Thanksgiving Day

Sailors poured onto the rocky beach as their small craft landed. Nearby cliffs echoed with a shout: "Grab that short one before he gets away!" The Indian boy felt a sailor's callused hands grasp his shoulders. Though he thrashed and jerked, Squanto (SKWAN- to) couldn't break free. As fibers from a coarse rope cut into his wrists he finally decided that struggle was useless. He was dragged into a longboat, then carried aboard a three-masted English ship anchored offshore.

Squanto had been fishing along the rugged coast when his friend had looked up and pointed, "Great boats with white wings." They had scrambled over the boulders to meet the strange white-faced intruders. Now Squanto was their captive.

Weeks later, a pale Squanto wobbled down the gangplank from that lurching deck onto firm land. He and other Indians were taken to the elaborate mansion of Sir Ferdinando Gorges who had financed many expeditions to the New World. For the next three years, the Indian youths were taught English. At first Squanto found the new tongue awkward, but eventually he surprised himself: "My name is Squanto. I have come from America."

His English host was eager for the Indians to master the language. One day Gorges called them to his quarters. "Young braves, you have studied hard. Now you will be sent as guides on new explorations of America. I will miss you."

"Another ship? How can I stand that constantly rolling deck?" Squanto thought. But in time he gained his sea legs. His knowledge of the rivers and natural harbors, of the tribes and chieftains of his homeland proved very helpful to the English explorers.

For years he had longed to see his beloved bay and village again. One day, as his ship sailed along the New England coast, he spotted it. Squanto ran to the captain. "May I go ashore, sir? That's my village. That's my home!"

"Yes, young man. You have served us well. Now you can return to your people."

As soon as he heard the pebbles crunch under the longboat's hull, Squanto jumped out and ran to embrace his parents. He was home!

But his homecoming didn't last long. Within weeks Squanto spotted new sails on the horizon. No longer afraid of English ships, he proudly led a band of young braves to greet the sailors. Armed seamen seized Squanto and nineteen other Patuxet (paw-TUX-et) Indians.

Once again he was imprisoned aboard a British merchant ship. Rats scampered across the damp hold where the Indians were chained. Scarce provisions, a stormy trip, and continual seasickness took their toll. Several Indians were buried at sea. By the time they reached the Spanish slave-port of Malaga (MA-la-ga), Squanto was very weak.

One by one the surviving braves were pushed up onto the auction block to be sold. Finally it was Squanto's turn. He could barely stand. "Senores (sen-YOR-es), what will you bid for this strong Indian?" the slave trader rasped. A brown-robed monk nodded and the auctioneer grinned. "Sold to the brothers of the monastery."

A heavy pouch of coins exchanged hands and the monk led Squanto home. At last his wrists were untied. A friar brought fresh water and plenty of food, though Squanto could only eat a little.

"Estas libre (es-TAS LEE-bray)! You are free." Squanto looked into the clear eyes of this man of God. Though he knew no Spanish, he understood. Over the next few weeks he pieced it together. Their love for Jesus had prompted these Christian brothers to buy Indian slaves and teach them the Christian faith. As the monks nursed him back to health, Squanto began to love this Jesus, too.

Yet he longed for home. The Indian used his command of English to find a fishing boat headed for London, where he rejoined his explorer friends. Again, Squanto became a guide for explorations of the New World. Years passed. The day finally came when he saw the familiar coastlands of home. Once more he was granted permission to go ashore.

No one greeted Squanto at the beach. He ran to his village. The bark-covered round-houses were empty. Not even a dog barked. Graves outside the village told the story. Samoset (SAM-o-set), his friend from a neighboring tribe, could bring little comfort. "A whiteman's sickness struck your people. One week, all dead. Many villages lie silent like Patuxet."

Squanto's emptiness overwhelmed him. Parents, brothers, sisters, forever gone. He wandered the forests for weeks in his grief. Finally he went to live with his friend Samoset.

One cold December morning, six months after he returned, Squanto watched the white

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