of the students' trowels on the stony soil, a good reminder of why fishing was a much more lucrative endeavor than farming in this area.
"Anyway, the fort predates Jamestown by a couple of years and Plymouth in Massachusetts by fifteen. If it had lasted more than a year, more people might know about it from the history books."
Sheriff Stannard whistled, low and long. "So how do you know where to look?"
"That's a matter of a bit of luck, in this case. There's a lot of places along this river that it could have been, but the reason that I'm looking here is because artifacts of the right date were found here, and unless a collector dropped them or they were brought over as ship's ballast, it's real likely that this is where the settlement was."
He ran his hand through his hair in thought, leaving some standing on end. "So what did it look like? You really don't know what you're going to find?"
"In archaeology you never know what you'll find. Let's put it this way: I've got data from forts built by the English about the same time as this one, in Virginia, Ireland, and the Caribbean. You read what other people have excavated on those sites, and maybe we'll find the same thing here. And there was lots written at the time about how to set up a fort, picking out the right kind of land, looking for a defensible area, fresh water, and that sort of thing. So a lot of this work is based on educated guesses, but very well-informed educated guesses."
He nodded slowly, observing the working crew. "And you dig down and find . . . what?"
"So far, we've got mostly sherds of pottery, a few animal bones, parts of clay smoking pipes, that sort of thing, but these are all late eighteenth-century artifacts. There wasn't a whole lot going on down this end of the property before that, except for some farming."
"Interesting," he commented.
I nodded. "And what we do is dig down through the centuries, the most recent stuff, then older, and older as you go down. And we haven't hit the seventeenth-century strata yet, but when we do, I'm betting we'll find things, well, things that belonged to a fort, an outpost. You know, lead shot, trade items for the Native Americans, parts of weapons, in addition to the usual glass, pottery, and personal effects. Neat stuff."
I thought about how archaeology is like visiting another country, where you may be well versed in the mores of the place, but where surprises still lurked around every corner. Historical culture shock with the lure of discovery.
"Sounds good," the sheriff agreed, and we started to walk back up to where his Cherokee was parked. "My kids would love this. Could I bring them by, sometime? We wouldn't get in the way or anything. I like to show my girls what all sorts of people do for work, you know?"
"Sure, any time." We shook hands again, and as he left, I was surprised to find just how normal I felt again. Clever of the sheriff, I realized, to get me talking about my work. Settled me right down. Trying to capitalize on that feeling and trying to get some work done this morning, I went back down to check on the students.
I sensed a faint salt smell mingling with warm grass as I stopped by Alan's unit first. As much as I knew he was trying hard, he just wasn't cutting it. Unlike Meg's unit, his balks or walls were sloping in, and he had dug so far down in one corner that he might have changed soil levels and not known it, for all I could see. On top of that he was painfully thin; I'd worried about this watching him eat, or rather not eat: He never did anything more than push the food around his plate. I suspected it was trouble with his family; more than heroin-thin chic, he was starved for something that no one could give him. Aside from his last name, he didn't seem to share any of his father's characteristics. Alan was thin where his father, Rick, was closer to egg-shaped; had light brown hair that he let grow past his ears in a sort of dramatic, romantic MTV style that didn't work,
"Anyway, the fort predates Jamestown by a couple of years and Plymouth in Massachusetts by fifteen. If it had lasted more than a year, more people might know about it from the history books."
Sheriff Stannard whistled, low and long. "So how do you know where to look?"
"That's a matter of a bit of luck, in this case. There's a lot of places along this river that it could have been, but the reason that I'm looking here is because artifacts of the right date were found here, and unless a collector dropped them or they were brought over as ship's ballast, it's real likely that this is where the settlement was."
He ran his hand through his hair in thought, leaving some standing on end. "So what did it look like? You really don't know what you're going to find?"
"In archaeology you never know what you'll find. Let's put it this way: I've got data from forts built by the English about the same time as this one, in Virginia, Ireland, and the Caribbean. You read what other people have excavated on those sites, and maybe we'll find the same thing here. And there was lots written at the time about how to set up a fort, picking out the right kind of land, looking for a defensible area, fresh water, and that sort of thing. So a lot of this work is based on educated guesses, but very well-informed educated guesses."
He nodded slowly, observing the working crew. "And you dig down and find . . . what?"
"So far, we've got mostly sherds of pottery, a few animal bones, parts of clay smoking pipes, that sort of thing, but these are all late eighteenth-century artifacts. There wasn't a whole lot going on down this end of the property before that, except for some farming."
"Interesting," he commented.
I nodded. "And what we do is dig down through the centuries, the most recent stuff, then older, and older as you go down. And we haven't hit the seventeenth-century strata yet, but when we do, I'm betting we'll find things, well, things that belonged to a fort, an outpost. You know, lead shot, trade items for the Native Americans, parts of weapons, in addition to the usual glass, pottery, and personal effects. Neat stuff."
I thought about how archaeology is like visiting another country, where you may be well versed in the mores of the place, but where surprises still lurked around every corner. Historical culture shock with the lure of discovery.
"Sounds good," the sheriff agreed, and we started to walk back up to where his Cherokee was parked. "My kids would love this. Could I bring them by, sometime? We wouldn't get in the way or anything. I like to show my girls what all sorts of people do for work, you know?"
"Sure, any time." We shook hands again, and as he left, I was surprised to find just how normal I felt again. Clever of the sheriff, I realized, to get me talking about my work. Settled me right down. Trying to capitalize on that feeling and trying to get some work done this morning, I went back down to check on the students.
I sensed a faint salt smell mingling with warm grass as I stopped by Alan's unit first. As much as I knew he was trying hard, he just wasn't cutting it. Unlike Meg's unit, his balks or walls were sloping in, and he had dug so far down in one corner that he might have changed soil levels and not known it, for all I could see. On top of that he was painfully thin; I'd worried about this watching him eat, or rather not eat: He never did anything more than push the food around his plate. I suspected it was trouble with his family; more than heroin-thin chic, he was starved for something that no one could give him. Aside from his last name, he didn't seem to share any of his father's characteristics. Alan was thin where his father, Rick, was closer to egg-shaped; had light brown hair that he let grow past his ears in a sort of dramatic, romantic MTV style that didn't work,
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