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Howard Zinn – A people’s history of the United States

Chapter 1: COLUMBUS, THE INDIANS, AND HUMAN PROGRESS

Arawak men and women, naked, tawny, and full of wonder, emerged from their villages onto

the island's beaches and swam out to get a closer look at the strange big boat. When Columbus

and his sailors came ashore, carrying swords, speaking oddly, the Arawaks ran to greet them,

brought them food, water, gifts. He later wrote of this in his log:

They ... brought us parrots and balls of cotton and spears and many other things,

which they exchanged for the glass beads and hawks' bells. They willingly traded

everything they owned... . They were well-built, with good bodies and handsome

features.... They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a

sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance. They have no

iron. Their spears are made of cane... . They would make fine servants.... With fifty

men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want.

These Arawaks of the Bahama Islands were much like Indians on the mainland, who were

remarkable (European observers were to say again and again) for their hospitality, their belief in

sharing. These traits did not stand out in the Europe of the Renaissance, dominated as it was by

the religion of popes, the government of kings, the frenzy for money that marked Western

civilization and its first messenger to the Americas, Christopher Columbus.

Columbus wrote:

As soon as I arrived in the Indies, on the first Island which I found, I took some of

the natives by force in order that they might learn and might give me information of

whatever there is in these parts.

The information that Columbus wanted most was: Where is the gold? He had persuaded the king

and queen of Spain to finance an expedition to the lands, the wealth, he expected would be on the

other side of the Atlantic-the Indies and Asia, gold and spices. For, like other informed people of

his time, he knew the world was round and he could sail west in order to get to the Far East.

Spain was recently unified, one of the new modern nation-states, like France, England, and

Portugal. Its population, mostly poor peasants, worked for the nobility, who were 2 percent of

the population and owned 95 percent of the land. Spain had tied itself to the Catholic Church,

expelled all the Jews, driven out the Moors. Like other states of the modern world, Spain sought

gold, which was becoming the new mark of wealth, more useful than land because it could buy

anything.

There was gold in Asia, it was thought, and certainly silks and spices, for Marco Polo and

others had brought back marvelous things from their overland expeditions centuries before. Now

that the Turks had conquered Constantinople and the eastern Mediterranean, and controlled the

land routes to Asia, a sea route was needed. Portuguese sailors were working their way around

the southern tip of Africa. Spain decided to gamble on a long sail across an unknown ocean.

In return for bringing back gold and spices, they promised Columbus 10 percent of the profits,

governorship over new-found lands, and the fame that would go with a new title: Admiral of the

Ocean Sea. He was a merchant's clerk from the Italian city of Genoa, part-time weaver (the son

of a skilled weaver), and expert sailor. He set out with three sailing ships, the largest of which

was the Santa Maria, perhaps 100 feet long, and thirty-nine crew members.

Columbus would never have made it to Asia, which was thousands of miles farther away than

he had calculated, imagining a smaller world. He would have been doomed by that great expanse

of sea. But he was lucky. One-fourth of the way there he came upon an unknown, uncharted land

that lay between Europe and Asia-the Americas. It was early October 1492, and thirty-three days

since he and his crew had left the Canary Islands, off the Atlantic coast of Africa. Now they saw

branches and sticks floating in the water. They saw flocks of birds.

These were signs of land. Then, on October 12, a sailor called Rodrigo saw the early morning

moon shining on white sands, and cried out. It was an island in the Bahamas, the Caribbean sea.

The first man to sight land was supposed to get a yearly pension of 10,000 maravedis for life, but

Rodrigo never got it. Columbus claimed he had seen a light the evening before. He got the

reward.

So, approaching land, they were met by the Arawak Indians, who swam out to greet them.

The Arawaks lived in village communes, had a developed agriculture of corn, yams, cassava.

They could spin and weave, but they had no horses or work animals. They had no iron, but they

wore tiny gold ornaments in their ears.

This was to have enormous consequences: it led Columbus to take some of them aboard ship

as prisoners because he insisted that they guide him to the source of the gold. He then sailed to

what is now Cuba, then to Hispaniola (the island which today consists of Haiti and the

Dominican Republic). There, bits of visible gold in the rivers, and a gold mask presented to

Columbus by a local Indian chief, led to wild visions of gold fields.

On Hispaniola, out of timbers from the Santa Maria, which had run aground, Columbus built

a fort, the first European military base in the Western Hemisphere. He called it Navidad

(Christmas) and left thirty-nine crewmembers there, with instructions to find and store the gold.

He took more Indian prisoners and put them aboard his two remaining ships. At one part of the

island he got into a fight with Indians who refused to trade as many bows and arrows as he and

his men wanted. Two were run through with swords and bled to death. Then the Nina and

the Pinta set sail for the Azores and Spain. When the weather turned cold, the Indian prisoners

began to die.

Columbus's report to the Court in Madrid was extravagant. He insisted he had reached Asia (it

was Cuba) and an island off the coast of China (Hispaniola). His descriptions were part fact, part

fiction:

Hispaniola is a miracle. Mountains and hills, plains and pastures, are both fertile

and beautiful ... the harbors are unbelievably good and there are many wide rivers

of which the majority contain gold. . . . There are many spices, and great mines of

gold and other metals....

The Indians, Columbus reported, "are so naive and so free with their possessions that no one

who has not witnessed them would believe it. When you ask for something they have, they never

say no. To the contrary, they offer to share with anyone...." He concluded his report by asking for

a little help from their Majesties, and in return he would bring them from his next voyage "as

much gold as they need ... and as many slaves as they ask." He was full of religious talk: "Thus

the eternal God, our Lord, gives victory to those who follow His way over apparent

impossibilities."

Because of Columbus's exaggerated report and promises, his second expedition was given

seventeen ships and more than twelve hundred men. The aim was clear: slaves and gold. They

went from island to island in the Caribbean, taking Indians as captives. But as word spread of the

Europeans' intent they found more and more empty villages. On Haiti, they found that the sailors

left behind at Fort Navidad had been killed in a battle with the Indians, after they had roamed the

island in gangs looking for gold, taking women and children as slaves for sex and labor.

Now, from his base on Haiti, Columbus sent expedition after expedition into the interior.

They found no gold fields, but had to fill up the ships returning to Spain with some kind of

dividend. In the year 1495, they went on a great slave raid, rounded up fifteen hundred Arawak

men, women, and children, put them in pens guarded by Spaniards and dogs, then picked the five

hundred best specimens to load onto ships. Of those five hundred, two hundred died en route.

The rest arrived alive in Spain and were put up for sale by the archdeacon of the town, who

reported that, although the slaves were "naked as the day they were born," they showed "no more

embarrassment than animals." Columbus later wrote: "Let us in the name of the Holy Trinity go

on sending all the slaves that can be sold."

But too many of the slaves died in captivity. And so Columbus, desperate to pay back

dividends to those who had invested, had to make good his promise to fill the ships with gold. In

the province of Cicao on Haiti, where he and his men imagined huge gold fields to exist, they

ordered all persons fourteen years or older to collect a certain quantity of gold every three

months. When they brought it, they were given copper tokens to hang around their necks. Indians

found without a copper token had their hands cut off and bled to death.

The Indians had been given an impossible task. The only gold around was bits of dust

garnered from the streams. So they fled, were hunted down with dogs, and were killed.

Trying to put together an army of resistance, the Arawaks faced Spaniards who had armor,

muskets, swords, horses. When the Spaniards took prisoners they hanged them or burned them to

death. Among the Arawaks, mass suicides began, with cassava poison. Infants were killed to

save them from the Spaniards. In two years, through murder, mutilation, or suicide, half of the

250,000 Indians on Haiti were dead.

When it became clear that there was no gold left, the Indians were taken as slave labor on

huge estates, known later as encomiendas. They were worked at a ferocious pace, and died by

the thousands. By the year 1515, there were perhaps fifty thousand Indians left. By 1550, there

were five hundred. A report of the year 1650 shows none of the original Arawaks or their

descendants left on the island.

The chief source-and, on many matters the only source-of information about what happened

on the islands after Columbus came is Bartolome de las Casas, who, as a young priest,

participated in the conquest of Cuba. For a time he owned a plantation on which Indian slaves

worked, but he gave that up and became a vehement critic of Spanish cruelty. Las Casas

transcribed Columbus's journal and, in his fifties, began a multivolume History of the Indies. In

it, he describes the Indians. They are agile, he says, and can swim long distances, especially the

women. They are not completely peaceful, because they do battle from time to time with other

tribes, but their casualties seem small, and they fight when they are individually moved to do so

because of some grievance, not on the orders of captains or kings.

Women in Indian society were treated so well as to startle the Spaniards. Las Casas describes

sex relations:

Marriage laws are non-existent men and women alike choose their mates and leave them

as they please, without offense, jealousy or anger. They multiply in great abundance;

pregnant women work to the last minute and give birth almost painlessly; up the next

day, they bathe in the river and are as clean and healthy as before giving birth. If they

tire of their men, they give themselves abortions with herbs that force stillbirths,

covering their shameful parts with leaves or cotton cloth; although on the whole, Indian

men and women look upon total nakedness with as much casualness as we look upon a

man's head or at his hands.

The Indians, Las Casas says, have no religion, at least no temples. They live in

large communal bell-shaped buildings, housing up to 600 people at one time ... made

of very strong wood and roofed with palm leaves.... They prize bird feathers of

various colors, beads made of fishbones, and green and white stones with which they

adorn their ears and lips, but they put no value on gold and other precious things.

They lack all manner of commerce, neither buying nor selling, and rely exclusively

on their natural environment for maintenance. They are extremely generous with

their possessions and by the same token covet the possessions of their friends and

expect the same degree of liberality. ...

In Book Two of his History of the Indies, Las Casas (who at first urged replacing Indians by

black slaves, thinking they were stronger and would survive, but later relented when he saw the

effects on blacks) tells about the treatment of the Indians by the Spaniards. It is a unique account

and deserves to be quoted at length:

Endless testimonies . .. prove the mild and pacific temperament of the natives.... But

our work was to exasperate, ravage, kill, mangle and destroy; small wonder, then, if

they tried to kill one of us now and then.... The admiral, it is true, was blind as those

who came after him, and he was so anxious to please the King that he committed

irreparable crimes against the Indians....

Las Casas tells how the Spaniards "grew more conceited every day" and after a while refused to

walk any distance. They "rode the backs of Indians if they were in a hurry" or were carried on

hammocks by Indians running in relays. "In this case they also had Indians carry large leaves to

shade them from the sun and others to fan them with goose wings."

Total control led to total cruelty. The Spaniards "thought nothing of knifing Indians by tens

and twenties and of cutting slices off them to test the sharpness of their blades." Las Casas tells

how "two of these so-called Christians met two Indian boys one day, each carrying a parrot; they

took the parrots and for fun beheaded the boys."

The Indians' attempts to defend themselves failed. And when they ran off into the hills they

were found and killed. So, Las Casas reports, "they suffered and died in the mines and other

labors in desperate silence, knowing not a soul in the world to whom they could turn for help."

He describes their work in the mines:

... mountains are stripped from top to bottom and bottom to top a thousand times;

they dig, split rocks, move stones, and carry dirt on their backs to wash it in the

rivers, while those who wash gold stay in the water all the time with their backs bent

so constantly it breaks them; and when water invades the mines, the most arduous

task of all is to dry the mines by scooping up pansful of water and throwing it up

outside....

After each six or eight months' work in the mines, which was the time required of each crew to

dig enough gold for melting, up to a third of the men died.

While the men were sent many miles away to the mines, the wives remained to work the soil,

forced into the excruciating job of digging and making thousands of hills for cassava plants.

Thus husbands and wives were together only once every eight or ten months and

when they met they were so exhausted and depressed on both sides ... they ceased to

procreate. As for the newly born, they died early because their mothers, overworked

and famished, had no milk to nurse them, and for this reason, while I was in Cuba,

7000 children died in three months. Some mothers even drowned their babies from

sheer desperation.... in this way, husbands died in the mines, wives died at work,

and children died from lack of milk . .. and in a short time this land which was so

great, so powerful and fertile ... was depopulated. ... My eyes have seen these acts so

foreign to human nature, and now I tremble as I write. ...

When he arrived on Hispaniola in 1508, Las Casas says, "there were 60,000 people living on this

island, including the Indians; so that from 1494 to 1508, over three million people had perished

from war, slavery, and the mines. Who in future generations will believe this? I myself writing it

as a knowledgeable eyewitness can hardly believe it...."

Thus began the history, five hundred years ago, of the European invasion of the Indian

settlements in the Americas. That beginning, when you read Las Casas-even if his figures are

exaggerations (were there 3 million Indians to begin with, as he says, or less than a million, as

some historians have calculated, or 8 million as others now believe?)-is conquest, slavery, death.

When we read the history books given to children in the United States, it all starts with heroic

adventure-there is no bloodshed-and Columbus Day is a celebration.

Past the elementary and high schools, there are only occasional hints of something else.

Samuel Eliot Morison, the Harvard historian, was the most distinguished writer on Columbus,

the author of a multivolume biography, and was himself a sailor who retraced Columbus's route

across the Atlantic. In his popular book Christopher Columbus, Mariner, written in 1954, he tells

about the enslavement and the killing: "The cruel policy initiated by Columbus and pursued by

his successors resulted in complete genocide."

That is on one page, buried halfway into the telling of a grand romance. In the book's last

paragraph, Morison sums up his view of Columbus:

He had his faults and his defects, but they were largely the defects of the qualities

that made him great-his indomitable will, his superb faith in God and in his own

mission as the Christ-bearer to lands beyond the seas, his stubborn persistence

despite neglect, poverty and discouragement. But there was no flaw, no dark side to

the most outstanding and essential of all his qualities-his seamanship.

One can lie outright about the past. Or one can omit facts which might lead to unacceptable

conclusions. Morison does neither. He refuses to lie about Columbus. He does not omit the story

of mass murder; indeed he describes it with the harshest word one can use: genocide.

But he does something else-he mentions the truth quickly and goes on to other things more

important to him. Outright lying or quiet omission takes the risk of discovery which, when made,

might arouse the reader to rebel against the writer. To state the facts, however, and then to bury

them in a mass of other information is to say to the reader with a certain infectious calm: yes,

mass murder took place, but it's not that important-it should weigh very little in our final

judgments; it should affect very little what we do in the world.

It is not that the historian can avoid emphasis of some facts and not of others. This is as

natural to him as to the mapmaker, who, in order to produce a usable drawing for practical

purposes, must first flatten and distort the shape of the earth, then choose out of the bewildering

mass of geographic information those things needed for the purpose of this or that particular

map.

My argument cannot be against selection, simplification, emphasis, which are inevitable for

both cartographers and historians. But the map-maker's distortion is a technical necessity for a

common purpose shared by all people who need maps. The historian's distortion is more than

technical, it is ideological; it is released into a world of contending interests, where any chosen

emphasis supports (whether the historian means to or not) some kind of interest, whether

economic or political or racial or national or sexual.

Furthermore, this ideological interest is not openly expressed in the way a mapmaker's

technical interest is obvious ("This is a Mercator projection for long-range navigation-for short-

range, you'd better use a different projection"). No, it is presented as if all readers of history had

a common interest which historians serve to the best of their ability. This is not intentional

deception; the historian has been trained in a society in which education and knowledge are put

forward as technical problems of excellence and not as tools for contending social classes, races,

nations.

To emphasize the heroism of Columbus and his successors as navigators and discoverers, and

to de-emphasize their genocide, is not a technical necessity but an ideological choice. It serves-

unwittingly-to justify what was done. My point is not that we must, in telling history, accuse,

judge, condemn Columbus in absentia. It is too late for that; it would be a useless scholarly

exercise in morality. But the easy acceptance of atrocities as a deplorable but necessary price to

pay for progress (Hiroshima and Vietnam, to save Western civilization; Kronstadt and Hungary,

to save socialism; nuclear proliferation, to save us all)-that is still with us. One reason these

atrocities are still with us is that we have learned to bury them in a mass of other facts, as

radioactive wastes are buried in containers in the earth. We have learned to give them exactly the

same proportion of attention that teachers and writers often give them in the most respectable of

classrooms and textbooks. This learned sense of moral proportion, coming from the apparent

objectivity of the scholar, is accepted more easily than when it comes from politicians at press

conferences. It is therefore more deadly.

The treatment of heroes (Columbus) and their victims (the Arawaks)-the quiet acceptance of

conquest and murder in the name of progress-is only one aspect of a certain approach to history,

in which the past is told from the point of view of governments, conquerors, diplomats, leaders.

It is as if they, like Columbus, deserve universal acceptance, as if they-the Founding Fathers,

Jackson, Lincoln, Wilson, Roosevelt, Kennedy, the leading members of Congress, the famous

Justices of the Supreme Court-represent the nation as a whole. The pretense is that there really is

such a thing as "the United States," subject to occasional conflicts and quarrels, but

fundamentally a community of people with common interests. It is as if there really is a "national

interest" represented in the Constitution, in territorial expansion, in the laws passed by Congress,

the decisions of the courts, the development of capitalism, the culture of education and the mass

media.

"History is the memory of states," wrote Henry Kissinger in his first book, A World Restored,

in which he proceeded to tell the history of nineteenth-century Europe from the viewpoint of the

leaders of Austria and England, ignoring the millions who suffered from those statesmen's

policies. From his standpoint, the "peace" that Europe had before the French Revolution was

"restored" by the diplomacy of a few national leaders. But for factory workers in England,

farmers in France, colored people in Asia and Africa, women and children everywhere except in

the upper classes, it was a world of conquest, violence, hunger, exploitation-a world not restored

but disintegrated.

My viewpoint, in telling the history of the United States, is different: that we must not accept

the memory of states as our own. Nations are not communities and never have been, The history

of any country, presented as the history of a family, conceals fierce conflicts of interest

(sometimes exploding, most often repressed) between conquerors and conquered, masters and

slaves, capitalists and workers, dominators and dominated in race and sex. And in such a world

of conflict, a world of victims and executioners, it is the job of thinking people, as Albert Camus

suggested, not to be on the side of the executioners.

Thus, in that inevitable taking of sides which comes from selection and emphasis in history, I

prefer to try to tell the story of the discovery of America from the viewpoint of the Arawaks, of

the Constitution from the standpoint of the slaves, of Andrew Jackson as seen by the Cherokees,

of the Civil War as seen by the New York Irish, of the Mexican war as seen by the deserting

soldiers of Scott's army, of the rise of industrialism as seen by the young women in the Lowell

textile mills, of the Spanish-American war as seen by the Cubans, the conquest of the Philippines

as seen by black soldiers on Luzon, the Gilded Age as seen by southern farmers, the First World

War as seen by socialists, the Second World War as seen by pacifists, the New Deal as seen by

blacks in Harlem, the postwar American empire as seen by peons in Latin America. And so on,

to the limited extent that any one person, however he or she strains, can "see" history from the

standpoint of others.

My point is not to grieve for the victims and denounce the executioners. Those tears, that

anger, cast into the past, deplete our moral energy for the present. And the lines are not always

clear. In the long run, the oppressor is also a victim. In the short run (and so far, human history

has consisted only of short runs), the victims, themselves desperate and tainted with the culture

that oppresses them, turn on other victims.

Still, understanding the complexities, this book will be skeptical of governments and their

attempts, through politics and culture, to ensnare ordinary people in a giant web of nationhood

pretending to a common interest. I will try not to overlook the cruelties that victims inflict on one

another as they are jammed together in the boxcars of the system. I don't want to romanticize

them. But I do remember (in rough paraphrase) a statement I once read: "The cry of the poor is

not always just, but if you don't listen to it, you will never know what justice is."

I don't want to invent victories for people's movements. But to think that history-writing must

aim simply to recapitulate the failures that dominate the past is to make historians collaborators

in an endless cycle of defeat. If history is to be creative, to anticipate a possible future without

denying the past, it should, I believe, emphasize new possibilities by disclosing those hidden

episodes of the past when, even if in brief flashes, people showed their ability to resist, to join

together, occasionally to win. I am supposing, or perhaps only hoping, that our future may be

found in the past's fugitive moments of compassion rather than in its solid centuries of warfare.

That, being as blunt as I can, is my approach to the history of the United States. The reader

may as well know that before going on.

What Columbus did to the Arawaks of the Bahamas, Cortes did to the Aztecs of Mexico,

Pizarro to the Incas of Peru, and the English settlers of Virginia and Massachusetts to the

Powhatans and the Pequots.

The Aztec civilization of Mexico came out of the heritage of Mayan, Zapotec, and Toltec

cultures. It built enormous constructions from stone tools and human labor, developed a writing

system and a priesthood. It also engaged in (let us not overlook this) the ritual killing of

thousands of people as sacrifices to the gods. The cruelty of the Aztecs, however, did not erase a

certain innocence, and when a Spanish armada appeared at Vera Cruz, and a bearded white man

came ashore, with strange beasts (horses), clad in iron, it was thought that he was the legendary

Aztec man-god who had died three hundred years before, with the promise to return-the

mysterious Quetzalcoatl. And so they welcomed him, with munificent hospitality.

That was Hernando Cortes, come from Spain with an expedition financed by merchants and

landowners and blessed by the deputies of God, with one obsessive goal: to find gold. In the

mind of Montezuma, the king of the Aztecs, there must have been a certain doubt about whether

Cortes was indeed Quetzalcoatl, because he sent a hundred runners to Cortes, bearing enormous

treasures, gold and silver wrought into objects of fantastic beauty, but at the same time begging

him to go back. (The painter Durer a few years later described what he saw just arrived in Spain

from that expedition-a sun of gold, a moon of silver, worth a fortune.)

Cortes then began his march of death from town to town, using deception, turning Aztec

against Aztec, killing with the kind of deliberateness that accompanies a strategy-to paralyze the

will of the population by a sudden frightful deed. And so, in Cholulu, he invited the headmen of

the Cholula nation to the square. And when they came, with thousands of unarmed retainers,

Cortes's small army of Spaniards, posted around the square with cannon, armed with crossbows,

mounted on horses, massacred them, down to the last man. Then they looted the city and moved

on. When their cavalcade of murder was over they were in Mexico City, Montezuma was dead,

and the Aztec civilization, shattered, was in the hands of the Spaniards.

All this is told in the Spaniards' own accounts.

In Peru, that other Spanish conquistador Pizarro, used the same tactics, and for the same

reasons- the frenzy in the early capitalist states of Europe for gold, for slaves, for products of the

soil, to pay the bondholders and stockholders of the expeditions, to finance the monarchical

bureaucracies rising in Western Europe, to spur the growth of the new money economy rising out

of feudalism, to participate in what Karl Marx would later call "the primitive accumulation of

capital." These were the violent beginnings of an intricate system of technology, business,

politics, and culture that would dominate the world for the next five centuries.

In the North American English colonies, the pattern was set early, as Columbus had set it in

the islands of the Bahamas. In 1585, before there was any permanent English settlement in

Virginia, Richard Grenville landed there with seven ships. The Indians he met were hospitable,

but when one of them stole a small silver cup, Grenville sacked and burned the whole Indian

village.

Jamestown itself was set up inside the territory of an Indian confederacy, led by the chief,

Powhatan. Powhatan watched the English settle on his people's land, but did not attack,

maintaining a posture of coolness. When the English were going through their "starving time" in

the winter of 1610, some of them ran off to join the Indians, where they would at least be fed.

When the summer came, the governor of the colony sent a messenger to ask Powhatan to return

the runaways, whereupon Powhatan, according to the English account, replied with "noe other

than prowde and disdaynefull Answers." Some soldiers were therefore sent out "to take

Revenge." They fell upon an Indian settlement, killed fifteen or sixteen Indians, burned the

houses, cut down the corn growing around the village, took the queen of the tribe and her

children into boats, then ended up throwing the children overboard "and shoteinge owit their

Braynes in the water." The queen was later taken off and stabbed to death.

Twelve years later, the Indians, alarmed as the English settlements kept growing in numbers,

apparently decided to try to wipe them out for good. They went on a rampage and massacred 347

men, women, and children. From then on it was total war.

Not able to enslave the Indians, and not able to live with them, the English decided to

exterminate them. Edmund Morgan writes, in his history of early Virginia, American Slavery,

American Freedom:

Since the Indians were better woodsmen than the English and virtually impossible

to track down, the method was to feign peaceful intentions, let them settle down and

plant their com wherever they chose, and then, just before harvest, fall upon them,

killing as many as possible and burning the corn... . Within two or three years of the

massacre the English had avenged the deaths of that day many times over.

In that first year of the white man in Virginia, 1607, Powhatan had addressed a plea to John

Smith that turned out prophetic. How authentic it is may be in doubt, but it is so much like so

many Indian statements that it may be taken as, if not the rough letter of that first plea, the exact

spirit of it:

I have seen two generations of my people die.... I know the difference

between peace and war better than any man in my country. I am now grown

old, and must die soon; my authority must descend to my brothers,

Opitehapan, Opechancanough and Catatough-then to my two sisters, and

then to my two daughters-I wish them to know as much as I do, and that

your love to them may be like mine to you. Why will you take by force what

you may have quietly by love? Why will you destroy us who supply you with

food? What can you get by war? We can hide our provisions and run into the

woods; then you will starve for wronging your friends. Why are you jealous

of us? We are unarmed, and willing to give you what you ask, if you come in

a friendly manner, and not so simple as not to know that it is much better to

eat good meat, sleep comfortably, live quietly with my wives and children,

laugh and be merry with the English, and trade for their copper and

hatchets, than to run away from them, and to lie cold in the woods, feed on

acorns, roots and such trash, and be so hunted that I can neither eat nor

sleep. In these wars, my men must sit up watching, and if a twig break, they

all cry out "Here comes Captain Smith!" So I must end my miserable life.

Take away your guns and swords, the cause of all our jealousy, or you may

all die in the same manner.

When the Pilgrims came to New England they too were coming not to vacant land but to

territory inhabited by tribes of Indians. The governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, John

Winthrop, created the excuse to take Indian land by declaring the area legally a "vacuum." The

Indians, he said, had not "subdued" the land, and therefore had only a "natural" right to it, but not

a "civil right." A "natural right" did not have legal standing.

The Puritans also appealed to the Bible, Psalms 2:8: "Ask of me, and I shall give thee, the

heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession." And to

justify their use of force to take the land, they cited Romans 13:2: "Whosoever therefore resisteth

the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves

damnation."

The Puritans lived in uneasy truce with the Pequot Indians, who occupied what is now

southern Connecticut and Rhode Island. But they wanted them out of the way; they wanted their

land. And they seemed to want also to establish their rule firmly over Connecticut settlers in that

area. The murder of a white trader, Indian-kidnaper, and troublemaker became an excuse to

make war on the Pequots in 1636.

A punitive expedition left Boston to attack the Narraganset Indians on Block Island, who

were lumped with the Pequots. As Governor Winthrop wrote:

They had commission to put to death the men of Block Island, but to spare the

women and children, and to bring them away, and to take possession of the island;

and from thence to go to the Pequods to demand the murderers of Captain Stone

and other English, and one thousand fathom of wampum for damages, etc. and

some of their children as hostages, which if they should refuse, they were to obtain it

by force.

The English landed and killed some Indians, but the rest hid in the thick forests of the island and

the English went from one deserted village to the next, destroying crops. Then they sailed back

to the mainland and raided Pequot villages along the coast, destroying crops again. One of the

officers of that expedition, in his account, gives some insight into the Pequots they encountered:

"The Indians spying of us came running in multitudes along the water side, crying, What cheer,

Englishmen, what cheer, what do you come for? They not thinking we intended war, went on

cheerfully... -"

So, the war with the Pequots began. Massacres took place on both sides. The English

developed a tactic of warfare used earlier by Cortes and later, in the twentieth century, even more

systematically: deliberate attacks on noncombatants for the purpose of terrorizing the enemy.

This is ethno historian Francis Jennings's interpretation of Captain John Mason's attack on a

Pequot village on the Mystic River near Long Island Sound: "Mason proposed to avoid attacking

Pequot warriors, which would have overtaxed his unseasoned, unreliable troops. Battle, as such,

was not his purpose. Battle is only one of the ways to destroy an enemy's will to fight. Massacre

can accomplish the same end with less risk, and Mason had determined that massacre would be

his objective."

So the English set fire to the wigwams of the village. By their own account: "The Captain also

said, We must Burn Them; and immediately stepping into the Wigwam ... brought out a Fire

Brand, and putting it into the Matts with which they were covered, set the Wigwams on Fire."

William Bradford, in his History of the Plymouth Plantation written at the time, describes John

Mason's raid on the Pequot village:

Those that scaped the fire were slaine with the sword; some hewed to peeces, others

rune throw with their rapiers, so as they were quickly dispatchte, and very few

escaped. It was conceived they thus destroyed about 400 at this time. It was a fearful

sight to see them thus frying in the fyer, and the streams of blood quenching the

same, and horrible was the stincke and sente there of, but the victory seemed a

sweete sacrifice, and they gave the prayers thereof to God, who had wrought so

wonderfully for them, thus to inclose their enemise in their hands, and give them so

speedy a victory over so proud and insulting an enimie.

As Dr. Cotton Mather, Puritan theologian, put it: "It was supposed that no less than 600

Pequot souls were brought down to hell that day."

The war continued. Indian tribes were used against one another, and never seemed able to join

together in fighting the English. Jennings sums up:

The terror was very real among the Indians, but in time they came to meditate upon

its foundations. They drew three lessons from the Pequot War: (1) that the

Englishmen's most solemn pledge would be broken whenever obligation conflicted

with advantage; (2) that the English way of war had no limit of scruple or mercy;

and (3) that weapons of Indian making were almost useless against weapons of

European manufacture. These lessons the Indians took to heart.

A footnote in Virgil Vogel's book This Land Was Ours (1972) says: "The official figure on the

number of Pequots now in Connecticut is twenty-one persons."

Forty years after the Pequot War, Puritans and Indians fought again. This time it was the

Wampanoags, occupying the south shore of Massachusetts Bay, who were in the way and also

beginning to trade some of their land to people outside the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Their

chief, Massasoit, was dead. His son Wamsutta had been killed by Englishmen, and Wamsuttas

brother Metacom (later to be called King Philip by the English) became chief. The English found

their excuse, a murder which they attributed to Metacom, and they began a war of conquest

against the Wampanoags, a war to take their land. They were clearly the aggressors, but claimed

they attacked for preventive purposes. As Roger Williams, more friendly to the Indians than

most, put it: "All men of conscience or prudence ply to windward, to maintain their wars to be

defensive."

Jennings says the elite of the Puritans wanted the war; the ordinary white Englishman did not

want it and often refused to fight. The Indians certainly did not want war, but they matched

atrocity with atrocity. When it was over, in 1676, the English had won, but their resources were

drained; they had lost six hundred men. Three thousand Indians were dead, including Metacom

himself. Yet the Indian raids did not stop.

For a while, the English tried softer tactics. But ultimately, it was back to annihilation. The

Indian population of 10 million that lived north of Mexico when Columbus came would

ultimately be reduced to less than a million. Huge numbers of Indians would die from diseases

introduced by the whites. A Dutch traveler in New Netherland wrote in 1656 that "the Indians ...

affirm, that before the arrival of the Christians, and before the smallpox broke out amongst them,

they were ten times as numerous as they now are, and that their population had been melted

down by this disease, whereof nine-tenths of them have died." When the English first settled

Martha's Vineyard in 1642, the Wampanoags there numbered perhaps three thousand. There

were no wars on that island, but by 1764, only 313 Indians were left there. Similarly, Block

Island Indians numbered perhaps 1,200 to 1,500 in 1662, and by 1774 were reduced to fifty-one.

Behind the English invasion of North America, behind their massacre of Indians, their

deception, their brutality, was that special powerful drive born in civilizations based on private

property. It was a morally ambiguous drive; the need for space, for land, was a real human need.

But in conditions of scarcity, in a barbarous epoch of history ruled by competition, this human

need was transformed into the murder of whole peoples. Roger Williams said it was

a depraved appetite after the great vanities, dreams and shadows of this vanishing

life, great portions of land, land in this wilderness, as if men were in as great

necessity and danger for want of great portions of land, as poor, hungry, thirsty

seamen have, after a sick and stormy, a long and starving passage. This is one of the

gods of New England, which the living and most high Eternal will destroy and

famish.

Was all this bloodshed and deceit-from Columbus to Cortes, Pizarro, the Puritans-a necessity for

the human race to progress from savagery to civilization? Was Morison right in burying the story

of genocide inside a more important story of human progress? Perhaps a persuasive argument

can be made-as it was made by Stalin when he killed peasants for industrial progress in the

Soviet Union, as it was made by Churchill explaining the bombings of Dresden and Hamburg,

and Truman explaining Hiroshima. But how can the judgment be made if the benefits and losses

cannot be balanced because the losses are either unmentioned or mentioned quickly?

That quick disposal might be acceptable ("Unfortunate, yes, but it had to be done") to the

middle and upper classes of the conquering and "advanced" countries. But is it acceptable to the

poor of Asia, Africa, Latin America, or to the prisoners in Soviet labor camps, or the blacks in

urban ghettos, or the Indians on reservations-to the victims of that progress which benefits a

privileged minority in the world? Was it acceptable (or just inescapable?) to the miners and

railroaders of America, the factory hands, the men and women who died by the hundreds of

thousands from accidents or sickness, where they worked or where they lived-casualties of

progress? And even the privileged minority-must it not reconsider, with that practicality which

even privilege cannot abolish, the value of its privileges, when they become threatened by the

anger of the sacrificed, whether in organized rebellion, unorganized riot, or simply those brutal

individual acts of desperation labeled crimes by law and the state?

If there are necessary sacrifices to be made for human progress, is it not essential to hold to

the principle that those to be sacrificed must make the decision themselves? We can all decide to

give up something of ours, but do we have the right to throw into the pyre the children of others,

or even our own children, for a progress which is not nearly as clear or present as sickness or

health, life or death?

What did people in Spain get out of all that death and brutality visited on the Indians of the

Americas? For a brief period in history, there was the glory of a Spanish Empire in the Western

Hemisphere. As Hans Koning sums it up in his book Columbus: His Enterprise:

For all the gold and silver stolen and shipped to Spain did not make the Spanish

people richer. It gave their kings an edge in the balance of power for a time, a

chance to hire more mercenary soldiers for their wars. They ended up losing those

wars anyway, and all that was left was a deadly inflation, a starving population, the

rich richer, the poor poorer, and a ruined peasant class.

Beyond all that, how certain are we that what was destroyed was inferior? Who were these

people who came out on the beach and swam to bring presents to Columbus and his crew, who

watched Cortes and Pizarro ride through their countryside, who peered out of the forests at the

first white settlers of Virginia and Massachusetts?

Columbus called them Indians, because he miscalculated the size of the earth. In this book we

too call them Indians, with some reluctance, because it happens too often that people are saddled

with names given them by their conquerors.

And yet, there is some reason to call them Indians, because they did come, perhaps 25,000

years ago, from Asia, across the land bridge of the Bering Straits (later to disappear under water)

to Alaska. Then they moved southward, seeking warmth and land, in a trek lasting thousands of

years that took them into North America, then Central and South America. In Nicaragua, Brazil,

and Ecuador their petrified footprints can still be seen, along with the print of bison, who

disappeared about five thousand years ago, so they must have reached South America at least

that far back

Widely dispersed over the great land mass of the Americas, they numbered approximately 75

million people by the time Columbus came, perhaps 25 million in North America. Responding to

the different environments of soil and climate, they developed hundreds of different tribal

cultures, perhaps two thousand different languages. They perfected the art of agriculture, and

figured out how to grow maize (corn), which cannot grow by itself and must be planted,

cultivated, fertilized, harvested, husked, shelled. They ingeniously developed a variety of other

vegetables and fruits, as well as peanuts and chocolate and tobacco and rubber.

On their own, the Indians were engaged in the great agricultural revolution that other peoples

in Asia, Europe, Africa were going through about the same time.

While many of the tribes remained nomadic hunters and food gatherers in wandering,

egalitarian communes, others began to live in more settled communities where there was more

food, larger populations, more divisions of labor among men and women, more surplus to feed

chiefs and priests, more leisure time for artistic and social work, for building houses. About a

thousand years before Christ, while comparable constructions were going on in Egypt and

Mesopotamia, the Zuni and Hopi Indians of what is now New Mexico had begun to build

villages consisting of large terraced buildings, nestled in among cliffs and mountains for

protection from enemies, with hundreds of rooms in each village. Before the arrival of the

European explorers, they were using irrigation canals, dams, were doing ceramics, weaving

baskets, making cloth out of cotton.

By the time of Christ and Julius Caesar, there had developed in the Ohio River Valley a

culture of so-called Moundbuilders, Indians who constructed thousands of enormous sculptures

out of earth, sometimes in the shapes of huge humans, birds, or serpents, sometimes as burial

sites, sometimes as fortifications. One of them was 3 1/2 miles long, enclosing 100 acres. These

Moundbuilders seem to have been part of a complex trading system of ornaments and weapons

from as far off as the Great Lakes, the Far West, and the Gulf of Mexico.

About A.D. 500, as this Moundbuilder culture of the Ohio Valley was beginning to decline,

another culture was developing westward, in the valley of the Mississippi, centered on what is

now St. Louis. It had an advanced agriculture, included thousands of villages, and also built huge

earthen mounds as burial and ceremonial places near a vast Indian metropolis that may have had

thirty thousand people. The largest mound was 100 feet high, with a rectangular base larger than

that of the Great Pyramid of Egypt. In the city, known as Cahokia, were toolmakers, hide

dressers, potters, jewelry makers, weavers, salt makers, copper engravers, and magnificent

ceramists. One funeral blanket was made of twelve thousand shell beads.

From the Adirondacks to the Great Lakes, in what is now Pennsylvania and upper New York,

lived the most powerful of the northeastern tribes, the League of the Iroquois, which included the

Mohawks (People of the Flint), Oneidas (People of the Stone), Onondagas (People of the

Mountain), Cayugas (People at the Landing), and Senecas (Great Hill People), thousands of

people bound together by a common Iroquois language.

In the vision of the Mohawk chief Iliawatha, the legendary Dekaniwidah spoke to the

Iroquois: "We bind ourselves together by taking hold of each other's hands so firmly and forming

a circle so strong that if a tree should fall upon it, it could not shake nor break it, so that our

people and grandchildren shall remain in the circle in security, peace and happiness."

In the villages of the Iroquois, land was owned in common and worked in common. Hunting

was done together, and the catch was divided among the members of the village. Houses were

considered common property and were shared by several families. The concept of private

ownership of land and homes was foreign to the Iroquois. A French Jesuit priest who

encountered them in the 1650s wrote: "No poorhouses are needed among them, because they are

neither mendicants nor paupers.. . . Their kindness, humanity and courtesy not only makes them

liberal with what they have, but causes them to possess hardly anything except in common."

Women were important and respected in Iroquois society. Families were matrilineal. That is,

the family line went down through the female members, whose husbands joined the family,

while sons who married then joined their wives' families. Each extended family lived in a "long

house." When a woman wanted a divorce, she set her husband's things outside the door.

Families were grouped in clans, and a dozen or more clans might make up a village. The

senior women in the village named the men who represented the clans at village and tribal

councils. They also named the forty-nine chiefs who were the ruling council for the Five Nation

confederacy of the Iroquois. The women attended clan meetings, stood behind the circle of men

who spoke and voted, and removed the men from office if they strayed too far from the wishes of

the women.

The women tended the crops and took general charge of village affairs while the men were

always hunting or fishing. And since they supplied the moccasins and food for warring

expeditions, they had some control over military matters. As Gary B. Nash notes in his

fascinating study of early America, Red, White, and Black: "Thus power was shared between the

sexes and the European idea of male dominancy and female subordination in all things was

conspicuously absent in Iroquois society."

Children in Iroquois society, while taught the cultural heritage of their people and solidarity

with the tribe, were also taught to be independent, not to submit to overbearing authority. They

were taught equality in status and the sharing of possessions. The Iroquois did not use harsh

punishment on children; they did not insist on early weaning or early toilet training, but

gradually allowed the child to learn self-care.

All of this was in sharp contrast to European values as brought over by the first colonists, a

society of rich and poor, controlled by priests, by governors, by male heads of families. For

example, the pastor of the Pilgrim colony, John Robinson, thus advised his parishioners how to

deal with their children: "And surely there is in all children ... a stubbornness, and stoutness of

mind arising from natural pride, which must, in the first place, be broken and beaten down; that

so the foundation of their education being laid in humility and tractableness, other virtues may,

in their time, be built thereon."

Gary Nash describes Iroquois culture:

No laws and ordinances, sheriffs and constables, judges and juries, or courts or

jails-the apparatus of authority in European societies-were to be found in the

northeast woodlands prior to European arrival. Yet boundaries of acceptable

behavior were firmly set. Though priding themselves on the autonomous individual,

the Iroquois maintained a strict sense of right and wrong.... He who stole another's

food or acted invalourously in war was "shamed" by his people and ostracized from

their company until he had atoned for his actions and demonstrated to their

satisfaction that he had morally purified himself.

Not only the Iroquois but other Indian tribes behaved the same way. In 1635, Maryland Indians

responded to the governor's demand that if any of them killed an Englishman, the guilty one

should be delivered up for punishment according to English law. The Indians said:

It is the manner amongst us Indians, that if any such accident happen, wee doe

redeeme the life of a man that is so slaine, with a 100 armes length of Beades and

since that you are heere strangers, and come into our Countrey, you should rather

conform yourselves to the Customes of our Countrey, than impose yours upon us....

So, Columbus and his successors were not coming into an empty wilderness, but into a world

which in some places was as densely populated as Europe itself, where the culture was complex,

where human relations were more egalitarian than in Europe, and where the relations among

men, women, children, and nature were more beautifully worked out than perhaps any place in

the world.

They were people without a written language, but with their own laws, their poetry, their

history kept in memory and passed on, in an oral vocabulary more complex than Europe's,

accompanied by song, dance, and ceremonial drama. They paid careful attention to the

development of personality, intensity of will, independence and flexibility, passion and potency,

to their partnership with one another and with nature.

John Collier, an American scholar who lived among Indians in the 1920s and 1930s in the

American Southwest, said of their spirit: "Could we make it our own, there would be an eternally

inexhaustible earth and a forever lasting peace."

Perhaps there is some romantic mythology in that. But the evidence from European travelers

in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, put together recently by an American

specialist on Indian life, William Brandon, is overwhelmingly supportive of much of that

"myth." Even allowing for the imperfection of myths, it is enough to make us question, for that

time and ours, the excuse of progress in the annihilation of races, and the telling of history from

the standpoint of the conquerors and leaders of Western civilization.