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Historic Deerfield's Sad Thanksgiving
By Michael M. Moskaluk, Bantam
"It is a land that freemen till, that sober-suited freedom chose. The land, where girt with friends or foe, a man may do the things he will." Alfred Lord Tennyson — 1809-1892
The summer of 1675 was on the wane in colonial New England. In keeping with the woolly caterpillars’ prediction of a severe winter ahead, the pioneer families of the tiny frontier settlement of Pocumtuck—present-day Deerfield in western Massachusetts—were busily preparing all that was needed to withstand the rigors of a frigid New England winter in relative comfort.
Woodsheds of each homestead were being filled and cordwood was being piled high at the sides. And, while a most favorable growing season had provided them with a bountiful harvest of corn and beans, the pumpkins, squash and root vegetables had yet to be harvested before an untimely first killing frost.
As signaled by the southerly flights of Canada geese, it was time for the men to take to the woodlands and stalk the wily native turkeys and deer. These staples would be smoke-cured to supplement the pork, geese, ducks and small game animals that each family needed to survive in the outlying frontier settlement.
The youngsters of the families were also busy. After completing their morning chores, it was off to the adjacent bogs and fringe areas to gather cranberries and grapes. Foraging for nuts in the hickory and chestnut tree groves were excursions being looked forward to.
With an eye on the calendar, the ladies of each household, as busy as they were with their respective daily chores, were beginning to prepare for the annual Thanksgiving festivities. After all, the success of the upcoming three days of feasting and merriment, as proclaimed by Governor Bradford in 1621, was dependent upon the culinary expertise of the ladies.
While the predictions pertaining to the severity of the coming winter season were considered reliable, there were no reliable forecasts regarding the possibility of assault by hostile natives. The distant beat of Indian war drums to the east and north of Pocumtuck were being totally ignored! The dark frowns and ominous grumbling of discontent by the natives roaming in and out of the settlement were thought to be nothing more than childish pouting.
The settlers of Pocumtuck considered themselves far removed from hostilities and they felt confident in the fact that they were amongst friendly natives. After all, these same natives had taught the men and boys of the settlement the fine art of trapping lucrative fur bearing animals like beaver, fox, marten, otter and mink, as well as the art of stalking the wily turkeys and deer.
Above all, the settlers had peace of mind pertaining to the ownership of the acreage upon which they had established their respective farmsteads and township bounds. The land that was the Township of Pocumtuck was legally purchased from the local tribe as mandated and regulated by Massachusetts law. Most certainly they were not illegal squatters!
Nevertheless, while there was need for vigilance, as a result of the recent assault and decimation of the Pequot tribe by colonial militia in nearby Connecticut, the thought of a revenge assault by an unrelated tribe was dismissed. The settlers failed to heed the warning signs and took no precautionary action to protect themselves from an attack. But the dark clouds of pending violence were gathering throughout the region, and by late summer—Wednesday, September 1, 1675—all hell broke loose!
With the stealth of nocturnal wilderness predators, a war party of Wampanoag and Narragansett Indian warriors, led by the young and vengeful Wampanoag Sachem (chief) King Philip, had crept up and surrounded the tiny cluster of homesteads by dark of night. Blending into the fringe undergrowth of the surrounding forest, the warriors had settled in and patiently awaited the dawn's early light. A prearranged first musket shot would signal the moment of attack against the nigh defenseless settlement.
The first shot heard, however, was premature. Unfortunately for pioneer James Eggleston, who was in dire need of an early morning visit to the family outhouse, he espied the nearest of the raiders and was promptly shot dead before he could call out an alarm. However, and fortunately for those who survived the assault, that premature shot actually did sound the alarm that gave warning to the village that all was not well—warning enough for most of the households to make haste to bar the doors, shutter the windows, and prepare to defend themselves as best they could. Others gambled their lives in a desperate race to the comparative safety of the centrally located meetinghouse that also served as a garrison house.
While the combined musket fire from those within the garrison house and adjacent homes held off the raiders in the immediate area, it did nothing to prevent the slaughter of all those who were trapped and defenseless in the outlying homesteads of the settlement. One by one, as each homestead was rendered helpless, they were put to the torch. By mid-morning, the raiding party withdrew, leaving the settlement burning and devastated. Those who survived were those few who had secured themselves within the garrison house.
Because of its isolated location on the Pocumtuck (Deerfield) River, the frontier settlement was most vulnerable to attack by vengeful natives. Hard on the heels of the September 1 assault, and with the cellar holes still smoldering with the debris of the homes that had been put to the torch, the Indian war party returned in an attempt to destroy the lone garrison house and to massacre those who had survived the initial attack. This second assault was naught but eleven days after the initial assault, and took place Sunday, September 12. A third and final assault six days later, on September 18, finalized the devastation of the settlement. It is documented that the frontier settlement of Pocumtuck remained deserted until the spring of 1677.
Sadly, in keeping with mourning the loss of their friends and relatives, the Thanksgiving festivities—usually a joyous annual occasion—were postponed that frightful year of 1675.
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