Purchases, even when not questioned, could be delayed for weeks or months if not requested on the correct form with the correct signature on or before a particular date.  The “red tape” and bureaucracy made a difficult job excruciatingly painful at times – for the Indian Agent – and the Indians who suffered for lack of the products or services the government was supposed to provide and the Agent was supposed to administer.

The San Carlos reservation  was a powder keg just waiting for an ignition source.

Clum did his homework, reading all he could about the situation.  Twice he balked at taking the job of Indian Agent but finally relented and said yes.  On February 26, 1874 Clum was appointed Indian Agent for the San Carlos reservation.  His appointment was confirmed by Indian Commissioner Edward Smith on March 24, 1874 and in the early part of April, Clum left Washington for the adventure of a lifetime.

At around noon on Saturday, August 8 1874, Clum arrived at the San Carlos reservation and hit the ground running.  The following day, he was presented with the severed head of Cochinay, an Apache renegade who had been tracked down by Apache scouts.  Clum knew he had to take immediate control of the situation at San Carlos if he was to have law and order, and be able to work with the Apaches.

On Monday August 10, 1874, Clum officially assumed command, and immediately sat down with the Apaches to work out a system of self rule appointing four Indians as “Apache Police”, made himself “Chief Justice” of the San Carlos court system, and appointed four other Apaches as associate judges.  Clum wrote a letter to his parents stating:

Here, I found myself at last safe in my mountain home, surrounded by the savage and the stranger, and over both I was immediately to assume supreme control.  On this large reservation, I was to be a “little” King, and to be held accountable for the acts of a thousand wild uncivilized subjects. 

It didn’t take long for the Apaches to understand who was “boss” at San Carlos.  The Apaches gave their new leader a name that stuck with him all the years of his life, “Nantan”, meaning boss or leader, “Betunnykahyeh” meaning high-forehead: Nantan Betunnykahyeh – boss with the high forehead.

Soon the friction started between Clum and the military contingent assigned to the reservation.  The civilian agent was supposed to administer to the day-to-day needs of the Apaches and the military was supposed to stand at a distance and quell any disturbances.  In theory this arrangement sounds logical and practical.  In practice, the military was always vying for political power over the Agent and vice-versa.

Over the course of his tenure, Clum would get into many heated arguments and confrontations with the military, starting only one week after arriving at San Carlos.  However, Clum was able to do what no previous Agent had done at San Carlos – have the military removed from the reservation-proper, and maintain order at the reservation with his Apache Police.

In fact, Clum’s Apache Police became so well trained and disciplined, they were called upon on several occasions to round-up renegade Apaches as well as see to the transport of other tribes to San Carlos in the consolidation of several reservations.

One of the most glorious moments for Clum and the Apache Police was the capture, on April 21, 1877, of the famed Apache renegade, Geronimo.  It was the only time the wily Indian had been captured at gun-point.  And ironically enough, despite the Herculean efforts of the US Army to track-down and capture Geronimo, he was captured by a civilian, aided by 100 Apache Police.  The capture gained some notoriety for Clum, and gave the US Army a black-eye.

Over time, Clum turned the once-idle Apache into productive members of their new society.  Some became farmers, producing enough to sell at a small profit.  Some Apaches because irrigation specialists, digging irrigation ditches to support the farming.  Still others became builders, erecting out of adobe, much-needed administration and storage buildings to replace the crude and dilapidated mud huts.

In fact, Clum did so well, that more and more reservations were closed, and the Indians removed to San Carlos.  Much to Clum’s consternation, his pay did not rise commensurate with his added responsibility.  It became a thorn in his side.

Of particular note during Clum’s tenure was his trip to Washington, D.C with a troupe of Apaches.  Clum wanted to take a trip east, and wanted the Apaches to see the “world” beyond the Arizona Territory.  He figured he could finance the trip by putting on “wild west shows” along the way. 

On July 29, 1876, Clum left San Carlos with a party of Apache thespians, and headed east, arriving in St. Louis the first week of September where they conducted their first shows at the Olympic Theater; a “stirring tableaux.”

While in Washington, Tah-Zay, one of the Apaches, died of pneumonia and was buried with full honors.  The Indians were amazed and curious at witnessing the burial rites of the “pale faces.”  Upon their return to San Carlos, Clum had to explain how Tah-Zay had died while in his charge.  Some of the Apaches thought Clum had purposely killed Tah-Zay.  Eskiminzin, Clum’s closest Apache ally explained that Clum had summoned doctors, and did all he could to save the young brave, there was nothing anyone could do.

Clum and his troupe eventually headed back to San Carlos.  After seeing them on the last leg of their journey, Clum did an “about-face” and headed back east to Ohio where, on November 8, 1876, he wedded Mary Dennison Ware.  The two returned to San Carlos arriving December 30, 1876.

After several failed attempts to secure more supplies for his reservation, and more pay for himself, Clum became totally frustrated.  On June 9, 1877, Clum made one last attempt to retain his job on his own terms by requesting that he be given the necessary resources and pay to govern all the Apache in Arizona.  Several supporters wrote to the Indian Bureau on Clum’s behalf citing his success with the Indians – but not everyone saw things Clum’s way.  The Arizona Miner newspaper labeled Clum a “bombast.”

Faced with what he believed was no alternative, at noon on July 1, 1877, Clum vacated the San Carlos Apache Reservation.  At the time, Clum was frustrated, disgusted with the military and the Indian Bureau, and saw no other way out.  Years later, in retrospect, Clum would always bemoan that day.  Until the day he died, he believed that his work with the Apaches was the finest and noblest work he had ever done.  He would spend a lifetime trying, to no avail, to re-enter the Indian service.  From his new home in Florence, A.T., Clum issued his last annual report for the San Carlos reservation.  He noted, “I claim nothing more than duty well done.”

A month later, an Indian Bureau official wrote a letter to Washington denouncing the military for their treatment of Clum, and praising Clum’s accomplishments.  But it was too little, too late.

In Florence, Clum took up the profession of lawyer and publisher of the Arizona Citizen newspaper which he purchased from the paper’s founder, John Wasson.  Clum moved the paper from its native Tucson to Florence, but found the move financially disastrous, and moved it back to Tucson.

Meanwhile, Mary Clum gave birth, on October 20, 1878 to Henry Woodworth Clum.  Years later, after his father’s death, Woodie found a manuscript he had been working on and nurtured it into a book, published in 1936 called “Apache Agent – The Story of John P. Clum.”

Always fishing-about for news, Clum kept hearing more and more about a fantastic silver strike just a few miles south east of Tucson in an area then known as Goose Flats.  The area was fast becoming known by the name of its first mining claim – Tombstone.  The first known article about Tombstone to appear in the Arizona Citizen was printed on December 21, 1878.

On August 14, 1879, then-future “Angel of the Camp”, Nellie Cashman met John Clum for the first time when she walked into the office of the Arizona Citizen to place an ad.  Clum and Cashman became life-long friends and some-time confidants.

On February 2, 1880, Clum sold his interest in the Citizen to his partner, Rollin Brown, and headed for Tombstone, A.T. arriving there around mid-March.  With a young family and an immediate need to generate an income, and with a knowledge of the newspaper business, Clum launches, on May 1, 1880, the Tombstone Epitaph.  Detractors said the name would scare readers and advertisers away.  Clum countered with the notion that the name would draw people out of a sense of curiosity and amusement.  Detractors said the paper would not last six months.  The paper has had its ups and downs but continues to be published today, 128 years later.

But publishing a newspaper was not enough.  On June 4, 1880, Clum became Tombstone’s postmaster succeeding Richard Gird.

Things seemed to be going well.  Clum had a small family, a fairly steady income, and the town was booming.  And then tragedy struck.  On December 18, 1880, Mary Ware Clum died from complications of childbirth.  The baby, Bessie, would also die a few days later.

But there was no time for a long bereavement.  On December 29, Clum is nominated to run for Mayor of the newly incorporated City of Tombstone.  An election is held on January 4, 1881.  The next day, Wednesday January 5, 1881, famed diarist George Parsons writes; “Grand, glorious victory and overwhelming defeat to the opposition.  Clum 532 – Shaffer 165.  Our whole ticket gloriously elected by astonishing majority.  A crushing defeat.”

Consider the impact this must have had on Clum.  A mere 10 days after losing his wife, and having his young life, and the lives of his children irrevocably changed, he is thrust into the limelight of city politics, a cauldron of seething passion fighting over mineral and land rights

And to exacerbate matters, this was no ordinary election, where a politician, if elected, would only need to keep the city rolling along an already established path.  The new chief executive of the village-turned-city would need to contend with a rapidly growing populace and the infrastructure it would take to support everyone.  City ordinances would need to be produced and enacted, key political decisions made, and taxes levied.  It would be a big job!  

1881 was Tombstone’s banner year; a year of phenomenal growth, bitter political and legal fighting over land rights, better known as the Townsite Scandal, a devastating fire in June, and an Indian break-out at nearby San Carlos causing great consternation in town, and the formation of a large posse to chase-down the depredators.

Gunplay and drunken brawls were not an uncommon occurrence in a town that ran wide-open, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  The town was soon divided by two factions.  On one side stood the Earp brothers and their friend, John “Doc” Holliday.  On the other side stood the Clanton and McLaury brothers along with a wide assortment of confederates, cattle-man, better known as the cow-boys.

Political, social, personal, and legal differences drove a wedge between the two factions with explosive and unyielding force culminating in what was then known as a “street-fight” occurring in an alley between the C.S. Fly photography studio and Harwood’s boarding house, behind the OK Corral. 

On the afternoon of October 26 1881, Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan Earp along with Doc Holliday, acting on behalf of the City of Tombstone as duly authorized peace officers, Virgil being the City Marshal, faced Frank and Tom McLaury and Ike and Billy Clanton in what has come to be known as the gunfight at the OK Corral.

Virgil Earp ordered the Clantons and McLaurys to give up their firearms.  An intense, 30-second gun battle ensued leaving Frank and Tom McLaury and 19-year-old Billy Clanton dead or dying.

During the shootout, Clum was only a few feet away in his office at the Epitaph writing a story about events of earlier in the day when Wyatt Earp had had a confrontation with Ike Clanton and Tom McLaury.

Upon hearing the shooting, Clum crouched down to avoid any misguided lead slugs.  When the firing stopped, Clum ran across the street, arriving before the gunsmoke had wafted clear of the area.  Three cow-boys laid on the ground.  Virgil and Doc had been slightly wounded.  Virgil received a nasty wound across his back at his shoulders.  Wyatt was unscathed.

Clum assessed the situation, then returned to his office where he scrapped the story he was working on to write the most famous story, and the most famous headline in the history of the old west – “Three Men Hurled Into Eternity In The Duration of a Moment.”

Some people thought the Earps were justified in their handling of the situation.  Others were outraged.  And nobody thought it was a good idea to have word of a major gun battle to reach as far east as Washington, D.C. and the ear of President Chester Arthur.  Besides, violence tended to scare-away eastern investors, crucial to the commercial development of area mining.

An official inquest was held to determine the culpability of the Earps and Holliday in the deaths of the three men.  Judge Wells Spicer had to determine if there was enough evidence to try the Earps and Holliday on murder charges or laud them for their work as peace officers.

The inquest lasted the entire month of November, 1881.  Ultimately, the Earps and Holliday were exonerated of any wrong-doing and were set free.  The Earps and Holliday were happy about the outcome – the cow-boys fumed.  Clum’s name, along with many other Earp/Holliday supporters and sympathizers are conscripted to a so-called Death List, marked to die at the hands of the cow-boy faction.

On December 12, 1881 Clum is booed off the stage at a meeting of his Citizen’s Safety Committee, essentially ending his political career in Tombstone.  The Earps, and everyone associated with them had become the “bad-guys” making life difficult for everyone.

On December 14, while enroute to Washington, D.C. to spend Christmas with his parents and son, the stage in which Clum was riding was held-up.  Clum managed to escape harm by heading out into the desert on foot.  Some people considered it just a common hold-up.  Clum, and many others considered the hold-up to be a ruse to cover the real reason for the depredation – the fulfillment of the Death List prophesy.

On December 28, 1881, seemingly devoid of holiday spirit, a certain party or parties attempted to again strike one more name off the Death List with the attempted assassination of Virgil Earp as he crossed Fifth Street between the Oriental Saloon and the Crystal Palace Saloon.  The attempt was almost successful leaving Virgil crippled for life, his left arm being totally disabled.

Then, assassin’s bullets found their mark.  Saturday, March 18th dawned windy and rainy; a “very disagreeable day” according to diarist George Parsons.  The bad weather continued into the evening as Wyatt and Morgan Earp, along with several friends, including John Clum, ventured to Schieffelin Hall on Fremont Street to see the Lingard theatrical company perform a play called “Stolen Kisses”; a comedy.

After the play, Clum retired to his home and the Earp party walked one block over to Allen Street and Campbell and Hatch’s Saloon, on the north side of Allen between Fourth and Fifth streets where they engaged in a game of billiards.  Morgan Earp squared up against Bob Hatch, one of the Earp supporters.  Wyatt lounged in a chair preparing to watch two masters bounce balls around the table.  A bystander named George Berry looked on.

The two Earps and Hatch were a short way from the back door to the saloon.  The top half of the door was glass; allowing anyone outside to see in.  One has to assume that the brothers felt relatively safe – being in the company of a supporter.  But any sense of well being they may have felt was soon shattered as two shots rang out in rapid succession.  One shot barely missed Wyatt.  The other buried itself into Morgan’s back causing a painful and agonizing death shortly afterwards.

Wyatt Earp formed a posse to go after those people he blamed for the death of one brother and the crippling of another in what has been called his “vendetta ride” or “The Last Charge of Wyatt Earp And His Immortals.”

But it was pretty near the end of the line for Clum in Tombstone.  Washed-up politically, he lost his job as mayor and as the post master and his newspaper was having a hard time attracting advertisers.

It was truly time to move on.  And move-on he did… all the way back to Washington, D.C. and a job with the Postoffice, starting what would be one of the longest associations of his life.