Note: This article requires 25 to 35 minutes to read. Enjoy!

By Rit Carter

Part 1 — Who are You?

One hundred years ago today, Bristol residents welcomed clear blue skies and a crisp 53 degrees. In the northwest section of town on Chippens Hill, amongst the farms, meadows, and houses spread out over the picturesque landscape, the smell of burning wood and leaves confirmed Fall’s presence.

Late in the afternoon, Julius Grossman, a 39-year-old dairy farmer, was driving his dump cart along Hill Street and kicking up stranded leaves from the side of the road from its wake.

As the father of six carefully traveled the quiet road, trying to keep warm in the open-air cart, several armed men suddenly stepped out from the side of the road bringing his machine to a stop.

They appeared to be in uniform, military-like. Grossman could not be sure in the diminishing light.

Surrounding the cart and with firearms visible, one leaned in and began cross-examining him. “What is your name? Where do you live? Why are you driving on this road tonight?” his interrogator inquired.

It would not be the last time he was harassed that day between his home at 58 Perkins St. and his farm on 75 Hill St. He was allowed to proceed, but others were not as fortunate.

Unknown to Grossman at that moment, it was not the military, the Bristol Police Dept., the Connecticut State Police, or even the local sheriff’s office. It was the outer guard of the Ku Klux Klan, shutting down public roads with no authority to do so and with armed men.

The KKK in Bristol? Yes, you read that correctly.

Within hours of Grossman’s encounter with the Klan, hundreds of automobiles began overrunning the area bearing markers from Connecticut, New York and Massachusetts. A klonklave (a Klan word for an initiation ceremony) at Dunbar’s Farm (near where Chippanee Golf Course is currently) on the East Plymouth border was to take place with over 1,000 Klansmen in attendance.

That night, under a 20-foot-high fiery cross which burned so brightly that it could be seen in numerous parts of Terryville and beyond, more than 300 men were initiated into The Invisible Empire and The Knights of the Ku Klux Klan.

This is the story of Bristol on Oct. 28, 1922, and the preceding events.

Part II — How the Klan Came to Be

In 1915, the film, The Birth of a Nation, premiered. It was a three-hour, silent film epic drama about the Civil War, Reconstruction and the Ku Klux Klan. It was beautifully filmed with many technical innovations, an intermission, and an orchestra. However, the historical content was a forgery. It glorified the Klan by making them heroic while demeaning blacks and misrepresenting northern sentiments.

Despite the inaccuracies and overt racism, the 12-reel film became Hollywood’s first blockbuster receiving positive reviews and becoming a “must-see.” It played at the Bristol Theater on North Main Street, Dec. 13-15, twice a day. Only a two-day snowstorm tamped down attendance.

William J. Simmons, a Georgia preacher and an enthusiast of the original KKK, was inspired by the movie. Seizing on its popularity, Simmons wanted to give new life to the organization he long admired. Finding encouragement from friends and associates, he signed a charter in October of 1915, and, in that moment, the Klan, dormant for half a century, was legally reborn.

A month later, on Thanksgiving night, Simmons and 34 of his disciples, which included three men from the original Klan, assembled atop Stone Mountain, 16 miles east of Atlanta. Under a fiery cross, they swore an oath to the Ku Klux Klan.

Growth was slow during the war years; its drumbeat of hate muted because it lacked a broad appeal and outreach.

Seeking an opportunity to expand but with little money or resources, Simmons brokered a deal with the Southern Publicity Association, a public relations firm founded by Edward Young Clarke and Mary Elizabeth Tyler. In exchange for promoting the KKK, they would receive a portion of the income.

Clarke and Tyler saw potential and restructured the Klan’s portfolio of hate by diversifying the hate to other groups, not just blacks. By also targeting the Jews, Roman Catholics and the Irish, they expanded their reach, and by doing so, Clarke and Tyler enriched themselves.

Clarke, a newspaperman and former publicist, focused his attention on recruitment. Membership was $10 a person (corrected for inflation $176 today), and for each member admitted to an unchartered Klan, he received $2.50, and $2.50 for every member to a chartered Klan.

Tyler, married at 14 and possibly widowed at 15, was a master propagandist who worked for the Red Cross, Anti-Saloon League and the Salvation Army. She improved its outreach with The Searchlight, a Klan newspaper. As publisher of The Searchlight, she profited handsomely.

It is estimated that they recruited 100,000 new members via their combined efforts in a year. Add the money they received for selling Klan regalia ($10 for the robe), they had a steady source of income.

Together they penetrated the Midwest and Northern markets, and in the spring of 1921, Simmons toured the states of the North.

They marketed it as a fraternal organization and broadened its appeal with family-themed parades, ballgames and field days. They catered to white low and middle-class Protestant men who, following a World War, a pandemic, and the influx of immigrants, were ripe for manipulation and in need of scapegoats, which they found with anyone who was not white and native-born.  

Being a fraternal organization, they created a series of rituals, a vocabulary, and codes such as:

A.Y.A.K. or Ayak – “Are you a Klansman?”

A.K.I.A. or Akia – “A Klansman I am”

K.I.G.Y or Kigy – “Klansman, I greet you”

S.A.N.B.O.G. or Sanbog – “Strangers are near, be on guard

And, of course, they created an application to join. It begins with benign questions (age, occupation, height, weight, occupation) but then takes an abrupt turn and digs into the heart of the matter:

Do you believe in White supremacy?

Are you a Jew or a Gentile?

Do you believe in the principles of a pure Americanism?

Do you believe in White Supremacy?

A footing in Connecticut was established early that summer, first along the shoreline. By late August, they infiltrated the Connecticut Valley. When a Klan circular appeared in the capital city, the State Police announced a probe into the matter.

 

The Klan’s coming out party in the Nutmeg State occurred in May of 1922 on a hilltop near New Haven. Around 1,500 Klan members from as far away as Chicago and Atlanta attended. The meeting featured a swearing-in ceremony and a cross burning.  

Two months later, they were at it again, with a large Klonklave in Middletown.

They soon made inroads into Meriden and New Britain, and by the fall of that year, the Silent Empire made its first overtures in Bristol.

Part III — A Day in the Life of Bristol Oct. 28, 1922

By outward appearances, Saturday, Oct. 28, 1922, was just another day in the life of Bristol.

Sunrise was 6:18 a.m., and early that morning the Welch Fire company was dispatched to a brush fire that threatened the Davitt Garage.

Following a Halloween party, the previous night in their Prospect Street home, Stephen and Florence Dunning awoke and finished cleaning the mess left behind by their 14-year-old daughter Louise and 10 of her friends.

Around mid-morning, a crowd gathered at the railway station, waiting for a train to take them to New Haven for the Army Yale football game at the Yale Bowl.

Kickoff was at 2:30 p.m., and over 76,000 spectators were expected. As a result, special trains were added to the schedule to accommodate the large numbers. Among those from Bristol who attended included the usual notables such as Mayor John Wade and his wife; Judge Roger S. Newell and his wife, Adaline.

There was the Treadways, Morton and Charles along with their significant others Florence and Faith.

Townsend G. Treadway made the trip as well and so did Edson Peck, Edward and Alice Ingraham and Thomas and Marie Tracy.

Then you had school teacher Marguerite Palladino and 25-year-old New Departure clerk Luke Owens.

And Thomas Harrigan, George and Susan Scott, Oliver Hart, Howard Peck, and stenographers Miss Cecil O’Connell and Miss Laura Lynch were there too.

In all, about 500 Bristol residents saw Yale and Army battle to a 7-7 tie.

Meanwhile, 10 liquor violators were in court before Judge J.M. Donovan for illegal sales the night before.

In the afternoon, Hose Company No. 1 and Uncas Hose were called to the end of Harrison Street to extinguish a forest fire.

A football game started at Muzzy Field at 3 p.m., and 10 minutes later, a chimney blaze broke out at the home of Michael Penda on 5 Oak St., requiring the attention of Hose Company No. 1.

As the shadows grew longer with the late afternoon sun, members of the Democratic Town Committee prepared Red Men’s Auditorium for their 7:30 p.m. rally.

Throughout it all, though, whispers of a Klan rally grew and for a good reason.

In the afternoon, on the far edge of town tucked away from prying eyes, a group of men arrived on the back end of a descending slope of land on Marsh Road. Equipped with hammers and saws, they built scaffolding, staging and a makeshift altar. While the trees near the reservoir absorbed the dull sounds of their labor, others laid out a clearing to accommodate an army of people and automobiles expected later that night.

They finished before the sunset just over the top of the trees beyond the reservoir.

However, despite all the planning and preparations, there is one matter they did not account for.

Part IV — Why Bristol?

The effort to establish a Klavern (a Klan word for local branch or chapter of the KKK) in Bristol was initiated by Meriden Klan members.

A review of the Klaverns in Connecticut, established in the 1920s and early 30s, reveals the KKK penetrated all areas of the state and population demographics too.

• Bridgeport, Klavern, founded in 1923
• Brooklyn, Klavern, founded in 1928 and named Israel Putnam Klan
• Canaan, Klavern, founded in 1931
• Danbury, Klavern, founded in 1926
• Greenwich, Klavern, founded in 1932
• Hartford, Klavern, founded in 1929
• Meriden, Klavern, founded in 1922
• New Britain, Klavern founded 1931, named Eliju Burritt Klan
• New Haven, Klavern in 1922 and refounded 1931
• New London, Klavern, founded in 1931
• Norwalk, Klavern, founded in 1932
• Waterbury, Klavern, founded in 1929
• West Willington, Klavern, founded in 1931, named Nathan Hale Klan

The Meriden Klavern making overtures in Bristol is not surprising. Meriden and Bristol were both industrial cities, nearly similar in size and their demographics were changing. Someone had to be blamed.

Bristol’s dalliances with other controversial organizations may have given Meriden Klan some latitude to set up shop here.

Before World War I, Bristol experienced an influx of immigrants, so in 1918 the American Protective League (APL) established a branch here. The APL (see TBE Story) was a civilian volunteer force established to root out German spies and disloyal citizens on the home front. But it turned into vigilantism as they spied on neighbors, friends, and anyone they deemed suspicious.

In Bristol, the APL took down the Rev. Theodore Beussel for making seditious statements in private conversations. He was arrested and imprisoned before later being pardoned by President Woodrow Wilson.

Another group which briefly made inroads in Bristol was the White Caps. They were a terror group.

Emerging in the late 19th century, it was a movement that had Klan overtones. A moralistic organization that originated in the South, it made its way east, finding a short-lived existence in Bristol in the late 1880s.

The White Caps terrorized individuals or groups for not upholding moral community values and standards. They sent threatening letters and physically assaulted their targets, men and women with whippings, drownings, arson, and other cruelties.

There are accounts in local newspapers of their attacks and threats in Bristol and other towns. However, in the records of the Bristol Historical Society, there is an undated and unsigned account of a White Caps assault on Cedar Lake describing the burning of a home and a White Caps murder (Bristol’s White Caps will be the subject of a future story).

The KKK never established a Klavern in Bristol because it never secured enough recruits. All told about 60 that considered Bristol home joined. Out of curiosity or genuine interest, 178 participated in two or more meetings. Despite the low enrollment, it was not for lack of effort.

During 1922 other than the cross burning on Oct. 28, the known public meetings occurred on Sept. 19 in Red Men’s Auditorium and another at Lake Compounce on Sept. 29. Note that the New Britain Herald reported a Klan gathering at Lake Compounce on Oct. 31, but that may have confused it with the event on Chippens Hill because it was not reported by any other newspaper.

There were private recruiting gatherings in Bristol homes, including Forestville near the corner of Washington Avenue and Academy Street.

Unlike other parts of the country that saw lynchings, beatings, and intimidation, no physical acts of violence were perpetrated by the Klan in Bristol. However, it was not without controversy.

Due to his Irish heritage, Judge William J. Malone of the Bristol City Court, following his reappointment in January of 1923, received two hand handwritten letters from the KKK. The second missive threatened to kill him.

The letter, written in pencil on brown wrapping paper consistent with paper found in a factory, said, “Judge Malone, you may be elected this time, but you will not serve out your term.”

On the reverse side, in large writing, was “K.K.K.” with a dagger and a flaming cross.

If the KKK believed they could intimidate Malone, they picked the wrong guy.

During WW I, he had a cushy job in Washington on the examining board where he could have sat out the war comfortably. He resigned in February of 1918 to enter the active corps for flying, where he made the rank of major as an aviation training officer. He declined the commission so that he could enter active service sooner.

And if that was not enough, in 1913 Malone was part of an expedition to Labrador, Newfoundland, to explore the “Lost River” and lay a memorial plaque for a fallen explorer. When Malone’s canoe was damaged, he and his companion walked 30 miles in two days in the rugged wilderness.

The letter was turned over to federal authorities. The author never identified.

In 1924, a Klan member wanted Bristol resident Edwin Anderson investigated. The purpose of the investigation is not known.

While they continued to hold meetings and recruiting efforts in 1923 and 1924 in Bristol, the KKK was doomed. The high-water mark was the fall of 1922, and the event on Chippens Hill was its peak.

Part V — The Night of Oct. 28, 1922

The cross-burning occurred on the very edge of Bristol along a tract of land bordering East Plymouth called Marsh Road.

Once known as the Old Marsh, the 5,500 ft. highway was built in 1780 and significantly modified during August of 1912 to accommodate the rebuilding of a dam, which resulted in it moving 200 ft. south. Mostly dirt then, it measured 30 ft. across with a narrow turn on the East Plymouth end that gave way to a Y intersection. It was not easy to navigate at night for unfamiliar drivers in 1922 nor in 2022.

Dunbar Farm was an ideal selection for the Klonklave. Located 902 ft. above sea level, it is the highest point on the north side of Chippens Hill. In 1922, looking east, you could see Travelers Tower in Hartford. To the west, vistas of the Berkshires.

While the lot was part of the Dunbar Farm, it was located directly in the rear of the Sheppard House (corner of Hill Steet and Marsh Road), which was the summer home of the Rev. Charles N. Sheppard.

For those coming a long distance (at least 100 from Massachusetts, with 50 being initiated from Springfield), it was a considerable journey with several stops.

Speed limits varied at that time from 10 to 25 m.p.h. based on location and conditions. And many roads were not paved, so they were just dirt or gravel packed down hard. If it rained, they would be slick, and some could get muddy. For the Klan’s sake, it had not rained in at least four days.

To avoid detection, a great deal of planning went into the travel arrangements. With good reason, the Klansmen were directed to travel in groups of 25 and to avoid coming through Bristol. The Bristol Police Department had 10 officers, 11 supernumeraries and a police car. Plymouth had a loan sheriff, George F. Buckley.

In fact, for Klan members traveling from southwestern Connecticut and other states, outposts or guides were stationed 25 miles away to direct drivers in the darkness through the rural, dark roads and to regulate the traffic. At either end of Marsh Road, armed sentinels were standing guard wearing Klan regalia to prohibit outsiders from intruding on their ceremony.

Arriving at the Old Marsh, drivers were questioned for the password. There were three in total. They were then directed to the lonely field on the backside of the farm on a 10-acre lot, 250 ft. off the highway and invisible from the road. Because it was on the west side of the property, it was not visible to Bristol proper nor the farmers in the vicinity.

Having done this previously, the Klansmen went about their work quickly.

Two red lanterns were placed at each of the three entrances. To aid with flow and organization, lanes were created using twine, designating where to park in the pasture.

With over 300 automobiles to accommodate, parking stations were set up with individual cardboard signs marked with the letters “C”, “E”, and “W.” As the autos entered in groups of eight, the lights were ordered doused; the waxing gibbous moon and lanterns were the only light source.

Cars that could not park in the field lined the road.

Before the ceremony began newspapermen, who were tipped off about the rally, appeared and tried to forcefully gain access. Using a series of guard whistles, a detail of 20-30 men came to the entrance and advised the newspapermen that they were not allowed to enter, and if they attempted to do so, force would be used. The reporters retreated and decamped by the highway where they could only hear wisps of dialogue.

The Ceremony

The Klansmen came to the field with their distinctive clothing and ornaments with pride. Most outfits were made of cotton and came with a tassel and a white hood with eyeholes.

Denoting his importance, the Cyclops’s vestments were made of Duretta cloth and sateen, with embroidered silk, cotton cord and tassels as accessories.

The King Kleagle’s (Klan officer) robe was made of satin, trimmed with a military braid and embroidered in silk, while including a cape, a silk cord and tassels.

The ritual began high above the crowd on the scaffolding built and erected just hours earlier.

Within a barrier afforded by the automobiles was a semi-circle formed around the staging and altar by the Klansmen. But for the speaker and the wind passing through creaking trees nearby, eyewitnesses say you could hear a pin drop.

The neophytes took their pledges, and the cross was ignited and burned brightly against a sea of blackness. A few feet from the cross, a fireworks display of an American flag was set off with significant effect.

Unknown to the Klan during the initiation, though, farmers in Bristol, who were unaware of their presence, were becoming aware. Thinking the burning cross and torches were a neighbor’s farmhouse ablaze, they called the Bristol Police Dept. Some went to the scene.

A few miles to the west, several groups suspected something was up long before the paraffin was ignited on the cross.

Even though the Klan deliberately delayed the flow of cars to Bristol, jitney runners (unlicensed taxis) between Terryville and Thomaston on Rt. 6 observed automobiles gathering in the dip of the road just beyond the center of Plymouth.

Keen Terryville residents also eyed motorized machines traveling through the village with white rags affixed to the back bumpers. Their suspicions aroused, some hopped in vehicles and began to follow, including Dr. Richard Lawton, the town medical examiner.

Lawton lived on the corner of North Main and Main (across from the green). He scrambled to his 1919 Ford Model T Runabout. The runabout had an open top and two gears. It was 35 degrees and dropping with a northwest wind, so unless his car was warm some effort was required to awake it from its slumber.

Staying in the lower gear his max speed was 9-11 m.p.h. along dark roads with a 35-watt bulb, which was just enough light for people to see him coming.  

He carefully moved his 1,100-lbs. vehicle down North Main, crossing Rt. 72 to East Plymouth Road and arrived at the location within six to seven minutes (today it would take two minutes). He asked the Klan guards what was going on, and they replied, “a large barbeque.”

Calls were also coming into Terryville Deputy Sheriff George F. Buckley about a disturbance at the Old Marsh. He, in turn, called the Bristol Police Dept. and urged them to send officers.

A source of confusion existed at Bristol Police Dept. over the situation. Calls were being received from Terryville about armed men on the Plymouth side of the border, but no calls were being received from Bristol, initially.

One newspaper reported the Bristol Police Dept. sent three officers, while another wrote they did not send any. Regardless, although Buckley’s jurisdiction was Litchfield County and Bristol is in Hartford County, he decided to see “what was going on.”

With Buckley en route, the Terryville contingent of about 30 converged at the East Plymouth end of the Old Marsh.

Finding cars lined up and down the road and The Knights of the Ku Klux Klan occupying a field with a blazing 20-ft.-high cross, the Terryville residents became angered by their presence and threw sticks, rocks, vegetation – anything they could muster — in the direction of the Klansmen.

Around this time, Buckley rolled up on the scene.

Armed Klansmen, who were posted at every access point, were instructed to deny entry to any approaching vehicles that did not possess the passwords or the cloth on their bumpers.

Buckley, when asked for the passwords, refused. Immediately several armed men got in front of his car to prevent him from proceeding. It didn’t work.

He began to drive away while simultaneously fighting off a guard who jumped up on the running board and was reaching into the car’s cabin. As they struggled for control, those in front of the car could not stop him so they began to fall away.

The Klansman on the running board had a flashlight, but never used it as a weapon. Instead, he stepped off before meeting a similar fate as the others. The sheriff reflected later that he did not recognize the men who attacked him.

At some point during the chaos, a motorist approached the hooded Klansmen on the Bristol end of Marsh Road. Like others, the password was demanded, which he was unable to produce. Not impressed with their threats, he gassed it and struck a Klansman, which propelled him to the ground. The motorist sped away, leaving the injured man behind.

Buckley parked along the side of the road, presumably near the entrance to the field as the Klonklave ended. Of the seven known published accounts of the cross burning scattered over four newspapers, none mention any arrests. An unconfirmed report stated there was a sudden flash of light followed by a muted bang which resulted in the meeting coming to an end.

Eyewitnesses claimed later that two prominent citizens attended, but their identities were never revealed.

The next day the only subject discussed from Federal Hill to downtown to South Mountain and into Terryville and Plymouth was the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan burning a cross on a hilltop in Bristol.

As the story ran through town, Julian Grossman went about his work, driving his dump cart slowly over the same route he did the previous day, but without interruption. Meanwhile, souvenir hunters combed the Dunbar Farm looking for relics. Many, who had watched the ceremony from afar, waited until the first light to begin their search.

VI — Summary

Bristol’s population in 1922 was just over 20,000, so 1,000 members of The Knights of the Ku Klux Klan gathering in an empty lot while under a fiery cross on the edge of town is significant. However, Klan meetings were another Saturday night in other parts of the country.

In Muskogee, Okla., 25,000 watched a Klan initiation in late June of that year.

\At the Oklahoma state fairgrounds three months later, 20,000 more did so.

Same in Dallas, Texas, with 20,000 in July.

Bus trips to Klan rallies were organized and citizens attending Klan rallies appeared on social pages like they were returning from vacation.

Initially, while researching this topic, I found myself disappointed in my hometown. But near the end, I realized the hero of Bristol’s story was Bristol.

The Klan in Bristol was doomed from the start; it bent slightly but did not break. Organizations and community leaders were quick in their denunciations.

Bristol’s chapter of the GAR (The Grand Army of the Republic) was the first to get points on the board in 1915.

Their reaction was swift and immediate when the film The Birth of a Nation was played in Bristol.

Bristol’s veterans of the Union Army, who had served in the Civil War, wrote, “We further declare that the Ku Klux Klan shown in this spectacular film, was a lawless organization guilty of many murders and hundreds of crimes of minor degree, all of which were unpublishable because witnesses could not safely testify in courts.”

In 1922, when local Klansmen approached the GAR about renting their hall, they were turned down with a cold, “No.”

Bristol Mayor John F. Wade, born in Georgia in 1860, was all too familiar with the KKK. He quickly singled them out by calling their members “snakes who have to hide behind disguises.”

He also saw the financial motivations for those at the top, remarking, “If their object is, has been stated in print, somebody wants to get some easy money, they are evidently getting it.”

Rev. Oliver T. Magnell, pastor of St. Joseph Church, decried the Klan during church services.

In a show of religious solidarity, Judge Malone was asked to speak before the Brotherhood of the Congressional Church and condemned the Klan. “The officials of the Klan must be intellectually feeble to imagine that lawlessness can be fought by lawlessness,” he said.  

Local media came out against them as well. While meetings were held, reporters wrote down license plates and threatened to publish the names associated with the markers.

By the mid-1920s, the Klan was gone from Bristol and by the end of the decade its popularity waned across the country. The vileness of racism and prejudice (in all forms) still exists, but rather than hide behind white robes and hoods, it lays camouflaged by the anonymity of the internet. And while the national presence of the Ku Klux Klan has eroded, other groups have stepped in to fill the hateful void.

History shows that ideas and concepts never really go away. They come back just repackaged, rebranded and reimagined.

All communities strive to provide the best for their citizens. Along the way, some challenges test whether that community has the resolve to withstand those obstacles. Common interests and shared experiences bind us together, while standards and values define who we are.

When those lines are blurred and bent, we rise together or fall. If racism, discrimination, and exclusion cannot be strongly condemned and defeated through actions and deeds, what are we, and what are we to each other?

---

All TBE readers, supporters and donors            

The Bristol Edition will be limiting the number of stories non-members and free readers may access each week. This decision is based on our financial projections and, most certainly, to remind people that TBE is serious about providing accurate, timely and thorough reporting for Bristol. To do this we have devised a financial support structure that makes unlimited access extremely affordable, beginning with a $6 monthly donation.            

• Non-members will be able to access eight (8) articles per week.            
• Free readers and people who have subscribed by email will be able to access eight (8) articles per week.            
• Donors and financial supporters will have unlimited access as long as they log in.            

Note: Donors may have to contact TBE if they find they are being limited, since we will need to set up a membership account for you. Email editor@bristoledition.org for instructions. Sorry for any inconvenience. People with financial difficulties may write editor@bristoledition.org to be considered for free access.