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"Who in their right minds would choose to live in this godforsaken place?" the Pilgrims wondered, when, as if on cue, the Wampanoag walked up.
The Wampanoag were an indigenous people who had already seen English visitors come and go. A man stood among the Wampanoag from an associated tribe. His name was Samoset and since he spoke a little English, Massasoit, a leader in the group, shoved him front and center to do the meet and greet.
"Welcome, English. I am Samoset! Do you have beer?"
As it happened, the Pilgrims had plenty of beer because beer stayed potable longer than water. In fact, upon their arrival, among the first structures the Pilgrims built was a pub because the Pilgrims prayed about it, and God spoke to them, telling them a pub was the best place to bond with the Wampanoag.
So, with relations off to a rousing start, the Wampanoag taught the Pilgrims to hunt, fish and plant. Meanwhile, the Wampanoag stayed dry and toasty in elaborate huts called wetus while the Pilgrims froze their patooties off building their houses - and the pub.
Then of course there was Squanto, the man who taught the Pilgrims to grow corn by planting a dead fish with every seed. Squanto was fluent in English, but not because he'd invested in a Rosetta Stone online subscription; rather it was because some pre-Pilgrim Englishmen kidnapped him, taught him English, then forced him into service as an interpreter.
Thanks to the efforts of previous English visitors and the Pilgrim's hard work, by harvest time, 1621, Caucasians were well on their way to stealing a new country, and someone suggested that the village celebrate with the feast we now regard as the first Thanksgiving.
Would you like to know what else happened? Then imagine with me if you will . . .
. . . a snowy, blustery day on a spit of land that will one day be Cape Cod. Everyone is hoping that the weather settles down in time for the feast. Pilgrim women's aprons ripple in the wind like flags, their dresses whipping about their legs like bat's wings. Feathers in headdresses flatten under the force of deafening gales and the occasional errant feather breaks loose to soar away like the winged creature to which it once belonged.
A voice louder than any shrieking wind pierces the day.
"Robert Dudley! Come here this instant!"
Robert Dudley, a.k.a. Deadly Dudley, winces at the sound of his wife's voice. The reason for Dudley's nickname is his keen eye with a musket. Whenever Dudley takes aim, precious and few are the ducks that live to quack about it.
"Aw for corn sake, Liz; what is it?"
"Go shoot us some ducks! You know the feast is today and we're nowhere near ready! We need at least three!"
"But I was just on my way to the pub to meet Squanto."
"Don't get me started on Squanto!" shouts Liz. "Him and his dead fish! Why I'll have you know that after you two did the planting, my sister, Mary and I were up to our hats in cats for weeks every time we dared step foot out of the house! And why? Squanto - that's why! Squanto and his rotten, stinking fish. Whoever heard of planting corn like that! Disgusting!"
Dudley wants to tell Liz what she and Mary can do with their hats, not to mention a few feral cats and a couple of ears of corn - maybe even the fish - but he doesn't dare. He grumbles to Liz that he'll go shoot her some ducks, picks up his musket and trudges out of the house. He slams the door just to show Liz who's boss.
Shocked by the force of the winds and holding hat to head, Dudley runs - straight to the pub. Squanto is already at the bar, sourly nursing a beer, sure that Dudley's late arrival is due to his "woman trouble." Dudley bellies up next to his friend. They chat and though Squanto can't stomach her, he asks how Liz is doing.
Thinking how loathsome his wife truly is, Dudley lies to Squanto. He pretends to confide in Squanto, telling him that while historically Liz hasn't been big on affection, he thinks she's coming around.
Squanto, who's been on the receiving end of Liz's affection, says, "Yeah? Well, good luck with that." He downs the rest of his beer and leaves.
Dudley sits in the afterglow of male bonding, thinking how nice it was of Squanto to wish him luck. Then it dawns on him that he still has at least three ducks to shoot. He scrambles off the bar stool, tosses a few clams on the counter and hurries out. Heading to his favorite duck blind, Dudley finds the wind still lashing. He pulls his hat down over his ears and prays it stays on; Liz would be furious if he lost his hat.
Suddenly, there comes a strange sound, a tenor-like warble Dudley can only describe as gobble. He looks to his left where the most horrific-looking beast is ambling by. It's toppled by the wind, rights itself, falls over again, then gets up again. Dudley can only describe the creature's looks as "godawful."
It has to be some kind of bird, though, because it has feathers, some of them blowing away in the storm. But it also might be some kind of diseased bird since dangling about it's throat is a red and ugly mass flapping in the wind.
Then again, on the plus side, the bird is bigger than any three ducks combined.
"Hmmm . . . What to do?" Dudley ponders. Then, motivated by the image of his wife's displeased face, Dudley takes aim. Just as he fires, a gust knocks Dudley to the ground and the musket fires.
The gust lifts the bird into the air and off in the direction of the village. It is spotted some hundred feet up by an opportunistic Pilgrim with musket at the ready. He pulls the trigger, more feathers fly, and the bird is unceremoniously dumped into the ceremony.
"Hurray!" shout the Wampanoag whose diet has included turkey for years. They wanted to suggest it for today's menu but feared the Pilgrims would be put off by its appearance.
Hours later, the storm passes and the revelers linger over coffee. When Dudley's empty, battered hat blows onto the table, it occurs to his wife that he is missing.
And so ends the story of the first Thanksgiving and of Robert Dudley, a.k.a. Deadly Dudley, a.k.a. Dead Duck Dudley.
