He was chief of the Wampanoag nation and other related tribes; he was everywhere accepted as lord and master. When Samoset brought Massasoit to Plymouth to meet the Pilgrims, they knew it: they knew by his dress -- a deerskin fastened over one shoulder with a great chain of white bones resting against his broad chest; a long knife fastened to the front of the necklace; his face painted a deep mulberry hue. They could tell from his demeanor; he was tall, and carried himself with a graceful awareness of his own authority and prowess among men.

On March 21, 1621, the little band of white men had seen their first Indian at close quarters when Samoset marched into the settlement, naked except for a leathern girdle, and to their astonishment, greeted them boldly in English, "Hello, Englishmen."

They quickly threw a red horseman's long coat about him while he drank their "strong water" and explained that he was a sagamore of the Monhegan tribe from the coast of Maine, and had learned his English from crews of the fishing vessels.



"Patuxet is the name of this place where you build your houses," he told them, "and it means Little Falls or Little Bay." He explained that the Patuxet tribe who had lived here had been entirely wiped out by disease.

When Samoset returned on the 22nd he brought with him Tisquantum, or Squanto, who had been taken on a prison ship to the Indies, escaped to England, and spoke better English than he.

The two calmly informed the startled people that Ousamequin, Yellow Feather, also known as Massasoit, was waiting with a group of sixty warriors for them to come out to him.

The pilgrims were huddled together below the hill, their numbers diminishing daily by the Great Sickness. But they conquered their fears and a sense of awe, and demanded that the great chief come in to them.

Now he sat on a green rug in a nearly-completed house with Governor Carver. The treaty these two ill-matched strangers drew up stated that neither group would "doe hurte" to one another in any way. If an Indian broke the peace, he would be sent to Plimoth; if a white man, he would answer to the justice of the Sowams. If either group was unjustly attacked, the other would come to its aid.

Simple terms, but the great chief, who was known for fairness and love of peace even among his own people, was to honorably keep his pledge to the white men for forty years.

In November 1620 both Saints and Strangers had signed the Mayflower Compact. The Common House was raised, though at first it lodged only the sick and dying. Early in 1621 Stephen Hopkins, a Stranger, completed the first home in Plimoth Colony.

In February alone seventeen of their number died; strong men and entire families buried in this cold, wind-ridden wilderness. Now the dreaded Indians had unexpectedly held out the palm leaf of friendship, and their merciful assistance would contribute much to the survival of the small, exhausted group.

Spring came, but with it the unexpected death of Governor Carver. Thirty-two year old William Bradford, a scholar who spoke five languages, was elected the new governor.
Both men and women helped with the planting and with trapping, or simply scooping up the alewives, or herring, dragging some forty tons from the water as Squanto had insisted they must, placing them with the seed, three in a hole, heads together, like the spokes of a wheel.

After months of hard labor, trembling hopes, and much prayer, a harvest was realized and Bradford declared a day of thanksgiving.

New England. The land smattered with color, the air mild and sweet. Fifty-three English people, clean and brushed, were gathered when the handsome Massasoit with ninety braves marched onto the green. The Pilgrims shared, despite the terrible pinch they would suffer come winter, and a quiet drama of grave importance played itself out for the eyes of the future to see.

Springville, Utah-born sculptor, Cyrus Dallin, who created the Angel Moroni for the Salt Lake Temple, installed his statue of Massasoit at Plymouth in 1921. A second cast stands on the BYU campus. Each year my family makes its own pilgrimage, standing before the still, solemn presence, with eyes that seem to yet see, and a dignity that can be felt, singing songs and uttering our heartfelt gratitude that this man rose up to assist what Bradford termed, before they left Holland, a small band of Pilgrims; that, year following year, we may offer praise and thanksgiving to that God whom they ever trusted and loved and praised, and passed on to their posterity, for all generations to come.

Susan Evans McCloud is author of more than 40 books, including historical fiction, biography and mystery. She has published screenplays, a book of poetry and lyrics, including two songs in the LDS hymnbook. She is the mother of six children.