The First Fight

The Indian, Squanto, crept with silent footsteps through the wintry woods of Plymouth and peered in the window of the log building at the foot of the hill. News of the arrival of the Pilgrims with their fearless captain, Miles Standish, had been brought to the nearby tribe by Indian scouts. The tribe had watched their landing, the cutting of logs for this single large house that sheltered the Pilgrims and their tools and stores, the placing of cannon on the hilltop and the enclosing of the settlement by a tall stockade. They had seen the women washing the clothes in the water of some chilly stream, they had watched this doughty leader of the pale faces, Captain Standish, helping to make soup in a large iron pot, tending the sick, and even digging graves during those first hard months in the New World. Whatever came to his hand, he did as well as he had fought in Flanders and guided the Pilgrims to the shores of Plymouth.

It was so with the others of this little company of strangers in the redman's land. Although an occasional glimpse of a painted face looking over the stockade, a swift dart shot from an Indian bow in the forest, or the echo of a savage yell terrified them, they went on hunting and staking off plots for gardens and houses, and cutting logs and stalking game in a fearless way that interested the tribes. The Indians were as much a part of America as were the pine trees and the deer. It was their land on which the Pilgrims were settling and the savages could have surrounded them and killed them at any time that they chose. Instead, they were watching their new neighbors and waiting.

As he knelt, unseen, by the window the Indian runner touched the rough logs of which this first house in Plymouth was built. The wigwam to which he would return was constructed of several long saplings, stuck in the ground in a circle and covered over with thickly braided rush mats. A round hole at the top made the chimney and another hole at the bottom was the door. It was a satisfactory enough shelter but not nearly so well built and lasting as the one beneath whose wall Squanto was crouching. The crevices between the logs were plastered with clay mortar. The roof was strongly thatched. The large chimney was made of stout sticks laid crosswise, one upon another, and well plastered with clay inside and out. These strangers had greater skill, different tools and more deadly weapons than their Indian neighbors, Squanto realized, but the scene inside the cabin was what amazed the Indian.

The diminished group of men and women and children huddled about a small fire. Their number was less than half of those who had landed with such hope from the Mayflower at the beginning of the winter of 1620. They had pinched, white faces. Remembering his own lodge hung with dried venison and fish, and stored with grains and dried berries in preparation for this long, white winter, the Indian understood the significance of what he saw. The Pilgrims were about to lose their fight with hunger. In spite of their bold courage and the different skill with which they used their hands, the pale faces were conquered—unless.

Squanto rose noiselessly. He hurried away through the forest as quietly as a red leaf drifts, blown by the wind. He traveled very swiftly, for he was bearing news to his tribe and he did not stop until he saw the smoke rising from wigwams and was met by other runners who conducted him to the lodge of his great chief, Massasoit. Gathered about a council fire the tribe and their chief discussed the matter of the settlement at Plymouth, the glow of the flames lighting their painted faces and glistening war axes. Should they kill or make friends with these white strangers? At last Massasoit rose and led the way to a mound of earth just outside the limits of the camp. There were many of these mounds, some of them holding implements of warfare, another concealing a collection of tools that they had stolen from the Pilgrims but did not know how to use. These were Indian treasure mounds. Massasoit solemnly opened one and lifted out some heavy baskets filled with small kernels of grain, yellow, and red and black. He took a few in his hand and fingered them as if they were gold coins. They were indeed more precious than money, for they were kernels of Indian corn and each one held in its heart the power to win the battle the Pilgrims were fighting against starvation. Massasoit lifted out a basket of corn and returned with it to his lodge. He had made his decision in regard to his pale face neighbors.

March, chill and blustering, found the Pilgrims in desperate circumstances. There were a few log houses in Plymouth with land for gardens laid out for the largest families. Each head of a family built his own house, since by this plan every one did his best. But the food supplies they had brought in the Mayflower were exhausted; they were in too great danger from unfriendly Indians now to go for long hunting expeditions, and they did not understand the agricultural conditions of North America or how to get the most in the way of crops out of the land. Even dauntless Miles Standish had almost lost heart; it seemed an uneven fight. We think of the settlers of Plymouth in these early days as the pictures show them to us, dressed in the black cloaks and stiffly starched linen and buckle trimmed shoes they had worn in England. But the spring of 1621 saw them a ragged, unkempt, starved colony of nomad English folk whose sole wealth was their courage and the strong belief that out of their desire for freedom would come their power to attain food and shelter and clothing.

Then, in the same month of March, the Pilgrims were startled one day by an unexpected vision.

Two Indian runners, Squanto and his friend, Samoset, appeared in their midst. Copper skinned, half naked, straight as arrows, these two, who were able to speak a little English, explained that the mighty chief of the Iroquois tribe, Massasoit himself, was on his way with a company of warriors to pay the white men a visit. Before the Pilgrims had time to take council together as to what they should do in this new emergency, Massasoit was seen with his train ascending the hill back of Plymouth. On the brow they stopped, waiting for a hostage. They had made themselves ready for the visit with great care; their faces were painted across with wide streaks of black and white or black and red, and some had braided foxes' tails into their long, snake like hair. Each Indian was fully armed with bow and arrows and battle axe.

The giving and taking of hostages was an old custom of the nations, the Pilgrims realized, and Edward Winslow, a Pilgrim leader, was chosen to go up the hill to Massasoit, wearing his polished armor and sword and carrying some knives and a copper chain as gifts. Winslow's courage was great, for Massasoit's train numbered scores of picked warriors, but as he stood before them fearlessly the Indians stacked their weapons and followed him down the hill into Plymouth.

Captain Standish and his men met the company and fired a salute. Miles Standish had never forgotten for a moment the story he had heard in his boyhood of Cortes' treatment of the Aztecs. He had heard tales, also, of the trouble the English colonists were having now in Virginia with the Indians; there was continual warfare and slight basis for permanent friendship between the settlers of Jamestown and their red-skin neighbors. He had faith in fair dealing and neighborliness in the relation between the two races, at least until the Indians showed signs of direct hostility. Here were red men, come on a friendly visit to Plymouth, so the military salute was given to welcome them and then Massasoit and his warriors were conducted to the central house in the village of Plymouth and invited to seat themselves on cushions as a feast prepared from the scanty food stores was offered them.

Then followed the framing of the first treaty between the white men and the red. Those of the Indians who could speak English learned it by heart and interpreted and taught it to the others. It was an excellent peace compact for civilized and savage nations.

The Pilgrims and the Indians, to begin with, agreed to do each other no hurt. But if an Indian should hurt a white man, he was to be referred to the English for trial. If an Indian should rob the English, or an Englishman an Indian, each one agreed to see that the property was returned to the owner. Each promised to be the other's ally in case of war and that they would visit each other unarmed. Massasoit agreed to send runners with the words of the treaty to all his neighboring tribes. The great chief rose to leave, as massive and powerful as some forest oak arrayed in its fall colors of red and brown. His warriors followed him, for their business was over, and they knew that their chief would never break his word as long as he lived.

The great day of the first treaty making in Plymouth was not quite finished, though. As Massasoit and his train of warriors went back over the hill, Squanto lingered in the stockade. He took a basket from under his cloak of deer skin and showed it to the wondering Pilgrims. It was full of those same strange seeds, yellow and red and black. He offered it to Captain Standish, explaining that each kernel of corn held the secret of victory over the Pilgrim's greatest enemy, starvation.

Squanto was more than a savage. He was a successful Indian farmer. He could be quite as cruel as any of the rest of his tribe but he knew more about the soil and crops of Plymouth than the Pilgrims did, and he liked to plant and harvest. He felt quite rich with the white men's occasional gifts of colored beads, a jack knife, a pair of shoes and a hat. In return, he taught them his methods of getting the most out of the soil. The white men must plant the kernels of corn in hills at about the time in spring when the new leaves on the oak trees were the size of a field mouse's ear, he told them. A fish buried in the earth of each hill of corn was good fertilizer for the corn; the seed would sprout faster. Pumpkin seed could be planted in the same field as corn and the pumpkins would prove excellent food. In the meantime, to satisfy hunger while this first crop was in the ground, there was plenty of fish to be had. An Indian canoe was light and small enough to skim over almost any waters for trout and salmon, and eels could be had by treading them out of the mud with one's bare feet. Such food made a feast if properly cooked. All this food knowledge was Squanto's and he taught it to the settlers of Plymouth.

Europe had known nothing of Indian corn. The Pilgrims' courage was high as they ploughed and planted, and saw green shoots pushing their way up through the earth, and listened to Squanto's instructions about grinding the corn into meal, and cooking it in a kettle, or moulding it into cakes. The Spring grew warmer and changed to summer. Then it was the harvest time of the year, and the little log houses of Plymouth sunned themselves complacently, surrounded by fields of rich grain and gardens of vegetables.

Everybody helped his neighbor in harvesting these first, most precious crops of Plymouth. There was reaping and binding and grinding to be done. The sound of a drum called all the able bodied Pilgrims to the fields every morning, and Captain Standish and the governor of Plymouth, William Bradford, led the laborers and did their honest share of the work. There were wild geese and turkeys, water fowl, deer and partridges to be had for meat, and cornmeal was found just as palatable and nourishing as Squanto had said it would be. In November of 1621 the Pilgrims decided to spread a common feast in celebration of this first epoch making year just ended in the New World.

Now that flour and meat were at hand the English housewives had a chance to try their skill in making pies and puddings. There were quite a few sober, grave eyed boys and girls in Plymouth whose faces turned to smiles as they saw a long table set with pewter plates and flanked by rush seated chairs. It was to be their first harvest home; the whole brave family of Plymouth was going to break bread at one table. These children had their share in the preparation for the feast. They had known what it was to feel cold and hunger, to have no happiness through play, and to lose their fathers and mothers even. That was all out of mind for a season, though, as they gathered nuts and brought in firewood and piled baskets with apples in readiness for the feast.

Suddenly, almost on the eve of the Pilgrims' harvest feast, they had another surprise. The great chief, Massasoit, with his warriors came again to Plymouth. News of the harvest celebration had reached him and he had come to take part in it.

The Indians were obliged to set up their camp out of doors, for there were only a scant dozen houses in Plymouth, but with Massasoit came also Indian summer, warm and soft, and bright with sunshine. His most skilled hunters were sent out to the forest to bring in more game, and the Pilgrims built additional tables under the trees, spread with baked clams, broiled fish, roasted turkey and their own harvest of corn, vegetables and fruit.

Then they seated themselves, red men and white, at our first Thanksgiving feast.

It was also our first peace table. These wandering Pilgrims for freedom had found that the necessities of life are not won without a struggle, but they were victors in their first fight. They had made the earth supply them with food. They had built themselves homes. They had also made allies of the Indians through neighborliness and mutual helpfulness. It was a very good foundation which the Pilgrims had laid for building their stronghold of hope, a new England.