Letters to America

by Tom Blair

  As my understanding of the English language grew, Williams asked me to join him with other settlers. Many meals I ate with them, many discussions I heard. The thoughts of the white man were not strange. Most were as of the Indian. But they spoke not as an Indian. An Indian speaks as a slow walk. Few words after thought, not many words with no thought. In council meetings, while an elder spoke all would be silent. Before the next spoke, only silence would be heard. The words spoken were considered before a response. To speak quickly after another was an insult. It meant the others’ words were of no importance. White men spoke as a flock of ducks quacking, all louder than another.

  I wrote the above as a white man. An Indian would have said only, “Thoughts as boulders, words as feathers.”

  Let me tell you of Roger Williams. In 1630 Williams and his wife sailed for Massachusetts to join those who had come to our lands to escape the chiefs of the English Church. Settling in Plymouth he was given a congregation to lead. There Williams came in conflict with the Puritans who dominated life. Roger Williams was not as most white men. He believed that man should be free to worship any god. He also had beliefs about the Indians that other English did not. William Bradford instructed Williams to write a paper telling that all the lands around Plymouth Colony were discovered by the English. Our friend Roger Williams asked how could the English claim right of discovery if the Indian was already happily living upon those lands?

  Thinking that Williams’s beliefs and teaching were hostile, he was banished from his congregation. Later a summons was issued for his arrest. Fearing for his life, Williams fled to the south and became stranded in a blizzard. Befriended by Massasoit he was given shelter in Indian lodges. Canonicus was one of the first to befriend Roger Williams on his arrival in the land known as Rhode Island. Williams founded the village of Providence, lands for this town and the farms around it were bought from Massasoit and Canonicus for a consideration. That consideration being Williams’s promise that he and other settlers would live peacefully and not disturb Indian happiness.

  Williams saw himself no greater than the Indian. Many times we spoke of things other than our work on the book of translation. His father, James, was not a hunter. Sold wares in a village in England called Smithfield. As a young man Roger Williams went to a school in Cambridge village. His tribe there was Pembroke. Williams told me of their council houses made from stone blocks. Some buildings higher than trees. This I could not imagine. He spoke of a river that went through their village and of the flat-bottom boats that would be poled to the fields outside their village. But he never spoke in a manner that made the Indian village lesser than the Cambridge village.

  Even though he was a great man, Roger Williams was a white man. About nature he told me things that only the white man do. In Cambridge village the fields were cleared of trees and many high stone council houses were built, blocking the view of the mountains, rivers, and fields. Inside one of these stone council houses many painted canvases framed in wood and hung on the walls. The most beautiful canvases hung in one special council house. Some of these pictures were of mountains, rivers, and fields. The white men block the view of mountains, rivers, and fields by building the stone council houses, then go into a stone council house to look at a canvas painting of mountains, rivers, and fields.

  Most of what I learned from Williams I understood: how the sails moved their canoes with the pushing wind, how to divide life into years, months, days, hours, and minutes, how to load, aim, and fire a musket, and how to eat with metal tools. Some things I could not understand, least of all their religion. Their religion was as ours, many stories, many miracles. One of their ministers spoke to our elders. He told of how their God created the earth and man. Told of how woman was from the rib of a man and God’s son was born from a woman untouched. My people listened with interest. After some thought one of our elders spoke. Told the minister of our Spirit, the magic of the winds and our stories of the fish and deer. The minister spoke quickly and harshly. Told us these were falsehoods. After silence, the elder spoke again, “Is it not true that the logical person must either deny all miracles or accept all miracles?” The minister stood and was quickly gone.

  I pondered the English claim that there is only one true God. I considered the sunrise that greets us each day. For the Pokanuket of Narragansett Bay the sun rose from the great sea each morning. For those in the Nation of Nipinu in Massachusetts, the sun rose from the cape that jutted around to the ocean. For the Indians of the Mohegan Nation to our west, the sun rose from the hills that surrounded them. All saw the sun from a different birthplace. But for all, the sun gave light, warmth, and life. One nation could not claim their sun was best. All nations had their sun. I thought the same for God. All nations have their God. All Gods are true Gods, unless their followers claim theirs is the only true God.

  In England the fur of the beaver was sought by many. Such a high value was placed on the fur that white man paid the Pokanoket for pelts. Payment in the form of metal knives, hatchets, and, then, muskets. Pokanokets in turn paid other tribes wampum to trap the beavers. Our nation was rewarded for trading between the white man and hunters from other tribes. Many elders argued this was not the way of the Indian. Never before had an Indian traded the labors of others.

  In 1643 my work with Roger Williams was at an end. Before he set sail for England, he told me that he had learned much from me. He was the first to ever say such a thing. He promised me he would return to our lands.

  Later in the year much grief. My father, Mixanno, was killed. His death was not claimed by any enemy. Settlers argued that the Indians who traded beaver with the Pokanokets were guilty. Many of our tribe thought his death was by English hands, since my father had counseled against trapping beaver for the English. A few of our tribe argued for revenge against the English, Massasoit counseled otherwise. He spoke of years of peace with the English, he spoke of the English he knew who were of good heart, and he spoke that no one knew for certain whose hands had taken Mixanno’s life. Because Massasoit spoke not only as our chief, but also as Mixanno’s father, his words were heavy and no one spoke contrary.

  My grandfather’s words did not comfort me. My father was gone. In time the words of another wise Indian gave me comfort. He said that death will come always out of season. It is the command of the Spirit, and all nations and people must obey. What is past and what cannot be prevented should not be grieved for. Misfortunes do not flourish particularly in our lives, they grow everywhere.

  With the death of my father I was asked to take his place at council meetings. Before the first Grandfather Massasoit spoke to me. Told me to listen carefully and thoughtfully and to speak nothing. He said I should only learn from others and that I had nothing to teach. If some question about the ways of the white man were to be asked, he would ask me to speak of my time with our friend Williams. I should be as the smoke in the council house, seen but not heard.

  I chewed my grandfather’s words. His belief that I had nothing to teach cut me. One evening in the soft light of dusk, when all was quiet, I spoke to him. Told him of my last meeting with our friend Roger Williams. Told him Roger Williams said he learned from me. Grandfather silent for not a short time. Then he spoke slowly, “With Williams you are as a rabbit speaking to a fish in the stream. Here you are a rabbit among foxes.”

  I took a wife, Weetamoe. The eyes of the deer, skin of a new doe, and always a smile. I was not the fleetest of our tribe. My songs were not sung by many. But as a young man I saw her glances. At first no attention to her, only spoke to her father. Then, I spoke. I spoke to her. Nothing of matter, nothing to remember. But it was the beginning. The beginning of my life. Once married, one always thinking of the other. Her pain was mine. Her happiness was mine. Together we slept. Together we taught our son.

  For many years, I had a contented life. A life of Indian ways. Living and teaching my son. But always there, as storm clouds on the horizon, the white man. Always another forest cleared for their c
attle, sheep, and corn. Game was no longer our companion, white man was our companion.

  A dark year for the Pokanoket laid on us. My grandfather, the wisest of our chiefs, died in 1660. As with my father’s death, there was much lamenting. All the women and maids darkened their faces with soot and other blackings. Indians of esteem buried him as many wept. He was laid in a shallow grave with the mat from his wigwam, his bow, his ax, the clay dish that held his food, and a warm blanket of dark gray fox pelts. All surrounded the grave, many sat, all showed anguish, many moaned softly. Body to rot, his spirit to soar with birds of prey.

  After the death of my grandfather, his son, my father’s brother, Wamsutta, became the leader of the Pokanokets. He was called by the name of Alexander by the English. Wamsutta saw the good in the English and counseled to compromise when challenged. As the English settlers’ numbers grew, conflicts grew. In England the demand for the pelts of our beaver became less. Settlers in our land could no longer live by selling the Indians’ trappings. The English stopped taking our beaver and began to take our land for their farms. In response, Wamsutta, Alexander, no longer sought compromise. He learned that a compromise of today was only the new mark from which the English would seek greater demands.

  Williams returned as promised. I journeyed to Providence to see my friend. For one day and long into the night we spoke. Many stories. Mostly good. But the bad stories were heavier. I spoke of my father’s death. Williams spoke of Massasoit, his friend, dying. I spoke of our lands being taken. Williams looked sad. He had no words to comfort me.

  In the morning before I journeyed home, my friend gave me a gift of a book, bound in dark leather. Printed on the cover in a color as the sun, “A Key Into the LANGUAGE OF AMERICA.” Inside the cover, Williams wrote to me:

  Nananwtunu,

  It hath pleased God in wonderful manner that together this work was done. Without our forbearance this work not be complete. May it conduce the happy end intended by us.

  His writing brought happiness to me, it was written by Williams in Narrogánset dialect. He used the word “work” for “book,” as book is not a word for the Indians.

  As settlers took greater portions of our land, they were assured that it was God’s will. One of their chiefs of the church, Reverend Mather, wrote to his followers that, “Heathen people live amongst us and their land the Lord God has given us for rightful possession.” Before the Indian only had to argue with the white man that he should be permitted to keep his land and live in peace. Now the Indians were told their grievance would be with the white man’s God. Where did we meet this God to plead our rights?

  Our elders spoke in response, “Before the white man we owned nothing, because everything is from the Spirit. Food was free, land as free as sunshine and rain. Who has changed all this? The white man. And yet he says he is a believer in God. He does not seem to inherit any of the traits of his Father, nor follow the example of Jesus.” Another of the elders, called upon for his thoughts, kept a long silence. Finally he said, “They tell us Jesus was opposed to material things and to great possessions. And they tell us he was inclined to peace and was as unpractical as any Indian and set no price upon his labor of love. These are not the principles upon which the white man lives in our land. I have come to know that this Jesus was an Indian.”

  The more I thought about the white man’s God, the more clever the white man seemed to me. Their ministers preach that their God is a benevolent God. They tell us that his son Jesus taught forgiveness and kindness. Then the white man states to all that he is godly and does God’s work. When the white man takes all before him, he tells all that it is God’s will. He feels no remorse. He does God’s work.

  When news of Alexander’s unwillingness to bend to each English breeze reached the Plymouth Colony, the colony that was blessed to survive by the benevolence of his father Massasoit, the General Court in Plymouth demanded that he appear before them. He refused. In 1662 Major Winslow was sent to retrieve Alexander with the order, “If he refuses to go, he be a dead man.” Alexander, my uncle, was taken under guard to Massachusetts to be questioned by those of high office in the Plymouth Colony. He never returned. The English claimed he became ill and perished. The Indians believe he was poisoned.

  With the death of Alexander, two of Massasoit’s three sons were no longer. Only his youngest son, Metacom, my uncle, survived. He became the leader of the Pokanokets. Known as Philip by the English, Metacom did not benefit from long friendships with some of the earliest settlers. As with Alexander, at first he attempted reconciliation and compromise with the English. But English settlers were as a tide that always rose and never receded. Indian pleadings were not heard over the pounding English waves.

  In the summer of 1674 Williams traveled to speak with me as a man. He was fearful. Fearful for the Indian. He came to our lands from Massachusetts because he wanted freedom. A religious freedom and a freedom of thought. In consideration for being given lands to form his colony in Providence the only price asked by Massasoit was that the English exist peacefully with the Pokanokets and other tribes. This he promised, this he meant. But now Williams feared his word was being broken by others, new settlers. Settlers who came to our lands not for tranquility, but for opportunity. Settlers who had no sense of the bond between Indians and English. A history made possible only by the kindness of Massasoit and others.

  What Williams told me had been spoken of at our council meetings. At first our concerns were more a curious concern. As one of our wise elders said, “The English, in general, are a noble people. They pride themselves on their civil and religious ways and they think that no other nation is equal to them. They are truly industrious. But their close attention to business is not our way. They forget to think enough about their souls and their God. English fly about in every direction, as a swarm of bees, in search of the treasure that lies so near their hearts.”

  As time passed, and new settlers clustered in our lands, the words of our elders became as spears. “They are a heartless nation that is certain. The greatest object of their lives seems to be to acquire possessions. They have divided the day into hours, like the moons of the year. They measure everything. Not one of them would let a handful of corn go from his field unless he received value. I am also told that each year their Great Chief compels every man to pay him for the land he lives upon. In war they have leaders that do not fight. The common warriors are driven forward like a herd of deer to face the enemy. Fighting from compulsion and not bravery is not as with the Indian.”

  Over many more changes of the face of the moon council meetings were held. Elders spoke. All opinions considered. The words of Philip were heaviest. He spoke as the only living son of Massasoit, “When the English first came to our land Massasoit was a great man and the English as little children in the forest. My father restrained the other Indians from wronging the English, and gave them corn and showed them how to plant and harvest. Now there are many English. They have taken the earth as theirs, they believe the Indian is only to be used. Now that they are strong they show us no kindness as Massasoit showed them. We may lose a war with them, but not to go to war is to lose the war.” All knew what he meant.

  In the spring of 1675, I traveled to Providence to see my good friend Williams, a troubled man. I told him that breeze was now a gathering storm, my people would no longer bow to the English. He did not argue that English injustices were not grave. But he warned that the Indian was a single canoe on a stormy sea of English fury. I told him that our canoe was already overturned.

  War came. First in Swansea in June of 1675. By mid-July most of Rhode Island and Massachusetts Bay hosted the struggle between us and the white man. Even in Providence, founded by our friend Williams, houses were burnt and settlers slain. But Williams’s life was spared by Chief Canonchet. All Indians knew of Williams’s kindness. It was a cruel war. My Indian brothers placed hooks through the jaws of captured settlers, then hung them from trees for a slow death. In Springfield a capt
ured Indian woman was beaten to a bloody death, then fed to the settlers’ dogs. Through the summer of 1675 Philip’s war parties had more victories than losses. Then the turn. The Englishmen by their herd numbers began to show advantage of strength. As 1675 moved to 1676 there was no hope for Indian victory. Over three thousand Indians were killed. My wife one. I cannot speak of how she died.

  Some tribes joined with the English, hoping to curry favor after the war. Others fled to the lands in Canada and New York. The Indian leader who had spared Williams, Canonchet, was captured in Pawtucket. Told he could spare his life in return for ending hostilities, he replied, “He liked it well, he should die before his heart was soft.” Quickly executed by the English, his head was carried to Hartford.

  The English gave our struggle a name, King Philip’s War. It made Philip, my uncle, and his warrior Indians seem as a mighty force. The English wished to claim they defeated a powerful enemy. Another purpose for the name was that the English claimed that the war was by Philip’s choice. An Indian would have called our struggle “The War of Despair.”

  By spring of the year it was over. Philip was killed in March, ending the Indian war. By order of Benjamin Church, a commander of the English, Philip’s head was hacked from his body, his arms and legs then severed. His head was placed on a pole in Plymouth. There it was displayed for more than a year so all the Christians of the colony could see their defeated enemy. One of his hands in a bottle of alcohol, a tavern curiosity for many years.

  After Philip’s death, his brother-in-law, Tispaquim, surrendered to Benjamin Church with the assurance he and his family would be spared. He was beheaded. A similar fate to many who accepted amnesty: beheading or hanging. Some of us who accepted the English truce met a fate worse than death. We were sold as slaves, monies traded for our bodies to pay for the war.