Reviews 46(4) - Society for Historical Archaeology

Historical 

Archaeology 

Volume 46, Number 42 2012 

Journal of 

The Society for Historical Archaeology 

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Contents 

Volume 46, No. 4, 2012 

MEMORIAL 

RODERICK SPRAGUE 1933–2012 1 

ARTICLES 

“Their Houses are Ancient and Ordinary”: Archaeology and Connecticut’s Eighteenth-Century Domestic Architecture 

Ross K. Harper 8 

Evaluating Spanish Colonial Alternative Economies in the Archaeological Record 

Amanda D. Roberts Thompson 48 

Pueblo Potsherds to Silver Spoons: A Case Study in Historical Archaeology from New Mexico 

Melissa Payne 70 

Hard Labor and Hostile Encounters: What Human Remains Reveal about Institutional 

Violence and Chinese Immigrants Living in Carlin, Nevada (1885–1923) 

Ryan P. Harrod, Jennifer L. Thompson, and Debra L. Martin 85 

Mapping the Complexities of Race on the Landscape of the Colonial Caribbean, 

United States Virgin Islands, 1770–1917 

Margaret C. Wood 112 

Marronage Perspective for Historical Archaeology in the United States 

Daniel O. Sayers 135 

A Conversation with Ronald L. Michael 

Daniel G. Roberts 162 

REVIEWS 

Edited by Richard Veit 

Reviews are posted on the Society for Historical Archaeology website at 

Carver: Making Archaeology Happen: Design versus Dogma 

Ian Burrow 185 

Emery and Wooldridge: St Pancras Burial Ground: Excavations for St Pancras International, 

the London Terminus of High Speed 1, 2002–3 

Adam R. Heinrich 187 

Ferguson: God’s Fields: Landscape, Religion, and Race in Moravian Wachovia 

Gabrielle Lanier 189 

Heath and Gary (editors): Jefferson’s Poplar Forest: Unearthing a Virginia Plantation 

Michael J. Gall 191 

James: Virginia City: Secrets of a Western Past 

Molly E. Swords 193

King and Sayer (editors): The Archaeology of Post-Medieval Religion 

Scott D. Stull 195 

Madsen and White: Chinese Export Porcelains 

Linda Rosenfeld Pomper 198 

McCartney: Jordan’s Point, Virginia: Archaeology in Perspective Prehistoric to Modern Times 

Tabitha Hilliard 200 

Monroe and Ogundiran (editors): Power and Landscape in Atlantic West Africa: Archaeological Perspectives 

Liza Gijanto 202 

Shackel: New Philadelphia: An Archaeology of Race in the Heartland 

Carol McDavid 205 

Urban and Schortman: Archaeological Theory in Practice 

Katherine Ambry Linhein Muller 207 

Van Wormer, Wade, Walter, and Arter: An Isolated Frontier Outpost: Historical and Archaeological 

Investigations of the Carrizo Creek Stage Station 

Leslie C. Stewart-Abernathy 209 

Voss and Casella (editors): The Archaeology of Colonialism: Intimate Encounters and Sexual Effects 

Suzanne M. Spencer-Wood 212

Memorial 

Roderick Sprague 1933–2012 

Recently the SHA lost one of its founders, and the greater anthropological community had to 

say farewell to a special person. You begin to realize how special the person was when the chief 

of a Native American tribal government appears at his memorial service to express what he had 

meant to the tribe’s people and the importance of his friendship. 

Roderick Sprague was born on 18 February 1933, in Albany, Oregon, and died on 20 August 

2012, in Moscow, Idaho, following several years of debilitating health. He was the youngest of 

three children of Roderick Sprague and Mary Willis Sprague (both deceased). He is survived by 

two older sisters: Anne Geaudreau of Oldtown, Idaho, and Arda Rutherford of Prescott, Arizona; his 

wife, Linda Ferguson Sprague, Moscow; and four children: Roderick IV and Katherine K. Sprague 

(her partner Tabitha) from a previous marriage, and Frederick L. Sprague (his wife Dawn and son 

Jack) and Alexander W. Sprague (his wife Rebecca and son Phineas) from his current marriage. 

Rick Sprague lived most of his life in Idaho, Washington, and Oregon, although part of his 

youth had been fondly spent in North Dakota, where his father was a federal agricultural agent. 

He received his bachelor’s and master’s degrees in anthropology from Washington State University, 

served two years in the U. S. Army (honorably discharged with the rank of E-5), and received 

his Ph.D. in anthropology from the University of Arizona, Tucson. He worked at Washington State 

University as a research archaeologist for three years before going to the University of Idaho in 

1967 as an assistant professor of anthropology. Within a year and a half of his arrival he became 

chairman of the Department of Sociology/Anthropology and director of the Laboratory of Anthropology. 

After 12½ years the two positions became too much for one person and the two units were 

separated. He chose to remain the director of the Laboratory of Anthropology, but continued to 

teach anthropology part-time, including summer archaeological field schools. He spent a sabbatical 

Historical Archaeology, 2012, 46(4):1–7. 

Permission to reprint required.

2 HISTORICAL ARCHAEOLOGY 46(4) 

year in 1986–1987 teaching at Inner Mongolia University as the first participant in the University 

of Idaho’s exchange with that institution. 

Rick did field work in Idaho, Washington, Oregon, Alaska, Arizona, Montana, and Prince Edward 

Island. He received both the University of Idaho Library Faculty Award for Outstanding Service 

and the Sigma Xi Published Research Paper Faculty Award in 1986, and the Phi Kappa Phi 

Distinguished Faculty Award for Research in 1996. In 2000 he was honored with the J. C. Harrington 

Medal, the highest international award in historical archaeology, and in 2004 he received 

the Carol Ruppé Service Award, both given by the Society for Historical Archaeology. He currently 

remains the only member to receive both of these awards and the only member to serve 

two terms as president of the society. 

During his career Rick published over 130 scientific papers, articles, and book reviews, and also 

authored over 100 unpublished reports to agencies, specializing in historical archaeology, culturechange 

theory, and artifact analysis, including such areas as glass trade beads and buttons. He 

conducted research and burial excavations at the request of 10 different American Indian tribal 

governments in the Plateau, Great Basin, and Northwest Coast, with repatriation a standard procedure 

many years prior to the enactment of the federal Native American Grave Protection and 

Repatriation Act. Legal work for five different Northwest tribes and two tribes outside of the area 

involved testimony in Fifth District Federal Court on five occasions, including one case before 

the U.S. Supreme Court, as well as testimony before various state and federal legislative bodies. 

Editorial duties involved 40 years as senior coeditor for the Journal of Northwest Anthropology 

(JONA, formerly Northwest Anthropological Research Notes), 96 of the 98 issues of the University 

of Idaho Anthropological Reports, 20 years as review editor for Historical Archaeology, as well as 

serving on numerous editorial advisory boards. Rick was extremely proud of his volunteer service 

to the Society for Historical Archaeology. Following is a list of offices, committee positions, and 

contributions he made to the society. 

Offices and Committees 

Regional Coordinator for Research, Northwest, 1968–1977 

General Program Chairman, 2nd annual meeting, 1969, Tucson 

Director, 1970–1971 

Secretary-Treasurer, 1971–1974 (a three-year term plus a “Truman” year to put 

the Secretary-Treasurer and Editor on different three-year cycles) 

President, 1976 (plus the usual President-Elect and Past-President positions) 

Historical Archaeology Reviews Editor, 1977–1997 

Editorial Board Member, 1977–2008 

Parliamentarian, 1984–2008 

Archivist, 1987–1998 

President, 1990 (plus the usual President-Elect and Past-President positions) 

Associate Copy Editor, 2002–2008 

Committees—far too many to list but history committee at the time of his death 

Additionally, he spent five “long” years preparing the Cotter bibliography for posting on the 

SHA website. 

After retirement Rick continued to live in Moscow, Idaho, with his wife Linda. He was designated 

professor emeritus of anthropology and director emeritus of the Laboratory of Anthropology 

at the University of Idaho. He continued to conduct research and serve as an expert witness for 

Northwest tribes. 

Besides so generously giving of his time and integrity to the SHA and JONA, Rick was passionate 

about supporting and keeping track of the careers of his many graduate students. Only a 

couple of months prior to his death, as his health was in serious decline, he took steps to ensure 

that one of his early graduate students, Karlis Karklins, was nominated for the SHA Carol Ruppé

Memorial—Roderick Sprague 1933–2013 

3 

Distinguished Service Award. He also faithfully attended paper presentations of his former students 

at professional meetings. 

Rick was a friendly and fun-loving person. He had time to talk to all who wanted to talk to 

him. I remember him many times finishing a conversation with one person and walking over to a 

friend to ask whether they knew the person with whom he had been talking. He never hesitated 

to talk to a stranger and help that person in any way he could. He enjoyed social conversation, 

and little delighted him more than being able to sit down with former students and/or friends, 

have a beer or two, and discuss just about any subject. 

Rick felt strongly that his Historical Archaeology memorial not include material that had previously 

been published concerning his life and work. Having been an editor and copy editor for 

many years he simply believed that it was unnecessary to repeat what had already been said. 

Additional information may be found in Sprague (1994), Karklins (2000), Michael (2004), Allen 

and Michael (2008), and Stapp (2009). 

References 

Allen, Rebecca, and Ronald L. Michael 

2008 Forty Years of Historical Archaeology, 1967–2007. Historical Archaeology 42(2):8–16. 

Karklins, Karlis 

2000 J. C. Harrington Award 2000: Roderick Sprague. Historical Archaeology 34(4):1–6. 

Michael, Ronn 

2004 Carol V. Ruppé Distinguished Service Award: Roderick Sprague. Historical Archaeology 38(4):8–9. 

Sprague, Roderick 

1994 Bead Typology: The Development of a Concept. In Pioneers in Historical Archaeology: Breaking New Ground, Stanley 

South, editor, pp. 85–100. Plenum Press, New York, NY. 

Stapp, Darby C. 

2009 An Interview with Roderick Sprague. Historical Archaeology 43(2):135–149. 

*Major, important, or influential works. 

Bibliography 

Bies, Michael, and Roderick Sprague 

1979 San Juan Island Artifact Summary 1977 and 1978. In Miscellaneous San Juan Island Reports, 1977–1978, pp. 75–100. 

University of Idaho Anthropological Manuscript Series, No. 54. Moscow. 

Boreson, Keo, Craig E. Holstine, Grover S. Krantz, and Roderick Sprague 

1985 The Burials at 45CH296, Chelan County, Washington. Eastern Washington University Reports in Archaeology and History, 

No. 100-40. Cheney. 

Ferguson, Linda, Mary Giddings, Duane Marti, and Roderick Sprague 

1975 Three Late Wagons from 45 SJ 295, the Hudson’s Bay Company Bellevue Farm Site, San Juan Island, Washington. In 

Miscellaneous San Juan Island Reports 1971–1973, pp. 223–243. University of Idaho Anthropological Research Manuscript 

Series, No. 16. Moscow. 

Fielder, George, and Roderick Sprague 

1974 Test Excavations at the Coeur d’Alene Mission of the Sacred Heart, Cataldo, Idaho, 1973. University of Idaho Anthropological 

Research Manuscript Series, No. 13. Moscow. 

Gunselman, Cheryl, and Roderick Sprague 

2003 *A Buried Promise: The Jefferson Peace Medal. Journal of Northwest Anthropology 37(1):53–90. 

Gurcke, Karl, Michael Bies, Thomas M. J. Mulinski, Roderick Sprague, Caroline Carley, Julia Longenecker, 

and Priscilla Wegars 

1982 Nez Perce National Historical Park Archaeological Excavations, 1979–1980. University of Idaho Anthropological Research 

Manuscript Series, No. 70. Moscow.


Karklins, Karlis, and Roderick Sprague 

1972 Glass Trade Beads in North America: An Annotated Bibliography. Historical Archaeology 6:87–101. 

1980 *A Bibliography of Glass Trade Beads in North America. South Fork Press, Moscow, ID. 

1987 A Bibliography of Glass Trade Beads in North America, First Supplement. Promontory Press, Ottawa, ON. 

Lahren, S. L., and Roderick Sprague 

1994a Final Report for the Multi-phase Testing for California Bar Site, Lemhi County, Idaho. Report to Meridian Gold Company, 

Salmon, MT, from Lahren Associates, Dillon, MT. 

1994b Leesburg, Idaho Stabilization Project: Archaeological Excavation for Concrete Stabilization Pads. Report to Meridian Gold 

Company, Salmon, MT, from Lahren Associates, Dillon, MT. 

Lohse, E. S., and Roderick Sprague 

1998 *History of Research. In Handbook of the American Indians, Vol. 12, Plateau, Deward E. Walker, Jr., editor, pp. 8–28. 

Washington, DC. 

Pavesic, Max G., Mark G. Plew, and Roderick Sprague 

1979 A Bibliography of Idaho Archaeology, 1889–1976. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes, Memoir No. 5. Moscow. 

Robinson, William J., and Roderick Sprague 

1965 *Disposal of the Dead at Point of Pines, Arizona. American Antiquity 30(4):442–453. 

Rodeffer, Michael J., Stephanie H. Rodeffer, and Roderick Sprague 

1972 Nez Perce Grave Removal Project. University of Idaho Anthropological Research Manuscript Series, No. 5. Moscow. 

Sappington, Robert Lee, and Roderick Sprague 

1989 Archaeological Investigations at Lyon’s Ferry State Park, on the Lower Snake River, Franklin County, Washington. Report 

to U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Walla Walla District, Walla Walla, WA, from Laboratory of Anthropology, University of 

Idaho, Moscow. 

Sprague, Roderick 

1960a Archaeology of the Sun Lakes Area of Central Washington. Washington State University, Laboratory of Anthropology, 

Report of Investigations, No. 6. Pullman. 

1960b Burial Patterns of the Lower Snake River Region. In Archaeological Excavations in the Ice Harbor Reservoir, 1959, R. D. 

Daugherty, author, pp. 4–11. Washington State University, Laboratory of Anthropology, Report of Investigations, No. 3. 

Pullman. 

1961 Review of The Archaeologist’s Notebook. Kiva 27(2):31–32. 

1963 Glass Beads. In Highway Salvage Archeology, Lava Beds, National Monument: Final Report, B. K. Swartz, author, pp. 

90–91. Manuscript, National Park Service, Tucson, AZ. 

1964 Inventory of Prehistoric Southwestern Copper Bells: Additions and Corrections I. Kiva 30(4):18–24. 

1965 Descriptive Archaeology of the Palus Burial Site. Washington State University, Laboratory of Anthropology, Report of 

Investigations, No. 32. Pullman. 

1967a *A Preliminary Bibliography of Washington Archaeology. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 1(1). Reprinted 1968 

in Washington State University, Laboratory of Anthropology, Report of Investigations, No. 43. Pullman. 

1967b Post-1800 Historical Indian Sites [Dallas organizational meeting]. Historical Archaeology 1:70. 

1968a *The Meaning of Palouse and the Identification of the Palloat Pallah Indians. Idaho Yesterdays 12(2):22–27. 

1968b Papers Presented at the First Twenty Annual Meetings of the Northwest Anthropological Conference, 1948–1967. Northwest 

Anthropological Research Notes 2(1):123–134. 

1968c A Suggested Typology and Nomenclature for Burial Analysis. American Antiquity 33(4):479–485. 

1969 Excavations at the Roma Site, Prince Edward Island, 1968. University of Idaho Anthropological Research Manuscripts 


1970a *Editorial on Sasquatch. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 4(2):127–128. 

1971a Addendum on Beads. In A Bison Jump in the Upper Salmon River Valley of Eastern Idaho, B. Robert Butler, author, p. 13. 

Tebiwa 14(1):4–32. 

1971b Annotated Bibliography of Lake Roosevelt Archaeology. Washington Archaeologist 15(1):2–24. 

1971c Burial Pattern Relationships between the Columbia and Canadian Plateaus. In Aboriginal Man and Environments on the 

Plateau of Northwest America, Arnoud H. Stryd and Rachel A. Smith, editors, pp. 183–196. Students’ Press, Calgary, AL. 

1971d Review of Astor Fort Okanogan. American Anthropologist 73(4):934–935. 

1971e Review of Canadian Historic Sites: Occasional Papers in Archaeology and History. Historical Archaeology 5:128–129. 

1972a The first of 90 University of Idaho, Laboratory of Anthropology, Letter Reports, produced every year from 1972 to 1998. 

1972b Glass Trade Beads. In The Archaeology of Pass Creek Valley, Waterton Lakes National Park, Brian O. K. Reeves, author, 

pp. 252–253. National Historic Sites Service, Manuscript Report, No. 61. Ottawa, ON. 

1972c Mission San Antonio Glass Trade Beads. In Excavations at Tes-haya, Donald M. Howard, author. Monterey County 

Archaeological Society Quarterly 2(1). Carmel, CA.


5 

1973a *Chapter 9. The Pacific Northwest. In The Development of North American Archaeology, James Fitting, editor, pp. 250–285. 

Doubleday, New York, NY. 

1973b Location of the Pig Incident, San Juan Island, In Miscellaneous San Juan Reports, 1970–1972, pp. 17–38. University of 

Idaho Anthropological Research Manuscript Series, No. 7. Moscow. 

1974 *American Indians and American Archaeology [invited editorial]. American Antiquity 39(1):1–2. 

1975a *The Development of Historical Archaeology in the Pacific Northwest. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 9(1):6–19. 

1975b Recommendations for Historical Archaeology at Fort Egbert, Alaska. University of Idaho Anthropological Research 

Manuscript Series, No. 18. Moscow. 

1975c Review of Historical Archaeology in Northwestern North America. Historical Archaeology 9:90–91. 

1976 The Submerged Finds from the Prehistoric Component, English Camp, San Juan Island, Washington. In The Excavation of 

Water-Saturated Archaeological Sites (Wet Sites) on the Northwest Coast of North America, pp. 78–85. National Museum 

of Man, Archaeological Survey of Canada Mercury Series, No. 50. Ottawa, ON. 

1977 The Field Notes of Arthur G. Colley, San Juan Island, 1919–1926. In Miscellaneous San Juan Island Reports 1912–1926, 

1975, pp. 63–69. University of Idaho Anthropological Research Manuscript Series, No. 38. Moscow. 

1978a Nez Perce Grave Recovery, Lower Granite Dam Reservoir, 1973–78. University of Idaho Anthropological Research 

Manuscript Series, No. 47. Moscow. 

1978b Review of Kanaka Village/Vancouver Barracks, 1974. Pacific Northwest Quarterly 69(4):189–190. 

1979 The First Archaeological Excavation in Whitman County was Historic. Bunchgrass Historian 7(1):23–24. Colfax, WA. 

1980a Metal Cleaning for Whom: Archaeologist, Curator, or Descendants. Idaho Archaeologist 4(2):7–8. 

1980b The Relationship between the Carved Stone Heads of the Columbia River and the Sasquatch. In Manlike Monsters on Trial, 

M. Halpin and M. M. Ames, editors, pp. 229–234. University of British Columbia Press, Vancouver. 

1981 *A Functional Classification for Artifacts from 19th and 20th Century Historical Sites. North American Archaeologist 

2(3):251–261. 

1982a Bibliographies of Greater Northwest Archaeology. Quarterly Review of Archaeology 4(1):6–7. 

1982b The Preservation of Written and Printed Archaeological Records. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 16(2):206–211. 

1983a Rock Art Studies on the Columbia River. Quarterly Review of Archaeology 4(3):2. 

1983b *Tile Bead Manufacturing. In Proceedings of the 1982 Glass Trade Bead Conference, Charles F. Hayes III, editor, pp. 

167–172. Rochester Museum and Science Center, Research Records, No. 16, Rochester, NY. 

1984a *A Check List of Columbia Basin Papers. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 18(2):256–259. 

1984b The Father of Oregon Prehistory on Film. Quarterly Review of Archaeology 5(2):16. 

1984c Glass Trade Beads. In A Nineteenth Century Ute Burial from Northeastern Utah, Richard E. Fike and H. Blaine Phillips 

II, editors, pp. 69–70. Utah Bureau of Land Management, Cultural Resource Series, No. 16. Salt Lake City. 

1985a *Glass Trade Beads: A Progress Report. Historical Archaeology 19(2):87–105. Reprinted in 1991 and 2000 in Approaches 

to Material Culture Research for Historical Archaeology, Society for Historical Archaeology, Ann Arbor, MI. 

1985b Historic Artifact Analysis. In Phase II Testing of Four Sites on Cassimer Bar and Testing and Evaluation of Site 45 OK 74, 

Denise Carlevato, author. Report to Douglas County PUD, Wenatchee, WA, from Western Heritage, Inc., Olympia, WA. 

1985c Identification of Archeological Research Topics and Questions for the Downtown Seattle Transit Project [project participant]. 

Report to Parsons, Brinckerhoff, Quade, & Douglas, Seattle, WA, from Hart Crowser and Associates, Seattle. 

1986a *Ng Ka Py Vessel Terminology. Asian Comparative Collection Newsletter 4(2):insert. 

1986b A Possible Prosser T-Hole Bead from Japan. Bead Forum 8:10–11. 

1986c Review of Adobe Walls. Pacific Historian 30(3):81. 

1987a The Descriptive Archaeology of Nat Cave, 45-GR-100. Tebiwa 23:1–8. 

1987b *Participant contribution to Proceedings of the Conference on Reburial Issues. Society for American Archaeology and 

Society of Professional Archeologists, Washington, DC. 

1987c *Plateau Shamanism and Marcus Whitman. Idaho Yesterdays 31(1&2):55–56. 

1988a Bead Analysis, a Contribution to Archaeological Testing at Ice House Lake, Rick Minor, author, pp. 52–55. Heritage 

Research Associates Report, No. 76. Eugene, OR. 

1988b Bead Analysis, Appendix B. In Further Archaeological Testing at 45SA16, Skamania County, Washington, Rick Minor, 

author, pp. 45–49. Heritage Research Associates Report, No. 67. Eugene OR. 

1988c More on Tile Beads. Bead Forum 13:3–4. 

1989a The Fenstermaker Bead Collection. Bead Forum 14:6–8. 

1989b Glass Trade Beads. In Curation Manual for the Archaeological Collections from 45AS11, North Bonneville, Washington, 

Kathryn Toepel, editor, pp. 75–80. Heritage Research Associates Report, No. 81. Eugene, OR. 

1989c Review of A Study of Five Historic Cemeteries at Choke Canyon Reservoir, Texas. Historical Archaeology 22(2):131–132. 

1989d Review of The History of Beads from 30,000 B.C. to the Present. Beads 1:95–96. 

1989e Rock Art Studies on the Columbia River. In The Interpretation of Prehistory: Essays from the Pages of the Quarterly Review 

of Archaeology, pp. 146–148. Review of Archaeology 10(1):146–148. 

1989f The Structure of Anthropological Research Units. Thunderbird 9(4):2–3. Corvallis, OR. 

1990a *Archaeological Footnotes. In Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, Vol. 7, Gary E. Moulton, editor. University of 

Nebraska Press, Lincoln. 

1990b Glass Trade Beads. In An Overview of Investigations at 45SA11: Archaeology in the Columbia Gorge, Rick Minor et al., 

authors, pp. 156–158. Heritage Research Associates Report, No. 83. Eugene, OR.


1990c Historical Archaeology and the Chinese of Silver City. In They Came to Owyhee, Owyhee Outpost #21, Dale M. Grey, 

editor, pp. 47–55. Owyhee County Historical Society, Murphy, ID. 

1990d Obituary of Alfred W. Bowers. Anthropology Newsletter 31(8):5. 

1991a *A Bibliography of James A. Teit. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 25(1):103–115. 

1991b Ceramic Cones [I]. Asian Comparative Collection Newsletter 8(3):5–6. 

1991c Description of Glass Beads, 10-CW-4. In Archaeological Investigations at the Clearwater Fish Hatchery Site (10-CW-4), 

North Fork of the Clearwater River, North Central Idaho, Robert Lee Sappington, author, pp. 86–87. University of Idaho 

Anthropological Reports, No. 91. Moscow. 

1991d Foreword. In Mandan Social and Ceremonial Organization, 2nd edition, Alfred W. Bowers, author, pp. iii–v. University 

of Idaho Press, Moscow. 

1992 Review of Scientific Research in Early Chinese Glass. Beads 4:69–72. 

1993a A 1937 Government View of Indian Beadworking Ability. Bead Forum 22:11–13. 

1993b *American Indian Burial and Repatriation in the Southern Plateau with Special Reference to Northern Idaho. Idaho 

Archaeologist 16(2):3–13. 

1993c Chinese Cones: II. Asian Comparative Collection Newsletter 10(3):5. 

1994a *Bead Typology: The Development of a Concept. In Pioneers in Historical Archaeology: Breaking New Ground, Stanley 

South, editor, pp. 85–100. Plenum Press, New York, NY. 

1994b Glass Bead Inventory. Appendix C. In An Assessment of Archaeological Resources within the Proposed Sahhalie 

Condominiums Project Area, Seaside, Clatsop County, Oregon, Rick Minor, author, pp. 116–120. Heritage Research 

Associates Report, No. 167. Eugene, OR. 

1994c A Note from 1887 on Glass Beadmaking. Bead Forum 24:5–6. 

1995a Chinese Cones: III. Asian Comparative Collection Newsletter 12(2):6. 

1995b Classification of Historic Trade Beads. In Archaeology of the Cape Creek Shell Midden, Cape Perpetua Scenic Area, 

Central Oregon Coast, Rick Minor and Ruth L. Greenspan, authors, pp. 107–111. Coastal Prehistory Program, University 

of Oregon, Eugene. 

1995c Classification of Glass Beads. In Archaeological Investigations for the Port of Siuslaw Norpal Street Project, Florence, 

Oregon, Rick Minor, author, pp. 27–30, 65–82. Heritage Research Associates Report, No. 182. Eugene, OR. 

1996 *An Anthropological Summary of the Coeur d’Alene Tribe’s Occupation of the Coeur d’Alene Lake Area. Manuscript, 

Coeur d’Alene Tribe, Plummer, Idaho. Written testimony in Coeur d’Alene Tribe vs. State of Idaho, District Court, Coeur 

d’Alene, ID. 

1997a The Historic Period. In Results of Archaeological Investigations at Kam’-nak-ka, Kooskia National Fish Hatchery, Middle 

Fork of the Clearwater River, Northcentral Idaho, R. Lee Sappington, author. University of Idaho Anthropological Reports, 

No. 98. Moscow. 

1997b Review of The Sasquatch in Alberta. Cryptozoology 16. 

1998a *The Literature and Locations of the Phoenix Button. Historical Archaeology 32(2):56–77 

1998b *Palouse [Palus]. In Handbook of the American Indians, Vol. 12, Plateau, Deward E. Walker, Jr., editor, pp. 352–359. 


1999a *An Anthropological Summary of the Dependence of the Coeur d’Alene Tribe upon Coeur d’Alene Lake. Manuscript, Coeur 

d’Alene Tribe, Plummer, Idaho. Written Testimony in United States vs. ASARCO et al., District Court, Coeur d’Alene, ID. 

1999b *Ceramic Cones: IV and Final. Asian Comparative Collection Newsletter 16(2):insert. 

1999c A Review of Stability of Southern Plateau Burial Practices [The Ancient One/Kennewick Man]. Manuscript, Confederated 

Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, Cultural Resources Protection Program, Mission, OR. 

2000 Exposure Route Footnotes for Coeur d’Alene Subsistence Scenario. Report to Coeur d’Alene Tribal Council, Plummer, 

ID, from Terragraphics Environmental Engineering, Moscow, ID. 

2001a *An Extended Bibliography of Anthropology and Historical Archaeology for the Pre-1943 Hanford/White Bluffs Area. 

Pacific Northwest National Laboratory Report, No. 13948. Richland, WA. 

2001b *Testimony before NAGPRA Committee, 18 November, Cambridge, MA, on the Relationship of Spirit Cave Man to the 

Fallon Paiute-Shoshone Tribe in the Area of Burial Practices. Decision favorable [BLM thus far has refused to obey the 

decision]. 

2002 *China or Prosser Button Identification and Dating. Historical Archaeology 36(2):111–127. 

2004 *Incised Dentalium Shell Beads in the Plateau Culture Area. Beads 16:51–68 [published 2007]. 

2005a *Burial Terminology: A Guide for Researchers. AltaMira Press, Lanham, MD. 

2005b *Canoes and Other Water Craft of the Coeur d’Alene. Journal of Northwest Anthropology 39(1):41–62. 

2005c Northwest Graduate Studies Concerning Beads. Bead Forum 46:3–5. 

2006 A Glass Bead Rattlesnake Bracelet. Bead Forum 48:5–6. 

2007 A Glass Bead Rattlesnake Bracelet [Reprint in color of original in Bead Forum 48:6]. Bead Forum 50:insert. 

2008 *Coeur d’Alene Burials. Journal of Northwest Anthropology 42(1):71–84. 

Sprague, Roderick (editor) 

1970b George L. Howe and the Antiquarian. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 4(2):166–222. 

1971f Field Notes and Correspondence of the 1901 Columbia Museum Expedition by Merton L. Miller to the Columbia Plateau. 

Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 5(2):201–232. 

1983c *San Juan Archaeology, 2 vols. University of Idaho, Laboratory of Anthropology, Moscow, ID.


7 

Sprague, Roderick, and Walter H. Birkby 

1970 Miscellaneous Columbia Plateau Burials. Tebiwa 13(1):1–32. 

1973 Burials Recovered from the Narrows Site (45OK11), Columbia River Washington. University of Idaho Anthropological 

Research Manuscript Series, No. 11. Moscow. 

Sprague, Roderick, and John D. Combes 

1966 Excavations in the Little Goose and Lower Granite Dam Reservoirs, 1965. Washington State University, Laboratory of 

Anthropology, Report of Investigations, No. 37. Pullman. 

Sprague, Roderick, and An Jiayao 

1990 *Observations on Problems in Researching the Contemporary Glass Bead Industry of Northern China. Beads 2:5–13. 

Sprague, Roderick, and Grover S. Krantz (editors) 

1977 The Scientist Looks at the Sasquatch. University of Idaho Press, Moscow. 

1979 The Scientist Looks at the Sasquatch, II. University of Idaho Press, Moscow. 

Sprague, Roderick, and Daniel S. Meatte 

1992 The Idaho Archaeological Conference, 1973–1991. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 26(1):57–71. 

Sprague, Roderick, and Jay Miller 

1979 Burial Relocation Survey, Chief Joseph Reservoir, 1977–78. University of Idaho Anthropological Research Manuscript 


Sprague, Roderick, and Thomas M. J. Mulinski 

1980 Ancestral Burial Relocations, Chief Joseph Dam, 1979. University of Idaho Anthropological Manuscript Series, No. 63. 

Moscow. 

Sprague, Roderick, and Michael J. Rodeffer 

1989 The Bloody Point Archaeological Investigations. Overland Journal 7(3):26–28. 

Sprague, Roderick, and Aldo Signori 

1963 *Inventory of Prehistoric Southwestern Copper Bells. Kiva 28(4):1–20. 

Striker, Michael, and Roderick Sprague 

1993 *Excavations at the Warren Chinese Mining Camp Site, 1989–1992. University of Idaho Anthropological Reports, No. 94. 

Moscow. 

Turnipseed, Donna, Michael Striker, and Roderick Sprague 

1994 Florence Tells Her Secrets. University of Idaho Anthropological Reports, No. 96. Moscow. 

Walker, Deward E., Jr., and Roderick Sprague 

1998 *History until 1846. In Handbook of the American Indians, Vol. 12, Plateau, Deward E. Walker, Jr., editor, pp. 138–148. 


Wegars, Priscilla, and Roderick Sprague 

1981 Archaeological Salvage of the Joso Trestle Construction Camp, 45-FR-51, Lower Monumental Project. University of Idaho 

Anthropological Research Manuscript Series, No. 65. Moscow. 

Wegars, Priscilla, Roderick Sprague, and Thomas M. J. Mulinski 

1983c Miscellaneous Burial Recovery in Eastern Washington, 1981. University of Idaho Anthropological Research Manuscript 


Sprague’s bibliography also includes ca. 100 manuscripts, but in his written instructions to me, the bibliography presented here is “as 

complete as I would want it for SHA.” Those ca. 100 works are archived at the Fort Walla Walla Museum, Walla Walla, Washington. 

Ronn L. Michael

8 

Ross K. Harper 

“Their Houses are Ancient 

and Ordinary”: Archaeology 

and Connecticut’s Eighteenth- 

Century Domestic Architecture 

ABSTRACT 

The 18th-century houses that dot Connecticut’s landscape have 

come to be the very symbols of the state’s colonial past. Recent 

archaeological investigations at the buried remains of six period 

homesteads indicate that Connecticut’s domestic architecture 

was far more varied and dynamic than conventionally believed. 

Excavations revealed the continuation of ancient English house 

forms, including small one-room end-chimney and long and 

narrow cross-passage types. The excavations also provide new 

information on construction techniques, household material 

culture, food storage, and everyday lifeways of Connecticut’s 

middling sort, who formed the largest population sector, but 

about whom little is known from documentary sources. 

In short, a “house,” wherever it may be, is an enduring 

thing, and it bears perpetual witness to the slow 

pace of civilizations, of cultures bent on preserving, 

maintaining and repeating (Braudel 1992). 

Introduction 

Connecticut is fortunate to have many standing 

old houses. Recent archaeological excavations, 

however, have discovered that the 

common center-chimney saltbox, single-bay 

or “I,” and standard five-bay houses are not 

an accurate representation of the 18th-century 

domestic architectural landscape of Connecticut. 

Connecticut’s early period houses were far more 

varied and diverse, and included ancient English 

house forms and construction techniques that 

persisted well into the 18th century, far longer 

than conventionally believed. This continuity can 

in part be attributed to Connecticut’s cultural 

conservatism, the “land of steady habits,” as 

it was often called, based on enduring English 

cultural traditions. When traveling through Connecticut 

in 1800, Yale president and early historian 

of Connecticut Timothy Dwight noted that 

“[t]he town of Branford is destitute of beauty. 

The situation is unpleasant, and the houses are 

chiefly ancient and ordinary” (Dwight 1969:359). 

The houses and landscapes that Dwight saw are 

nearly all gone. Remnants of earlier houses can 

sometimes be found hidden within the fabric of 

old standing houses that subsumed or overbuilt 

smaller dwellings. Archaeological remains of 

houses are a separate important source of data 

on early architecture. 

Extensive archaeological investigations at six 

18th-century homesteads and a number of smaller 

surveys open new windows into Connecticut’s 

fascinating architectural past, including the discovery 

of house forms that no longer exist, 

such as the West Country cross-passage house 

and the one-room end-chimney type. Important 

early house-construction techniques were also 

discovered, including post-in-ground (earthfast), 

“splayed-foot foundation,” and “foundationon-ground.” 

Each homestead site was part of 

a multiphased cultural resources management 

project that included extensive historical background 

research and large-scale data recovery 

excavations. 

Methodology 

All of the homestead excavations began with 

basic documentary research, including historical 

maps, land deeds, probate records, censuses, tax 

rolls, military records, town histories, and so 

forth. Although land deeds can be used to reconstruct 

land-ownership sequences of parcels, they 

rarely indicated where a house site was actually 

located. In New England, 18th-century maps that 

show the precise locations of houses are exceedingly 

rare. Therefore, archaeological reconnaissance 

surveys were conducted and 50 × 50 cm 

shovel-test pits were placed at 15 m intervals 

within the project areas to locate evidence of historical 

occupation. The sites include the Sprague 

House in Andover, the Daniels House in Waterford, 

and the Goodsell House in North Branford, 

which were entirely buried under open and active 

agricultural fields (Figure 1). The Story House 

in Preston was in thick woods covered with fill 

and trash, and the Benedict House in Wilton 

was found in a lawn covered with roadside fill 

along a busy interstate. The Cady-Copp House 

in Putnam is a standing ca. 1745 house that was 


Accepted for publication 25 October 2011. 


oss k. harper—”Their Houses are Ancient and Ordinary” 

9 

FIGURE 1. Map of the state of Connecticut showing locations of towns discussed in the text. (Map by author, 2012.) 

last occupied in the 1920s and was never fitted 

with modern utilities. At each of the five homestead 

sites where there was no standing house, 

the reconnaissance subsurface testing revealed 

distinct concentrations of 18th-century domestic 

and architectural material culture. Each site was 

then tested through an intensive archaeological 

survey in which test pits were excavated across 

the site on a 5 m interval grid. More intensive 

primary research was also undertaken to gather 

all possible documentary information about each 

site. The intensive survey collected enough data 

to demonstrate that each site possessed excellent 

integrity and met the criteria for listing in the 

National Register of Historic Places. 

Because the buried house sites could not be 

avoided by the planned construction projects, 

each underwent large-scale data-recovery excavations. 

Blocks of 1 m 2 units were strategically 

placed to locate and expose the area in and 

around the footprint of the house and yards. At 

the completion of the hand excavations at the 

buried house sites, the remaining plowzone or 

fill was carefully removed with a large excavator 

equipped with a smooth landscaping blade in 

order to expose outlying features at the top of 

the subsoil. Excavations at the Cady-Copp House 

included a long linear block where drains were 

to be installed, as well as selected 1 m 2 units 

around the outside of the foundation walls. After 

the artifacts were cleaned, conserved, and inventoried, 

artifact distributions were plotted using 

a Surfer program, which proved to be highly 

effective in revealing the locations of middens, 

activity areas, walls, house footprints, building 

sequences, and room functions. A detailed report 

of each excavation was prepared. 

Prior to these six excavations few in-depth 

household-level archaeological investigations 

had been conducted in Connecticut. Most were


limited to minimal testing around a standing 

house and outbuildings that typically preceded 

small construction projects, such as the installation 

of handicapped access ramps or septic systems. 

Most of the investigations were conducted 

at house museums associated with affluent persons 

who played important roles in the early 

history of Connecticut (Harper 2006:109–130). 

Very few investigations had been done at the 

houses of Connecticut’s “middling sort,” people 

who made up the majority of the population. 

This paper uses data from the six excavated 

house sites, other small-scale house excavations, 

and a variety of historical documents to 

develop an ethnographic account of the domestic 

architecture and lifeways of Connecticut’s 18thcentury 

middling sort. 

Connecticut’s Early 

Domestic Architecture 

Connecticut’s first settlements of Hartford, 

Windsor, and Wethersfield were founded in 

1635–1636, but very little early period architecture 

has survived (Figure 1). The first houses 

of many of the early colonists are believed to 

have been small and simple wood-framed huts 

or hovels. As families became established, these 

first expedient dwellings were abandoned for 

more substantial structures. Built in 1635, the 

John Talcott House in Hartford was described 

by his son as starting as a single-room “kitchen, 

which was first on the west side of the chimney.” 

Several years later a room was added to 

the east side of the house and the “chimneys 

were built,” perhaps implying that a woodand-daub 

flue was replaced with a center stone 

fireplace that divided the two rooms (Isham 

and Brown 1900:12–15; Kelly 1924:5–6). The 

much-rebuilt 1639 stone Whitfield House in 

Guilford is the only standing first-generation 

house remaining in Connecticut (Cummings 

1994:192). Through rigorous review of landdeed 

records and dendrochronology, architectural 

historian Abbott Lowell Cummings determined 

that only seven houses in Connecticut can be 

confidently dated to the 17th century, most 

of which have undergone extensive alterations 

over time. According to Cummings, Connecticut 

experienced its first building boom in the early 

18th century. Massachusetts Bay had already 

undergone such a boom in the 1680s, which 

reflected a “startling conservatism” of earlier 

forms (Cummings 1979, 1993:1,8–10). 

Architectural historians Isham and Brown 

(1900) and Kelly (1924) organized early Connecticut 

domestic architecture into several phases 

based on a small sample of surviving period 

houses. Among the earliest forms, which all followed 

English derivations, was the “one-room 

end-chimney type” that was a story and a half, 

or one over one. These houses consisted of 

a main room or “hall,” a large end fireplace, 

and a small vestibule or “porch” next to the 

fireplace with stairs leading to the second floor. 

Noted examples of the one-room end-chimney 

type include the first phase of the 1664 Thomas 

Lee House in East Lyme (Figure 2a) and the 

(controversially dated) first phase of the ca. 

1678 Hempstead House in New London. The ca. 

1690 Norton House in Guilford (demolished in 

1921) also started as a one-room end-chimney 

plan (Figures 2b and 3). The first phase of the 

ca. 1723 Huntington House in Scotland (the 

birthplace of Governor Samuel Huntington) also 

began as a one-room end-chimney type with 

a second story (Stachiw 1999). As families 

increased in size and became more established, 

the one-room hall was often expanded to a tworoom 

dwelling with a central fireplace, making 

a quintessential hall-and-parlor central-fireplace 

house. Some houses were then expanded again 

with a lean-to built across the back of the house, 

which typically functioned as a kitchen with a 

pantry. The building sequences of the Thomas 

Lee and Huntington houses show this development, 

while the Norton House later had a kitchen 

lean-to attached to the back of the hall (Figures 

2a, b, and 3) (Isham and Brown 1900; Kelly 

1924; Garvan 1951; Cummings 1994:192–233; 

Stachiw 1999). 

In the 17th century houses were also being 

built with the two-room central-chimney plan at 

once, and by the end of the century houses were 

also being constructed following the two-room 

central-fireplace plan with a back lean-to as an 

integral part of the structure. Such houses were 

usually associated with the wealthiest and most 

progressive owners (Cummings 1994:216). This 

type of house has come to be called a “saltbox” 

or, particularly in Connecticut, a “breakback” 

(Larkin 2006:78). Significantly, the familiar largeframed 

center-chimney and single-bay or “I” 

house and standard five-bay house types did not


11 

FIGURE 2. Plan of the (a) 1664 Thomas Lee House and (b) 

ca. 1690 Norton House (Kelly 1924). (Courtesy of Dover 

Publications, New York, NY.) Plans of two (c, d) West County 

(Devon) cross-passage houses with three rooms and a 

fireplace abutting the cross passage, redrawn from Barley 

(1961). (Courtesy of Routledge Publishers, London, UK.) 

become common until after the mid-18th century 

(Lewis 1980:23–27). (The “bay” is a standard 

building measurement typically equal to 16 ft.) 

Many of the 17th- and 18th-century houses 

built in Connecticut were quite small and 

modest affairs, and have traditionally been 

overlooked by architectural historians as they 

“did not fit either the prosperity of the early 

nineteenth century or the sentimental ideals of 

recent antiquarians” (Garvan 1951:127–129). 

Using old photograph collections, tax records 

(which often listed fireplaces after 1790), and 

fieldwork, cultural geographer Thomas R. Lewis 

determined that small houses or “cottages” 

were prevalent in Connecticut throughout the 

1650–1850 period. Also referred to as “cots,” 

“huts,” or “hovels” in historical records, Lewis 

determined that early cottages were typically 

made with one square room or bay (16 ft.), and 

an end chimney, and were rarely larger than 28 

× 21 ft. in plan; they were often expanded into 

the two-room, center-chimney plan. While traveling 

through northeastern Connecticut in 1771, 

(second president) John Adams came across a 

parson and old acquaintance of his. “He lives 

in little, mean looking hutt,” Adams recorded in 

his diary (Buel and McNulty 1999:32). 

The introduction and distribution of the squaredlog 

house or cabin in Connecticut is unclear, 

though like in the rest of the British colonies 

it was likely uncommon in the early period of 

settlement (Shurtleff 1939). There is evidence of 

log houses in Connecticut in the 18th century. 

The ca. 1780–1800 James Bennett log house in 

Easton, which was demolished in 1937, had a 

single 13 × 17 ft. room, a compacted-dirt floor, 

and a pitched roof. One described in Windsor 

in 1794 was 30 ft. long and “where the logs 

crossed, they were notched together, and nailed; 

and the interstices were plastered with loam” (St. 

George 1998:360–362). By the mid-18th century, 

as Yankees migrated to the wilderness regions of 

northern New England, New York, and the Midwest, 

the log house became a common and “often 

absolutely necessary” dwelling of the frontier. Yale 

president and minister Timothy Dwight noted that 

log houses were constructed “only to shelter their 

families until they can erect better habitations,” 

though he considered them “no ornaments to the 

landscape.” During a round trip from New Haven 

to Vermont in May 1810 Dwight counted only 

37 log houses, which he described as typically 

having two rooms with a stone chimney in the 

middle, indicating that the basic center-chimney, 

hall-and-parlor plan was being used. The loghouse 

interiors were finished in a plain, coarse, 

and “indifferent manner” (Dwight 1969:84,326).


FIGURE 3. Early photograph from Kelly (1924) of the ca. 1690 Norton House in Guildford, demolished in 1921. (Courtesy 

of Dover Publications, New York, NY.) 

Another architectural form that came into New 

England in the early period was the long and 

narrow cross-passage house, which often integrated 

elements of upland and lowland architectural traditions 

of Britain, particularly the placement of 

fireplaces. Cross-passage houses were widespread 

in England when colonization began and were also 

brought to the New World, including Plymouth 

(St. George 1998:17–25; Beaudry et al. 2003:161). 

Cross-passage houses were related to the “longhouse” 

tradition of long and narrow houses with 

a large byre or shippen on one end for keeping 

the family’s cows. A drain for cow urine typically 

ran the length of the room, exiting outside. The 

byre was separated from the rest of the house 

by a cross passage running perpendicular through 

the midsection. By the 17th century, however, 

the cows were usually removed from the house 

into a separate cow house, and the byre was 

typically converted into service or storage rooms. 

If the long-house or “byre-and-dwelling” were 

ever built in New England it is yet unknown, 

and “no doubt was also seen by Puritan yeomen 

as a less improved and less artificial structure, 

since the realm of beasts was viewed as unclean 

and debasing to the reason of man” (St. George 

1986:338–339). To the author’s knowledge, no 

standing cross-passage houses have survived in 

the Americas. 

A number of long and narrow house forms have 

also been found by archaeologists in northern New 

England, Massachusetts, and in the Chesapeake 

region. In Maine several 17th-century long and 

narrow houses have been discovered and partially 

excavated, most of which were built, at least in 

part, of post-in-ground or earthfast construction, 

and had large stone fireplaces. Examples include 

a 20 × 65 ft. structure built ca. 1654 at Arrowsic; 

an 80 × 20 ft. structure at the 1649–1676 Nehumkeag 

trading post that had a 6 × 30 ft. woodlined 

cellar; and the ca. 1639–1646 James Phips 

site, which measured 15 × 72 ft. A large ell was 

added to the Phips House, likely another dwelling, 

which measured 20 × 60 ft. (Baker et al. 1992). 

Several intriguing 17th-century houses were 

excavated in eastern Massachusetts long ago


13 

using archaic excavation methods and recording. 

The house plans were interpreted by James 

Deetz as possible early long-houses with byres. 

These include the 1627 John Alden House site 

in Duxbury; the Miles Standish House, also in 

Duxbury; and in Plymouth, the “RM” site, so 

named from the initials scratched on the end of 

a seal-top spoon (Deetz 1977:95–97, 1979:54–58, 

1996:125–164). The excavation methods, however, 

leave a variety of unanswered questions as 

to the nature of the structures and the features 

and artifacts that were found. Reexamination 

of these sites by Beaudry and George indicates 

that the available evidence is not conclusive, 

though they were likely not long-houses with 

byres. “If the site plans can be interpreted as 

representing cross-passage houses, our knowledge 

of the social context in which these structures 

functioned brings us closer to an understanding 

of the homelife and domestic relations of the 

earliest colonial settlers” (Beaudry and George 

1987:26). 

Another reinterpretation of what is believed to 

be the ca. 1675–1700 Josiah Winslow House in 

Marshfield, Massachusetts, excavated by Henry 

Hornblower in 1941, proposes that the house 

was a two-story double-pile hall-and-parlor house 

(Beaudry et al. 2003:155–185). It has also been 

proposed that the 1627 Alden House had started 

as a small single-cell house that was intermittently 

added to by subsequent generations, 

becoming a “rambling vernacular form” akin to 

the standing Fairbanks House in Dedham, Massachusetts 

(Beaudry et al. 2003:176). Although 

the available information on these early Massachusetts 

Bay Colony houses is incomplete and 

often problematic, Deetz brought to the attention 

of archaeologists their need go beyond conventional 

wisdom and search for undocumented 

houses, including long and narrow house forms, 

with ephemeral remains or “visibility” in the 

ground. Other long and narrow houses found 

by archaeologists outside New England include 

a ca. 1621 “longhouse” at Martin’s Hundred 

in Virginia that measured 60 × 15 ft. and was 

interpreted by Ivor Noël Hume as having four 

bays with a byre at one end and a fireplace at 

the other (Noël Hume 1982:187–192). 

In Connecticut, the ca. 1641 Desborough- 

Rossiter House in Guilford was recorded in a ca. 

1651 plan drawing of the house and grounds (St. 

George 1998:17–25). St. George has interpreted 

the drawing as a cross-passage house approximately 

16 × 70 ft. with a central hall and a 

fireplace abutting a cross-passage opposite a 

kitchen. On the other end of the hall is a heated 

parlor with a buttery. The house was surrounded 

by a courtyard. The plan and layout was typical 

of cross-passage houses in the southwest region 

of the West Country (Carson 2012). 

Carson and Alcock have made a comprehensive 

and detailed study of West Country architecture 

and farms based on standing buildings and house 

and estate surveys, which often described house 

layouts in considerable detail (Carson and Alcock 

2007). West Country houses of a larger size were 

typically made with a basic three-room plan and 

cross passage that was often located behind the 

central or main fireplace; this was the traditional 

position of the main fireplace in West Country 

houses (Barley 1961:110–111). Most of these 

houses were made with stone walls, had wattleand-daub 

or stud-and-panel room partitions, and 

thatched or slate roofs. The basic rooms typically 

included a parlor, a hall at the center of the 

house, and the cross passage running perpendicular 

through the house. The third main room 

was typically a service room or pantry (storage), 

or a kitchen (Barley 1961:108–122; Carson and 

Alcock 2007:23–42) (Figures 2c, d, and 8). 

Not only did early Connecticut houses resemble 

their English antecedents, they still maintained 

much of their English regionalism. Cummings 

noted that the early period of Connecticut settlement 

was marked by the admixture of carpenters 

and joiners of differing English backgrounds, 

who continually moved from one community to 

another (Cummings 1994:192–233). For example, 

he notes the 1707–1720 Stanley-Whitman House 

in Farmington with its heavy frame and front 

overhang ornamented with pedestal drops, which 

presents an overall profile and spatial dimensions 

indicative of East Anglia. The 1711–1721 Buttolph 

Williams House in Wethersfield displays a 

slender roof frame and a fireplace made entirely 

of brick, traditions which came early into the 

Massachusetts Bay Colony and also had origins 

in East Anglia. The massive stone fireplaces typical 

of Connecticut’s 18th-century houses are more 

of a Midlands tradition. The English regionalism 

of Connecticut’s early architecture was noted by 

English agriculturalist William Strickland, who 

traveled through much of Connecticut in 1794 and 

recorded his observations:


In the country I have lately passed through, are many 

old fashioned houses the residences of the first settlers; 

resembling such as may occasionally be still seen in England, 

with much ornamental brickwork, about the chimneys, 

cornices, windows etc; and with casement-windows, 

with pains of various shapes, a style now disused in both 

countries, but general about 150 years since. These add to 

the resemblance which many parts of this country have 

to many parts of England (Strickland 1971:209). 

Site History 

Sprague Site, ca. 1705 to ca. 1750s 

The Sprague homestead site was settled by 

Ephraim Sprague in about 1705 in the town of 

Lebanon (now Andover). Incorporated only five 

years earlier, Lebanon was in the interior frontier, 

and Ephraim, who arrived with his father 

and brother, was among the earliest European 

American settlers. The site is well situated in a 

sheltered valley near the confluence of the Hop 

River and small brook then called Sprague Brook. 

Ephraim Sprague was born on 15 March 1685 

in Duxbury, Massachusetts, and was the fourth 

generation of Spragues in America (Sprague 1913; 

Harper 2005; Harper and Harper 2007; Harper and 

Clouette 2010b). The first member of the family 

to settle in America was Francis Sprague, a taverner 

who left England in 1623 and immigrated 

to Plymouth, Massachusetts. The Spragues were 

early settlers of nearby Duxbury, and Francis’s 

son John Sprague (Ephraim Sprague’s grandfather) 

was also the proprietor of a tavern; he was killed 

in Pierce’s Fight in Rhode Island in 1676 during 

King Philip’s War (Sprague 1913; Tilton 1918:76). 

In 1703, John Sprague’s son John, then listed as 

a “mariner,” sold all of his Duxbury property and 

moved with his family, including his sons Ephraim 

and Benjamin, to the new town of Lebanon, 

Connecticut. Soon after his arrival in Lebanon, 

Ephraim acquired land for his own farmstead and 

in about 1704 married a woman of a prominent 

local family named Deborah Woodworth. They 

had at least eight children together before Deborah 

died in about 1727. Ephraim later married again, 

to a woman named Mary. 

Along with his farming activities Ephraim 

Sprague had a long and distinguished career in 

public service. In May of 1724 Ephraim was 

elected captain of the North Parish (or Lebanon 

Crank Society) trainband. The following year Captain 

Sprague and his militia company patrolled the 

Connecticut and Hampshire County, Massachusetts 

border during the guerrilla-style conflict between 

New England colonists and the “Eastern Indians” 

known as Lovewell’s War or Greylock’s War. It 

was the responsibility of militia captains to pay 

their men and to inspect each man’s weapon and 

ammunition, and to ensure they were in working 

order (Marcus 1966:219). After the war ended, 

Captain Sprague returned to his farm and continued 

in public service as a Lebanon Selectman in 

1727 and 1733. He represented Lebanon in the 

General Assembly in 1729 and was a deacon in 

the North Society Church (Trumbull and Hoadley 

1850–1890[7]:221). In 1743 he was one of the 

petitioners for a separate Andover parish (Trumbull 

and Hoadley 1850–1890[8]:536). Eleven years 

later, on 1 November 1754, he made out his will 

and died soon thereafter of “consumption” at age 

69, according to his minister Eleazer Wheelock 

(Wheelock 1971). 

During his lifetime Captain Sprague established 

a sizable estate; on his deathbed he willed lands, 

monies, and goods to his children and grandchildren 

(Connecticut State Archives [CSA] 1754). 

To his “dearly beloved wife” Mary he bequeathed 

part of the house and cellar and a third of the 

farm’s income. To his eldest son Perez he left 7 

ac. of land and his wearing apparel; to his son 

Peleg he waived a £50 bond; and to his married 

daughters Betty and Irena he left most of the 

household goods to be divided between them. 

To his young grandson Ephraim Sprague III he 

bequeathed full ownership of the farm, including 

the “utensils for husbandry” and livestock, which 

he was to inherit when he reached 21 years of 

age. (The captain’s eldest son, Ephraim Sprague 

II, had predeceased him several years earlier.) 

Captain Sprague’s probate lists various household 

and farm items such as books, clothing, bedding, 

a loom, livestock, a mare and colt, and a saddle. 

His will and probate contained a few luxury items 

including a beaver hat, a cane, pewter plates, and 

a white muslin handkerchief. 

Findings 

The remains of the Sprague homestead were 

discovered buried in an agricultural field during 

an archaeological reconnaissance survey preceding 

a road construction project (Figure 4). The 

reconnaissance survey recovered concentrations 

of 18th-century domestic artifacts in a pattern 

suggestive of a homestead, though no structural


15 

remains were identified then. The intensified 

archaeological survey and data recovery that 

followed included the excavation of 198 test 

pits and 271, 1 m 2 units; a total of 211,291 

artifacts were recovered. The intensified survey 

took the form of a 5 m interval grid of test pits 

across the project area and discovered a feature 

on a small rise that further excavation revealed 

to be a 16 × 16 ft. fieldstone-lined cellar with 

a stone-step bulkhead entrance (Figure 5). The 

sand-and-gravel floor of the cellar was 4 ft. 11 

in. below the ground surface. The cellar had 

FIGURE 4. Phase II and III archaeological site plan of the Sprague site. (Drawing by PAST/AHS, 2007.)


been filled in with household debris, fireplace 

stones, and field cobbles, and covered with 

topsoil. Here, a wide variety of household artifacts 

and food remains were recovered, including 

tools, horse tack, a set of table knives 

and forks, pockets of eggshells, and concentrated 

masses of carbonized potatoes (Solanum 

tuberosum), maize (Zea mays), and oats (Avena 

sativa). A wide variety of wild and domesticated 

animal remains were identified (Harper 2008a). 

There were large quantities of melted liquorbottle 

glass and ceramics including milk pans, 

an entire white salt-glazed stoneware tea set 

with a scratch-blue creamer, a delftware punch 

bowl, and an English yellow slipware posset 

pot. Most vessels were burnt. Concentrations of 

melted window glass at the center of the south 

wall indicated a window in the vicinity. 

Within the floor of the south cellar was 

found a series of seven distinct basin-shaped 

features. Interpreted as food-storage or “sauce” 

pits, these holes were used to store a variety 

of root vegetables or “sauce,” as they were 

commonly called in the 18th century. Born 

in West Hartford, Connecticut, in 1758, Noah 

Webster, in the first American dictionary, defined 

“sauce” as “in New England, culinary vegetables 

and roots eaten with flesh” (Webster 1828). In 

Ephraim Sprague’s will he bequeathed “all my 

provisions, viz., corn of all sorts, meat, sauces 

of all sorts, with two swine now a-fatting” to 

his young grandson Ephraim Sprague III (CSA 

1754). At the Betsey Prince site, a late-18th- to 

early-19th-century African American house on 

Long Island, a similar “storage pit” was also 

found dug into the cellar floor (LoRusso 1998). 

Sometimes sauce pits were dug on the outside 

of the house. Various historical accounts in 

New England, including farming manuals, diaries, 

and daybooks mention this once-common 

practice of storing root vegetables, including 

potatoes, in holes in the ground, also called 

“caves” or “tombs” (Harper et al. 2001:13–15; 

Harper and Harper 2007). In New Hampshire 

they were simply called “sassholes” in the 

vernacular (Hastings 1990:141). Based on these 

FIGURE 5. The Sprague House south cellar after excavation. The ash stain to the north is the central fireplace. The camera 

is facing northeast. (Photo by PAST/AHS, 2007.)


17 

and other such features at other household 

sites in Connecticut (discussed below), sauce 

pits were typically 2 to 4 ft. across, 2 to 3 

ft. deep, with smooth sides and shaped like an 

inverted bell with a rounded bottom. Sauce pits 

were commonly lined with straw or boards, and 

then mounded over with salt hay, earth, and 

manure for insulation (Deane 1790:228; Long 

1960:36–41). An extract from an 1857 edition 

of the New England Farmer journal describes 

this once common practice: 

In olden times, most of the farmers’ cellars were 

dark––rendering it necessary to take a light in order to 

see, and guide the cider tap at noon-day. In these days, 

cellars were generally small, making it necessary for 

farmers to winter many of their potatoes, oftentimes in 

holes. I remember well how much better the potatoes 

were when taken from the hole opened in the spring, 

than from the cellar (Sheldon 1857:524). 

Grains such as maize, oats, wheat, and barley 

were primarily stored high and dry in the garret 

of the house or in a specially made “Cribb of 

Corn,” such as the one Joshua Hempstead of 

New London mentioned in his diary in 1724 

(Hempstead 1901:143). In the winter, the outer 

walls of cellars were insulated with various 

dry materials such as leaves or seaweed, a 

technique called “banking” (Harper and Harper 

2007; Harper 2010b). The large stone-lined 

south cellar, sauce pits, and the great quantities 

of ceramics, including milk pans, liquor bottles, 

utensils, and food remains indicate the room 

above the cellar was a pantry or service room, 

perhaps with a small dairy. 

Six feet north of the cellar was a 9 × 7½ ft. 

fireplace feature filled with ash, small fragments 

of animal bone and fish scales, dressed fieldstones, 

and many hearth-related artifacts such 

as straight pins, thimbles, European flint strikea-lights, 

and glass beads. The fireplace feature 

reached a depth of 2 ft. 8 in. below the ground 

surface. The deep footing appears to be related 

to the need for a large and stabilizing fireplace 

base in the soft sandy soils of the site. Most of 

the fireplace stones had been removed to facilitate 

plowing over this buried feature; and many 

had likely been reused elsewhere. Some blackened 

and fire-degraded (and unusable) dressed 

stones from the flue and firebox had been tossed 

into the cellar. Evidence of a second cellar was 

discovered 64 ft. to the north. Unlike the south 

cellar, this cellar was simply dug out, and the 

walls were unlined and sloped inward. The east 

half of the cellar was substantially deeper (3 ft. 

7 in. below surface) than the west half (23 in. 

below ground surface). Entrance to the cellar 

was likely through a trapdoor in the floor, probably 

on the east side of the room. 

A small corner fireplace feature, measuring 

4 × 4 ft., projected off the northwest corner 

of the north cellar. The fireplace feature was 

exceptionally charcoal rich and extended about 

2 ft. below the ground surface. The fireplace 

base rested on a natural hard cobble bed, unlike 

the soft sandy soils of the rest of the site. Most 

of the fireplace stones had been removed and 

tossed in the cellar hole to fill it or had been 

carried away to be reused. The recovery of 

a few red-brick fragments suggests the chimneys 

had been only “topped out” with bricks 

above the roofline, giving the appearance of 

a brick chimney, a common practice in early 

Connecticut houses (Kelly 1924:71–72). Three 

types of mortar were used to build and point 

the fireplaces: shellfish and coral, limestone, and 

clay. The house was built with basic hardware 

including hand-wrought nails, leaded (came) 

casement windows with green and blue-green 

panes or quarrels, pintles, and large iron strap 

hinges (Figure 6). 

Outside the two cellars no evidence of a subgrade 

stone foundation or postholes indicative of 

earthfast construction was found at the Sprague 

site, indicating that the house sills had likely 

been laid on a fieldstone foundation or pads that 

sat directly on the ground surface, a technique 

that dates back to the 13th century in England 

(Carson et al. 1981:136–138). This distinctive 

“foundation-on-ground” construction technique 

has been documented at several standing 18thcentury 

houses in Connecticut, including at 

the ca. 1745 Cady-Copp House in Putnam 

(discussed below). Features found outside the 

Sprague House include a stone-lined well measuring 

8 ft. 2½ in. in diameter (the shaft was 2 

ft. in diameter) about 19½ ft. east of the south 

cellar, an open-air hearth 16 ft. off the southeast 

corner of the south cellar (not a fireplace), and 

a large household midden approximately 50 ft. 

southeast of the house and bordered by a stone 

wall. Based on these features and artifact distributions, 

the area east of the house was likely the 

yard and a high-activity area (Figures 4 and 7a).


FIGURE 6. Typical architectural artifacts from the Sprague site, top left to right: four pieces of limestone, shell mortar with 

brick impression, hand-wrought rose-head nail, green and blue-green window glass, three fragments of window lead 

(came), a pintle, and three fragments of strap hinges. (Photo by PAST/AHS, 2007.) 

The many carbonized, melted, and burned 

household artifacts discovered in the bottom of 

the south cellar were in a distinctive burned 

layer that included thick concentrations of ash 

and carbonized wooden boards across the cellar 

floor. Large pockets of ash and carbonized wood 

were also found in the north cellar indicating 

the Sprague House had burned in a catastrophic 

fire, after which the house was abandoned and 

the cellars and other open features were quickly 

filled in. The combination of carbonization and 

the abundance of ash, which made the acidic 

soils more alkaline, resulted in extraordinary 

artifact and ecofact preservation. Because many 

ceramic vessels were burned and broken and 

dropped to the cellar floors, cross-mending was 

particularly productive. A record relating to precisely 

when the house burned down has not been 

found, but based on the latest-dated ceramics, 

kaolin tobacco pipes, coins, and other diagnostic 

artifacts from the site, the fire appears to have 

occurred in the 1750s, about the time when the 

heir to the homestead, Ephraim Sprague III, sold 

out and left Lebanon. The presence of large 

quantities of potatoes and grains suggests the 

fire occurred in winter. Why the house remains 

had been filled in and abandoned so quickly 

may be related to New England Puritan beliefs 

that fire was “a sign of God’s displeasure with 

sinful people” and was “a powerful symbol of 

judgment, punishment, and cleansing, apocalyptic 

deliverance” (St. George 1998:247). 

An interpretation of the Sprague House plan 

is illustrated in Figure 7a. The plan was first 

projected with a cross passage between the 

north cellar (parlor) and hall with a separate 

kitchen and pantry at the south end of the 

house. A revised plan has been developed 

with Cary Carson, which follows that of a 

more-typical West Country cross-passage house 

(Carson 2012). This includes an 8 ft. wide cross 

passage between the pantry at the south end 

of the house, abutting a large central fireplace 

with a firebox facing the hall at the center of


19 

FIGURE 7. Interpretations of the Sprague House plan (a) and the Daniels House plan (b), showing features and projected 

walls and rooms. (Drawing by PAST/AHS, 2007.)


the house. Fewer artifacts were recovered from 

this area, indicating living space (and not refuse 

disposal). Although projected to be a bit longer 

than a typical West Country hall, the extra 

space may have been created to accommodate 

the Sprague’s loom. 

North of the hall was a large room heated by 

a small fireplace in the northwest corner. With 

the walls projected around the dug cellar and 

fireplace, the room was approximately 20 × 20 

ft. in size. A corner firebox was not especially 

common in 18th-century Connecticut, but it was 

done. Examples include the ca. 1760s Governor 

Jonathan Trumbull Jr. House in Lebanon (Harper 

2006) and the ca. 1765 Cady-Copp House in 

Putnam (discussed below). Some of the artifact 

types from the Sprague’s parlor include wildand 

domestic-animal bone, drinking vessels 

such as tankards, eating utensils, kaolin tobacco 

pipes, and a pair of ember tongs. This room is 

interpreted as the parlor. 

Although a house could evolve and become 

an elongated pastiche from multigenerational 

additions of rooms, the long and narrow crosspassage 

plan of the Sprague House is based on 

a number of factors. Unlike the houses excavated 

in Massachusetts using antiquarian methods discussed 

above, the Sprague site was excavated by 

professional archaeologists using modern recovery 

techniques, including hand-excavated 50 × 50 cm 

quads within 1 m 2 units on a grid over a large 

area. Surfer-program distributions of domestic and 

architectural artifacts show concentrations around 

the footprint of the house, within the filled cellar 

and fireplace features, and in outdoor midden 

areas. Because the house had burned and was 

rapidly filled in and abandoned, the locations of 

artifacts and features reveal room functions. The 

interpretation of the Sprague House as a typical 

three-room and cross-passage house of the West 

Country of England is not based merely on its 

long and narrow dimensions. This interpretation 

is derived from the locations and orientations 

of the cellars, fireplaces and other features, the 

artifact distributions, and by direct comparisons 

to similar cross-passage houses in southeastern 

England. 

The projected Sprague House plan included 

a pantry, a central cross passage with an abutting 

fireplace, central hall, and heated pantry, 

measuring approximately 70 ft. long, 16 ft. 

wide through the main body, and 20 ft. wide at 

the northern end (Figure 7a). For example, the 

general layout of the Sprague House is similar 

to the Old Rectory cross-passage house located 

in the village of Lovington, Somerset, England 

(Figure 8). The house has stone walls with a 

thatched roof, is one-and-a-half stories high, 

and was first built with three main rooms and a 

cross passage. The original late-medieval house 

consisted of a central hall flanked by service 

rooms (black walls) and dates to ca. 1500. The 

hall fireplace stack, associated stairs, and upper 

floors were inserted ca. 1550. The west service 

room was likely extended soon after, and a large 

gable fireplace was built, creating the parlor. 

Then the east service room also had a fireplace 

added, and the parlor fireplace stack was then 

FIGURE 8. Plan and structure drawing of the Old Rectory 

cross-passage house, village of Lovington, Somerset, 

England. The original house (solid black) dates to ca. 1500 

and consisted of a central hall and two service rooms. The 

hall fireplace was inserted ca. 1550, and the parlor and 

service-room fireplaces were added thereafter. The north 

wing with a kitchen, then bakery, was added in the early 

17th century (Somerset and South Avon Vernacular Building 

Research Group 1986:55–56). (Redrawn by author, 2012.)


21 

reduced in size. The kitchen wing, which later 

functioned as a bakery, was added in the early 

17th century (Somerset and South Avon Vernacular 

Building Research Group 1986:55–56). This 

basic parlor, hall, cross-passage, and unheated 

service room layout was typical in the West 

Country of England, from where the Spragues 

derived their basic house plan. By the 17th 

century, an unheated service room below the 

cross passage was becoming uncommon among 

West Country farmers, and fireplaces, ovens, and 

bacon chambers were typically added, thereby 

converting the service rooms into workspace 

suitable for heavy-duty food preparation, with 

everyday cooking conducted in the hall fireplace 

(Figure 2c, d) (Carson 2012). Significantly, the 

open-air hearth outside the Spragues’ pantry 

(near the well) appears to have functioned 

as a heat source for such heavy-duty kitchen 

activities. An outside hearth may simply have 

been a practical choice for the Spragues, who 

needed a large fire and work area for the wide 

variety of messy and labor-intensive tasks so 

common to frontier and rural households, such 

as butchering livestock, rendering tallow and 

lard, dyeing yarn and cloth, laundry, and so on. 

The added heat of a fieldstone fireplace in the 

pantry may have been seen by the Spragues as 

creating an unsuitable environment for storing 

root vegetables, or “sauce,” and other foods that 

required stable cool temperatures and humidity 

year round. In other words, the heat from 

a fieldstone fireplace would have caused the 

potatoes to sprout prematurely or rot. 

West Country cross-passage houses often had 

a heated parlor at the “head” of the house. This 

room provided an important space for Captain 

Sprague to meet privately with militia officers, 

church officials, and other distinguished guests 

in his important military and social positions. 

The Spragues had assumed positions in life 

among the “better sort” and had, in effect, 

created their own West Country house on the 

Connecticut frontier, although Captain Sprague 

had likely never been to England. 

Site History 

Daniels Site, 1712 to ca. 1770s 

The near-coastal Daniels homestead site is 

located in the town of Waterford, which was 

originally part of New London until it split off in 

1801 (Harper and Clouette 2007; Harper 2010a). 

The site is 3 mi. from Long Island Sound, 1 

mi. from the headwaters of the Niantic River, 

and 3 mi. from the center of New London, 

a major deep-harbor port at the mouth of the 

Thames River. The first settler on the homestead 

was Thomas Daniels, whose grandfather John 

Daniels left England for New London in about 

1663 (Caulkins 1895:351–352). Thomas Daniels’s 

father, also named John, married Agnes Baker in 

New London in 1685, and Thomas was born on 

22 January 1690. The construction of the Daniels 

House was serendipitously recorded in the diary 

of Thomas Daniels’s neighbor Joshua Hempstead, 

which he kept daily from 1711 to 1758. Hempstead 

noted on 12 May 1712 that “I was att work 

att ye meeting house & Tho Daniels all day: 

Boarding it,” and then on 28 May he wrote that 

“I worked att the meeting house & Tho Daniels 

Shingeling & bording &c” (Hempstead 1901:9–10). 

These entries indicate precisely when the Daniels 

House was built. On 2 July 1712 Thomas married 

Hannah Keeney, the daughter of John Keeney, a 

prominent local farmer with large landholdings. 

The following year Thomas purchased his 22 ac. 

lot from his father-in-law for £20 (New London 

Land Records [NLLR]1713:303). 

On 17 March 1735 Joshua Hempstead noted 

in his diary that “Thomas Daniels aged 40 odd, 

Son of Jno Daniels Buried. He died yesterday 

with a pleurisy, Sick not one week” (Hempstead 

1901:287). Thomas Daniels was a middling-sort 

farmer, who at the time of his death had accumulated 

a respectable farm of some 67 ac. of 

land, with “houses,” “fences,” and an “orchard” 

(NLLR 1716:89, 1717:152). His probate inventory 

lists various household and farming possessions, 

including furniture, utensils, carpentry tools, a 

gun, livestock, and farming implements, but little 

in terms of luxury items beyond some pewter 

spoons and plates. Among Thomas’s most valuable 

assets were his three “yoke of oxen” and other 

livestock (CSA 1735). 

Following Thomas’s death his children inherited 

his estate, but they deeded the property to 

Matthew Stewart, a prosperous local merchant and 

land speculator, with the proviso that Thomas’s 

widow Hannah be allowed her lifetime dower’s 

right to live in the house until her death. On 

17 May 1744 Hempstead recorded “the Widow 

Hannah Daniels died (she was a Keeney, age near


50) I suppose. Buried on Saturday” (Hempstead 

1901:425). Another deed that year described the 

Daniels land as “with a mansion house, fences and 

fruit trees” (NLLR 1744:325, 1749:138). (The term 

“mansion house” was a common holdover from 

Norman French influence and simply denoted a 

building people lived in, as opposed to other types 

of “houses”: cow house, outhouse, warehouse, 

etc.) A probate inventory filed for Hannah in New 

London listed her few possessions, including her 

wearing apparel, bedding, some cooking and serving 

utensils, domesticated animals, and her “lining 

wheel” (CSA 1744). At the time Matthew Stewart 

purchased the Daniels property he was amassing 

large landholdings in New London County. By the 

late 1750s, however, Stewart found himself facing 

bankruptcy after losing several vessels to French 

privateers during the Seven Years’ War (Caulkins 

1895:474). To pay his debts he sold his holdings 

in a grand “Scheme of a Lottery” in 1759. The 

archaeological data indicate the Daniels House 

was occupied until about the 1770s, but it is not 

known who resided at the homestead after Hannah 

died in 1744. The inhabitants may have won the 

land in the lottery or perhaps were tenants who 

leased the house and land. 

Findings 

The buried remnants of the Daniels homestead 

site were discovered during an archaeological 

survey for a proposed new interchange off a 

major interstate highway (Figures 7b and 9). 

The remains of the house were on a small rise 

entirely buried in an agricultural field immediately 

adjacent to a large highway embankment that was 

built in the 1950s (Figure 10). The embankment 

covers a colonial-era road that once linked the 

towns of Lyme and New London. The initial 

reconnaissance survey picked up material culture 

evidence of an 18th-century domestic occupation. 

Intensified archaeological testing with 61 test pits 

at 5 m intervals found no features but, nevertheless, 

produced a dense assemblage of 18th-century 

domestic and architectural artifacts, indicating that 

a house had once stood within the project area. 

The following data recovery included 218, 1 m 2 

units. A total of 173,391 artifacts were recovered, 

as were multiple features. The first feature discovered 

was a 16 × 8 ft. fieldstone-lined cellar with 

a bulkhead entrance. There were no stone stairs 

in the bulkhead; the steps were either made of 

wood that rotted away, or the entrance was merely 

a ramp. The cellar’s dirt floor was 3 ft. 9½ in. 

below the ground surface, and at the northern end 

of the cellar the floor had been dug down another 

6 in. to serve as a sump to collect water seepage. 

The cellar was filled with two artifact-rich 

strata of soil with mean ceramic dates of 1737 

and 1738, indicating it was quickly filled with 

artifact-laden soil (including midden soils) from 

around the house. Eight feet from the cellar was 

the remains of a fireplace feature that comprised 

one to two courses of carefully stacked fieldstone 

placed just into the subsoil. The fireplace feature 

was 2 ft. below the ground surface and approximately 

4 ft. in diameter, though the original base 

dimensions were likely square or rectangular and 

larger. Around the fireplace feature was a dense 

concentration of shell-mortar fragments. The 

recovery of a few red-brick fragments suggest the 

chimney had been topped out with brick above 

the roofline. 

An interpretation of the Daniels House is illustrated 

in Figure 7b. The Daniels House seems to 

have started as a basic one-room end-chimney 

type and is projected to have measured 16 × 

28 ft. No evidence for a foundation was discovered, 

indicating the house was built using the 

foundation-on-ground construction technique, so 

when the house was abandoned and converted 

into agricultural field, the fieldstones supporting 

the sills were removed. Surfer-plot distributions 

of ceramics, kaolin-pipe fragments, bone, and 

nails showed artifact concentrations in the cellar, 

middens, and along the outer walls of the house 

(Harper and Clouette 2007; Harper 2010a). 

In the western half of the house were a series of 

27 postholes where an earthfast or post-in-ground 

addition had been appended to the original 1712 

house. Concentrations of creamware (1762–1820) 

and Jackfield (1745–1790) ceramics, 4/64 in. stembore 

diameter kaolin-pipe stems (1750–1800), and 

other artifacts in and around the postholes indicate 

that the earthfast addition postdates Hannah’s death 

in 1744. The postholes were characterized by very 

dark circular stains, typically 8–10 in. in diameter, 

and extending anywhere from a few inches to a 

foot and a half down into the subsoil. Some of 

the postholes still had small shim stones on the 

sides and bottoms to stabilize the posts. There 

were certainly more posts associated with the 

addition, but the postholes had been obliterated 

by plowing after the home lot was abandoned.


23 

FIGURE 9. Phase II and III archaeological site plan of the Daniels site. (Drawing by PAST/AHS, 2007.) 

FIGURE 10. The Daniels site during excavation. Photograph is taken from atop an artificial highway embankment. The 

cellar hole is to the left. The camera is facing south. (Photo by PAST/AHS, 2007.)


Some posts were shallow because of the extremely 

rocky soils at the site. The posts appear to have 

been of the puncheon-post variety, which were 

simply driven into the ground or set into augured 

holes. Puncheon-post architecture was the most 

primitive type of earthfast construction, with the 

outside of the upright posts planed flat and the 

clapboards simply nailed to the posts (Carson et 

al. 1981:148). That earthfast construction was used 

in such a stony area and at such a late date (post- 

1744) seems somewhat remarkable and suggests a 

need or desire for economy. Perhaps the addition 

was built by a person of limited means who won 

the house in the lottery, or perhaps it was built 

by tenants who did not want to make substantial 

improvements to a home they did not own. It 

seems likely that the house, by this time, was a 

modest, even rundown structure. Post-in-ground 

construction was easy and expedient. 

The Daniels House appears to be the first 

archaeological evidence for post-in-ground construction 

in Connecticut, but it may not have 

been altogether uncommon. In 1704 Sarah Kemble 

Knight, while traveling from Boston to New 

York, made an important observation of a house 

in which she stayed, located on the east bank of 

the Pawcatuck River (the border between Rhode 

Island and Connecticut), less than 20 mi. from 

New London: 

This little Hutt was one of the wretchedest I ever saw 

a habitation for human creatures. It was suported with 

shores enclosed with clapbords, laid on Lengthways, 

and so much asunder, that the Light come throu’ every 

where; the doore tyed on with a cord in the ye place of 

hinges; The floor the bear earth; no windows but such 

as the thin covering afforded, nor any furniture but a 

Bedd with a glass Bottle hanging at the head on’t; an 

earthan cupp, a small pewter bason, A Bord with sticks 

to stand on, instead of a table, and a block or two in ye 

corner instead of chairs. The family were the old man, 

his wife and two Children; and all every part being the 

picture of poverty. Notwithstanding both the Hutt and its 

Inhabitance were very clean and tydee: to the crossing 

the Old Proverb, that bare walls make giddy hows-wifes 

(Knight 1825:23–24). 

Madam Knight’s description of the walls 

“suported with shores enclosed with clapbords,” 

that is, upright posts with clapboards nailed on, 

seems analogous to the Daniels House. The 

earthfast addition was approximately 16 × 19 

ft., which would have made the house, after 

the Daniels occupation, approximately 47 × 16 

ft. overall in size. 

Within the earthfast addition was a dug, 

oval-shaped, subfloor pit measuring 9 ft. 10 

in. × 5 ft. 3 in. The west side of the feature 

was considerably deeper than the east side, 

basin shaped, and reached 2 ft. 6 in. below the 

ground surface. It was likely used to store food. 

The location of the subfloor pit and various 

hearth-related artifacts recovered from within, 

including glass beads, a thimble, straight pins, 

European flint strike-a-lights, and fragments 

of calcined bone suggest the nearby fireplace 

may have been expanded into an H-shaped 

type with a firebox added to the post-in-ground 

room, making the house a basic hall-and-parlor 

plan. A post-in-ground lean-to addition was also 

added to the back (south) of the house; this 

post-Daniels structure was used as a blacksmith 

shop/nailery, evidenced by dense concentrations 

of slag, scrap iron, scale, nail rods, and especially 

nails. Two large middens were found in 

the south yard, and a shell midden was located 

to the west of the house. 

Outside the house were three sauce-pit features. 

One sauce pit was 2 ft. off the east end 

of the cellar; circular in plan and basin-shaped, 

it measured 4 ft. 8 in. in diameter and extended 

2 ft. 5 in. below the ground surface. It dates 

to the Daniels occupation of 1712–1744. After 

being used to store root vegetables, the hole 

was filled with household refuse. Two more 

sauce pits were found 13 ft. and 23 ft. south 

of the cellar and date to the Daniels and post- 

Daniels time periods. 

Goodsell Site: “Old House” ca. 1725 to ca. 1775 

and “New House” ca. 1750 to ca. 1797 

Site History 

The Goodsell homestead site is in the coastal 

uplands in the town of North Branford (part of 

Branford until 1831) at the intersection of two 

18th-century roads, 9 mi. north of Long Island 

Sound, and 8.25 mi. from the port of New 

Haven (Harper et al. 2007; Harper 2008b). One 

hundred and ninety feet to the east is a small 

unnamed brook. Samuel Goodsell was born in 

East Haven in 1710 and was the son of Samuel 

Goodsell Sr., a farmer of some social distinction 

who held various public offices, including 

three terms as a selectman for the town of East 

Haven. Goodsell Sr. was the son of Thomas


25 

Goodsell, one of the original proprietors of 

Branford in 1667 (Dodd 1824). Samuel Goodsell 

Sr. acquired several tracts of land in Branford 

as a result of his father’s proprietor’s rights and 

purchased additional land from a local farmer 

named Jonathan Foot in 1732, which he later 

gave to his son Samuel (Branford Land Records 

1732:316–317). In about 1737 Samuel Goodsell 

married Mary Hotchkiss; he had likely settled 

on the homestead by that time. The couple had 

four children together, Samuel, Mary, Deborah, 

and Levi, but their mother died young in about 

1745, and Samuel then married a widow named 

Lydia Cooper and had two more children, Lydia 

and Martha. 

Samuel’s life was cut short when he was 

“killed by a log at a sawmill” on 25 November 

1751 at the age of 41. Samuel had owned 

a one-third interest in the sawmill, which was 

probably located on the nearby Muddy River 

(now Pine River). A probate inventory filed after 

Samuel’s death provides details of his real and 

personal estate (CSA 1752). His lands included 

38 ac. plus another 14 ac. nearby that was his 

share from his mother’s widow’s dower. His 

holdings included a “New House,” an “Old 

House,” a large barn, an orchard, livestock, various 

farming implements, a cider mill, beehives, 

beds and bedding, clothes, a sword, a gun and 

powder horns, linen and woolen wheels, and a 

loom. Samuel’s estate reflects a man who had 

risen a bit above the middling sort; among his 

few luxury items were “two China plates,” a 

“tooth and egg” (tutenag) spoon, various pewter 

spoons and plates, and “a pair of silver buttons” 

(cufflinks). 

Lydia received her widow’s third of the estate, 

which included one-third of the property, 2½ 

ac. of land around the house, a right in the 

New House, a one-third interest in the sawmill, 

one-third of the barn, cider mill, livestock, and 

various household goods and farming implements. 

The remainder of the estate was divided 

among Samuel’s children. The eldest son Samuel 

received a double share, which included lands, 

part of the “young orchard,” and the Old 

House. Son Levi received lands, and young 

daughters Lydia and Martha each received a 

right in the New House and various household 

and farm goods. Daughters Mary and Deborah 

also received household and farm goods. 

Daughter Martha never married and lived with 

her widowed mother Lydia at the homestead 

until Martha died in 1792. The land records 

indicate that Lydia, by then well into her 80s, 

died around 1797, and that before her death the 

children had sold most of the homestead lands 

to a local farmer named James Smith, though 

subject to her dower rights. In 1798 no house 

is listed in the federal tax records for Lydia’s 

heirs or James Smith, indicating both houses 

were gone or at least unoccupied by this time. 

The dower rights were released by daughter 

Deborah in 1799, and thereafter no house is 

mentioned in the deeds. 

Findings 

The remains of the Goodsell homestead site 

were discovered buried in the realignment of a 

road intersection (Figure 11). Like at the Sprague 

and Daniels sites, the Goodsell House remains 

were found buried and hidden on a small rise in 

an agricultural field. The intensified archaeological 

survey and data-recovery phases on the Goodsell 

site included the excavation of 174 test pits and 

126, 1 m 2 units. A total of 30,767 artifacts was 

recovered. A feature first discovered in a test pit 

during the intensive survey phase was expanded 

to reveal a stone-lined cellar in the southern 

part of the site (Figures 12 and 13b). The cellar 

was 16 × 13 ft. in size, and the dirt floor was 

3 ft. 11 in. below the ground surface. Several 

courses of the stone cellar walls remained, but 

the upper courses had evidently been removed 

before the cellar was filled in. Entrance to the 

cellar was likely through a trapdoor in the floor 

above, as no exterior bulkhead was found. The 

remnants of a fireplace base were 6 ft. east of 

the cellar: a single course of fieldstone 3½ ft. in 

diameter and covered in white mortar powder. 

The base was likely square or rectangular shaped 

originally, and larger. The fireplace feature was 

just below the plowzone stratum in the subsoil, 

and a dense concentration of shell-mortar fragments 

surrounded it. Localized rodent disturbance 

flanked the feature. 

There were no foundation stones projecting 

from the cellar walls, indicating that the house 

was built using the foundation-on-ground technique. 

The foundation stones had long since been 

removed when the house was abandoned and the 

home lot converted into an agricultural field in 

the late 1790s or early 1800s. Distinct Surfer-plot


FIGURE 11. Phase II and III archaeological site plan of the Goodsell site. (Drawing by PAST/AHS, 2007.) 

distributions of domestic and architectural artifacts 

around and in the cellar and fireplace features 

delineated the footprint of the house. By projecting 

the house walls from the cellar to the fireplace 

and considering the mention of “the chamber” 

in the New House in Samuel Goodsell’s probate 

records (one chamber implies one room above), 

the house was likely a one-room end-chimney 

type, perhaps measuring 16 × 28 ft. in size 

(Figure 13b). A household refuse midden extended 

out along the east side of the fireplace, indicating 

that the house was probably never expanded into 

a hall-parlor center-fireplace plan. With only the 

widow Lydia and her unmarried daughter Martha 

living in the New House there would have been 

little need to expand the house. Like other oneroom 

end-chimney houses, the house plan likely 

included the main room (hall) with a small porch 

or vestibule next to the chimney, with stairs leading 

to the second floor. A buried stone-lined well 

was found 50 ft. south of the house. The area to 

the south of the house was likely the yard. 

Approximately 32 ft. northwest of this house 

another cellar was discovered running parallel to 

and offset from the south cellar (Figures 11 and 

13a). The cellar walls had been lined with fieldstone, 

though most of the stone had been removed 

before the cellar was filled, evidently to be reused 

elsewhere. The north cellar measured 21 × 13 ft., 

and the dirt floor was 4 ft. 7 in. below the ground 

surface. There was no in situ evidence of a fireplace, 

though the northwest corner of the cellar 

contained a high concentration of shell-mortar 

fragments, indicating the fireplace was likely near 

this end. The fireplace footing had likely been 

relatively shallow and then obliterated by plowing 

after the house was removed. Only a few dressed 

and shaped fireplace stones were in the cellar fill; 

the rest were likely removed with most of the 

cellar-wall stones and reused elsewhere. To the


27 

FIGURE 12. Excavation of the cellar of the Goodsell site “New House.” The camera is facing northeast. (Photo by PAST/ 

AHS, 2007.) 

east of the cellar was a large and dense midden, 

indicating the house had likely not extended in 

that direction. The north-cellar house had also 

been built with the foundation-on-ground technique; 

it may have not been much bigger than 

the cellar, with just enough room for an end 

chimney. As at the southern house, Surfer-plot 

distributions of domestic and architectural artifacts 

were concentrated around and in the cellar feature. 

Approximately 16 ft. west of the cellar was an 

irregular oval-shaped feature that measured 4 ft. 

9 in. × 3 ft. and extended 6 in. into the subsoil. 

Its purpose is unclear, though its last function was 

as a trash pit in the mid-18th century. 

Diagnostic artifacts indicated that the house 

associated with the north cellar predates the 

southern house and was abandoned before the 

southern house. The mean ceramic date for the 

northern cellar is 1749, 11 years earlier than the 

south cellar. The south-cellar area also had 5 

pearlware sherds (1780–1830) and 10 machine-cut, 

hand-headed nails (after ca. 1790). Seventy-three 

percent of the 855 creamware sherds (all were 

undecorated and of the 1762–1820 period) recovered 

from the cellars were from the south cellar. 

As in Virginia and Maryland, creamware seems to 

have been regularly purchased in Connecticut only 

after about 1770 and to have peaked in popularity 

between 1780 and 1800, particularly among 

the “middling rank” (Martin 1989:1–27). Another 

clue comes in the form of a liquor-bottle fragment 

recovered from the south cellar; the initials “MG” 

are scratched into it, which are likely connected 

to the unmarried daughter Martha Goodsell, who 

lived in the New House with her mother. The 

Goodsell New House is among the few 18thcentury 

excavated houses that can be documented 

as being, for almost its entire history, occupied 

solely by women. 

It therefore seems that the south cellar is associated 

with the New House, occupied between ca. 

1750 and ca. 1797, and the northern cellar is that 

of the Old House, which is likely the dwelling 

mentioned in the 1732 deed transfer from Jonathan 

Foot to Samuel Goodsell’s father, Samuel Sr. It 

is difficult to determine precisely when the Old


FIGURE 13. Interpretations of the Goodsell “Old House” (a) and “New House” (b), and the western section of the Benedict 

House (c). (Drawing by PAST/AHS, 2007.)


29 

House was built, though it was likely after 1720 

when this area of North Branford was first settled. 

The Foot House would have provided Samuel 

Goodsell and his first wife Mary a good starter 

home when they arrived at the farmstead in about 

1737. In Samuel Goodsell’s 1752 probate records 

the Old House was valued at only £150 and the 

New House at £600. The eldest son Samuel, who 

had inherited the Old House, died only a few 

years after his father in 1756 at the age of 18 

(CSA 1758). When the younger Samuel’s estate 

was divided among his siblings two years later, 

the Old House was valued only at £10, indicating 

it was small and in poor condition. The 1758 probate 

distribution also indicates that the Old House 

and some lands were rented out to unnamed tenants. 

Who and how many tenants occupied the 

Old House and for how long is also unknown, 

though the artifacts from the cellar suggest that it 

was occupied, perhaps intermittently, from about 

1725 to 1775, when it was dismantled and the 

cellar filled in. 

Site History 

Benedict Site, ca. 1713 to ca. 1806 

The Benedict homestead was first established 

in about 1713 in the town of Norwalk when 

Benjamin Benedict or Bonnedick (a common 

early spelling) purchased 157 ac. on the east 

side of “Danbury Road” and built a house 

(Norwalk Land Records 1713:427; Harper et 

al. 2007; Harper 2008c). The site is on a road 

that connected the port town of Norwalk to 

Danbury 18 mi. to the north, later becoming a 

turnpike in 1795. The road, still called Danbury 

Road or U.S. Route 7, is now a major interstate 

throughway. The Norwalk River is approximately 

300 ft. to the west of the site, and 

Long Island Sound is 7 mi. to the south. The 

homestead was in Norwalk until 1802 when the 

town of Wilton was set off and incorporated; 

the northwest corner of Wilton borders New 

York State. Benjamin Benedict (1678–1773) was 

the grandson of Thomas Benedict (born 1617), 

who had come to Massachusetts from England 

in about 1638. Thomas moved to Long Island 

and then to Norwalk in 1665. Benjamin Benedict’s 

father, John Benedict, married Phoebe 

Gregory and was a prominent Norwalk resident 

who served as a selectman and a deacon of the 

local Congregational church. Benjamin Benedict, 

however, did not remain in Norwalk long. In 

1715, two years after he built his house, he 

sold the homestead and moved to the nearby 

town of Ridgefield, where he participated in the 

purchase of large landholdings and served as a 

selectman. The Benedict House was occupied by 

four different families and had seven different 

owners over the next 90 years. 

The second owner of the property was John 

Scrivener, who purchased 12 ac. with a dwelling 

house “standing thereon” from Benjamin Benedict 

on 2 April 1715 (Norwalk Land Records 

1715:527). Born in Huntington, Long Island, in 

1684, John Scrivener’s father had been induced 

to settle in Norwalk by a generous grant of 

land, provided he agree to ply his trade of 

weaver. Little else is known about Scrivener, 

who held the property for nine years. On 20 

February 1724, John Scrivener sold the 12 ac. 

to John Taylor (born 1673), who remained there 

until his death in 1742. John Taylor was the 

son of Thomas Taylor, who came to Norwalk 

from Windsor, Connecticut, in about 1667 (Hurd 

1881:635–637). Although the property was 

described in the deed as a “parcel of land” with 

no direct mention of the house, the purchase 

price of £80 suggests there was a house on the 

12 ac., as unoccupied land at that time typically 

sold for between £2 and £4 an acre (Norwalk 

Land Records 1724:523). In a 1733 deed the 

property was described as John Taylor’s “home 

lot,” and a new road was extended from the 

northern edge of the property, which places the 

dwelling near the corner of what is today Danbury 

Road and Grumman Hill Road (Norwalk 

Land Records 1733:377). The next year, when 

Taylor briefly mortgaged the property to his 

neighbor, Solomon Manrow (probably to secure 

a loan), he referred to it as including “my 

now dwelling house” (Norwalk Land Records 

1734). Taylor’s probate and landholding records 

indicate he was a middling-sort farmer who 

owned the 12 ac. lot with a house and other 

small land parcels in Norwalk and in the nearby 

town of Danbury (CSA 1742). His possessions 

included livestock, bushels of grains, household 

furnishings, cooking implements, various “stone” 

and “earthen” vessels, forks and knives, tools, 

and farming implements. His few luxury items 

included a large pewter platter, a silk handkerchief, 

and a castor (beaver) hat. After his death,


the property came into the possession of his 

son, also named John, who occupied it for more 

than 30 years until he sold 8 ac., the house, 

and barn to Seth Abbott in 1774 (Norwalk Land 

Records 1774:264). 

Seth Abbott had a distinguished military career 

during the Revolutionary War, serving as a lieutenant 

in W. G. Hubbard’s company of General 

Silliman’s battalion in 1776. He was in the 

Battle of Long Island, 27 August 1776, and at 

the Battle of White Plains later that year. He is 

recorded in local histories as shooting a British 

soldier dead during the British raid on Norwalk 

in 1779, when part of the town was burned 

(Bouton 1851:48–49,73). Seth Abbott is believed 

to have removed to Vermont, and by 1789 his 

cousin John Abbott owned the land, though no 

record of the land transfer has survived. That 

same year John Abbott sold the “buildings and 

fruit trees” to his son Judd Abbott, who had 

served in the Revolutionary War in Ezra Starr’s 

regiment of light horse in 1781 (Norwalk Land 

Records 1789:496). Judd Abbott appears to have 

resided at the homestead until 1806 when he 

sold out and moved to Long Island and then 

the Hudson River valley. The property then 

went through a series of owners; the lowered 

value of the parcel and intermittent mention of 

“buildings” suggest there was no longer a house 

there, though there is no direct evidence as to 

when the house was abandoned. In 1845 William 

Hanford purchased the property, and within 

the next seven years the value of the property 

doubled in value, suggesting the construction of 

a new house in about 1850, believed to be the 

standing Greek Revival house on the property set 

farther back from the road. From 1852 to 1897 

the house and land was occupied by a carpenter 

named Nelson Hanford and his family (Wilton 

Land Records 1845:58, 1852:324). 

Findings 

The remains of the ca. 1713 Benedict House 

were initially found beneath almost 2 ft. of 

roadside fill and a buried plowzone during an 

archaeological reconnaissance survey for a roadwidening 

project. The project area was covered 

with lawn and large trees. Twelve test pits were 

excavated in the intensive survey phase; although 

no features were discovered, high densities of 

18th-century domestic and architectural artifacts 

indicated a house once stood in the area. The 

data recovery that followed included the excavation 

of 19, 1 m 2 units and the discovery of 

a filled-in and buried stone-lined cellar (Figures 

13c and 14). The cellar is 18 ft. from the 

southwest corner of the ca. 1850 Hanford House 

(now converted into offices) and 16 ft. from 

the edge of Danbury Road. The cellar walls 

were constructed of dry-laid fieldstone, and the 

dirt cellar floor was approximately 4 ft. below 

the ground surface. A 10 to 12 in. dip in the 

southwest corner of the cellar floor may have 

functioned as a sump. Five to six courses of 

fieldstone remained in the cellar walls, which 

were approximately 3 ft. high. Set off 2 ft. from 

the inside northwest corner of the cellar wall 

appeared to be a bulkhead entrance, though compact 

stone and large tree roots prohibited further 

excavation. A vertical break in the north cellar 

wall, also 2 ft. from the corner, further suggested 

a bulkhead entrance. About 8 ft. to the south of 

the house was a dense 18th-century midden. The 

archaeological investigations were confined to the 

project-area limits (road alignment boundary), 

thus further excavation of the bulkhead and the 

cellar could not be conducted. The remainder 

of the house site is unexcavated and lies buried 

beneath layers of fill and plowzone. 

Although the house was occupied by various 

families, and only a western portion of the cellar 

and home lot was excavated (the eastern portion 

remains intact), a considerable amount of new 

information on 18th-century households in the 

western part of Connecticut was gathered. The 

cellar hole was especially rich in 18th-century 

artifacts, and preservation was especially good as 

the cellar had evidently been filled with midden 

soils and buried soon after the house was abandoned. 

The mean ceramic date for the cellar 

feature is 1768, which correlates with a midoccupation 

date of 1760, based on the 1713 to 

1806 land-deed records. The latest-dated ceramics 

are 13 pearlware sherds and 104 creamware 

sherds, which also suggests, as at the Goodsell 

and Daniels sites, that creamware reached its 

highest popularity in the 1780 to 1800 period 

(Martin 1989:1–27). Also from the cellar-fill 

soils came fragments of shell-and-clay mortar, 

red brick, four window-lead (came) fragments, 

240 handwrought nails (with no machine-cut 

types), and 261 fragments of green and bluegreen 

window glass.


31 

FIGURE 14. The southwestern section of the Benedict House cellar. The camera is facing west. (Photo by PAST/AHS, 2007.) 

Site History 

Story Site, 1777 to 1903 

The Story homestead site sits on a terrace 

overlooking the Thames River in the town of 

Preston, which split from the town of Norwich 

in 1786 (Harper and Clouette 2006, 2009; 

Harper 2010c). The port of New London is 12½ 

mi. down the Thames River on Long Island 

Sound, and 2½ mi. to the north is Norwich, 

which was an important inland port in the 18th 

century. In 1771, Jonathan Story (born 1720) 

and his sons Ebenezer (born 1749) and Samuel 

(born 1746) each purchased a one-third interest 

in a 20 ac. “lot of land” corresponding to 

the location of the Story site (Norwich Land 

Records 1771:75). Jonathan Story, a middlingsort 

farmer, was ordained a minister of a New 

Light Separatist Church in Norwich in 1752 

(Caulkins 1866:321). Jonathan’s father, Samuel 

Story, was from Ipswich, Massachusetts. Also in 

1771, Ebenezer Story married Mehitable Webb, a 

woman from a prominent local family. Ebenezer 

already owned a house in the Chelsea section of 

Norwich, and six years later he completed the 

construction of a second house on the riverside 

20 ac. parcel he owned in common with his 

father and brother. Jonathan then sold his share 

to another son Jonathan Jr., and son Samuel sold 

his share to his brothers Ebenezer and Jonathan 

Jr. (Norwich Land Records 1778:254,256). On 20 

May 1777 Ebenezer petitioned the Connecticut 

General Assembly for permission to operate a 

tavern in his new house, which “has been built 

since Jan.y last,” indicating precisely when the 

Story House was completed (CSA 1777). The 

house was also described as being “a few rods” 

from the shipyard where the 32-gun Continental 

frigate Confederacy was under construction. 

The tavern license was requested by Ebenezer 

to cater to the hundreds of itinerant shipyard


workers there. The building of the frigate on 

the Storys’ land seems at least in part related to 

his wife Mehitable’s family connections, as she 

was the niece of Samuel Huntington, a signer of 

the Declaration of Independence and president of 

the Continental Congress, and a distant cousin 

of Joshua Huntington, the Norwich merchant in 

charge of building Confederacy. Along with his 

land lease for the shipyard and tavern activities, 

Ebenezer also sold timber to the shipyard, and 

milk and meals to the shipyard workers (Wolcott- 

Huntington Papers 1777–1779). The Confederacy 

was launched in November of 1778. Ebenezer 

sold his Chelsea house in October 1780 and 

continued operating the tavern, as he appears on 

a 1782 list of tavernkeepers drawn up by town 

officials in January of that year (Preston Land 

Records [PLR] 1780:335; CSA 1782b). 

According to recorded family histories, Ebenezer 

Story hired on as a ship’s carpenter on the 

Confederacy, which was captured by the British 

navy on 14 April 1781 off the coast of Virginia 

and taken to New York City. The crew was 

first held on the prison-ship Jersey, anchored in 

Wallabout Bay, where the prisoners lived in horrific 

conditions in cramped below-deck quarters. 

Later, the crew was transferred to the notorious 

Sugar House prison in Brooklyn, where Ebenezer 

reportedly starved to death (Johnson 1904; 

National Society Daughters of the American 

Revolution 1965). Ebenezer’s probate records 

were filed in Norwich courts on 18 November 

1782 and list his half interest in the 20 ac. parcel 

with “half the dwelling house standing thereon” 

(his brother Jonathan Jr. owning the other half). 

He also had 21 ac. of his late-father’s estate 

(Jonathan Sr. had died the previous year), which 

he shared with another brother, Stephen Story. 

Ebenezer also had part ownership of the family’s 

cider mill, saltworks, fishing seines, several 

canoes, and a scow (CSA 1782a). Other possessions 

included various household furnishings, 

carpentry tools, a “Blue sea chest,” and £233 in 

gold and silver, a substantial sum, likely most 

of what he had earned from the Confederacy 

project. Although he was only about 33 years old 

when he died, Ebenezer Story had done well in 

life and had purchased a few luxuries including 

a beaver hat, a silver watch, and silver shoe and 

knee buckles. 

Ebenezer Story left Mehitable widowed with 

three young sons. She seems to have remained 

at the house until she remarried local farmer 

and Revolutionary War veteran Caleb Edson in 

1791. She was widowed again in 1805, however, 

when Caleb drowned in the Thames River. The 

Story property went into the hands of Ebenezer 

and Mehitable’s son Ebenezer Story II when 

his uncle, Jonathan Story Jr., sold him his half 

interest in the property in 1792, and another 

son, James, sold his brother Ebenezer II his 

interest in 1805 (PLR 1792:103, 1805:169). 

Ebenezer Story II married Mary Mansfield about 

1807, and they had 11 children together. Like 

his father and grandfather, he appears to have 

combined farming, fishing, and shellfishing. 

The U.S. Coast Survey map of 1841 shows 

several buildings on the site, clustered closely 

together, indicating that the house was associated 

with a couple of outbuildings (United States 

Coast Survey 1841). In 1843 the Norwich and 

Worcester Railroad purchased a right-of-way on 

the Story property, and train tracks were laid 

between the Story House and the bank of the 

Thames River. About that time Ebenezer Story 

II sold a southern portion of his property to 

his son, Ebenezer Story III (born 1809), who 

had recently built a second house on the south 

end of the property (PLR 1843:354). According 

to the returns of the 1850 federal census, both 

Ebenezer Story II and Ebenezer Story III were 

fishermen, as was James A. Story, another son 

of Ebenezer II, who lived with his father (United 

States Bureau of the Census 1850). Boarding 

with the Storys was a railroad laborer, his wife, 

and young daughter. The property with the older 

house was valued at $2,000 that year, while that 

occupied by the younger Story on Craig’s Cove, 

presumably smaller, was valued at $700. Following 

his father’s death in 1852, Ebenezer Story 

III acquired the entire property. After he died in 

1873, the children of Ebenezer Story III owned 

the property in common for another 20 years, 

with his son Charles F. Story continuing to 

reside in the southern house. In 1895 Charles’s 

son Thomas Winship Story bought out seven 

other heirs; he then sold most of the property, 

including all of the original Story homestead, 

to the Dawley Lumber Company in 1903 (PLR 

1844:485, 1852:506,507, 1895:19, 1903:290). 

The parcel and buildings were eventually sold 

to the former Norwich State Hospital, and the 

house was burned down in the 1960s during a 

fire-department training exercise.


33 

Findings 

The remains of the Story homestead were 

discovered during an archaeological reconnaissance 

survey of the 500 ac. former Norwich 

State Hospital campus conducted preparatory to 

the redevelopment of the property. The site area 

initially looked unpromising and was covered 

with bulldozed fill, trash from the nearby state 

hospital buildings, and thick tangled beds of 

poison ivy and bittersweet vines. Barely visible 

at the ground surface were several short sections 

of dry-laid stone walls. All vegetation was cut 

away from the site, and the intensive survey 

testing that followed included 69 test pits placed 

on a 5 m interval grid for even site coverage. 

Although layers of fill, 1 to 2 ft. thick, covered 

much of the site, intact and deeply stratified artifact 

deposits were found in test pits just south 

of the stone-wall remains. The subsequent datarecovery 

phase included the excavation of 74, 1 

m 2 units. The removal of the modern-era upperfill 

strata on the site was done with a backhoe 

fitted with a flat landscaping blade and by hand 

excavation, which revealed that the sections of 

dry-laid stone walls were actually the foundation 

walls of a large L-shaped house (Figure 15). The 

walls correspond with railroad survey maps from 

ca. 1890 and 1915 that show the Story House 

and outbuildings. Several early photographs also 

show the house and outbuildings, including one 

taken in the early 20th century (Figure 16). 

On the south side of the house was a stone 

bulkhead entrance leading into the cellar, which 

was built with dry-laid fieldstone walls. In the 

southeast corner of the cellar was a red-brick 

cistern with white parging, measuring 11 × 6 ft. 

and approximately 3 ft. in depth. It is not clear 

when the cistern was constructed; but brick and 

stone cisterns were commonly used in maritime 

regions where fresh water was scarce or when 

wells became contaminated by brackish water 

(Harper 1990). No evidence of a well was found, 

but it may still exist in an area near the house 

that was not excavated. 

The cellar was full of architectural and 20thcentury 

domestic debris from the burning and 

demolition of the house in the 1960s, as well 

as sand-and-gravel fill, and was not extensively 

excavated. The locations of the two fireplace 

bases were projected from photographs of the 

house. In the southern part of the house the 

cellar was 16 ft. wide and the house was 20 

ft. wide. The western house wall, 4 ft. from 

the cellar wall, was only one to two courses 

of dry-laid fieldstone, which rested directly on 

the subsoil or hardpan. This deeper Story House 

foundation wall was laid within a plowzone; 

perhaps the turned and softer plowed soils called 

for a deeper foundation than for houses that were 

built on top of original undisturbed topsoil using 

the foundation-on-ground technique. It appears 

from several early photographs of the Story 

House that the northern 32 × 24 ft. part of the 

house was built under the ownership of Ebenezer 

Story II. It has typical 19th-century architectural 

features, including substantial overhangs on the 

gable ends of the roof, long and narrow proportions, 

and a small chimney. There is, however, 

an older looking ell off the south side (Figure 

16). This ell appears to be the original 1777 

Story House, perhaps measuring 20 × 20 ft. and 

a one-room end-chimney type with two stories. 

In the photographs two doors can be seen, one 

on the 19th-century portion and one on the older 

ell, both of which face the river. 

To the south of the house were two 

outbuildings. One, represented by a dry-laid stone 

foundation 60 ft. away, measured approximately 

30 × 23 ft., with a later 11½ × 23 ft. addition 

on the west side. Another outbuilding, closer 

to the house, sat on piers constructed of 

dressed and compact fieldstones placed in holes. 

The construction dates and functions of the 

outbuildings are unclear, they may have been 

associated with the “two barns, one shop, and 

other outbuildings” listed in the 1873 probate 

records of Ebenezer Story III. Neither outbuilding 

found during the fieldwork had cellars, nor was 

likely to have been a dwelling originally. South 

of the house was a yard, and the recovery of 

numerous lead net weights indicates that fishing 

seines were likely made and repaired there. 

Other features, approximately 30 ft. southwest 

of the house, include a sauce pit that measured 

approximately 3 ft. 2½ in. in diameter and 3 ft. 

10 in. deep. This sauce pit was later used as a 

refuse midden and was filled with shellfish and 

animal bone, including the entire articulated skeleton 

of a great horned owl (Bubo virginianus). 

The few diagnostic artifacts from this feature 

indicate it was used sometime in the early 19th 

century. Two more partial sauce-pit features, 

dating from the late 18th to early 19th century,


FIGURE 15. Phase II and III archaeological site plan of the Story site. (Drawing by AHS, 2007.)


35 

FIGURE 16. An early-20th-century photograph of the Story 

House showing the 19th-century addition and the ell, 

believed to be the original 1777 house. In the foreground 

is the Thames River. Note how the door faces the river and 

not the road. The camera is facing east. (Courtesy of the 

Preston Historical Society.) 

and part of a fence line that dates to the second 

half of the 19th century, were in the northeast 

corner of the site. 

In the south yard area a large and stratified 

midden was found. The midden was created by 

using a deep natural swale as a refuse disposal 

area. The midden is at least 23½ × 19 ft. in 

horizontal dimensions based on the archaeological 

testing. The swale was used as a midden from 

the period when the house was built until the 

mid-19th century, when it was nearly full, at 

which time it was capped with fill. Seven 1 m 2 

units were excavated in a trench line through 

the midden. The lowest stratum of the midden, 

which reaches over 8 ft. in depth, produced a 

diversity of domestic artifacts as well as numerous 

fragments of brick, window glass, mortar, 

and nails attributed to the construction of the 

house, which was completed in January 1777. 

Large pockets of sand-and-gravel subsoil and 

boulders were also found at this lowest level of 

the swale, which seems to be the displaced soil 

from when the house-cellar hole was dug out by 

the builders (cellar ejecta). Rich midden deposits 

were found above the house-construction stratum, 

which included matching sets of creamware and 

China-glaze tablewares, and numerous fragments 

of clear-glass tumblers, case bottles, and liquor 

bottles. The types and quantities of these ware 

types are consistent with a tavern that fed more 

than a family. Large fragments of slag also came 

from this level, likely refuse from the numerous 

iron forges at the nearby Confederacy shipyard. 

Above the tavern stratum was a cobble layer 

dating to the early 19th century; that stratum 

appears to have been created as a work surface; 

over the cobble paving were various tools, including 

assorted knives and large quantities of shell 

and fish bone, indicating this was also where fish 

and shellfish were processed. 

After the partial data-recovery phase was 

completed, the state concluded that the Story site 

was too important to be developed, given the 

richness of the site, its ability to provide new 

information on historical period lifeways along 

the Thames River, and its association with the 

Confederacy shipyard, whose location had been 

unknown until the archaeological investigations. 

The site, inclusive of the ca. 1840 Story House 

site to the south, has been designated a State 

of Connecticut Archaeological Preserve, ensuring 

permanent preservation. 

Site History 

Cady-Copp Site, ca. 1745, 

Occupied to the 1920s 

The Cady-Copp House was built in ca. 1745 

when Joseph Cady, Esq., of the town of Killingly 

deeded two parcels of land to his sonin-law 

Perley Howe (born ca. 1710), the newly 

called minister of the local Congregational church 

(Harper et al. 2005; Harper and Clouette 2010a; 

Harper 2010d). On one of the parcels, a 10 ac. 

lot, Cady built a house for his daughter Damaris 

(born ca. 1718), her husband Rev. Howe, and 

their children (Figure 17). Joseph Cady was a 

prosperous man and public servant who served as 

a captain in the local militia and as town clerk. 

He was also a justice of the peace and a founder 

of a library association in 1739. Rev. Howe died 

of consumption in 1753, and the next year widow 

Damaris married Rev. Aaron Brown (born 1725), 

Howe’s replacement in the pulpit. He moved into 

the house with Damaris and raised her six children 

as his own. There he also prepared one son,


Joseph Howe, and other local boys for college. 

In 1768 another son of Damaris, Samson Howe, 

acquired full title to the house. In 1775 Rev. 

Brown died suddenly and Damaris passed away 

the next year. Damaris’s probate reveals that she 

possessed a number of luxury items including 

gold jewelry, silver buckles, silver spoons, silk 

gowns, pewter plates, and a “library,” which 

she willed to her children and grandchildren 

(CSA 1776). 

In 1776 Samson Howe sold the house and 

property, then totaling about 50 ac., to a house 

carpenter from Norwich, Connecticut, named 

David Copp (1750–1833). Copp was known for 

his skilled work on churches and bridges in the 

area; he served in the local militia as a sergeant 

and had answered the Alarm at Lexington in 

April 1775. In 1818 Copp conveyed the house 

and property, then amounting to about 30 ac., 

to his son Simon Copp (born 1781), who was 

also a house carpenter. The sale was on the 

condition that he would support his father and 

wife (his father’s second) for the remainder of 

their lives. After Simon Copp died in 1841 the 

house and property were held by Simon Copp’s 

widow; son James Copp, a sea captain; and 

other Copp relations until 1872 when it was 

purchased by William Marsh. The property then 

passed through a number of owners until 1992 

when it was deeded to the local Aspinock Historical 

Society, which still maintains the house 

and associated small lot (Harper et al. 2005; 

Harper and Clouette 2010a). 

The Cady-Copp House is essentially square 

in plan (32 × 32 ft.), with a small portico and 

pantry (Figures 17 and 18). The house is two 

stories with a gambrel roof, clapboard siding, and 

a large central fieldstone fireplace. The house interior 

exhibits large cased framing members, paneling 

around the fireplaces, and wide floorboards. 

The ground floor is divided into four main rooms 

with fireboxes in a corner of each room. The 

kitchen firebox is larger and is equipped with 

a bake oven. A door leads from the kitchen to 

the backyard, with stairs leading down into the 

L-shaped cellar, which lies beneath the southern 

part of the house. A winding staircase leading 

to the second floor has a bay window for 

space and light. Many of these house features 

are not typical for 18th-century Connecticut 

domestic architecture as it is commonly known; 

however, these features may have once been 

commonplace, and a similar house style can be 

found at the John Goddard House in Newport, 

Rhode Island, which was built before 1758. 

The Cady-Copp House reflects the prosperity 

FIGURE 17. An 1889 photograph of the Cady-Copp House; the camera is facing northeast. (Courtesy of the Aspinock 

Historical Society.)


37 

FIGURE 18. Phase III archaeological site plan of the ca. 1745 Cady-Copp House. (Drawing by PAST, 2003.) 

and education of Joseph Cady and his daughter 

Damaris, as well as typical Yankee pragmatism 

in form and materials. 

Surviving structural elements and old photographs 

and drawings of the Cady-Copp homestead 

indicate that it has not greatly changed 

since the 18th and 19th centuries. Now overgrown 

with hardwood forest, the home lot is 

lined with stone walls bordering old fields, 

animal pens, and vestigial roads. Several fieldstone 

foundations near the house reveal the 

locations of various outbuildings, including a 

barn that was destroyed in a 1938 hurricane. 

To the east are open fields that were once the 

Killingly Town Common and militia-training 

ground. The few modern additions include 

asphalt roof shingles, replacement windows and 

exterior doors, and a hand pump in the pantry. 

A round pipe hole above the kitchen fireplace 

indicates there had once been a cast-iron cook 

stove. To the back of the house is a shed made 

of reused timbers and equipped with a two-seat 

privy. Large paving stones off the back door of 

the kitchen lead to a stone-lined well. Remarkably, 

the house was never equipped with modern 

plumbing or electricity, and local informants 

noted that it was last occupied in the 1920s. 

Findings 

Time and decades of being unoccupied have 

left the Cady-Copp House in bad shape. Renovation 

of the house by the Aspinock Historical 

Society and the town of Putnam is currently 

underway, which first includes the installation 

of drains in the backyard, assessing the foundation, 

and repairing cellar windows. Prior to this 

subsurface disturbance, archaeological testing 

was conducted around the house. Because the 

house was never fitted with modern utilities 

and was last occupied almost a century ago, the 

excavations offered a rare opportunity to better 

understand 18th-century house construction and 

home-lot use. Excavations included a 13 m long


excavation block at the back (east side) and one 

to three 1 m 2 units on each side of the house. 

The excavations discovered a number of features 

and activity areas (Figure 18). Outside the 

kitchen door were the remains of a rich midden 

with mid-18th- to mid-19th-century domestic 

refuse. Layers of buried flagstones revealed a 

walkway between the kitchen door and northeast 

corner of the house that once functioned as a 

pathway to the well and the north fields. The 

discovery of a buried gray-water iron pipe leading 

from the pantry sink to the yard is one of 

the house’s few “modern” conveniences. 

Excavations on the south side of the house 

and flanking the portico found evidence of 

cellar window wells made with reused brick 

and fieldstones. The portland cement used in 

their construction and associated artifacts indicate 

construction in the late 19th to early 20th 

century. A 1 m 2 unit on the west side of the 

house (N5W11) found evidence of a mid-18th- to 

early-19th-century midden. Testing on the north 

side of the house near the pantry (N10W6) discovered 

a concentration of seven clay marbles. 

This protected corner had provided a play nook 

where a mother could conveniently keep watch 

over her children from a kitchen window. 

During the first field season, what appeared to 

be a buried bulkhead entrance to the cellar was 

discovered on the east side of the house. The 

interior wall of the cellar opposite the bulkhead 

has a recessed storage shelf. Continued excavation 

the following field season revealed that the 

bulkhead entrance had been walled up and the 

cavity filled in with soil and stone. The bulkhead 

was built with fieldstone walls with no evidence 

of stairs leading down into the cellar. Perhaps 

they had been made of wood, which has long 

rotten away. The bulkhead fill included artifactrich 

midden soil, pockets of ash and debris from 

a rebuilt firebox, probably in the kitchen. Artifacts 

included fire-cracked and degraded dressed 

fieldstone, 1,915 bone fragments, eggshells, fish 

scales, and shellfish. Also recovered were button 

fragments, a blue glass bead, a sheet-brass aglet, 

sewing-needle fragments, 59 straight pins, and a 

brass thimble––artifacts lost by women toiling 

over a hot kitchen hearth. Other artifacts included 

sherds from red-earthenware baking dishes, a 

red-earthenware pot or butter pot, an English 

white salt-glazed stoneware tea saucer, and a 

Chinese porcelain cup or bowl. The artifacts 

point to deposition in the last quarter of the 

18th century; perhaps the firebox was repaired 

and the bulkhead sealed and filled in during 

renovations to the house after it was purchased 

by carpenter David Copp in 1776. 

The excavations also revealed a considerable 

amount of important information on 18th-century 

house-construction techniques. In a 1 m 2 unit 

excavated on the southeast corner of the house 

(N1W1) an example of an important construction 

technique was discovered, classified here as 

a “splayed-foot foundation” (Figures 18 and 19). 

Splayed-foot foundation construction involved 

digging the cellar hole and then building up a 

flat vertical surface on the interior wall face, 

with outwardly splayed stacked stone on the 

exterior wall face. The base of the splayed-foot 

foundation exterior is typically 2 ft. wide and 

several feet deep, often resting directly on the 

buried original topsoil. The splayed-foot tapers 

upward toward the cellar wall from the ground 

surface. This in effect creates a hypotenuse 

triangle of stacked stone against the outer 

cellar wall. Soil that was shoveled out of the 

cellar hole (cellar ejecta) when the house was 

built was then shoveled in and over the outer 

splayed-foot foundation wall. Then, large and 

flat stones, sometimes called “drip stones,” were 

placed on top of the splayed-foot and against 

the outer cellar walls, and angled down and 

away from the cellar. 

The splayed-foot foundation wall accomplished 

two important things: it created a more-stable 

cellar wall/foundation by reinforcing the exterior, 

and the downward angle of the stones directed 

rainwater from the roof away from the cellar. 

The splayed-foot cellar wall has also been discovered 

during excavations at other standinghouse 

sites, including the ca. 1805 Prudence 

Crandall House in Canterbury, the ca. 1810 

Brown-Elton Tavern in Burlington, and at the 

1814 Sylvester Judd House in Westhampton, 

Massachusetts, indicating its use well into the 

19th century and elsewhere in New England 

(Harper 2008d; 2008e; Harper et al. 2009). 

When and where the splayed-foot technique 

originated is unknown, but it was likely widespread 

in the region and used for generations. 

Another important 18th-century construction 

technique, “foundation-on-ground,” was revealed 

at the foundation wall on the north side of the 

house (Unit N10W6) (Figures 18 and 20). This


39 

FIGURE 19. Photograph of the “splayed-foot” cellar-wall/foundation construction technique at the Cady-Copp House. 

Some of the stone and soil were removed to show the splayed foot resting directly on the black, buried A-horizon soil, the 

ground surface when the house was built ca. 1745. The large flat stone on top is a “drip stone.” (Photo by PAST, 2003.) 

unit clearly showed that the fieldstone foundation 

of the house was built directly on the 

original mid-18th-century ground surface (now 

a buried A horizon). When the house was built, 

the fieldstone foundation was laid directly on 

the ground surface with no builder’s trench dug. 

After the foundation was completed, the soil dug 

out of the cellar hole (cellar ejecta) by the builders 

was spread around the house and up against 

the foundation walls. Over time, dark and loamy 

topsoil accumulated on top of the cellar ejecta. 

This sequence of construction and soil deposition 

on the unplowed original ground surface 

(buried A horizon) could also be seen in the soil 

profiles in the other excavation units, including 

the long and linear excavation block on the east 

side of the house (Figure 21). Starting from the 

ground surface these soils included a thick layer 

of topsoil, various deposits of cellar ejecta below 

(made up of displaced A-, B- and C-horizon 

soils), a buried A horizon (ground surface when 

the house was built), and then intact subsoils 

below (B1-, B2- and C-horizon soils). Other 

standing-house sites where the foundation-onground 

technique was documented include the ca. 

1720 Huntington House in Scotland and the ca. 

1715 Josiah Loomis House in Andover (Stachiw 

2000; Harper and Harper 2007). Foundationon-ground 

construction seems to have persisted 

as a widespread, if not dominant, construction 

technique in Connecticut in the 18th century and 

most certainly elsewhere in New England. 

Significantly, when such houses were abandoned 

and dismantled, and the home lots converted 

to agricultural fields, the foundation 

stones on the ground surface were picked up 

and reused elsewhere, or tossed in a cellar hole 

or other open features to fill them, leaving no 

in situ remains of foundation walls beyond the 

cellar walls. The use of the foundation-on-ground 

technique also means that these houses had no 

builder’s trenches associated with them. The


FIGURE 20. Photograph of “foundation-on-ground” construction at the Cady-Copp House. Note that the fieldstone 

foundation is resting directly on the black, buried A-horizon soil (arrow), the ground surface when the house was built 

ca. 1745. (Photo by PAST, 2003.) 

FIGURE 21. Soil-profile drawing of the linear block excavated on the east side of the house. Soil strata include from top 

to bottom: Topsoil, cellar ejecta (soil displaced from digging out the cellar by the builders), the thin, buried A horizon (the 

ground surface ca. 1745), and intact B1-, B2-, and C-horizon subsoil strata below. (Drawing by PAST, 2003.)


41 

house walls of such archaeologically excavated 

houses can be projected from the buried remains 

of cellars, fireplace bases, and other features 

found below the plowzone stratum and by plotting 

the distributions of domestic and architectural 

artifacts in and around the footprint of 

the house, such as at the Sprague, Daniels, and 

Goodsell house sites discussed above. Artifact 

concentrations are naturally less dense inside the 

houses when they were occupied, as refuse was 

discarded out of doors. 

The Cady-Copp House and associated home 

lot, now in the town of Putnam (incorporated 

1855), has been designated a State of Connecticut 

Archaeological Preserve, ensuring permanent 

preservation. 

Summary 

Early humble dwellings that were once commonplace 

and reflective of English building traditions 

are rarely found standing in Connecticut, 

but remnants of them can sometimes be found 

hidden within the framework of old houses and 

discovered buried under farm fields, residential 

yards, and next to historic roads by archaeologists. 

The six 18th-century homesteads and other 

smaller house sites, all part of cultural resource 

management projects, are enriching the understanding 

of Connecticut’s 18th-century domestic 

architecture and lifeways. While Connecticut 

Yankees often appeared to outsiders as austere, 

religiously zealous, and steeped in English customs, 

the culture was also dynamic and adaptable. 

While the hearth and home was the domain 

of women, the family connections that women 

brought into a marriage could be major factors 

contributing to a family’s long-term prosperity. 

Women in colonial Connecticut, such as Lydia 

and Martha Goodsell and Hannah Daniels, could 

choose to live independently. 

Early Connecticut houses were built of 

the abundant materials at hand, with sturdy 

wood frames, deep cellars, and large fieldstone 

fireplaces; they were well suited to the colonists’ 

needs and environment, and could be readily 

expanded when needed. Houses were typically 

sided with riven hard- or softwood clapboards 

and roofed with cedar shingles. Before 1800 

the majority of houses was not painted at all 

(Larkin 2006:69–70). While traveling with the 

French Army through Connecticut during the 

Revolutionary War, the French Abbé Robin 

observed that 

Scattered about among the forests, the inhabitants have 

little intercourse with each other, except for when they 

go to church. Their dwelling-houses are spacious, proper, 

airy, and built of wood, and are at least one story in 

height, and herein keep all their furniture and substance 

(Robin 1783:25). 

The continued use of traditional English 

architecture and small houses reflects Connecticut’s 

“Steady Habits,” where waste was a 

sin, efficiency was revered, and style changes 

came, “like Yankee humor, in small things and 

subtle details” (Garvan 1951:121). Although there 

developed a small, wealthy, landowning, and 

merchant segment of the population, particularly 

in the urban centers along the major rivers, 

18th-century Connecticut society did not have 

the great chasms in social class that divided the 

populations in the Southern colonies and Europe. 

“Wealth is rare;” a Polish statesman visiting Connecticut 

observed in 1798: 

[P]overty is still more rare. A good situation is 

common practically everywhere. Almost everyone, 

except for wine and comforts from abroad, eats, drinks 

and dresses in the same way, and one can see the most 

obvious inequality only in their dwellings (Niemcewicz 

1965:136). 

The archaeology of 18th-century house sites 

is showing that houses were typically built on 

small land rises for better drainage and made 

with basic hardware such as large hand-forged 

strap hinges, latches, pintles, and handwrought 

nails. Leaded windows fitted with green and 

blue-green diamond- and triangular-shaped panes 

or quarrels continued to be used throughout the 

18th century. Cellars were typically deep, well 

built, lined with dry-laid stone, and with dirt 

floors. Some cellars had bulkhead entrances, and 

others were entered through a trap door or stairs 

above them. Some had sumps dug in the floor 

to collect water seepage, which could ruin food 

stores. These cellars effectively kept food staples 

of salted beef and pork, cider, vegetables, and 

apples dry and cool in the hot summers and 

frost-free in the frigid winters. After houses 

were abandoned and dismantled or moved, the 

cellars were commonly filled in with discarded


fireplace stones, field cobbles, and soil from 

around the house. This soil is normally artifact 

rich because in the 18th century domestic refuse 

was typically discarded immediately outside the 

house. The reuse of building materials such as 

fireplace stones and hardware was common. 

Framing timbers were also commonly reused. 

A typical example can be seen at the standing 

ca. 1760s Governor Jonathan Trumbull Jr. House 

in Lebanon, where several of the kitchen-hearth 

support beams appear to have originally been 

mortised for some other purpose (Harper 2006). 

Root vegetables or “sauce,” as they were 

commonly called in New England, were stored 

in bins in cellars and in holes that were dug 

in the cellar floor or outside the house in the 

yard. Such sauce pits were typically 2 to 4 ft. 

in diameter, 2 to 3 ft. deep, smooth sided, and 

basin shaped. They were often filled with trash 

or soil after the vegetables were taken out, as 

organic residues could cause the next crop of 

vegetables to rot, making reuse impractical. 

Fireplaces were commonly large and made of 

dressed and geometrically shaped fieldstone, and 

chimneys were made of dressed fieldstone and 

topped out with brick just above the roofline. 

The in situ archaeological remains of fireplaces 

often include only a course or two of the base 

resting below the plowzone in the subsoil. 

Because of the great labor involved in gathering 

and shaping fieldstones to build fireplaces, 

abandoned ones were commonly dismantled and 

the stone reused elsewhere. Fire-degraded stones 

from the firebox and flue were usually discarded 

in cellar holes and other open features to fill 

them. Significantly, fireplace features are commonly 

found in association with dense concentrations 

of ash, charcoal, hearth-related artifacts (calcined 

bone, flint debitage, straight pins, etc.), and 

especially mortar fragments around them. Mortar 

in 18th-century Connecticut was commonly made 

from burnt shellfish and coral, or limestone, or 

local clays. Lacking natural limestone deposits, 

shell mortar was particularly widely used, a 

technique brought from England (Harper 2010b). 

For example, in his building manual Mechanick 

Exercises, published in London in 1703, Joseph 

Moxon advised that “the shells of Fish, as of 

Cockles, Oysters, &c. are good to burn for lime” 

(Moxon 1703:241). 

Archaeological excavations are also showing 

that ancient English house forms such as the 

one-room end-chimney and cross-passage types, 

and old building techniques, including the foundation-on-ground, 

post-in-ground, and splayed-foot 

foundation, endured well into the 18th century 

in Connecticut. How long the earthfast tradition 

endured in New England is unknown, but 

archaeological evidence for a post-in-ground 

house measuring 24 × 25 ft. was found in Essex, 

Vermont, dating to the first third of the 19th 

century (Sloma 1992). The ancient cross-passage 

form may have simply been abandoned for the 

widespread and more practical center-chimney 

plan that provided a heated core in the middle 

of the house. 

These excavated houses also show that Connecticut’s 

architectural traditions have more in 

common with its neighbors to the north and to 

the south than previously known. Because colonial 

Connecticut builders widely reused stone and 

utilized the foundation-on-ground construction 

technique, finding old house remains buried in 

plowed fields can be challenging. When a house 

was abandoned or burned, the cellar was filled in 

with nearby soil and fieldstone, and then repeatedly 

plowed for generations, removing all traces 

of the house on the ground surface. The soils in 

house features like cellars can contain exceptionally 

rich artifact deposits. Because houses built 

with the foundation-on-ground technique leave no 

foundation outline when dismantled and plowed, 

the footprint must be reconstructed from the 

remaining house features and by the distribution 

of artifacts. Artifact distributions, such as those 

generated from Surfer plots, can project locations 

of the house walls, activity areas, room types, 

and middens, and help identify features. With 

the foundation-on-ground technique, a house will 

have no foundation builder’s trench at all. Only 

by understanding how such 18th-century houses 

were built and what architectural forms persisted 

can archaeologists find such house remains buried 

and hidden under fields and under roadside fill. 

An understanding of these house-construction 

techniques is also imperative to conduct meaningful 

excavations around standing colonial-period 

houses, which can provide ideal locations to test 

such hypotheses. Archaeologists need to be persistent 

and use careful and extensive hand excavation 

to locate and identify architectural features 

and artifact patterns. Rigorous historical research 

is necessary to reconstruct histories of occupation 

and to place the sites within cultural contexts.


43 

Conclusion 

Connecticut household archaeology is entering 

an exciting new era of discovery. The 

types and construction of the houses occupied 

by the middling sort, who comprised the largest 

segment of the population, are now better 

understood. By the mid-18th century, as Connecticut’s 

population was changing from Puritan 

to Yankee, ancient house forms and building 

techniques were increasingly viewed as archaic 

and unimproved. The variety and influences of 

early Connecticut domestic architecture have 

been summarized by Abbott Lowell Cummings 

(1994:225): 

The diversity found in Connecticut, as we have suggested, 

provides for the state a unique status among 

the original thirteen colonies. The richness of texture 

is owing almost entirely to the contributory strains of 

different European vernacular building traditions, and 

their distinctive intermingling in this cohesive corner 

of the New World, poised significantly between two 

major urban axes of the colonial northeast. 

Buried and hidden house remains in what 

appear to be only farm fields, vacant lots, and 

busy roadsides are waiting to be found, and 

archaeologists simply must be on the alert for 

the clues of their presence. Archaeologists need 

to abandon old ideas that house sites located 

in plowed fields and under roadsides are too 

disturbed to contain important information. The 

yards of standing old houses contain information 

on activity areas, landscape, and house construction. 

Connecticut’s rich architectural history is 

still being written. 

Acknowledgments 

I am indebted to a large number of people 

who were involved with these projects. I am 

particularly grateful to AHS/PAST director and 

editor Mary G. Harper, AHS/PAST historian 

Bruce Clouette, the AHS and PAST field crew 

and lab technicians, former Connecticut State 

Historic Preservation Office Archaeologist David 

Poirier, the Connecticut Department of Transportation, 

the Connecticut Department of Economic 

and Community Development, and the Aspinock 

Historical Society. I also greatly appreciate the 

thoughtful comments made by the anonymous 

SHA reviewers, and SHA editors Joe Joseph 

and Grace Ziesing. I am also deeply grateful to 

Cary Carson, retired vice president of research 

at Colonial Williamsburg, who patiently and 

generously shared his immense knowledge of 

English and colonial architecture and culture, 

and was encouraging and supportive, and is the 

best kind of mentor and scholar. Any errors are 

mine and mine alone. 

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48 

Amanda D. Roberts Thompson 

Evaluating Spanish Colonial 

Alternative Economies in the 

Archaeological Record 

ABSTRACT 

The Spanish settlement of Santa María de Galve (1698–1719), 

a presidio in northwest Florida, was in a precarious economic 

position from the moment of its establishment. The Spanish 

Crown prohibited trading with foreigners and expected the 

colonists to survive on the unreliable situado supply system. 

This insufficient system may have spurred colonists to participate 

in illegal activities to support their economic interests. 

In complex colonial situations such as this, it is necessary for 

archaeologists to consider illicit activity as a possible source 

of goods when interpreting artifact assemblages. According to 

historical documents, throughout its occupation the presidio 

of Santa María de Galve only received five shipments of 

ceramics in the situado, yet, as is common on archaeological 

sites, ceramics dominate the artifact assemblage. A possible 

explanation for the abundance of ceramics might be that 

colonists attained ceramics through illicit means. In doing 

so, the colonists created a different kind of economy, one 

that became alternative to the legal and formal economy of 

Spain. This case study provides one way of examining illicit 

trade by applying diversity statistics to ceramic assemblages 

from refuse-pit features in status-assigned areas at Santa 

María de Galve. The results demonstrate a higher diversity 

index in areas occupied or regulated by higher-status military 

officials, indicating that illicit trade might have been used 

to some degree to obtain ceramics that were not available 

through the situado. 

Introduction 

During the 18th century, the Spanish government 

established settlements along the northern 

Gulf Coast of Florida to prevent further 

encroachment of the British and the French on 

their New World territories. Pensacola, Florida, 

and its surrounding bay became the location of 

the colony of Presidio Santa María de Galve 

(1698–1719) (Figure 1). The mercantilist policy 

of Spain included strict trade regulations within 

its colonial territories, prohibiting trade with 

foreigners (Bushnell 1981:57,63–64; 1994:44). 

Spain’s formal economic system failed to support 

FIGURE 1. Map showing the location of Presidio Santa María 

de Galve. (Map by author, 2011.) 

the occupants of Santa María de Galve in several 

ways. First, Spanish supply ships were to bring 

supplies, munitions, and salary payments (referred 

to as the situado) to the presidio, but these ships 

were rarely on time and often contained spoiled 

goods (Bushnell 1981:64; 1994:44; Clune et al. 

2003:51–60). Second, colonists were to produce 

food through agriculture and animal husbandry. 

This type of self-sufficiency did not occur at the 

presidio. Lastly, many of Spain’s colonies were 

set up to produce exportable goods. Santa María 

being more of a military settlement had no goods 

to export, making the settlement a lower priority 

to Mexican officials (Clune et al. 2003:51–52). 

This erratic and, many times, inadequate economic 

system spurred the colonists to participate 

in illegal activity to obtain items such as 

imported ceramics. Examples of illicit activity are 

visible throughout Spanish territory, from outposts 

in Florida to missions in California (Harman 

1969; Archibald 1978:115,123; Skowronek 

1984:7, 1992; Deagan 2007; Roberts Thompson 


Accepted for publication 25 May 2012. 


amanda d. roberts thompson—Evaluating Spanish Colonial Alternative Economies 

49 

2010:71). Santa María was no exception. Coker 

(1996:123) estimates that illicit trading between 

Mobile and Santa María yielded approximately 

12,000 pesos per year. Illicit activity in Santa 

María allowed colonists to increase their economic 

independence. The reasons behind these 

illicit actions may have ranged from desire 

to increase their social standing to the actual 

need for specific goods. These actions formed 

an alternative economy that supplemented the 

formal and legal economic system. 

Overview of Santa María de Galve 

There were several expeditions into the American 

Southeast and Florida specifically during 

the 1500s (Hudson 1998). It was not, however, 

until the ill-fated colony led by Tristán de Luna 

that Spain focused its interests on the Pensacola 

area. This colonization effort was large and 

might have been successful if a destructive 

hurricane in 1559 had not destroyed the expedition 

soon after its arrival (Coker 1999:6; Clune 

2003:14). Over 100 years later, with the threat 

of French encroachment looming over Spanish 

territories, Spain decided that a Spanish presence 

was again necessary in that area. 

Established in 1698 and lasting until 1719, 

Santa María de Galve was a short-lived colony 

that included a fort, village, church, cemetery, 

barracks, hospital, and warehouse. From the 

beginning, the settlement was to be a military 

garrison, housing mainly a military and penal 

population. Seen in Table 1, there was a variety 

of official military positions common to the 

presidio. The generally poor conditions at Santa 

María made military service at the presidio difficult 

and unpleasant. “The greatest incentive 

for an officer was probably the opportunity 

to engage in private trade far from the prying 

eyes of officials in Mexico City” (Clune et al. 

2003:26). The presidio was a common place 

where men served out their criminal sentences, 

either as conscript soldiers or as convicts. The 

severity of their crimes determined who would 

receive a salary and a ration for the required 

military service and who was required to 

serve hard labor as a convict and receive only 

a ration. The soldiers and convicts were of 

low socioeconomic status. Soldiers, with their 

small salary, had a small degree of economic 

freedom within the community. With no salary 

TABLE 1 

OFFICIAL MILITARY POSITIONS 

AT SANTA MARÍA DE GALVE 

(DERIVED FROM CLUNE ET AL. [2003:25]) 

Governor 

Sergeant Major 

Military Engineer 

Captain of Infantry 

Adjutant 

Ensign 

Sergeant 

Corporal 

Master Gunner 

Soldier 

Artillerymen 

Sailing Master 

Seamen 

or income, convicts had no economic standing 

within the community. Although changing status 

from convict to conscript soldier was possible, 

most at Santa María remained convicts (Clune 

et al. 2003:27; Eschbach 2007:71). While there 

were few opportunities for officers at Santa 

María, there were fewer for soldiers and even 

fewer for convicts who did not even earn a 

salary. As a result, desertion was a frequent 

occurrence for both soldiers and convicts (Clune 

et al. 2003:26). 

Santa María’s primary population was military 

in nature, but there were a small number of 

other individuals at the presidio (Coker 1996; 

Bense and Wilson 1999:8; Clune et al. 2003:52). 

A variety of skilled and unskilled laborers, 

friars, surgeon-friars, Native Americans, a paymaster 

and apprentice, servants or slaves of the 

military officers, foreign guests or laborers, as 

well as laundresses and wives and children of 

soldiers also lived and worked at Santa María 

(Clune et al. 2003:25–30). Information, especially 

economic, about other members of the 

population is minimal. Many but not all of these 

people would have received some sort of salary 

for their work. For example, a few women 

collected rations and salaries. Some foreign 

individuals who worked as gunners, seaman, 

artillerymen, or carpenters also received a salary 

(Clune et al. 2003:28–30). Throughout the presidio’s 

occupation, the population ranged from


180 to 700 people. The population was under 

constant change due to influxes of Apalachee 

refugees and shipwreck victims, desertion of 

troops, fires, sickness, and attacks by the British 

and their Native American allies during the 

War of Spanish Succession (1702–1713). The 

conflict caused the population to abandon the 

village in 1704, moving to the safety of the 

fort until 1713 (Bense and Wilson 1999; Clune 

2003:21,25–26). At the conclusion of the war, 

the colonists ventured outside, rebuilt the fort 

walls, and reconstructed life as it was before 

(Bense and Wilson 1999; Clune 2003:21). 

Fully supported by the Spanish supply system, 

Santa María was not to be a self-supporting 

colonial settlement (Faye 1941; Coker 1996; 

Bense and Wilson 1999:8; Clune et al. 2003:52). 

Instead, Santa María de Galve was located in 

what Skowronek (1989, 2002, 2009:472–473) 

described as a “protective” area. Santa María, 

like other colonies in “protective” zones, was 

on the lower end of the colonial economic hierarchy 

and generally was expensive to maintain. 

Colonies in these types of areas did not produce 

commercial revenue; therefore, they received 

little attention, contact, and few goods from 

other parts of New Spain (Skowronek 1989). 

Santa María’s main purpose was to create a 

buffer against other foreign interests and to 

establish a strategic stronghold against further 

intrusion (Coker 1999:8). The garrison was 

maintained until events from the War of the 

Quadruple Alliance in Europe led the French 

to capture Santa María in 1719 (Clune 2003:80; 

Clune et al. 2003:25–26). 

Archaeological Context of 

Santa María de Galve (8ES1354) 

Historical documents indicate that when the 

Spanish returned to the area in 1722, there was 

little left of Santa María after the French burned 

the settlement in 1719. The British, Spanish, 

and Americans cultivated and reused the area 

subsequently, burying any remaining vestiges of 

the fort (Bense and Wilson 1999:15). Chad O. 

Braley, through a National Park Service survey 

in 1979, rediscovered Santa María de Galve, 

and Judith Bense later directed large-scale 

investigations at the site from 1995 to 1999. 

This research identified several key architectural 

features and activity areas. Foremost among 

them are some of the inner portions of the 

fort and the village. Within these larger spaces, 

additional archaeological research confirmed 

many of the features and areas indicated on 

historical maps (Braley 1979; Bense and Wilson 

2003:92). This study looks at imported ceramics 

from refuse pits in areas occupied or regulated 

by the varying social classes of the presidio. 

Seven areas are included in this study: Barracks 

North, Barracks West, Barracks SW, the 

Warehouse, Hospital/Warehouse, Area between 

the Hospital/Warehouse and Barracks, and the 

Village Area (Figure 2). 

Santa María de Galve Areas 

Bense and Wilson (2003:132–133) concluded 

that the presence of lower-status artifacts in the 

Barracks North Area indicates habitation by the 

convict population. The Barracks West appears 

to have been the soldier’s barracks area. The 

artifact assemblage from this locale reveals 

some imported tablewares and higher-status 

artifacts (Bense and Wilson 2003:128–132). 

Bense and Wilson (2003:109) interpreted the 

area of Barracks SW as the officer’s barracks. 

The higher-status artifacts, such as personal 

items and tableware, the architectural quality 

of the archaeological remains, as well as its 

close proximity to a building labeled “officer’s 

barracks” on a 1719 map of the fort at Santa 

María all support this interpretation. 

The Warehouse Area was important as it 

primarily housed supplies and materials for the 

presidio. There were three or four warehouses in 

various locations within the presidio during the 

occupation of Santa María (Bense and Wilson 

2003:134). The first two warehouses have not 

been found archaeologically. Bense and Wilson 

(2003:134) interpreted this area to be the location 

of the third warehouse. The archaeological 

remains of a cellar pit, six architectural support 

posts, and several refuse pits, along with evidence 

of artifacts associated with supplies from 

the situado demonstrate that this was the location 

of the third warehouse (Bense and Wilson 

2003:134–135). 

The fourth warehouse at Santa María was the 

Hospital/Warehouse Area. The archaeological 

evidence indicates that this was a substantial 

structure. Two historical maps from 1713 and 

1719 label this structure first as a hospital and


51 

Between Hospital/ 

Warehouse and Barracks 

Barracks West: 

Soldiers’ Barracks 

! ! 

!& 

! !! 

! !! 

! ! 

!! ! !! !! !! ! 

! 

! !!! ! ! 

! 

! 

!! ! ! 

Barracks North: 

Convicts’ Barracks 

Hospital/ 

Warehouse 

Barracks SW: 

Officers’ Barracks 

!!! ! 

! 

! 

! !! 

!! 

!! 

!! ! 

! 

Warehouse 

! 

1713 Fort 

Village Area 

Excavation Units 

Location of Buildings 

on 1713 Map 

0 20 40 80 120 160 

Feet 

FIGURE 2. Map showing locations of areas at Presidio Santa María de Galve. (Map by author, 2009.) 

then later as a warehouse (Bense and Wilson 

2003:144–145). Bense and Wilson (2003:144– 

145) interpreted the archaeological remains in 

this area to be a large building with 11 large 

postholes, most likely the support posts, and 

26 smaller posts. The building had multiple 

purposes, and the associated artifact assemblage 

reflects the different activities that took place 

(Bense and Wilson 2003:144–148). 

The Area between the Hospital/Warehouse and 

Barracks was adjacent to the Hospital/Warehouse 

Area. This locale contained a wide variety of 

artifacts, suggesting that it was a “high activity 

area” possibly utilized by all residents of the 

fort (Bense and Wilson 2003:150). 

Excavations revealed several postholes that 

may have been for a smaller building or perhaps 

even a drying rack for food processing. 

This area does not appear to have been used or 

controlled by one particular class of individuals. 

The general interpretation is that this was an 

open space “around which a variety of people 

gathered to prepare food, eat, drink, bury refuse 

and work” (Bense and Wilson 2003:150). 

In general, the structures associated with the 

Village Area were smaller and spread over a 

much larger space (Wilson 2000:29). The village, 

according to the interpretation of maps by 

Bense and Wilson (2003:161), may have also 

included a church, cemetery, friary, as well as 

several houses. Archaeological remains in the 

Village Area were not substantial. There were 

only a few features and sparse midden deposits 

identified during the excavation. This pattern is 

likely the result of a smaller population and the 

sporadic occupation of the village due to the 

attacks by the British and their Native American 

allies. Located east of the fort, the central 

Village Area contained the highest concentrations 

of artifacts (Bense and Wilson 2003:163). 

From the few refuse pits excavated, all appear 

to be small, shallow features spread throughout 

the village. There was one large feature, F427, 

that was uncovered near architectural elements 

of a post-and-sill structure. Bense and Wilson 

(2003:207) surmised that this may be the 

residence of an officer, Captain Juan Jordán de 

Reina, and a Native American woman. Besides


this particular feature, the archaeological remains 

did not reveal distinctive socioeconomic areas of 

the village. It was necessary then for this research 

to consider the selected refuse pits from the Village 

Area as one analytical unit. 

The function of the fort was to provide a place 

of protection, as well as the center of activity for 

the colonists. Within the fort were large structures 

designed for military housing and for storage of 

supply goods. The interior of the fort also contained 

the private space of some officers, soldiers, 

and the convicts. Some soldiers, high-ranking 

officers, Native Americans, and families occupied 

the village. The distribution of artifacts reflects 

the socioeconomic statuses of the individuals 

who occupied these spaces. If the activity area 

determinations by Bense and Wilson are correct, 

then primarily higher-class military officers would 

have used the Barracks SW. Lower-class soldiers 

and convicts would have used the Barracks West 

and Barracks North. Some higher-class officers 

and middle- to lower-class individuals would 

have occupied the Village Area. All members of 

the presidio would have used the Area between 

Hospital/Warehouse and the Barracks, and the 

Hospital/Warehouse and Warehouse areas were 

relatively public areas. However, higher-class 

military officers would have regulated these three 

areas (Bense and Wilson 2003:128,132,142). 

Research Objectives 

The primary research objective of this case 

study is to provide a preliminary characterization 

of illicit trade in the colonial presidio, Santa 

María de Galve. This study draws upon archaeological 

data, specifically the frequency of imported 

ceramics, to examine the presence of illicit trade. 

While the historical record provides some insight 

into the nature of illicit activities, it does not provide 

a complete picture of an economy that relied 

upon illegal exchanges, as such actions are often 

undocumented (Roberts 2009; Roberts Thompson 

2010). In order to accomplish these goals, this 

study addresses the following questions. First, 

since ceramics are legal objects, to what extent do 

imported ceramics (i.e., European and Mexican) 

in the archaeological record indicate illicit trade? 

Second, do certain areas at the presidio reflect 

a higher degree of illicit trade? Finally, to what 

degree can illicit economic choices be inferred 

from the archaeological record? 

Illicit activity is a complex topic, and numerous 

scholars have discussed the economic aspects 

of this behavior within various colonial contexts 

(Brown 1928; Christelow 1942; Nelson 1945; Cole 

1958; Hinckley 1963; Harman 1969; Archibald 

1978:115–141; Zahedieh 1986a, 1986b; Croft 

1989; Perotín-Dumon 1991; Grahn 1997; Pedreira 

2001; Pijning 2001). Several archaeologists have 

also attempted the difficult task of interpreting 

colonial illicit activity in the archaeological record 

(Harman 1969; Lyon and Purdy 1982; Schmidt 

and Mrozowski 1988; Skowronek 1992; Skowronek 

and Ewen 2005; Deagan 2007). Deagan 

(2007) and Skowronek (1992) examined ceramics 

as a way to evaluate illicit trade within colonial 

Spanish sites. Deagan (2007) analyzed Spanish 

and non-Spanish ceramic tablewares from six 

domestic sites according to the trade periodicity 

with foreigners at St. Augustine. In summary, she 

found that illicit trade varied among the different 

households in St. Augustine, suggesting that 

it was “contingent not only on economic access 

but also relative positions of social privilege and 

the attitudinal values that reinforced those positions” 

(Deagan 2007:113). Similarly, Skowronek 

(1992:113–114) looked at Spanish and non-Spanish 

ceramic tablewares from four sites (Puerto Real, 

Santo Domingo, St. Augustine, and Santa Elena) 

and also used information from a site in Seville, 

Spain (Baños de la Reina), and from the 1554 

flota. He further compares archaeological remains 

from the 1733 flota and St. Augustine. Skowronek 

(1992:114) noted that there is an increase in illicit 

trade in the 18th century that reflects Spain’s 

inability to maintain its economic monopoly and 

supply its colonies in the New World. Johnson 

(1999) looked at Santa María, French Mobile, 

and Veracruz trade interactions. She acknowledged 

that business outside official jurisdiction was 

common. Similarly, Swann (2000, 2002) compared 

the historical documentation of supplies and the 

archaeological record at Santa María using Stanley 

South’s (1977) artifact categories. She concluded 

that private trade provided goods that the Spanish 

government did not supply (Swann 2000:113). The 

work of the abovementioned authors provides an 

important baseline for the present research. 

The abovementioned studies point to one way 

in which archaeologists can, at least in part, 

address illicit activity and lend insight into 

the agency of individuals operating within the 

colonial economy. This work contributes to the


53 

larger picture of colonial Spanish research by 

providing an alternative methodology for examining 

illicit trade. The research presented here 

uses intrasite comparisons of imported ceramics 

within refuse-pit features from the fort and village 

at Santa María de Galve. It is important to 

note that in this study imported ceramics are not 

illegal objects but rather are used as indicators 

of illicit activity in the archaeological record. 

In this analysis, diversity statistics provide a 

way to examine economic choice and access 

to goods, specifically the success of different 

individuals in acquiring imported ceramics. The 

results indicate that higher-status areas have 

more diverse assemblages of imported ceramics 

than lower-status areas. The greater diversity 

is interpreted as individuals obtaining imported 

ceramics in other ways than through the formal 

economy. 

Commonly found on colonial Spanish sites, 

ceramics provide good temporal markers due 

to their vast number, production techniques, and 

stylistic variables (Deagan 1987:30). Ceramics 

can provide a wealth of information because 

ceramics were important to all members of 

society regardless of status (McEwan 1992:103; 

Pleguezuelo 2003:103). Tableware symbolized 

social status and ethnic identity in the colonial 

world (Deagan 1983:234; McEwan 1992:103). 

According to Jamieson (2001:46): “the use of 

majolica was closely tied to wealth, suggesting 

that households with greater wealth could afford 

larger quantities of majolica.” Furthermore, 

imported ceramics, especially tableware, become 

visible representations of status, while lesser 

grades of imported ceramics and Native American 

wares were utilized in cooking or in the 

private areas of residences (Jamieson 2001:46). 

In order to deal with the complex issues presented 

above, this study uses the concepts of 

formal and informal economies to contextualize 

patterns of economic activity revealed by the 

statistical analysis of diversity. 

Theoretical Perspective 

Political economy and agency are useful concepts 

to help understand actions within colonial 

economies. Since economic activity is “embedded” 

in society, political economy provides 

a framework to contextualize the nuances in 

economic systems, while agency is a useful tool 

for understanding individual actions within such 

systems (Clammer 1978:3; Plattner 1989:4; Patterson 

1999:156; Feinman and Nicholas 2004:4; 

Dobres and Robb 2005:161). These concepts 

are directly applicable to the understanding of 

the circumstances surrounding the occupation of 

Santa María de Galve for several reasons. First, 

colonists in Santa María were limited because 

they could not produce their own food, could 

not produce exportable goods, and because 

they depended on the situado for all supplies. 

Second, the colonists had few choices in what 

ceramics they received through the situado. 

Finally, separated from the rest of the Spanish 

colonial world, the colonists’ need to delineate 

social status became even more important. The 

use and display of high-quality ceramics were 

one way this could be accomplished. 

The unequal access to wealth and power, both 

at the global and local scale, forms the basis of 

political economy (White 1959; Wolf 1982:76– 

77; Erickson and Murphy 1998:138–139; Wilk 

and Cliggett 2007:94–102). Socioeconomic 

inequalities result in decisions and actions that 

individuals make regarding the control over 

production, consumption, and distribution of 

goods. These actions can create a wide variety 

of behaviors at different scales, from the individual 

level to the community, polity, region, 

and macroregional levels (Feinman and Nicholas 

2004:4). Yet, economic behavior, according 

to Van den Benghe (1975), is rarely rational. 

Individuals act and make decisions in their own 

self-interests according to the differing variables 

in their surrounding economic system (Patterson 

1999:156). 

Dobres and Robb (1999, 2005:162) describe 

agency as the product of social action encompassed 

in social reproduction and materiality. 

As stated by Dobres and Robb (2005:162): 

“[M]aterial culture actually constitutes social 

relations and meaning making. It is within the 

tightly woven web of material, symbolic, and 

social engagement that agency reproduces and 

transforms society.” Agents within their social 

surroundings have the power to change or to 

adjust their world through strategic decision 

making in response to external forces (Barrett 

2001:141–142; Lightfoot 2001:239). Agents may 

both produce social effects based on purposeful 

and intended acts of self-interest, or they may 

produce effects that are unintended (Carr and Case


2006:33). As a result, agents may not always act 

rationally or for their optimal benefit (Cowgill 

2000:55). An agent’s material consumption, participation 

in the exchange of goods, and interaction 

with and reaction to political forces reflect these 

choices (Shackel 2000:232). The decision to participate 

in illegal trade to obtain different kinds 

of ceramics indicates how the colonists responded 

to Spain’s political authority. The use of imported 

ceramics was common, but it is the types acquired 

and by whom that may demonstrate the degree 

of illegal trade. Interpreting the material culture 

is thus vital to understanding social relationships 

and the meanings behind it (Dobres and Robb 

2005:161). 

The Colonial Economy of 

Santa María de Galve 

The theoretical constructs of political economy 

and agency are directly applicable to the complex 

relationship between the Spanish government and 

colonists at Santa María de Galve. Residents of 

the presidio were not economic contributors to the 

wide range of mercantile exchange that took place 

in other parts of colonial Spanish territory. The 

Spanish Crown, with its mercantile system, created 

a colonial economy that attempted to structure life 

by not allowing any trade with foreigners, commanding 

that only Spanish sources (e.g., Veracruz, 

Cuba, Apalachee) supply the presidio (Clune et al. 

2003:54; Worth 2008:2). Yet, as was common at 

the time, economic exchange took both legal and 

illegal forms. The legal (the formal economy) and 

illegal (the informal economy) actions divide the 

economy at Santa María (Figure 3). The external 

and internal formal economies further subdivide 

the formal economy. The trade of anything not 

obtained through the formal economy became 

illegal and a part of the informal economy. Specifically, 

the types of illegal trade (open contraband 

trade and clandestine contraband trade) that 

took place in Santa María can be classified under 

the alternative economy, a subset of activity that 

falls under the broader category of the informal 

economy (Roberts Thompson 2010:61–63). 

External Formal Economy 

The situado was the main component of the 

Spanish external formal economy. This system 

was set up to provide colonists with money, 

food, military arms, domestic and building 

materials, and clothing from legal suppliers 

(Bushnell 1981:57,63–64, 1994:44). According to 

the available documents, there were 21 situado 

shipments during Santa María’s occupation from 

1698–1719 (Roberts Thompson 2010:66). Determining 

the official supplies routinely received at 

Santa María allows for a direct comparison with 

The Colonial Spanish Economy 

In f o r m a l Eco n omy 

F o rm a l E c o n o my 

Alternat i v e Economy 

E xte r n al Economy Inte r n al Economy Open Con t ra b a n d Trade Cla n destine C o ntraband Trade 

V eracruz Ha v a n a San M a r c os Nat i v e Amer i c an 

Trade and Fo o d 

Prod u c tion 

Sp an i s h Lo c a l 

Prod u c tion 

Fr en ch 

Fr en c h , B r itish , Dutch and & 

Ot h e r Eu r o p ean s 

FIGURE 3. The colonial Spanish economy of Presidio Santa María de Galve. (Figure by author, 2009.)


55 

archaeological assemblages. Anomalies in the 

archaeological record may indicate illicit activity 

outside the formal economic system. Roberts 

(2009:101–112) looked at documents from the 

years 1698, 1703, 1705–1710, 1712, and 1713 

to establish a “normal” economic baseline for 

Santa María. With the exception of two shipments 

of supplies received from the Apalachee 

and Cuba in 1699, all of Santa María’s supplies 

came from Veracruz. Roberts (2009:84–88) 

organized the supplies within these documents 

into categories of comestibles, finished goods, 

and unfinished goods. Although the quantity of 

goods varied because of population fluctuations 

within the presidio, comestibles were the main 

products on nearly every supply ship, whereas 

most of the finished and unfinished goods were 

included in shipments only when needed or 

specifically requested (Roberts 2009:131). Historical 

documents do not contain much information 

on tablewares, with only a few shipments 

recorded. Pertinent to this research, ceramics 

were included in only five situado shipments, in 

1706–07, 1709–10, and 1712 (Clune 2003:74– 

75; Roberts 2009:221–248). 

This suggests that imported ceramics were not 

regular situado items. Swann (2000:113) concludes 

that the majority of goods sent to Santa 

María, besides food items, were for defense 

and “any other goods sent a subsidy.” Spanish 

officials in New Spain determined supply shipments 

based on population statistics and the 

number of men receiving salary payments. Spanish 

officials in Veracruz would not send extra 

goods unless specifically requested by Spanish 

officials from the presidios, and even then goods 

were not always sent. The assortment of merchandise 

delivered to Santa María via the supply 

ships was limited to what officials in New 

Spain deemed necessary, what presidio officials 

requested, and what goods were actually available 

for purchase (Bushnell 1994:108; Worth 

1998:135–143). See also Perissinotto (1998) for 

a comparison of supply requisitions and invoices 

for the Santa Barbara Presidio in California. 

This broad overview of the situado is important 

as it establishes what was and was not 

readily available to colonists. In general, items 

recovered from an archaeological context should 

then reflect, to a certain extent, goods sent from 

Veracruz. If the imported ceramics recovered 

from the archaeological record deviate from 

what would have been available from these 

shipments, then some other method of procurement 

and consumption of imported ceramics 

occurred. The presence of imported ceramics, 

particularly those that are not included as a 

part of the formal economy, then demonstrates 

evidence of illicit trade. 

Internal Formal Economy 

Supplemental to the external formal economy, 

the Spanish Crown allowed residents to obtain 

legal goods through the internal formal economy. 

The internal formal economy revolved 

around the food production and trade relationships 

with Native American groups, as well as 

from small-scale agriculture, animal husbandry, 

foraging, hunting, fishing, and export economies 

(Roberts Thompson 2010:65–66). The historical 

record demonstrates some instances of internal 

formal economic strategies, but, in general, there 

were inadequacies in these various methods of 

production (Roberts 2009; Roberts Thompson 

2010). First, there were no large Native American 

groups near the presidio to aid in production 

of a sustainable agricultural surplus for 

residents (Harris 2003:268). Harris (1999:222) 

largely attributes this to “European rivalries and 

unpredictable shipments of goods from Mexico.” 

Native Americans simply had little incentive to 

settle near the presidio (Clune et al. 2003:29). 

Second, although there were opportunities for 

trade with the small groups of Native Americans 

around Santa María and their settlements 

near Mobile, in general, this did not generate 

enough food or goods for use. In addition, 

although the colonists attempted to grow crops 

and practice animal husbandry, the environmental 

characteristics were not favorable for 

large-scale production and ultimately were not 

successful. Foraging, fishing, and hunting did 

provide some food; however, these attempts did 

not produce consistent amounts of food. Finally, 

the only export economy documented for Santa 

María was four shipments of lumber shipped 

to Veracruz, which did not produce enough 

money to assist the residents in purchasing 

other goods (Childers and Cotter 1998:77–83; 

Hunter 2000:6–20; Clune et al. 2003:53; Roberts 

Thompson 2010:65–67). 

In summary, the internal formal economy did 

not provide adequate food, goods, or substantial


income from local export economies to sustain 

the colonists. This forced the inhabitants 

of the presidio, if they wanted to abide by 

Spain’s regulations, to depend on the external 

formal economy for nearly all provisions (i.e., 

the situado). The majority of goods available 

through the situado were comestibles, basic food 

items needed to survive, and did not include 

extra or luxury commodities. If the supply ships 

were late or inadequate, there were deficiencies 

in the colonist’s dietary needs. Even though 

local efforts to produce basic resources (i.e., 

the internal formal economy) provided some 

mediation of supply shortfalls, this was not sufficient 

and thus negatively affected the everyday 

activities of the presidio (Antonio 1737; Brasseaux 

1979:73). 

Informal Economy and Alternative 

Economy 

The informal economy is typically defined as 

consisting of all actions related to the illegal 

production, commerce, and/or transportation 

of goods that fall outside formal (i.e., legal) 

economic systems (Smith 1989:295; Thomas 

1992:4). Informal economies develop in response 

to limited access to or the shortage of goods. 

The production or trade of those goods subsequently 

becomes illegal. These exchanges can 

consist of legal or illegal objects distributed 

in unregulated ways (Lang and Richardson 

1978:177–180; Lomnitz 1988:42–46; Smith 

1989:294). Colonists of Santa María were not 

major contributors to the informal economy in 

New Spain, as they were not involved in the 

manufacture, production, or transportation of 

goods. Instead, residents of Santa María were 

on the receiving end of the already flourishing 

and functioning informal exchange system and 

participated through the alternative economy 

(Roberts Thompson 2010:63). Although several 

scholars have defined contraband trade (Perotín- 

Dumon 1991; Pijning 2001; Deagan 2007), these 

definitions do not fit the types of activities that 

occurred at Santa María. 

Instead, two types of trade formed the alternative 

economy at Santa María: open and clandestine 

contraband trade (Roberts Thompson 

2010:68–70). This may be in contrast to the 

larger cities of New Spain where clandestine 

contraband trade characterized the informal 

economy. The phrase “Yo obedezco pero no 

cumplo” (I obey but do not comply) is often 

applied to the malleable nature with which 

colonists looked upon Spain’s trade regulations 

(McAlister 1984:204). Although there were strict 

trade restrictions set upon colonists, it was 

common for officials to participate in illegal 

trade and then ask for permission after (Roberts 

2009:147). This appears to be frequent not 

only in Santa María but also in other Spanish 

outposts (e.g., St. Augustine) (Harman 1969; 

Deagan 2007). Harman (1969:13) notes that officials 

disregarded the regulations “and welcomed 

the usually cheaper, superior and available British 

goods.” 

Open contraband trade is defined as illicit 

exchange that occurred through the arena of 

official jurisdiction for the sole purpose of 

selling or obtaining goods necessary for the 

survival of a community (Roberts Thompson 

2010:63). Documents from Santa María’s occupation 

detail many instances where officials 

used open contraband trade to seek out goods 

illegally from the French, specifically comestibles 

(Waselkov 1999:51–52; Johnson 2003:326; 

Roberts Thompson 2010:69). In general, the 

French made themselves and their goods available 

to the Spanish at Santa María, setting up a 

profitable illicit trading relationship. Santa María 

had little to offer the French, with no export 

economy and only sporadic goods from the 

supply ships. However, the colonists did have 

currency from their salaries and the illicit trade 

exchanges offered by the nearby French were 

an easy outlet where colonists could purchase 

goods (Folmer 1953:242–244; Johnson 1999:44; 

Shorter 2002:136–137,141; Waselkov 2002:10). 

The open contraband exchange between Santa 

María and the French was so frequent that there 

were adjustments to accounts so that the garrisons 

did not owe money or supplies to each 

other (Roberts 2009:138–139). For more information 

on exchange systems between Pensacola 

and Mobile please see Ford (1939) and Johnson 

(1999, 2003). 

Clandestine contraband trade is illicit exchange 

done with or without knowledge of Spanish officials 

to acquire or sell any type of merchandise 

(Roberts Thompson 2010:63). The methods 

under which it occurred were numerous, but 

the historical records available for Santa María 

do not detail instances of illicit exchange of


57 

ceramics specifically (Roberts 2009:148–156). 

The historical record provides few documented 

instances of clandestine contraband trade at 

Santa María. However, more broadly, in other 

parts of New Spain historical records indicate 

that such activities were frequent occurrences 

in these colonial contexts. Santa María, as well 

as Veracruz, Mobile, Havana, and other ports 

were prime locations for illicit activity (Roberts 

Thompson 2010:68–70). Roberts (2009:150; 

Roberts Thompson 2010:68–70) describes several 

instances where foreign vessels were anchored 

in such ports, and clandestine contraband either 

occurred or goods were seized before the illicit 

exchanges took place. It was also common for 

officials to accept bribes and participate in illicit 

trade networks. The goods provided through 

illicit trade were often essential for survival but 

were also a way to increase social standing by 

obtaining higher-class goods (Haring 1964:115; 

Johnson 2003:317). However, in general there is 

a lack of documentation of illicit trade at Santa 

María, which suggests that recording instances 

of contraband activity occurred only when there 

were specific cases reported to officials or legal 

action became necessary (Ford 1939:140–144). 

The desire to increase or maintain social 

standing in an isolated area away from mainstream 

Spanish society would have been important 

to individuals at the presidio (Deagan 

1985:7–8; Skowronek 1992:111–113). This 

desire spurred participation in the alternative 

economy through open or clandestine contraband 

trade when faced with the deficiencies 

of the Spanish formal economy. The extent to 

which colonists could participate in illegal trade 

depended on how they could negotiate within 

the economic landscape. This is also evident 

at St. Augustine. Deagan (2007:113) states that 

“contraband played out quite differently among 

households” depending on the “degree to which 

they were presented with or excluded from the 

opportunity.” 

Economic mobility is used here to describe 

the degree to which individuals had the authority, 

money, and the ability to interact and create 

trade relationships with foreign individuals so 

that economic exchange could take place (Roberts 

2009:134). Therefore, those individuals who 

had greater economic mobility had greater capabilities 

to participate in illegal trade. In general, 

it appears that there are connections between 

salary and economic mobility of the Spanish 

at Santa María. Pay and occupation determined 

social status (Deagan 1983:237). The amount of 

extra cash available to those receiving salaries 

could vary depending on whether the situado 

ships arrived on time with their payments. If 

the payments arrived on time, then coinage was 

more consistent. If the payments were late, but 

arrived later in a bulk amount, then the men 

would have financial shortfalls followed by a 

large amount at once. However, deductions for 

the price of uniforms and cost of rations often 

left soldiers with little money (Clune et al. 

2003:74–75). Those with extra money would 

have the ability to spend it on goods other than 

that which arrived in the situado. 

In general, the people who had more money 

were those of higher rank and authority. These 

individuals would also have more freedom to 

leave the walls of the fort to make contraband 

transactions. Convicts, on the other hand, would 

not have the ability to move around freely and 

leave the fort, nor would they have money to 

spend on purchasing additional goods. It appears 

that anyone who had money could purchase 

clandestine goods, yet most likely the higher the 

military rank, the easier it was to conduct this 

sort of trade (Roberts 2009:141,185–186). Participation 

in the alternative economy depended 

on the capacity of individuals and groups to 

move freely around the presidio and negotiate 

the colonial economic landscape. This created 

access to a broader array as well as a greater 

frequency of imported ceramics not normally 

available. 

Ceramics at Santa María de Galve 

The diversity of imported ceramics in the 

archaeological record reflects the economic 

choices of the occupants, but it is important to 

consider the origins of the ceramics before determining 

whether the variety of imported ceramics 

is the result of illicit actions. Direct correlation 

of the archaeological record to the formal and 

informal economy is difficult. One resolution of 

this issue, specific to this case study, is establishing 

whether imported ceramics arrived via the 

formal economy or the alternative economy. To 

do this it is necessary to take a closer look at 

what types of ceramics would have been available 

through the internal and external formal


economies, as well as who would have used 

the different types of ceramics. Santa María’s 

colonists generally would have obtained Native 

American ceramics through the internal formal 

economy and imported ceramics through the 

external formal economy. 

All members of the population would have 

used Native American ceramics for cooking and 

other utilitarian purposes. Much of these ceramics 

recovered at Santa María would have been 

obtained from nearby Native American populations. 

The Native American groups around Santa 

María provided residents with the opportunity 

for legal trade. Trade for ceramics was probably 

quite common, because ceramics were not 

included in every situado, and residents of Santa 

María most likely turned to Native American 

sources to fill this need, especially for utilitarian 

ware. Deagan (1983:234) and Skowronek et al. 

(2009:4–5) point out that locally made utilitarian 

ceramics would have decreased the need to have 

these types shipped to colonies, but there is 

little information on the degree to which locally 

made ceramics occurred at Santa María. While 

Native American ceramics most likely filled the 

bulk of utilitarian ceramic needs at the presidio, 

there were wooden dishes included on requisition 

lists in 1698, 1705, and 1709 (Roberts 

2009:105). These dishes may also have served 

as some form of utilitarian ware as well as for 

hauling soil (Clune et al. 2003:75). 

Most members of the population (with the 

exception of convicts) would have had full or 

limited access to imported ceramics for storage, 

utilitarian use, and as tablewares. By the time 

of the establishment of Santa María, the majority 

of majolica being produced for the colonial 

world primarily came from Puebla and Mexico 

City, with the majolica produced often referred 

to as “Puebla tradition” (Lister and Lister 1982, 

1987:13; Deagan 1987:71,79; Provenzali 2005). 

There were 21 types of imported ceramics found 

in the refuse pits used for this study including 

storage, utilitarian, and tablewares (Table 2). A 

portion of these ceramic types would have been 

included in supply shipments; however, some of 

these ceramic types may have arrived through 

the alternative economy. 

In general, the historical record contains 

little information on what types of ceramics 

were included in situado shipments (Roberts 

2009:165). Perissinotto (1998:31) notes a similar 

TABLE 2 

IMPORTED-CERAMIC TOTALS FROM 

SELECTED REFUSE PITS 

Ware Type 

Abo polychrome Type A 222 

Brown salt-glazed stoneware 1 

Castillo polychrome 1 

Chinese porcelain 4 

Coarse earthenware hand-painted 

unglazed 1 

Glazed olive jar 118 

Glazed redware 1 

Guadalajara polychrome 19 

Lead-glazed coarse earthenware 725 

Mexican red painted 5 

Pensacola polychrome 198 

Plain faience 1 

Puebla blue-on-white 48 

Puebla polychrome 1,288 

Saintonge 11 

San Agustin blue-on-white 9 

San Luis polychrome 277 

Santa María stamped 104 

Unglazed olive jar 363 

Unglazed thick-walled 

coarse earthenware 381 

Unglazed redware 3 

Total 3,780 

lack of descriptive ceramic information in historical 

documents for the Santa Barbara Presidio 

in California. Santa María likely received lowergrade 

ceramics, as they were cheaper, but no 

historical documents state this as the case. Santa 

María was expensive to maintain and subject to 

the high prices of goods in Veracruz and the 

high shipping costs. Such issues probably played 

a large role in what types of ceramics were 

actually included in situado shipments (TePaske 

1964:82,97; Clune et al. 2003:51–52). Therefore, 

in this analysis, it was necessary to make an 

assumption about the most probable types to be 

included in the situado. The available documents 

for Santa María only describe ceramics by the 

generic term, loza. Lister and Lister (1976:57) 

describe loza as a broad term for ceramics, 

including both glazed and unglazed earthenware 

ceramics. Unfortunately, the documents for Santa 

N


59 

María do not elaborate on the types of loza 

(e.g., loza blanca, loza común, or loza basta) 

nor vessel forms, which makes classifying types 

included in the situado difficult. In many cases, 

certain classifications of paste, thickness, glaze, 

decoration, etc. can further define the quality of 

imported ceramics. The classifications of fino, 

entrefino, and común represent the variability in 

Spanish ceramics, with fino ceramics comprising 

the very well-made decorated tableware, while 

común characterized lower-grade undecorated 

tableware or utilitarian ware. The entrefino 

distinction appears to fall somewhere in the 

middle (Lister and Lister 1982:13–24, 1983; 

Gámez Martínez 2003:234). The divergence 

between fino and entrefino in the Puebla tradition 

is difficult to discern. According to Lister 

and Lister (1983), the difference is related to 

“elaboration in forms, sizes, and decorations.” 

Therefore, there could be ceramic types that 

could be either fino or entrefino because of the 

different skills of potters (Deagan 1987:78–79). 

Again, the historical record does not provide 

any information to clarify these problems. 

These issues made it necessary in this study 

to categorize the ceramics according to whether 

they would more likely be a part of the formal 

or alternative economy; it should be noted 

that this is preliminary. To establish the most 

frequent ceramic types within the refuse pits, 

an arbitrary count of 100 is applied (Table 3). 

The ceramic types that have over 100 sherds 

include the following: Abo polychrome Type A, 

Pensacola polychrome, Puebla polychrome, San 

Luis polychrome, Santa María stamped, unglazed 

coarse earthenware, lead-glazed coarse earthenware, 

unglazed olive jar, and glazed olive jar. 

These types are considered loza blanca and loza 

común/loza basta, and could be of the entrefino 

and común grade. However, some of the Abo 

polychrome Type A, Pensacola polychrome, 

Puebla polychrome, or San Luis polychrome 

might be of the fino grade depending on the 

potter’s skill (Lister and Lister 1982:24–9; 

Deagan 1987:28–9,47–52,78–9; Gámez Martínez 

2003:234–235). Regardless of grade, due to the 

high frequency, these types could have been regularly 

included in the situado as tablewares or 

storage and utilitarian vessels. A high proportion 

of these ceramic types were excavated near the 

Warehouse Area supporting the assumption that 

they were most likely a part of situado shipments. 

The types that fell under the count of 

100 (e.g., Castillo polychrome, Puebla blue-onwhite, 

San Agustin blue-on-white) are considered 

loza blanca and loza común/loza basta, and could 

be of the entrefino and común grade. However, 

some of the ceramics, for example, Castillo polychrome, 

Puebla blue-on-white, and San Agustin 

blue-on-white, might be of the fino grade. These 

types and the others may have arrived through 

the alternative economy (Table 3). 

Illegal activity varied among those of different 

social standing and depended “not only on 

TABLE 3 

POSSIBLE IMPORTED-CERAMIC TYPES FROM FORMAL AND ALTERNATIVE economies 

Type 

Formal Economy 

N 

Type 

Alternative Economy 

N 

Abo polychrome Type A 222 

Glazed olive jar 118 

Lead-glazed coarse 

earthenware 725 

Pensacola polychrome 198 

Puebla polychrome 1,288 

San Luis polychrome 277 

Santa María stamped 104 

Unglazed olive jar 363 


coarse earthenware 381 

Total 3,676 

Brown salt-glazed stoneware 1 

Castillo polychrome 1 

Chinese porcelain 4 

Coarse earthenware 

hand-painted unglazed 1 

Glazed redware 1 

Guadalajara polychrome 19 

Mexican red painted 5 

Plain faience 1 

Puebla blue-on-white 48 

Saintonge 11 

San Agustin blue-on-white 9 

Unglazed redware 3 

Total 104


economic access, but also relative positions of 

social privilege and the attitudinal values that 

reinforced those positions” (Deagan 2007:113). 

Research in St. Augustine demonstrates how 

variability in ceramics reflects economic and 

social standing (Deagan 1983:262, 1985:23–28, 

2007:113). This is also evident at Santa María, 

where residents of higher rank, such as military 

officers, would likely have desired higher-quality 

tableware to solidify their status in an environment 

removed from Spanish society. These 

individuals would have probably possessed not 

only the higher-quality majolica that arrived 

via the situado, but also a greater amount of 

it. Members of all social classes would have 

cooked with lower-grade utilitarian and Native 

American ceramics (Jamieson 2001:46). Soldiers 

more commonly would have used Native American 

ceramics for cooking or utilitarian purposes, 

and perhaps some types of tableware to convey 

status, but it does not appear likely that soldiers 

would own as many higher-quality ceramics 

as military officers or other officials. Convicts 

would not have owned many ceramics, but they 

might have used the wooden dishes included in 

the 1698, 1705, and 1709 supply shipments and 

would have also used utilitarian ware (Roberts 

2009:105). Late or inadequate shipments of 

ceramic goods combined with potentially poor, 

damaged, or broken crockery would have been 

a constant frustration for the occupants of Santa 

María. Ceramics of some form were essential 

items needed by every individual regardless of 

social status or military rank. 

Materials, Methods, and Results 

The archaeological analysis presented here 

takes as its starting point the idea that to some 

extent military authority throughout the presidio 

both facilitated and constrained illegal actions. In 

terms of the archaeological analysis, the intrasite 

comparison looks at imported ceramics to reveal 

economic decision making in relation to the 

defined activity areas. The hypothesis for this case 

study is that the presence and authority of military 

officers limited the illegal activities of occupants. 

The presidio was a socially controlled space, and 

military officers might constrain economic activities 

by regulating the behavior of residents, especially 

those of lower status. The assumption here 

is that higher-status individuals, such as military 

officers, would be participating in illicit trade. 

Imported ceramic assemblages in areas occupied or 

regulated by higher-status individuals would reflect 

a high diversity index. If lower-status military 

personnel were participating in illicit activities, 

then the opposite pattern might be expected with 

low-status areas having a greater diversity index. 

Demonstrated below, areas occupied or regulated 

by higher-ranking military officers did indeed 

show a greater variety of imported ceramics. 

In order to look at economic choices, refuse-pit 

features (n=57) from the seven abovementioned 

areas (Barracks North, Barracks West, Barracks 

SW, the Warehouse, Hospital/Warehouse, Area 

between the Hospital/Warehouse and Barracks, and 

the Village Area), including 48 features within the 

fort and 9 features in the village, were analyzed 

(Figure 2 and Table 4). To take a closer look at 

imported-ceramic variability, it was necessary to 

view the imported ceramics within the refuse 

pits as separate analytical units. A threshold of 

25 sherds for a minimum total artifact count 

for imported ceramics was the criterion for the 

selection of the refuse-pit features. Refuse pits, 

being features of sealed contexts where individuals 

or groups discarded material remains, would 

TABLE 4 

SANTA MARÍA DE GALVE AREAS AND REFUSE-PIT FEATURE NUMBERS 

Santa María de Galve Area 

Refuse-Pit Feature Numbers 

Barracks SW 141, 156, 163, 164, 254, 262, 263, 264, 268, 283, 285, 291, 292 

Between Hospital/Warehouse 

and Barracks 493, 495, 496, 501, 504, 556, 562, 621, 623, 625A, 643 

Hospital/Warehouse 485, 486, 522, 529, 529A, 529B, 555, 608, 628, 631 

Barracks West 193, 452, 455, 457, 458, 470, 578, 582 

Barracks North 249, 253 

Warehouse 559, 588, 589, 641 

Village 

135, 257, 278, 427, 518, 560, 609, 646, 609B


61 

indirectly reflect economic behavior and decision 

making. The presence and absence of imported 

ceramics in such deposits, to some extent, reveal 

individual and group choices concerning availability 

of imported ceramics and demonstrate 

the selection, acquisition, and discard patterns of 

those ceramics. Excluded from this analysis are 

all indeterminate ceramics, any ceramics that do 

not date to Santa María’s occupation, as well as 

kaolin-pipe and terra cotta–pipe fragments. Also 

excluded are Native American ceramics. Trade 

with Native Americans, as previously noted, was 

a legal part of Santa María’s colonial economy, 

and the presence of Native American ceramics, 

in this particular instance, does not indicate 

illicit trade. See Harris (2003:257–314) for a 

more-detailed discussion of Native Americans at 

Santa María. It is important to note here that 

glass, lithic, metal, and faunal remains could 

have arrived through both formal (internal and 

external) economies and informal (alternative) 

economies, but since the primary focus of this 

research is on imported ceramics, all other 

material found in the refuse pits is excluded 

from this discussion. 

To calculate ceramic diversity, this case study 

applies the Shannon-Weaver index, a statistical 

measurement that provides a relative value of 

diversity compared across categories (Reitz and 

Wing 1999:105). Briefly described, diversity 

is the “nature or degree of apportionment of 

a quantity to a set of well defined categories” 

(Jones and Leonard 1989:2–3). It is a useful 

analytical concept that measures variation 

through quantitative data as it provides a way 

to measure the homogeneity or heterogeneity 

within specific contexts. Simply put, the 

measurement of diversity occurs according to 

the number of different types of objects in a 

sample (Dickens 1980; Grayson 1984; Kintigh 

1984; Rhode 1988; Leonard and Jones 1989; 

Shott et al. 1989; McCartney and Glass 1990; 

Neiman 1995; Byrd 1997; Kaufman 1998; Orton 

2000; Baxter 2001). Measurements of diversity 

also rely on the explicit classifications of the 

artifacts. Classes of artifacts must be “exclusive, 

exhaustive, and composed at the same classificatory 

level” (Jones and Leonard 1989:3). These 

requirements are essential to generate proper 

quantitative results. The Shannon-Weaver index, 

as described by Reitz and Wing (1999:105), is 

as follows: 

H´= ─∑ s (p i )(Log p i ) 

i=1 

Where: 

H´=the information content of the sample 

p i =the relative abundance of the i th categories 

in the sample 

Log p i =the logarithm of p i 

s =the number of categories 

Arenas where there is a greater interaction 

with outside groups, such as illegal trade, create 

a variety of behavioral adaptations to obtaining 

goods. Since diversity is a measurement of 

variation, the higher the diversity index for the 

assemblage the greater the access and exchange 

of imported ceramics, and conversely those 

assemblages with lower diversity indexes would 

indicate a lesser degree of access and exchange 

in imported ceramics. In short, the index measures 

how successful differing groups are in 

acquiring imported ceramics that would not be 

available in normal supply shipments. 

The results indicate a higher diversity in areas 

occupied and regulated by higher-class individuals 

(Table 5). The Barracks SW, Hospital/Warehouse, 

and the Area between Hospital/Warehouse 

and Barracks had high diversity indexes, while 

the Barracks North and Warehouse had low 

diversity indexes. The diversity results for the 

Barracks West and Village areas fell in the 

middle. While the amounts of different types 

of imported ceramics are close, the totals of 

imported ceramics vary in the areas with higher 

diversity vs. those areas with lower diversity. 

Discussion 

There was higher diversity in the Barracks 

SW (officers’ barracks) and Hospital/Warehouse 

(stored supplies and operated as a hospital) 

indicating that the individuals who used these 

areas had access to and used a wide variety of 

imported ceramics. Higher-class individuals, such 

as military officials, would have primarily occupied 

and regulated the Barracks SW and Hospital/Warehouse 

areas. The Area between Hospital/ 

Warehouse and Barracks also had high diversity. 

This area functioned as a food-processing and 

-preparation station, as well as a place to work 

and dispose of trash. However, military officers, 

to an extent, would have regulated the various 

activities of this area. The Barracks West


TABLE 5 

RESULTS OF DIVERSITY STATISTICS BY AREA 

Between 

Hospital/ Hospital/ Barracks Barracks 

Barracks SW Barracks Warehouse West North Warehouse Village 

Diversity 0.86 0.85 0.82 0.78 0.57 0.51 0.69 

Type N N N N N N N 

Abo polychrome Type A 2 8 1 4 – 207 – 

Brown salt-glazed stoneware – 1 – – – – – 

Castillo polychrome 1 – – – – – – 

Chinese porcelain 3 – – 1 – – – 

Coarse earthenware 

hand-painted unglazed – 1 – – – – – 

Glazed olive jar 22 45 15 18 2 12 4 

Glazed redware – – – – – – 1 

Guadalajara polychrome 4 3 1 – – 2 9 

Lead-glazed coarse 

earthenware 129 224 100 131 21 70 50 

Mexican red painted 3 1 – – – – 1 

Pensacola polychrome – – – – – 198 – 

Plain faience – – – – – 1 – 

Puebla blue-on-white 11 20 5 10 – 2 – 

Puebla polychrome 9 84 43 33 1 1,118 – 

Saintonge 8 2 1 – – – – 

San Agustin blue-on-white 3 1 5 – – – – 

San Luis polychrome 33 110 51 35 3 24 21 

Santa María stamped 14 41 9 40 – – – 

Unglazed olive jar 66 75 32 102 3 53 29 


coarse earthenware 39 94 54 152 10 17 15 

Unglazed redware 3 – – – – – – 

Totals 350 710 317 526 40 1,704 130


63 

(soldiers’ barracks) and Village areas had a 

diversity index that fell in the middle, reflecting 

use by some individuals who were of higher 

status but did not receive the same pay or have 

as much economic mobility as military officials. 

There was lower diversity in the Barracks North 

(convicts’ barracks) and Warehouse areas. The 

lower diversity index demonstrates that convicts 

who resided in or used the Barracks North 

Area did not have access to a wide variety of 

imported ceramics but rather relied on a select 

few for their needs. The lower-diversity results 

for the Warehouse Area are to be expected, as 

this area would have housed situado supplies 

and would have not contained a wide variety 

of ceramics. 

There are two issues to consider when looking 

at these data. First, the refuse-pit feature 

(F559) in the Warehouse Area appears to skew 

the data for that area. The feature contained 

large amounts of one particular type of ceramic, 

Puebla polychrome (n=1,118). If removed from 

the data, the ceramic totals and diversity indexes 

are drastically lower. The second potential issue 

includes F427, which is located in the Village 

Area. This feature is interpreted as the location 

of Captain Juan Jordán de Reina’s house due 

to its closeness to a post-and-sill structure and 

other high-status artifacts found in the pit (e.g., 

window glass and silver pieces) (Bense and 

Wilson 2003:165). While this particular feature 

may be associated with a higher-class residence 

within the Village Area, all of the refuse pits 

in the village are considered one analytical 

unit. The diversity index for the Village Area 

was lower in comparison to some of the other 

areas included in this study, even though there 

is archaeological evidence of a higher-class 

individual in one refuse-pit feature. Regardless 

of the issues with the abovementioned features, 

in general, the results indicate differences in 

the various status areas of the presidio. Santa 

María contained a group of individuals who 

spanned the social hierarchy. Individuals who 

had the money and a higher ranked position 

would have the economic mobility to acquire 

a wider diversity of imported ceramics through 

clandestine contraband trade. Consequently, soldiers, 

convicts, and other lower-class residents 

would have been more restricted in their access 

to goods because of lower wages and fewer 

chances for illicit trade prospects. 

The external formal economy, through the 

situado, appears to have provided residents with 

the common types of Abo polychrome Type 

A, Puebla polychrome, San Luis polychrome, 

Santa María stamped, Pensacola polychrome, 

lead-glazed coarse earthenware, unglazed olive 

jar, glazed olive jar, and unglazed thick-walled 

coarse earthenware (Table 3). Other imported 

ceramics (e.g., Castillo polychrome, Puebla 

blue-on-white, San Agustin blue-on-white), while 

fewer in number, could have been ceramic types 

sought out through the alternative economy. A 

number of factors, both legal and illegal, shaped 

the imported ceramic assemblage at Santa María 

as individuals made choices, whether it was 

accepting the available ceramics from the formal 

economy or supplementing those ceramics with 

other, perhaps better, ceramics through the 

alternative economy. Yet, it is possible that all 

of the ceramics found archaeologically at Santa 

María could have arrived there by legal means, 

but due to the widespread nature of illicit activity 

during this time, this is doubtful. 

One way to help archaeologists better identify 

illicit trade is by establishing the legal source 

of imported ceramics in the archaeological 

record. More research is necessary in order to 

determine more fully which imported ceramics 

arrived via the Spanish formal economy. Below 

are just a few different avenues of research. 

First, although this may present some difficulties, 

finding specific documentation, such as 

invoices detailing the sale of ceramics bound 

for situado supply ships or other documentation 

on the production location of situado ceramics, 

would help to establish what types of ceramics 

were typically included in the situado. Second, 

more research on sourcing imported ceramics to 

specific production areas would also be helpful. 

See Reslewic and Burton (2002), Iñañez et al. 

(2009), and Skowronek et al. (2009) for examples. 

Third, additionally classifying imported 

ceramic assemblages according to the grades 

of fino, entrefino, and común to establish the 

ceramics’ quality may prove useful in determining 

socioeconomic status. 

Conclusion 

Archaeologists are aware that recognizing contraband 

activities in the archaeological record is 

difficult (Deagan 2007), but it may be possible


to determine a distinction between the extent of 

legal and clandestine goods exchange by looking 

at the diversity of artifacts represented. The 

results from the intrasite comparison reveal that, 

in general, the imported ceramic assemblage is 

more diverse in areas occupied by higher-status 

individuals. One explanation for this is that highranking 

officers had access to a greater variety 

of imported ceramics than the other residents of 

the presidio. There have been a few documented 

instances indicating that higher-class individuals 

participated and perhaps even controlled illicit 

trade at Santa María. According to the accountant 

Juan Mendo de Urbina, Gregorio de Salinas 

Varona, governor of Santa María, introduced 

illegal goods to sell for his own profit. To curb 

the illicit activity, Mendo de Urbina recommended 

inspections of goods on the supply ship before a 

ship left Veracruz. Any goods not on the official 

lists had to be thrown in the water (Mendo de 

Urbina 1713). The documents indicate that Salinas 

Varona sold illicit goods to the soldiers from 

his personal warehouse (Clune et al. 2003:66). 

Another documented instance occurred in 1713 

when Ensign Gaspar de la Vega brought and 

attempted to sell goods illegally to other members 

of the presidio (Childers and Cotter 1998:92). 

Higher-class individuals such as military officers 

would have the authority, wages to spend, 

and a greater opportunity for movement on 

the economic landscape; although anyone who 

had money could participate in the alternative 

economy. The military authority of Spanish officials 

may have limited the economic mobility of 

convicts and perhaps to a minimal degree the 

soldiers. In doing so, the Spanish military officials 

could engage in illicit activity. The above 

results reflect this. The areas (Barracks SW, 

Hospital/Warehouse, and Area between Hospital/ 

Warehouse and Barracks) regulated or occupied 

by higher-ranking military individuals had the 

highest diversity indexes. The data indicate that 

the greater imported-ceramic diversity in areas 

that higher-status residents used and where they 

resided is, in part, the result of individuals obtaining 

imported ceramics in ways other than via 

the formal economy. Overall, the archaeological 

record demonstrates some evidence of possible 

alternative economic behavior; however, it is not 

possible to state with certainty that the differences 

seen in the diversity of artifacts is unquestionably 

the result of illicit activity. 

Despite the methodological issues noted 

above, both the archaeological and historical 

records lend support to the idea that the 

inadequate Spanish internal and external formal 

economies led to the active contraband activity 

that occurred throughout the occupation of Santa 

María de Galve. When the formal economy did 

not provide adequate goods, such as imported 

ceramics, as demonstrated in this case study, 

those colonists of higher status may have turned 

to the well-functioning illicit trade network. In 

doing so, they created an alternative economy 

that substituted and complemented the normal 

exchange network of the formal Spanish supply 

system. As such, illicit activity was not separate 

from the normal economy of Santa María de 

Galve but rather a part of it through the alternative 

economy. 


Several individuals helped greatly with this 

project. I would like to thank Judith A. Bense, 

John Worth, Elizabeth Benchley, and Jay Clune 

for their helpful comments and insights on my 

master’s thesis on which this work is based. 

I would also like to thank the Department of 

Anthropology and Archaeology Institute of the 

University of West Florida for providing the 

materials that made this project possible. Victor 

D. Thompson also provided useful comments 

on earlier drafts of this manuscript. Finally, I 

would like to thank my son, Fisher, who took 

some great naps so that I could work on this 

manuscript. The author is solely responsible for 

any errors and omissions. 

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70 

Melissa Payne 

Pueblo Potsherds to Silver 

Spoons: A Case Study 

in Historical Archaeology 

from New Mexico 

ABSTRACT 

The relationship between documentary and material sources 

continues to be a source for considerable debate within historical 

archaeology. Using a case study from northern New Mexico 

as an example, this article illuminates the material availability 

enjoyed by 18th- and early-19th-century Hispanos residing in 

the Santa Fe River valley. Testament inventories from colonial 

inhabitants are compared with archaeological assemblages from 

residential sites of the same area and period to expose two 

very different emphases in material culture. Relevant documents 

focus on tools and status items, often imported. The 

archaeological collections, however, consist mostly of utility 

ceramics obtained from Pueblo Indian communities. Why does 

such a contrast exist between the two sources of information? 

Self-identification represented by documents suggests deliberate 

and genuine, but uneven, Spanish cultural participation. Yet 

the archaeological record hints more at a type of “transculturation” 

occurring at least at the level of everyday material 

culture reflecting recent ethnogenetic models of multidirectional 

cultural exchanges in the Spanish Borderlands. 

Introduction 

The agenda of this article is twofold. One 

theme is that colonial New Mexico represents 

another example of transculturation (multidirectional 

change/multiple agents and origins 

with variational outcome), a more complex 

way of portraying the cross-cultural exchanges 

between Spaniards and non-Spaniards in the 

New World (Deagan 1998). Acculturation studies 

often implicitly presumed a simplistic, one-way 

directional flow (of goods, ideas, institutions, 

adaptations, or “transfers” of any type) from 

Europeans to various “subject” peoples. Because 

the scope of a single article must be narrow, 

the full array of Hispanic adaptive strategies 

that were arguably influenced by local native 

peoples or that involved intimate contact with 

Pueblo Indians can only be touched upon. The 

focus will be on the material culture accessible 

to and used by the Hispanos. 

In presenting this information, the following 

approach will utilize and develop a second 

theme: the obvious contrast between documents 

and material assemblages pertaining to colonial 

households in New Mexico. The idea that juxtaposing 

these two main perspectives on the past 

might yield useful insights is hardly a new one 

in historical archaeology. Although this strategy is 

touted as one of historical archaeology’s primary 

objectives, the reality is that this goal has been 

realized only episodically. Researchers typically 

(1) lack the data upon which to base a comparison 

or (2) dismiss the utility of the exercise 

with the assumption that the case has been made 

many times. The generalization is repeated as its 

theoretical shadings are argued, but the building 

of a solid file of practical examples is neglected. 

Published explorations along these lines may treat 

the Eastern Seaboard (Beaudry 1988a), while the 

Southwest is underrepresented. Researchers should 

aim for a broader grounding from a diversity of 

regions, so that their substantive observations 

can live up to their epistemological potential 

more fully. 

By way of theoretical background, Leone and 

Potter (1988) once argued that documents and 

physical residues constitute valid but contrasting 

perspectives on the past insofar as the “lack of 

fit” between the two data streams may itself 

be instructive. Such contrasts might themselves 

reveal fresh knowledge from attempts to account 

for presumed discrepancies. The reconciliation 

of discontinuities should enhance the capacity 

to consider holistic inquiries about sociocultural 

systems and how the tools for elucidating the 

past may be better understood. Charles Cleland 

(2001) has argued that these contrasts must be 

further appreciated as historical archaeology 

straddles the traditional turfs of both archaeologists 

and historians. 

In this vein, LuAnn De Cunzo (2001) posited 

that artifacts and documents may result from 

a multiplicity of factors. Physical residues can 

represent the byproducts of intentional vs. lessintentional 

or even partly subconscious thought 

processes, and disjunctions between artifact and 

document might derive from gender, class, or 

race. Hence, not all the discontinuities necessarily 

Historical Archaeology, 2012, 46(4):70–84 

Accepted for publication 5 December 2011. 


melissa payne—Pueblo Potsherds to Silver Spoons 

spring from the artifacts vs. documents per se, 

that is, from an assumed substantive “opposition” 

that may or may not be testable. If artifacts can 

result from “less-intentional” behavior, written 

records could be said to arise from “deliberate 

behavior,” i.e., what specific actors chose to 

have recorded, what they viewed as important 

or worth keeping, or how they wished to portray 

themselves (perhaps underscoring their cultural 

affiliation or status) within a social context. 

While these debates are useful, the best 

approach to discussion should be via case-specific 

examples, since different things are learned from 

different situations at different levels. Nevertheless, 

in regional Southwest gray-literature reports, 

considerations of documents and of material culture 

are often segregated into separate sections 

and not analyzed in relation to one another. 

Wilson (1993) has targeted the “mixed epistemologies” 

between history and anthropology as 

a hurdle in making comparisons between documentary 

and archaeological materials difficult to 

present or assess. Historians may wrestle with 

everything from a single-event/person focus to 

sweeping treatments of an entire epoch that may 

not articulate with a given archaeological datarecovery 

plan. The problem does not lie in an 

unbridgeable gulf between the two disciplines but 

rather in selecting a topic where the researcher 

can find enough written material to address a 

particular anthropological query. Moreover, existing 

documents are not always analyzed with 

anthropological issues in mind. Using archival 

records as a background for the archaeology is 

not the same thing as a comparison between 

written and physical evidence that speaks to a 

specific issue. The question in mind must be 

applied to both records in a consistent fashion 

to achieve heuristic validity, juxtaposing apples 

with apples, so to speak, at compatible levels of 

analysis. Finally, archaeologists know that their 

discipline depends upon interpretation. Researchers 

searching for patterns in a social-science 

framework share this inescapable responsibility 

with historians. 

A Word of Background 

and Approaching the Problem 

Colonial archaeology in the American Southwest 

has often focused upon culture change 

among native groups and/or upon missions and 

71 

presidios (Williams 2004). Yet studying residential 

sites occupied by Spanish colonists should 

be a priority, since these individuals were also 

confronted by issues of cultural maintenance, 

an anthropological concern. Although there 

were regional permutations, Hispanic colonists 

generally relied more on Indian material culture 

than their Anglo counterparts, giving rise to 

ethnogenetic studies dealing with transculturation 

(Farnsworth 1992; Deagan 1998). 

An interdisciplinary project on historical 

archaeology conducted at the University of New 

Mexico focused on residential (also called vernacular) 

sites and cultural maintenance relative 

to artifacts and adaptive issues along the Santa 

Fe River. These sites were occupied primarily 

during the 1700s. The Santa Fe River Project 

was funded by the Southwest Hispanic Research 

Institute at the University of New Mexico 

Center for Regional Studies. 

An assumption of the study was that written 

data were not enough to expose the everyday 

behavioral patterns of interest to anthropologists 

studying colonialism. Nonetheless a thorough 

effort was made to investigate the enormous 

amount of primary sources available for this 

river corridor. Estate records from residents of 

the same carefully defined area and period as 

the archaeological sites were taken into account 

in attempting to understand the full range of 

material consumption. The will inventories to 

be reviewed cannot be proven to represent the 

specific inhabitants of the discussed sites. During 

the colonial era, however, certain groups of Spanish 

families had become well entrenched on a 

series of land grants embracing the narrow Santa 

Fe River. As these families grew, they set up 

neighboring households. Further research of nuptial 

records demonstrated, in fact, that many of 

the residents there were not only neighbors, but 

during the 18th century were frequently related 

by intermarriage, with the same logistical access 

to goods moving back and forth from Santa Fe. 

As such the documents and the artifacts in this 

case both represent a very highly circumscribed 

population, if not necessarily the identical actors, 

within definable geographic boundaries. 

New Mexico is an intriguing setting in which 

to sort out the positions outlined above. First, the 

historical archaeological record goes back a long 

way from the perspective of a lasting European 

presence. After several initial forays during


the 16th century, Spanish colonists arrived and 

established themselves during the last two years 

of the 1500s as part of the second permanent 

European incursion into the present-day United 

States. Historical sites are extant that derive 

from an exceptionally broad temporal window, 

despite their gradual modern destruction from 

development projects such as water reclamation 

and gravel pitting. The lack of attention to these 

sites results partly from the preeminence of the 

outstanding prehistoric record as the focus for 

much Southwest archaeology. 

Secondly, the Spaniards were good record 

keepers. They generated a staggering amount 

of written material during the colonial era. Palaeographic 

training is necessary to read these 

documents, as 17th- and 18th-century records 

employed highly stylized codes of writing confusing 

to the modern reader of Spanish. 

Perspectives gained from this research are 

pertinent to debates about cultural identity in the 

Southwest and about the relationships between 

sources. Case-study data derive from the Santa 

Fe River valley (Figure 1). This valley unrolls 

just to the southwest of Santa Fe, founded 

between 1608 and 1610. This semiarid stream 

setting, bisecting a broad grassy plain with scrub 

vegetation and abutted by 12,000 ft. mountains, 

has been inhabited by people of Spanish ancestry 

engaged in farming and ranching since the early 

to mid-1600s. Before that, native people lived 

there on and off for thousands of years. Inasmuch 

as Pueblo Indian communities had deserted 

the immediate region during or before the 16th 

century, and because the Puebloans were more 

likely to live in small towns, individual home 

sites dated after the 1500s within the study area 

are usually assigned an Hispano affiliation. 

Spanish administrators and friars sent reports 

from New Mexico to Mexico/Spain, describing 

the predicaments that have provided much dramatic 

grist to historians. Additionally, approximately 

100 wills and around 50 inventories 

exist for the period from 1693 to 1821. Many 

local documents composed prior to this time 

were destroyed during the Pueblo Revolt of 

1680. Surviving primary documents consulted 

for this study are reserved at the New Mexico 

Record Center and Archives in Santa Fe. This 

material was translated where pertinent, and 

over the course of the project three 18th-century 

sites were tested as well. Information was also 

presented in the project manuscript (Payne 1999) 

from previous tests on six other colonial residential 

sites from the same river corridor. The 

artifacts were then compared with materials listed 

in wills drawn from the immediate river valley, 

and more general comparisons with inventories 

of the same period in New Mexico were made. 

It is probably fair to say that the testaments, 

taken as a whole, are slightly skewed in the 

direction of citizens from the mid- to upper strata 

of colonial society, though a few exceptions signify 

modest estates. Despite this general bias of 

the documentary record, which has been pointed 

out by historical archaeologists before (McEwan 

and Waselkov 2003), both the sites and the wills 

represented, to some degree, people of contrasting 

status. More importantly, these two sources also 

revealed fundamentally contrasting emphases in 

terms of what people left behind in the material 

record as opposed to what they chose to enumerate 

in the written record (“chattel” inventories or 

wills). These wills or testamentos were prepared 

by an individual or drafted by literate scribes and 

then signed by the testators shortly before death. 

At times an hijuela or inheritance statement was 

prepared by government officials afterwards. The 

archaeology will be described first and then the 

testament inventories. 

The Material Collections: The Short View 

Two sites will be considered here. Their occupation 

spans overlap but are not identical. The 

thoroughness of archaeological data recovery at 

these sites has varied, and many materials remain 

unpublished, so information has been gleaned 

from often-conflicting reports and field notes. 

Site LA 16768 lies 11 mi. southwest of Santa 

Fe on a north-side river terrace surrounded by a 

short-grass floodplain and distant slopes. Today, 

LA 16768 displays the obscured outline of two 

rooms measuring 14.3 × 4.2 m (about 60 m 2 ), 

with traces of the rock-cobble foundation visible. 

An earlier, lower occupation level was somewhat 

larger. This adobe dwelling was ostensibly occupied 

during the last decades of the 1600s (except 

for the years of the Pueblo Revolt, bracketed from 

1680 to 1692) and then again from just before 

the turn of the 18th century through roughly the 

first quarter of the 1800s (1690s–1825). The site 

was surface collected and subsurface tested in the 

1950s (Boyd 1970) and then partially excavated


73 

FIGURE 1. Santa Fe Valley and location of sites discussed in text. (Map by Ron Stauber, University of New Mexico Office 

of Contract Archaeology, 1999.) 

during the 1980s by David Snow and Colorado 

College (Santa Fe River Files 1980–1989). A 

small collection of artifacts from this locus 

was reported upon in now-classic publications 

(Plowden 1958; Goggin 1968). 

The site was subsurface tested again in the 

1990s for the Santa Fe River Project and a 

total of 7 m 2 was stratigraphically excavated. 

Based on limited site complexity, this was likely 

a low-status habitation. Information from other


New Mexican sites and from a synthesis of germane 

records disclosing typical “room counts” 

for colonial homes was used to support this 

interpretation. While room sizes are uncertain, 

one- to two-room structures were usually associated 

with modest housing. Houses of three to 

four rooms represent the highest percentage of 

homes (n=190) from written references of the 

1700s (Pratt and Snow 1988). Hispanos of midto 

high status sometimes inhabited domiciles 

of only 4 or 5 rooms (Payne 2005), whereas 

domestic structures of 8 to 20 rooms were not 

unknown but were atypical. 

A higher-status dwelling appears to be represented 

by LA 16769, likewise positioned on 

the north side of the river but somewhat closer 

to Santa Fe. The site has been compromised 

because of road construction. A low rectangular 

mound containing some adobe melt measures 

40 × 60 m with exposed sections of a rockcobble 

foundation measuring 31 m in length or 

more. The house probably encompassed 6 to 

10 rooms. The site also contains a scattering of 

adobe mud chunks used in construction; a corral; 

an artifact scatter (92 m in length); a midden; 

and the apparent base of a torreon, a stone or 

adobe tower used for defense in case of Indian 

attack. This more-extensive domicile was occupied 

during the 18th century and a few decades 

beyond (a synthesis of reports with New Mexico 

Laboratory of Anthropology computer data suggests 

a date range of about 1735/1740–1840). 

The site has been both surveyed and tested. 

Pottery analyses for these two sites are presented 

in Tables 1 and 2. In Table 1 the LA 

16768 ceramic totals from Santa Fe River Project 

tests (n=968) are shown. The term “Pueblo 

Series” denotes sherds derived from Pueblo communities. 

Tewa-speakers frequently supplied the 

Santa Fe region. 

In addition, it should be noted that, during 

the 1980s or before, a large assemblage was 

collected from LA16768 by David Snow and 

Colorado College. This collection was also 

TABLE 1 

LA 16768 POTTERY SHERDS 

SANTA FE RIVER PROJECT TESTS 

Type (Pueblo Series) Number Percentage 

Tewa polychrome (1650–1730/60) 26 2.7% 

Ogapoge polychrome (1700/20–1760/1800) 15 1.5% 

Powhoge polychrome (1760–1850/99) 12 1.2% 

Red slipped 307 31.7% 

Red smudged 3 0.3% 

Indent. culinary 20 2.0% 

Plain smudged 58 6.0% 

Kapo black (1700/20–1760/1800+) 151 0.5% 

Rough exterior smudged 294 30.4% 

Mica slip smudge 56 5.8% 

Polished plain tan or brown 101 10.4% 

Tesuque gray (1250/1325–1400/1500) 1 0.1% 

Santa Fe black-on-white (1175–1425) 1 0.1% 

Historical micaceous 9 0.9% 

Whorl fragments 3 0.3% 

Yupa striated (1600–1650) 2 0.2% 

Unidentified 36 3.7% 

Type (Imported) Number Percentage 

Majolica (white) 9 0.9% 

Total 968 99.7%


mostly Puebloan and included some 18,000 

Pueblo-series sherds, the vast majority of which 

(98%) are from the historical period. A few 

sherds from nearby prehistoric towns are mixed 

into the assemblage, whereas two whiteware 

sherds postdate 1820 (South 1977). Most of 

these artifacts seem to have come from a substantial 

midden some 5 m in length adjacent to 

the dwelling. The impressive number of artifacts 

derives from both extensive archaeological work 

done at this location and considerable breakage 

or consumption over a long occupation span. 

Majolica was inventoried for this site by Colorado 

College (186 sherds), presumably based 

on an assemblage originally gathered during the 

1950s as reported by Plowden (1958). Table 

2 shows this inventory of majolica ceramics 

by type. 

The largest category of majolica consisted 

of Puebla blue-on-white, a ceramic brought in 

from Puebla, Mexico, arguably the most widely 

distributed import ceramic in the Southwest, as 

well as the circum-Caribbean (Deagan 1987; 

Cohen-Williams 1991). Table 3 displays the 

ceramic totals from LA 16769, which also consist 

of Pueblo-derived pottery, and even many of 

the same recognizable types, but complemented 

by a higher percentage of imported wares. 

The dissimilarity in import percentages 

between the two sites may be deduced from the 

TABLE 2 

LA 16768 

IMPORTED POTTERY SHERDS 

(PREVIOUS TESTS) 

Type (Imported Majolica) 

Number 

Puebla blue-on-white (1675–1830/50) 57 

Puebla polychrome (1650–1725) 53 

Abo polychrome (1650–1750?) 29 

San Luis blue-on-white (1575?–1650) 5 

San Augustine blue-on-white 

(1700–1730) 2 

Tumacacori polychrome (1780–1840/60) 1 

Aranama polychrome (1750–1800) 1 

Unclassified blue-on-white 4 

Plain white 34 

Total 186 

75 

tables. When the Table 1 artifacts are tabulated, 

LA 16768 shows only about 1% in imports 

from the project sample obtained in the late 

1990s (Payne 1999). Some 99% of the ceramics 

are native in origin. Almost all of the substantial 

pottery assemblage reported by Colorado 

College was native in origin as well (99%), 

and the amount of Mexican majolica collected 

before the 1990s is small by comparison (about 

1% of all previously retrieved ceramic materials, 

as shown in Table 2). The emphasis on native 

ceramics reported by both Colorado College and 

the Santa Fe River Project tests tends to support 

an interpretation of limited means for the 

site inhabitants. 

Site LA 16769 is a larger, more complicated 

site than LA 16768. The LA 16769 table (Table 

3) blends contrasting artifact counts from two 

collections gathered at different times. One 

survey and subsurface shovel test of LA 16769 

from the 1980s that included the extramural 

or peripheral boundaries of the site resulted in 

a small percentage of imports (about 1% of 

ceramic assemblage). Earlier samples gathered at 

the center of LA 16769 and along the midden 

produced a very high proportion of import 

pottery, some 36% (Boyd 1970; Levine et al. 

1985). Depositional patterns in New Mexico 

require more study to clarify the relationship of 

artifacts to features. It is provisionally assumed 

that sample error is canceled out to some 

degree by integrating these two collections, 

which yields an import percentage of 18%. The 

range of majolica demonstrates less emphasis 

on the most common and economically accessible 

type, Puebla blue-on-white, and is slightly 

more diverse than at LA 16768. Trade began 

to increase during the 1800s, which gradually 

made imports easier to obtain. Still, the ceramics, 

when combined with other key factors 

such as overall site complexity and size, suggest 

greater affluence for the inhabitants of LA 

16769 than of LA 16768. While the relationship 

of pottery-sampling strategies to status affiliation 

here may be open to lively interpretive debate, 

one key observation can be made. Ceramics of 

indigenous manufacture dominate the pottery at 

LA 16769. 

Despite unresolved background sampling 

issues, the imperfect fit of temporal ranges 

between the two sites, or debate over the 

value of tabulating sherds, it must be seen as


TABLE 3 

LA 16769 POTTERY SHERDS 

Type (Pueblo Series) 

Number 

Ogapoge polychrome 113 

Puname polychrome (1680–1780+) 45 

Polished red 100 

Kapo black 33 

Tewa polychrome 150 

Powhoge polychrome 40 

Tewa buff 116 

Tewa black (1600–1800+) 33 

Penasco micaceous (1600?–1800?) 28 

Vadito micaceous 146 

Kotyiti glaze polychrome 6 

Kotyiti Glaze F (1650–1700+) 3 

Other historical/prehistoric native 74 

Subtotal 887 

Type (Imported Majolica) 

Number 

Aranama polychrome (1750–1800+) 42 

Mount Royal polychrome 

(1630/50–1685) 33 

San Elizario polychrome (1750–1850) 28 

Puebla blue-on-white (1675–1830/50) 19 

Aucilla polychrome (1665/75?–1700?) 5 

Huejotzingo blue-on-white (1700–1850) 4 

Tumacacori polychrome (1780–1840/60) 2 

Puebla polychrome (1650–1725) 1 

Abo polychrome 1 

Plain white 54 

Subtotal 189 

Type (European American) 

Number 

Shell edged 2 

Flow blue (1820–1910) 1 

Subtotal 3 

Total 1,079 

significant that in both cases native pottery 

forms the most conspicuous category of ceramic 

artifacts. Furthermore, when a table was created 

to deal with the sum of residues from tests 

conducted at the three Santa Fe River Project 

sites (including metal, glass, lithic, and miscellaneous 

artifacts, as well as European American 

ceramics, amounting to about 6,200 artifacts), 

native ceramics accounted for 68% of the grand 

total of all artifacts. Here material was added 

from the two other nearby project sites, both 

Hispano colonial dwellings represented by stone 

foundation footings. Site LA 16772 (a small, 

late-18th-century house of 22.5 m 2 ) was subsurface 

tested, as was neighboring LA 2 (a multicomponent 

site with several prehistoric levels 

and an historical occupation from a demolished 

house dating from the mid-18th through early 

20th centuries). Some of the artifacts from LA 

2 were recovered from precolonial strata. Of the 

historical horizons, though, over half the ceramics 

are native pottery types. 

The predominance of native wares will come 

as no surprise to those who have been analyzing 

Spanish colonial sites for a long time (Deagan 

1992; Farnsworth and Williams 1992). Nevertheless, 

to pursue the assessment further and thus 

assuage any doubt due to sampling or “temporal 

contamination” problems, if one checks the 

assemblages of other historical vernacular sites 

or refuse deposits tested or excavated in New 

Mexico (some 18 from the 1600s through early 

1800s, here excluding missions, Santa Fe River 

sites, site components dated to the Mexican 

period and subsequent American takeover of 

1846, adapted from Moore [et al. 1995]), similar 

results are obtained. Of the roughly 75,000 colonial 

artifacts recovered, 93%, or about 70,000, 

were ceramics of local Indian manufacture. Only 

a slim percentage of artifacts are considered to 

be “Mexican”––majolica with a few Spanish 

olive-jar fragments––although majolica from 

Mexico was not invariably expensive. One study 

determined (Snow 1993) that the majolica reaching 

New Mexico from Puebla, Mexico, during 

the later 1700s might be marked up by 14% 

over factory costs. Sundry European American 

earthenware or stoneware fragments trickled in 

from the East or Mexican frontera, especially 

after 1821 as trade restrictions loosened. 

Other artifact categories such as metal goods 

were present in low numbers at the Santa Fe 

River Project sites. Stone tools (lithics and 

their associated debris of differentiated chalcedony, 

jasper, quartzite, obsidian, etc.) typically 

constitute an important class of artifacts on 

the majority of colonial sites in New Mexico, 

since chipped-stone tools, from awls to scrapers 

to needles to projectile points to knives, 

approximated or substituted for equivalent 

metal items. Wood often replaced metal in farm 

implements. On the Anglo East Coast, like the


Virginia-Chesapeake region, for example, more 

household implements in general would have 

been created from metal and/or shipped over 

from Europe, or carved out of wood occasionally 

(Noël Hume 1969; Beaudry et al. 1983), 

and European or colonist-made material culture 

largely replaced native material culture. By 

comparison, many of the New Mexican tools 

were not only stone but were acquired by barter 

from native groups. These stone tools were also 

imitated more and more by the Hispanos as the 

colonial era progressed (Payne 1999). 

Stated simply, the Pueblo Indians were the 

primary source of material culture extant in the 

New Mexican archaeological record for residences 

of the colonial era. A few sherds may be 

from vessels actually produced by Hispanos who 

were influenced by native traditions (Carrillo 

1996). Even so, the overwhelming majority of 

types are identifiably native in origin. In addition, 

the local preponderance of native wares 

contrasts sharply with evidence from colonial 

sites of the Eastern Seaboard, such as those in 

Virginia (Noël Hume 1969), where European 

American wares and goods predominate, often 

displaying an elaborate variability as compared 

to colonial domestic sites of the Southwest. In 

fact, excavations at the Santa Fe Palace of the 

Governors, the most elite locus in New Mexico 

and the oldest capitol building in the United 

States (ca. 1610), have uncovered hundreds of 

thousands of artifacts from the colonial period 

and beyond. Preliminary analysis of this assemblage 

indicates a majority of native artifacts 

from regional Pueblo communities. There is also 

an undetermined percentage of native Mexican 

ceramics (Tim Maxwell 2004, pers. com.). The 

Palace of the Governors was occupied by the 

Puebloans for a dozen years after the 1680 

Pueblo Revolt, which probably accounts for a 

portion of this collection, although the artifacts 

represent a wide temporal range and thus imply 

long-term interaction of colonists with indigenous 

groups. 

Several factors help to explain this trend in 

material usage. Cross-cultural trade, the incorporation 

of natives into Hispanic environments, 

and the intermingling of Indians and Hispanos 

in New Mexico to produce hybrid populations 

all played a role in material-consumption patterns. 

Leading citizens charged with managing 

individual pueblos might visit native villages 

77 

during the 1600s to barter for goods, one 

mechanism by which Pueblo ceramics were 

procured (Trigg 2005). At least one trader of 

the later 1700s is known to have facilitated 

traffic between the Pueblo Indians and Spanish 

residents (Snow 1993). Interchanges between 

important persons (including church representatives) 

and the Puebloans are generally more 

knowable than exchanges between working-class 

colonists and specific Native American actors. 

In addition, the Puebloans were “employed” in 

mission settings as herders, millers, porters, and 

other roles, as well as in Santa Fe textile sweatshops. 

They also joined colonist households as 

retainers and frequently intermarried with the 

Hispanos. Ethnic mingling is a sociocultural 

pattern one typically sees in Spanish America 

(Bustamante 1989; Gutierrez 1991; Esteva- 

Fabregat 1995) but less often in Anglo America 

(Axtell 1981, 1988). 

The Hispanic colonization strategy relied upon 

Pueblo production as part of the missionizing 

process, with the proximity of relations encouraging 

intermarriage. This strategy was practical in 

the limited sense that the local Hispano population 

was small at first and not replenished by a 

steady influx of newcomers. Moreover it seems 

to echo a broader Spanish tendency. By contrast, 

gradual economic displacement of native production 

and native groups was more common in 

Anglo America. Such opposing tendencies could 

even mirror a fundamental contrast between Latin 

Catholic systems and Protestant systems in general 

(Payne 1999), an idea that appears to be gaining 

some currency (Rothschild 2003). Mission-oriented 

Latin systems had to deal with ethnic plurality 

and were likely “preconditioned” as to their style 

of empire by the rich ethnic complexity of the 

Mediterranean rim (Payne 1999). 

A Glimpse of Some Relevant Documents 

Material variability can also be assessed from 

the point of view of the documentary record. New 

Mexican colonial wills reveal asset totals that can 

be compared with those from the Mexican interior, 

where affluent individuals might leave estates 

valued in the tens or hundreds of thousands of 

pesos, or even a million (Kizca 1983). In New 

Mexico, legacies of five figures were very rare, 

and an estate of only a few thousand pesos was 

quite significant (Payne 2005).


If one reviews several archived inventories for 

the Santa Fe River valley, contrasts with the 

archeological record become evident. The 1762 

will of Juana Romero represents a low-status 

testament (Spanish Archives of New Mexico I 

[SANM I][4]:frames 1,145–1,148). Her inventory 

listed the following goods: an iron griddle 

and spoon, a loom with comb, a bedspread, a 

scarlet skirt or petticoat, a cape, two religious 

pictures depicting Our Lady of Guadalupe and 

Our Lady of Aid, and a box. Higher-status residents 

of the same area can also be discussed. 

Andres Montoya owned the Cieneguilla Grant 

(based on the Almazan family cession of the 

1600s, revalidated in 1693 to become the oldest 

land grant in the state for which there are 

extant archival records, and sold to Montoya 

in 1716), a land parcel of tens of thousands of 

acres that once embraced a vast region to the 

west of Santa Fe. The Cieneguilla Land Grant 

encompassed many of the colonial sites in this 

river corridor, even as other families eventually 

moved in and settled their own land cessions 

and homes. Encroachment on the Montoya 

property was frequently secured by marrying 

into the Montoya clan. 

When Andres Montoya died, his will (ca. 

1740) enumerated the following: two used 

ladles, a copper jug for mixing foods, a water 

jug, an iron griddle, a spit, an old chest for 

chocolate with its key, a carpenter’s ax, a chisel, 

an iron weeder, five new wooden digging sticks, 

clothes, an old cloak of woolen cloth, a woolen 

great coat lined in blue flannel, a black hat, a 

standard shotgun or blunderbuss, a bridle, spurs, 

a leather shield, a saddle, a sword, saddle blankets/pads, 

wool breeches, powder bags, boots (or 

leggings), a gun case, an old hoe or spade, a 

new cart and yoke, a mattress with wool blanket 

and sheet, along with a four-room house 

plus mules, oxen, sheep, and horses (SANM I 

[3]:frames 841–844). In a case from 1739, the 

moderately well-off Cristobal Baca, who lived 

along the river closer to Santa Fe, and whose 

kindred intermarried with the Montoyas, listed 

various possessions in his testament (SANM I 

[1]:frames 637–668). Baca was fortunate enough 

to own four silver spoons. The Baca inventory 

also mentions the following items: kitchen paraphernalia 

(two copper ladles, an iron griddle, 

two candlesticks, a mortar, five pewter plates, 

a small copper pot, a roasting spit, a box with 

lock, an iron spoon, two chocolate pots), tools 

(an adze, shearing shears, an ax, a chisel, 

digging sticks, a branding iron, plow points), 

clothes (various measures of flannel and cloth, 

a cape, breeches of refined cloth, shoes, a fine 

hat, an undershirt), horse or travel equipment 

(a cart, a saddle, five bridles, spurs, an elk-skin 

tent, saddle pads), work animals, and silver 

buckles, amounting overall to around 3,500 

pesos in value. 

About a half-dozen other examples from the 

project area paralleled these three inventories, 

listing a few better durables and religious pictures, 

but especially tools, weapons, and horse 

gear. Only one very late example, that of Maria 

Montoya from 1830, mentioned metates, Indianderived 

grinding slabs of stone used to prepare 

corn, as well as earthenware bowls of an undisclosed 

type (SANM I[4]:frames 83–86). 

To round out this picture, from the year 1715 

a translated roster of stuffs brought to New 

Mexico destined for the presidio or military 

installation in Santa Fe included, along with other 

things, Rouen linen, silk stockings, paper, sugar, 

beeswax, Chinese towels, and saffron (Ahlborn 

1983). These items most likely were enjoyed 

by officers with prominent familial connections 

rather than in the possession of ordinary recruits. 

One can begin to make several observations. 

First, the inventories tend to highlight objects of 

ideotechnic and sociotechnic value (such terms 

even now a useful shorthand for assigning broad 

functional categories [Binford 1962]), items 

that reveal participation in the Spanish cultural 

system. A few particulars advertise status. The 

wills also denote items of supreme utilitarian 

value. Andres Montoya and Cristobal Baca would 

not have been considered affluent with reference 

to the material wealth exhibited in Mexico City 

(Kizca 1983; Payne 2005). Still, Montoya and 

Baca were prosperous according to the standards 

of the New Mexican elite, situated within the 

Spanish “semi-periphery” or frontier during this 

period. 

It seems, however, that the most numerous 

categories of artifacts––native-derived pottery 

and to a lesser degree lithics––are not especially 

well recorded in colonial wills. Discrete native 

objects do appear in these documents from time 

to time, such as digging sticks and grinding 

stones, with three metates enumerated in the 

chattel list of a well-off Albuquerque landowner


from the 1730s (Payne 2005), which hints 

at the incorporation of and a dependence on 

native items within frontier households. And yet, 

on the whole, Native American material culture 

is only minimally acknowledged. This trend 

exists despite the fact that even wealthy persons 

might strive to inventory commonplace objects, 

suggesting that everyday implements were still 

prized enough to be recorded with care. Survival 

in rugged New Mexico necessitated a fair arsenal 

of weapons and tools. People struggled to make 

a living from agropastoralism. They endured, in 

the meantime, devastating Apache, Navajo, Ute, 

Comanche, or earlier Pueblo Indian assaults. 

Colonists also managed to procure a few 

refinements and exotics. The archaeological 

record seldom unveils these refinements since 

perishables like spices and imported fabric, with 

one or two exceptions, do not survive well, 

while highly valued goods, whether treasured 

objects like silver spoons or mundane objects 

like farm implements and even clothing, were 

less subject to discard. This appears to be the 

case, although the issue of the low availability 

of metal in the 1600s improved during the 18th 

century. Simple metallic items were sometimes 

the result of local forge work, whereas fancier 

objects were generally imported. Select clothing 

was brought in from elsewhere, even as 

the local wool industry produced homespun, 

supplemented by hides (Boyd 1974; Simmons 

and Turley 1980). Many objects were evidently 

handled with great care and recycled. Indian 

items are listed only sporadically, their occasional 

recordation probably implying problems 

concerning access to Spanish material culture 

rather than indicating exceptional reverence for 

these objects, per se, beyond their unmistakable 

serviceability. 

All the same, the inhabitants of residential 

sites were not reluctant to adopt native material 

culture. Luxury goods definitely circulated 

from time to time but only to a limited extent. 

In the Santa Fe River Study, comparisons were 

made with three 18th-century sites in Florida 

that reinforced this view. Domestic assemblages 

from St. Augustine (Deagan 1983) in 

general show greater percentages of import 

ceramics than either the project sites or other 

New Mexican sites of the 1700s, across class 

categories (Payne 1999), despite a clear dependence 

on native wares overall. For example, a 

79 

lower-status residence in St. Augustine yielded 

3.86% in Hispanic or import pottery compared 

to 1% for a roughly analogous site in the Santa 

Fe River corridor (LA 16768 described above). 

The inhabitants of St. Augustine, being situated 

next to the Atlantic, enjoyed the advantages of 

ocean trade. 

Present-day scholarly debate in New Mexico 

focuses on the degree of material luxury 

enjoyed by the colonial Hispanos. Revisionists 

have criticized the notion of the province as 

a backwater colony with constricted material 

availability. One might argue that perceptions 

of affluence are defined by context and should 

be understood on a relative scale. Regardless 

of scholarly debate on this issue, however, the 

reader would be remiss not to grasp a couple 

of obvious points. First, had one looked solely 

at the artifacts it might have been tempting to 

underrate the role of moderately important––but 

risky and vulnerable––long-distance trade that 

occurred throughout the colonial period. Betteroff 

citizens tried to recreate something of the 

Spanish social order from which they were far 

removed. Mexico City was 1,600 mi. away, a 

very long ride on a mule or in a cart. It would 

be easy to underestimate the gear required to 

facilitate the work routine of individual households. 

The presence of small percentages of 

majolica in archaeological assemblages hint at 

the scale of the trade in imported household 

goods in New Mexico. Similarly, porcelain, 

though extremely rare, appears in miniscule 

amounts in the residential archaeology of New 

Mexico (Kayser and Ewing 1971; Moore et al. 

1995) and intermittently in documents (Ahlborn 

1990; Snow 1993). Exchanges of all types 

accelerated as the Indian threat from migratory 

groups like the Comanche abated in the face 

of Spanish coercion and military offensives by 

the late 1700s. Once again, consideration of 

only the written record would gloss over the 

obviously crucial significance of Indian pottery 

and its undeniable utility within colonial society. 

A type of transculturation was occurring at 

the level of everyday material consumption. In 

addition to pottery, maize, and beans, during the 

colonial era cotton cloth, hides, and medicinal 

herbs, among other things, were transferred from 

the Pueblo people to the Hispanos. In the meantime 

imported goods, domesticated animals (sheep, 

goats, cattle, etc.), European cultigens (wheat plus


various fruits), and occasionally wages or metal 

tools were transmitted from the colonists to the 

Puebloans. Hispanos and Puebloans alike began to 

grow chile peppers, which have come to symbolize 

New Mexican agriculture. Chile peppers were 

indigenous plants from South America that were 

brought by the Spaniards to the Rio Grande area. 

When these ingredients were brought together, the 

result was one of the most distinctive of American 

regional cuisines. In addition, the colonists 

integrated the flat roofs of Indian pueblos, which 

featured ceiling beams projecting beyond the exterior 

walls, with their own style of adobe building 

using brick-making forms and wooden details 

such as columned porches. Flat roofs, though not 

unknown in Spain, were more common east of the 

Adriatic (Cordell 1992; Lazzell and Payne 2007). 

During the post-contact era the Puebloans 

continued to live in puddled adobe villages of 

one- to several-stories high, as they had before the 

Spaniards arrived, often constructed near rivers or 

springs to facilitate crop production. Many towns 

vanished during the 1600s due to European diseases 

(Ramenofsky 1987). Various enclaves were 

consolidated or renamed using Spanish terminology. 

The pueblos that were left by the turn of the 

18th century were awarded fairly viable Spanish 

land grants and overall were subject to less population 

pressure from European American immigration 

than were the settlements of eastern Indians. 

Together these two factors opened a window of 

opportunity for Pueblo cultures to rebound. 

The remaining pueblos, mostly fanning out from 

the Santa Fe area and along the Rio Grande or 

its distributaries, struggled to regain a modicum 

of prosperity during the 1700s but stayed largely 

distinct from growing Hispano communities, 

despite intercultural borrowing and interethnic 

unions (Schroeder 1979; Simmons 1979). The 

Spaniards employed multiple strategies to secure 

native labor or loyalty, trying everything from 

gift giving to force, with a greater emphasis on 

accommodation during the 18th century (Kessell 

1989; Weber 2005). 

The Puebloans ultimately contributed much to 

New Mexico’s “umbrella” Hispanic culture, 

particularly in relation to foodways and architecture. 

“Institutional” Spanish culture at the 

level of laws and religion was left more or 

less intact. Hispano folkways embraced Spanish 

elements, independent invention, and indigenous 

inspiration (Hudson 1951; Spicer 1962, 1966; 

Weigle and White 1988; Nostrand 1992; Payne 

1999; Galgano 2005). Transculturation was multifaceted, 

since some cultural aspects meshed 

even as others were left alone, created afresh, 

incorporated, or reconfigured by compartmentalization. 

Many Puebloans learned Spanish and 

adopted Catholicism, but they did not relinquish 

their own cosmology or languages. In other 

words, Spanish colonization tended to overlay 

rather than eradicate native societies, leading to 

offshoots of Iberian culture subject to regional 

variation across Latin America. 

Analytical Possibilities 

In terms of material culture, one might probe 

the reasons that ordinary native wares and lithics 

were underreported in local wills. By way 

of comparative background, Stone (1988) has 

noted that ceramics were seldom recorded in 

one Chesapeake sample of probate inventories of 

the 1600s because the people depended more on 

wood and especially pewter. This circumstance 

may explain why ceramics are not generously 

distributed at relevant sites for this era (Beaudry 

et al. 1983). Evidently ceramic utilization went 

up during the 1700s, both in pots (Beaudry 

1988) and in fine dining wares (Stone 1988). 

In New Mexico, however, native ceramics dominate 

sites throughout the colonial period. These 

wares were well dispersed. They may have been 

haphazardly inventoried because, for one thing, 

like lithic materials, they were relatively easy 

to obtain and replace. 

New Mexican testaments served as barometers 

of class affiliation and declarations of connection 

to the Spanish system through their fervent 

acknowledgements of church authority and faith 

(Simmons 1991). Although belied by the reality 

of social and material conditions (Snow 1988), 

intentionally overlooking the presence of native 

wares in testaments can be understood as a kind 

of boundary maintenance between Spanish and 

Pueblo systems. Those who participated in the 

Hispano community frequently aspired to the 

frontier aristocracy. Bustamante (1989) contends 

that the Hispano class structure was defined 

theoretically––if not in practice––by the amount 

of Spanish blood one possessed, especially in 

established towns such as Santa Fe. Under these 

conditions displaying status (by having imports, 

observing sacraments and other symbols of


Spanish culture, or employing a scribe to make 

a will when there was an inheritance) was a priority 

to be considered. “Better” Spanish goods 

(metal knives, etc.) filtered into native societies 

also, but it is harder to gauge their role in 

written records, since these societies relied upon 

oral rather than written traditions. 

The sophisticated, town-dwelling Puebloans had 

extremely well-established traditions in material 

culture at the time of European arrival. Hispanic 

material choices were correspondingly affected, 

and the broad Spanish pattern of utilizing native 

material culture, as in many areas of the circum- 

Caribbean, was repeated. This pattern occurred 

despite the reduction of native settlements, the 

impact of Christianization (Spicer 1962; Gutierrez 

1991), or the occasional mimicking or adoption 

by the Puebloans of Spanish vessel shapes, as 

natives had done elsewhere in the Borderlands 

(Payne 1999). Despite many obstacles, the Pueblo 

peoples in New Mexico survived, and in fact 

they continue to make pottery as a culturally 

definable industry to the present day. 

Conclusion 

When seeking an understanding of the use of 

everyday material culture in a colonial setting, 

addressing the disjuncture between archaeological 

vs. written data is critical, as acknowledged 

by Cleland (2001). In the end, contrasting the 

material record with the written record will 

result in a more balanced interpretation of colonial 

life. While there is overlap, the everyday 

residues revealed through the archaeology of 

Santa Fe River sites, which are mostly local 

and native derived, are strikingly different 

when compared against the recorded, slightly 

more-dramatic benchmarks of both practical and 

ornamental Spanish cultural maintenance, from 

blunderbusses to silver spoons. 

De Cunzo (2001) is likewise on target. Interesting 

nuances are witnessed simultaneously 

from the point of view of the colonial actors 

themselves, with regard not only to what they 

used but also deliberately passed down via laborious 

documentation, as opposed to what they 

relied upon constantly but seldom conserved. 

As such, local wills were more than lists; they 

were tokens of Spanish cultural allegiance. 

Moreover, De Cunzo is prudent in warning 

archaeologists to take specified variables into 

81 

account, like class, when trying to explain 

“disjunctions” at different levels of analysis. Of 

course, in a given study, one may not always 

have a research query that may be operationalized 

to the extent of inviting valid comparisons 

between sites, much less between assemblages 

and documents. And even when there is such a 

query, the investigator may not be aware of the 

mental intent of the makers of objects. In the 

end, it is the unevenness of written data that 

partly distinguishes historical archaeologists with 

a scholarly rationale for being and doing, particularly 

as culture change is focused on from 

an anthropological perspective. 

The impact of status or other factors on material 

residues becomes clearer if one has taken 

the trouble to define the operating boundaries of 

a specific discussion. Assemblages and archival 

resources plus applicable texts combined could 

keep the researcher from attributing explanations 

for artifact counts to cultural phenomena 

that are in reality being predetermined by the 

sluggish or enthusiastic movement of goods 

back and forth. One might also obtain a better 

grasp of when and how cultural orientations do 

affect the archaeological collections where the 

causes for variability arise from both physical 

and preferential criteria. What appear to be fundamental 

differences between English colonial 

site residues and Spanish colonial site residues 

in general (Deagan 1992, 1998) cannot be satisfactorily 

accounted for based on logistics alone, 

since native wares are often quite conspicuous at 

Spanish residential sites close to shipping lanes 

or active trade routes, supporting the notion of 

transculturation. The realities of access, however, 

do influence the relative percentages of imports 

vs. local wares among regions for equitable time 

periods. Native wares constitute somewhat larger 

percentages of the assemblages in New Mexico 

(Payne 1999) when compared to coastal areas 

(Deagan 1983). Restated a different way, if one 

is studying a “recent” temporal framework, both 

physical conditions and cultural tendencies may 

be knowable enough to suggest multiple causes 

for explaining behavior (Hodder 1985). 

A wider spectrum of studies that actually uses 

documents as a heuristic control for the archaeology 

should be carried out before judgments 

are made as to which analytical tools perform 

better in the quest for a more holistic understanding 

of the past. When such case studies


for multiple regions are compared, debates 

addressing the problem of where the discipline 

should be will take a new turn, and arguments 

ascribing causation (apropos of who had what 

and why) may become more meaningful. In 

New Mexico, the archaeological record points to 

multidirectional exchanges and the dependence 

of the colonial Hispanos on non-Europeans. 

Nevertheless, written wills served, among other 

things, as gestures of Spanish cultural membership. 

A permutation of Iberian society was 

coalescing or crystallizing, as in other areas 

of the circum-Caribbean, albeit with significant 

local variation. Combining clues from both 

the archaeology and deathbed testaments helps 

demonstrate the contrast between the reality of 

everyday life (influenced by aboriginals) and 

the struggle to maintain a “Spanish” lifeway 

as cultural and material boundaries alternately 

braced, bent, shifted, blended, or were gradually 

redefined within the Borderlands. 


Thanks to Dr. John Kessell and Dr. James 

Boone for reading this article. 

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Melissa Payne 

Museum of New Mexico 

3700 Silver SE 

Albuquerque, NM 87108

85 

Ryan P. Harrod 

Jennifer L. Thompson 

Debra L. Martin 

Hard Labor and Hostile 

Encounters: What Human 

Remains Reveal about 

Institutional Violence and 

Chinese Immigrants Living in 

Carlin, Nevada (1885–1923) 

ABSTRACT 

This article identifies activity-related changes to, traumatic 

injuries on, and pathological conditions of the human remains 

of the Chinese immigrants from Carlin, Nevada, who were 

interred between 1885 and 1923. Chinese males came to the 

Americas to work as railroad laborers and miners, and when 

the railroad was completed many went home, but some found 

work in small towns. In Carlin, Chinese immigrants were 

employed as merchants, shopkeepers, cooks, laundry workers, 

and a variety of other occupations. Within this immigrant 

group, there were differences in the degree of physical labor 

each individual experienced. According to historical records, 

this was a time of increasing anti-Chinese sentiments, and 

there are accounts of intergroup conflict with the politically 

dominant settlers. However, little is known about the biological 

correlates of this sociopolitical inequality. An analysis of these 

correlates is assessed as a means for understanding patterns 

of social, economic, and political inequality between these 

immigrants and the local population. The findings demonstrate 

that socioeconomic and political inequality experienced by the 

Carlin individuals resulted in high rates of activity-induced 

changes, trauma, and pathological conditions. Furthermore, 

examination of the relationship between cranial trauma and 

other types of skeletal injuries supports research that has shown 

trauma to the head can predispose people to other types of 

trauma (accidental or deliberate). The results support the historical 

accounts of the time that indicate hard physical labor, 

accidental or deliberate trauma, and interpersonal conflict were 

part of the life history of this group of Chinese immigrants. 

Introduction 

The following is a reanalysis of 13 complete 

to nearly complete historical burials of individuals 

of Chinese descent from northern Nevada 

from around the turn of the 20th century. The 

human remains are currently housed at the 

Department of Anthropology of the University 

of Nevada, Las Vegas until arrangements are 

made to re-inter the remains. The 13 individuals 

were excavated from an historical cemetery 

in Carlin, Nevada, that was a designated burial 

location for Chinese residents. This cemetery is 

about two blocks east of the main town cemetery 

(Chung et al. 2005:107). At the time of 

excavation, the individuals recovered from this 

cemetery were all interred within coffins, and 

most possessed some form of mortuary offering 

or grave good. The importance of grave 

goods is that they can offer insight into the 

individuals and their positions within the society 

as well as help to date when the remains were 

interred. Analysis of the grave goods, in addition 

to census records and historical documents, 

indicates that the cemetery was used between 

1885 and 1923 (Owsley et al. 1997; Chung et 

al. 2005; Schmidt 2006, 2009; Schmidt et al. 

2011). During this time, Carlin, Nevada, was 

primarily a small frontier railroad-and-mining 

community where Chinese immigrants provided 

a major contribution to the labor force needed 

to support these industries (Chung et al. 2005). 

Due to the unique nature of this collection of 

historical burials, there have been prior studies 

conducted and published. The current research 

builds on these early studies yet differs significantly 

from them in a number of important 

ways outlined below. The first project conducted 

on the remains was an osteological analysis 

by a group of skeletal biologists from the 

National Museum of Natural History (Owsley 

et al. 1997). This work was very precise, with 

detailed measurements of bones as well as an 

assessment of age and sex. However, the authors 

noted only presence or absence of certain skeletal 

traits and pathologies with limited interpretation 

of what the biological changes meant for 

the individuals. The methodological approach for 

identifying activity-related changes and trauma 

has improved greatly over the last decade since 

that study, and so a reanalysis is warranted. 

Another project, Chung et al. (2005), used 

historical records supplemented by the data from 

Owsley and his team to explore the cultural 


Accepted for publication 23 October 2012 



context of the individuals from Carlin. Their aim 

was to assess the degree of acculturation of the 

immigrants from China to the American way of 

life, focusing primarily on the analysis of grave 

goods and historical records. The human remains 

were given less attention and a preliminary and 

descriptive osteological analysis was relied on 

(Owsley et al. 1997). The current study builds 

on these initial findings but extends the analysis 

with new techniques for examining patterns 

of hard physical labor and also for examining 

trauma, pathology, and fractures. These additional 

datasets provide a much richer picture of the life 

experiences of these individuals. 

Schmidt (2006) and Schmidt et al. (2011) 

used craniometrics to address questions of the 

biological relationship between Chinese immigrants 

and populations from China to assess 

where the immigrants originated. What they 

found was that the immigrants to Carlin appear 

to have originated from either the Guangdong or 

Guangxi provinces in southern China (Schmidt 

2006; Schmidt et al. 2011). Recently, Schmidt 

also presented a paper on two individuals with 

evidence of lethal trauma (Schmidt 2009). 

Schmidt based his interpretation of the trauma 

on Owsley and his team’s 1997 report, as well 

as his own reanalysis (Schmidt 2006). Schmidt 

(2009) discusses the role of interpersonal violence, 

using trauma as the primary data set, 

with no consideration of activity-related changes 

and existing pathological conditions. The consequences 

of excluding these other variables are 

that it results in a less-complete picture of the 

individuals and their individual life histories. 

Given how little is known of the lives of this 

group of early immigrants during colonial times, 

it is important to glean as much information as 

possible from the human remains to document 

their history and sociopolitical experiences. 

Thus, this multidisciplinary approach, using 

bioarchaeological methods of analysis, provides 

a new look at the Carlin Chinese immigrants. 

Life in a Railroad Town: 

A Brief Overview of Carlin 

Carlin is in Elko County, which is in the 

far-northeast portion of the state of Nevada. 

The town developed as a product of the western 

expansion of the Central Pacific Railroad. 

Named after a Civil War Union brigadier 

general, William Passamore Carlin, the town was 

founded in 1868 and served as the eastern terminus 

for the railroad’s Humboldt Division (Elliott 

and Rowley 1987:114; Hall 2002:92–93; Toll 

2002:26). According to Schmidt et al. (2011:16): 

“Carlin, Nevada was Central Pacific’s district terminus, 

operating a roundhouse (for the exchange 

and service of locomotives), machine and car 

shops, a freight depot, and a refrigeration center 

along the transcontinental route.” There is little 

doubt that Chinese immigrants were residents 

of Carlin on the day the town was established. 

Given that the majority of the people employed 

by the Central Pacific Railroad were laborers of 

Chinese descent (Kraus 1969), it stands to reason 

that the laborers building, maintaining, and operating 

the railroad in and around Carlin would 

have taken up residence. In additon, even before 

the arrival of the railroad there were Chinese in 

the region who came to Elko County for the 

same reason as their counterparts of European 

descent, to prospect gold and silver (Chung et 

al. 2005:108). Though other ethnic groups beside 

those of European or Chinese descent are present 

in northern Nevada, the number of individuals in 

those groups is very small (James et al. 1994). 

While census and business records clearly 

show there was a significant Chinese presence 

in northern Nevada (James et al. 1994), the 

Chinese people themselves are not discussed 

to any great extent in the historical accounts 

(Chung et al. 2005:115). Their presence, however, 

can be identified through biographical 

accounts of some of the earliest citizens of 

European descent living in Elko County. For 

example, discussing the accolades of Samuel 

McMullen, a railroadman turned farmer and 

stockman, one of the defining characteristics 

was that “he was at the head of fifty Chinese 

laborers” (Wren 1904:748). Similarily, one of 

the accomplishments of Andrew Canavan––“one 

of the state’s most intelligent, progressive and 

enterprising mining men”––was that he played 

a pivotal role in the introduction of the “bill 

for the exclusion of Chinamen from the state” 

(Wren 1904:684). It is clear that these accounts 

of Chinese living in the region are biased and 

lack details about the individuals and their lives. 

Chung et al. (2005:115–116) found that much of 

what was reported in the local newspapers about 

the Chinese living in Carlin was portrayed from 

a skewed prospective.

yan p. harrod, jennifer l. thompson, and debral l. martin—Hard Labor and Hostile Encounters 

87 

This lack of a recorded history for a large 

portion of the community, and the fact that what 

is recorded does not necessarily show the Chinese 

in the best light suggests that Carlin was 

not a unified community. In fact, by 1879, only 

11 years after the establishment of Carlin, there 

are groups founded like the Anti-Chinese League 

in nearby Virginia City, whose sole intent is to 

close down the Chinese-owned laundries and 

drive the Chinese out of the region (James et 

al. 1994:170). Only a year later, in 1880, a vote 

was held in Nevada on the issue of Chinese 

immigration that resulted in 17,259 in favor 

of banning it, in contrast to 183 in support of 

immigration (Wren 1904:82). The establishment 

of organizations and laws against Chinese immigrants 

would eventually lead to violence. There 

are well-documented riots in northern Nevada 

and other parts of the West, such as Arizona, 

that are an result of this anti-Chinese sentiment 

(Elliott and Rowley 1987:167; Lister and Lister 

1989b:57; Cheung 2002:50). 

Minority Laborers: A Legacy of 

Discrimination and Subjugation 

There is an extensive literature that has examined 

the biological effects of slaving practices 

related to the Atlantic slave trade (Corruccini et 

al. 1982; Mann et al. 1987; Owsley et al. 1987; 

Rathburn 1987; Rankin-Hill 1990; Rathburn and 

Scurry 1991; Blakey 1998, 2001; Blakey et 

al. 2000; Rankin-Hill et al. 2000; Terranova 

et al. 2000). The findings of these researchers 

illustrate the many ways that the skeleton can 

reveal the accumulative affects of subjugation 

and hard labor. There are definite signatures 

on the skeleton that illustrate the impact of 

excessive, grueling, and long hours of physical 

labor. For example, some slaves exhibited fractured 

vertebrae from continually carrying heavy 

loads, while others presented higher frequencies 

of infectious and nutritional diseases because of 

lower immune response and repeated aggravation 

of injuries due to a lack of healing time. These 

pioneering studies have paved the way for bioarchaeologists 

to make significant contributions 

to the understanding of the effects of slaving 

and subjugation practices on other marginalized 

groups. Although researchers are beginning to 

understand the biocultural implications of the 

African slave trade, there is much less known 

about other forms of forced labor that are not as 

overt as slavery. The focus of this project is on 

a group of Chinese immigrants living in Nevada 

at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 

20th century, not individuals within the system 

of captivity during the Atlantic slave trade. 

However, the issues this research is addressing 

are in many ways the same ones bioarchaeologists 

faced when analyzing the bones of slaves. 

By 1865, slavery was outlawed in the United 

States, but Jim Crow laws, rampant racism, 

and the subjugation of immigrant and nonwhite 

subgroups continued and persists even today. 

The concept of indentured servitude is often 

associated with colonial times, when lower-status 

European immigrants would indebt themselves 

to companies as a means of securing passage 

to the colonies. However, this concept is rarely 

applied to other groups within the United States 

(Galenson 1984). The reality is that indentured 

servitude existed well after the colonies were 

established and arguably still exists today: 

In the 1850s it is likely that some Chinese immigrants 

to California had signed misleading contracts and 

unwittingly locked themselves into form of bondage 

lasting up to seven years: some were kidnapped; some 

were sold by their clans to brokers; and some, desperately 

poor, sold themselves off in a voluntary form of 

indentured servitude (Pfaelzer 2008:27). 

The problem is that, as immigrants entered into 

these agreements, they were then subjugated by 

the more dominant groups in the society, which 

obviously includes European Americans (Hirata 

1979; McClain 1996) but also higher-status Chinese 

merchants (Cloud and Galenson 1987). 

The immigrant Chinese workers that became 

indentured servants were commonly called 

“coolies” (Boswell 1986). This subjugation and 

exploitation of Chinese immigrants was not 

just an American phenomenon, however, as 

history shows similar attitudes toward Chinese 

in Australia (Anderson and Mitchell 1981), 

South Africa (Harris 2010), Cuba (Hu-Dehart 

1993), and British Guiana (Ali 2001). Just as 

in America, the Chinese immigrant laborers in 

those countries ceased to be seen as individuals 

and were instead viewed more as commodities 

that could be traded and exploited in a system 

of capital development. 

The Chinese are not the only ethnic group 

to fall into a system of exploitation within


America. In the mid-1920s and 1930s there 

was a movement by American corporations to 

promote the value of Mexican laborers and to 

argue against an increase in border security 

(Limerick 1987:247–248). Mexican immigrants, 

like the migrant workers involved in the guest 

worker program in the United States, are living 

examples of indentured servants (Vogel 2007). 

Slaves or captives are, by definition, used in 

systems of barter, trade, and purchase without 

their consent. In contrast, indentured servants 

often enter into these systems of barter, trade, 

and purchase of their own free will, such as 

the Chinese immigrants that came to America 

to labor in mines and on railroads, as well as 

those that performed more-repetitive but lessstrenuous 

work in laundries or as shopkeepers. 

To keep this system of indentured servitude 

organized and working, violence and fear of 

violence are methods of control used by the 

dominant group. Forms of violence are highly 

variable and used in different contexts. As such, 

violent activities manifest in different ways, 

such as rape, or forcing individuals to work 

excessively long hours, or by treating people 

as commodities with little thought to their wellbeing 

or health. These forms of violence are 

socially sanctioned or structural in the sense 

that they are built into the social fabric of how 

daily business is transacted, which, in contrast 

to more direct physical abuse, is hard to see in 

the bioarchaeological record because the signatures 

left on the remains are subtle. 

Farmer (2004) and Farmer et al. (2006) 

describe structural violence as the unnoticed 

political and economic relations and systems 

within a society that result in an increased 

risk of injury or death to certain marginalized 

groups. The importance of the idea of structural 

violence for the Carlin individuals is that forced 

laborers or indentured servants are exposed to 

many of these same risks as slaves and captives, 

with the major difference being that violence 

against the laborers is less overt. Thus, instead 

of looking for only healed trauma, one must 

examine the skeleton for signs of repetitiveactivity 

induced patterns, as well as pathologies 

and other signs of ill health. 

This project provides a more complete analysis 

of the available historical and archaeological 

record using empirical data derived from 

the bodies and bones of Chinese individuals, 

who, because of their ethnicity, were considered 

to be of lower status than colonialists of 

European descent. Peebles (2010:233) writes: 

“Anthropology may be uniquely situated to 

insist continually on the relationship between ... 

debt and bodily punishment.” This is because 

human remains provide an empirical record of 

the traces of abuse and pathology that complements 

the historical record. Servants are often 

used as social and political capital in efforts to 

coerce and accommodate rivals and allies. Looking 

at how government and corporate powers 

in the expanding colonial West transformed 

laborers into a form of currency (i.e., chattel) 

allows the investigation of multiple sources and 

forms of human commodification and trafficking. 

Ultimately, this sharpens researchers’ focus and 

ability to explain human behavior. Using theory 

about debt, relationship, and power derived 

from Leach (1982) can be a productive way 

to formulate hypotheses about the ways that 

credit and debt are manifested on the human 

bodies of people in circulation. Leach captures 

this elegantly in this statement: “Structures of 

social relationship are not only structures of 

indebtedness, they are also structures of power” 

(Leach 1982:156). 

A more-extensive exploration of the lives and 

experiences of Chinese immigrants in Carlin, 

Nevada, is discussed by Chung et al. (2005). 

Finally, for a more-expansive exploration of this 

topic there are a number of seminal articles 

in anthropology and history (Lister and Lister 

1989a, 1989b; Diehl et al. 1998; Cassel 2002; 

Chung and Wegars 2005b; Fosha and Leatherman 

2008; Ellis et al. 2011) that provide detailed 

discussions of the lives of Chinese in various 

communities throughout the American West. 

Bioarchaeological Methods 

The intent of this project is to reveal in 

greater detail who these Chinese individuals 

living in Carlin were and to shed more light 

on the nature of the lives they lived. The goal 

is to identify three types of “bodies” or “identities,” 

as described by Scheper-Hughes and 

Lock (1987:7–8). One can use a theoretical 

framework to separate the different ways that 

individuals and their bodies can be studied. This 

is useful for creating a more multidimensional 

reconstruction of individuals represented by their


89 

skeletonized remains. The three “bodies” include 

the individual or biological body, the cultural 

body, and the political body or body politic. 

Scheper-Hughes and Lock (1987) thus provides 

a theoretical framework for viewing the body 

from a number of different perspectives, each 

providing unique insights. 

Biological identity involves the analysis of 

descriptors, such as the age and sex of each 

individual. This level of analysis provides the 

baseline data with which to create a demographic 

profile of a community, without which a comparison 

of multiple sites is impossible. The methods 

used to estimate the age and sex of each individual 

rely on well-established standards (Phenice 

1969; Brooks and Suchey 1990; Buikstra and 

Ubelaker 1994; Bass 2005). 

The cultural identity of human remains can 

be inferred by looking at each burial context. 

Details, such as the site description, including 

the burial location, layout, and size, and also 

the type of burial goods (presence or absence 

of grave goods), are assessed. An evaluation 

of the orientation and location of a burial is 

key to understanding the position of a person 

within a society. Similarly, the amount and type 

of grave goods (e.g., clothes, artifacts, precious 

stones, ornaments, or tools) can also reveal a lot 

about the individual. For this project, the most 

important aspect of the mortuary analysis is not 

describing each of the grave goods interred with 

an individual but focusing on burials that have 

either greater quantities or greater quality of 

grave goods. Chung et al. (2005) and Schmidt 

(2006) provide more-detailed descriptions of 

mortuary context, as their goal is to provide an 

in-depth historical exploration of the sociopolitical 

factors impacting Chinese immigrants in Nevada. 

The most important information revealed from 

analysis of the mortuary context is that these 

individuals were buried separately from the dominant 

“white” or European American population in 

Carlin, with grave goods that were representative 

of their Chinese identity. 

The final level of identity, and the one of 

primary interest in this project, is the political 

identity or the “body politic” (Scheper-Hughes 

and Lock 1987:7), which is a category that uses 

contextual information to imagine a person’s 

social (and political) position in the society. Collectively, 

the trauma, pathologies, and anomalous 

changes in the skeleton can be used to imagine 

how individuals may have resisted, acquiesced, 

and used agency in their relationships with their 

employers, fellow workers, and others. 

1. Method for Assessment of 

Traumatic Injury 

Analyses of traumatic injuries are emerging as 

a useful way to document the type and frequency 

of violence to which individuals are exposed over 

the course of a lifetime and to relate this to their 

social positions (Owsley et al. 1987; Judd 2002; 

Stodder et al. 2002; Tung 2007, 2008; Buzon 

and Judd 2008; Martin 2008; de la Cova 2010; 

Giblin et al. 2010; Martin et al. 2010; Taggart 

2010; Glencross 2011; Milner and Ferrell 2011; 

Harrod et al. 2012; Watkins 2012). This relationship 

however, is not always clear, as it depends 

on the role of violence within the culture (i.e., 

socially sanctioned or abhorrent actions). 

The methods involved identifying the type, 

location, and severity of the trauma (i.e., mapping 

trauma on the body) include measurement 

of the dimensions of the injury, photography, 

and X-ray. Additionally, using methods established 

by Judd (2002) and insights gained from 

an ongoing project with the Turkana (Harrod et 

al. 2010, 2012), this study will attempt to identify 

cause of injury as one of two categories. 

These include accident- and occupation-related 

trauma, considered nonviolence-related trauma, 

and trauma that is likely to have been the result 

of interpersonal violence. 

While perimortem trauma, or injuries that 

happen at or around the time of death, are noted 

for both the body and head, the focus is on 

antemortem fractures, with the primary focus on 

those to the head. Antemortem fractures are injuries 

that happen during a person’s lifetime and 

have time to heal (Merbs 1989). The methods 

for scoring for antemortem trauma to the head 

are based on research in bioarchaeology (Walker 

1989; Jurmain and Bellifemine 1997; Martin 

1997; Owens 2007; Scott and Buckley 2010; 

Steyn et al. 2010) and forensic anthropology 

(Maples 1986; Berryman and Haun 1996; Berryman 

and Symes 1998; Galloway 1999; Hannon 

and Knapp 2006; Arbour 2008; Kremer et al. 

2008; Kremer and Sauvageau 2009; Guyomarc’h 

et al. 2010). 

Although head traumas are the primary focus 

of this reanalysis of the Carlin remains, the


presence of trauma to the body is also revealing. 

Injuries to the postcranial skeleton tend to occur 

less frequently and are often the result of accidental 

or occupation-related injuries rather than 

violence. There are, however, several postcranial 

injuries that are indicative of violence. Trauma 

indicative of violence on the postcranial skeleton 

include “parry” fractures of the lower arm and, to 

a lesser degree, fractures of the ribs and to the 

hands and feet. 

For this study the primary importance of postcranial 

trauma follows Larsen (1997:112–113), 

which suggests that the importance of postcranial 

injuries in understanding violence is when 

they co-occur with cranial trauma, indicative of 

hand-to-hand combat and other aggression-related 

trauma, and not due to accidental or occupational 

injuries. Additionally, identifying the co-occurrence 

of cranial and postcranial trauma can reveal a pattern 

of repeat injury, as research continues to show 

that cranial trauma (that causes mild to moderate 

traumatic brain injury) predisposes people to other 

types of trauma (accidental or deliberate). This 

pattern has been referred to as injury recidivism, 

which is the assessment of accumulated injuries 

across the lifespan (Reiner et al. 1990; Judd 

2002). Clinical research has shown that individuals 

who are exposed to violence tend to be exposed 

to trauma over and over again (Hedges et al. 

1995; Kaufmann et al. 1998; Caufield et al. 2004; 

Toschlog et al. 2007). 

2. Method for Assessment of Activity 

Level and Nutritional Adequacy 

There have been huge methodological strides 

made in bioarchaeology in the analysis of skeletal 

changes related to activity-level and nutritional differences. 

For this project the focus was on stature 

and robusticity, entheses, and any other changes 

that may be related to activity and nutrition. 

Stature and robusticity are well-accepted methods 

for identifying changes in both the degree 

of access to resources and the level or degree of 

habitual hard labor and work a person performs 

in daily life. The importance of stature data is 

that it provides an indication of overall health and 

nutrition. It has been shown that the types of food 

people have access to and the consistency of that 

access over their lifetimes affects the length of 

the long bones (Steckel 1995, 2008; Gunnell et al. 

2001; Lewis 2002; Masur 2009; Auerbach 2011; 

Mummert et al. 2011; Pinhasi et al. 2011; Watts 

2011). Robusticity data is also important as the 

overall size and shape of the bones can change as 

a result of variations in subsistence-based activity 

(Pearson 2000; Ruff and Larsen 2001; Ruff 2005, 

2008; Suby and Guichón 2009; Mummert et al. 

2011; Sparacello et al. 2011), as well as the type 

of terrain people live in and their mobility pattern 

(Ruff 1999, 2008; Shaw and Stock 2009; Marchi 

and Shaw 2011). 

Ultimate factors such as the long-term selective pressures 

exerted by climate and by cultural adaptations (e.g., 

subsistence activities) affect body mass and proportions 

such as limb lengths, which in turn exert more proximate 

influences on bone growth and robusticity. Climate 

and ecology can also influence culturally determined 

patterns of activity (e.g., Moran 1982; Kelly 1995) and 

thus potentially affect morphology through the proximate 

influence exerted by habitual activity and through longterm 

adaptations of specific climates and activity patterns 

(Pearson 2000:571). 

Additionally, research from Pearson (1997, 

2000) reveals that robusticity is affected by 

stature, with shorter individuals tending to 

appear more robust. Stature formulas from 

Trotter (1970) were used to reconstruct overall 

height for each individual. Robusticity formulas 

followed Bass (2005) and Cole (1994) because 

their techniques involve noninvasive metric 

measurement that Stock and Shaw (2007) suggests 

is as accurate as more invasive techniques 

such as cross-sectional analysis. Stature was 

calculated by measuring the maximum length 

of the femur and the maximum length of the 

tibia minus the medial malleolus. Determining 

the robusticity of the femur requires taking the 

anterior and posterior diameter as well as the 

medial and lateral diameter of the midshaft, and 

then comparing these measures to the length of 

the bone as it sits in the body (i.e., the physiological 

length). 

Musculoskeletal stress markers, also known as 

entheses, “are sites of stress concentration at the 

region where tendons and ligaments attach to 

bone” (Benjamin et al. 2006:471). When these 

attachment sites are put under excessive stress 

through overuse, they develop enthesopathies, 

or pathological changes at the attachment site 

that anthropologists tend to call musculoskeletal 

stress markers (Jurmain and Villotte 2010). In 

this project, they are simply be referred to as 

entheses (Figure 1).


91 

Since the intent of this project is to assess 

the variation in violence experienced by this 

immigrant population, numerous entheses were 

analyzed to determine whether there are certain 

individuals that performed more labor than others. 

The muscle stress markers most pertinent to 

this research were those that involve the major 

extremities, which are associated with carrying 

heavy loads and squatting. Two methods were 

utilized to describe the degree of development 

of enthesis sites. The first method, from Capasso 

et al. (1999), simply records the presence and 

absence of the bony change without consideration 

of the degree of change. The second method 

from Mariotti et al. (2007), however, provides a 

means of describing the degree of development 

of many more entheses sites based on a ranking 

system of slight (1) to severe (3) buildup. 

The validity of using musculoskeletal stress 

markers as signs of social position and the 

existence of inequality is not a universally 

accepted method in the field of bioarchaeology. 

Some researchers argue that these changes are 

related to activity (Merbs 1983; Hawkey and 

Merbs 1995; Hawkey 1998; Eshed et al. 2004; 

Rodrigues 2006; McGowan 2009; Villotte et al. 

2010; Havelková et al. 2011; Stefanović and 

Porčić 2013). In contrast, others say that they 

are the natural result of use and aging (Stirland 

1998; Weiss 2004, 2007; Molnar 2006; Cardoso 

and Henderson 2010; Niinimäki 2011; Weiss 

et al. 2012). According to Robb (1998), the 

inconsistency of activity-related skeletal markers 

indicating social status is due to social and 

political variables of each particular society that 

are typically not taken into account. As such, 

recent research that looks at these musculoskeletal 

stress markers has placed a much greater 

emphasis on comparing individuals within the 

cultural context and not linking the changes to 

specific activities (Eshed et al. 2004; Liverse 

et al. 2009; Martin et al. 2010; Stefanović and 

Porčić 2013) . 

Also of interest in this project is spondylolysis, 

because it is typically thought to be 

the result of excessive and repetitive labor. 

FIGURE 1. Entheses recorded on the Chinese immigrants from Carlin (Burial 3). (Photo by Ryan P. Harrod, 2011.)


Some research suggests it has both a genetic and 

environmental etiology (Fredrickson et al. 1984; 

Arriaza 1997; Aufderheide and Rodríguez-Martin 

2003), but regardless of etiology the presence of 

spondylolysis seems to indicate the affected individuals 

were engaged in a high degree of labor. 

3. Methods for the Assessment of 

Pathological Conditions 

Health status of the Carlin individuals was 

evaluated by recording cranial and postcranial 

skeletal pathologies, including dental pathologies. 

Pathologies are an important means of 

ascertaining the environmental stressors at work 

on individuals within a population as well as 

providing evidence of nutritional deficiencies. 

There exists a large body of research on the 

relationship between pathological conditions and 

social position that has consistently proven that 

overall health can often provide a good indication 

of a person’s position within a society (Buikstra 

and Cook 1980; Cohen and Armelagos 1984; 

Powell 1988, 1991; Floud et al. 1990; Walker 

and Hewlett 1990; Larsen 1995; Goodman 1998; 

Martin 2000; Martin and Akins 2001; Morfin et 

al. 2002; Steckel and Rose 2002; Ambrose et 

al. 2003; Wright 2006). Of note is that some 

nutritionally related pathologies that are quite 

specific (such as iron-deficiency anemia, scurvy, 

and rickets) complement the stature and pathology 

data in important ways by suggesting where 

nutrition may have been inadequate. 

In terms of the analysis of skeletal pathologies, 

the approach involved the utilization of 

the criteria for differential diagnosis outlined by 

Ortner (2003) and Aufderheide and Rodríguez- 

Martin (2003). The analysis of infection focused 

on noting and scoring the presence/absence of 

periosteal reactions, which can be an indicator 

of nonspecific infectious diseases (e.g., staph and 

strep), health issues, general stress, or trauma. 

However, according to Ortner (2003:181), when 

periosteal reactions are present “[t]he causative 

organism, in close to 90% of cases, is Staphylococcus 

aureus; the second in frequency is Streptococcus, 

with other infectious agents making 

up for the remainder.” Other diseases that leave 

distinctive traces on the skeleton, such as tuberculosis 

and trepanematosis, were also be noted. 

Pathological changes to dentition are a strong 

indicator of diet, which makes them especially 

important for ascertaining the type and quality 

of food resources available to each individual. 

The pathological conditions affecting the dentition 

were recorded previously (Vilos et al. 2010) 

using standard data-collection techniques (Turner 

et al. 1991; Buikstra and Ubelaker 1994; Hillson 

1996; Scott and Turner 1997). The dental 

pathologies examined included periodontal disease, 

abscesses, caries, and antemortem tooth loss 

due to periodontal disease and/or caries. Dental 

pathologies were recorded by both the number of 

teeth affected as well as by individual. 

Results 

Analysis of the burials shows that all 13 are 

adult males ranging in age from 20 to over 50 

years old. Of the 13 individuals, 12 are mostly 

skeletonized with some slight to moderate remnants 

of hair and small pieces of soft tissue, 

and 1 individual is mummified with significant 

portions of the soft tissue and hair covering the 

skeletal remains. Given that tissue is still covering 

a large portion of the mummified individual, 

the data collection of markers of activity-related 

changes was not possible. Traumatic injuries and 

pathologies were, however, collected from this 

individual by prior researchers using x-ray imaging 

(Gallegos et al. 2002; Thompson et al. 2002). 

Traumatic Injury on the Carlin Burials 

Antemortem Trauma 

There is evidence of some form of antemortem 

trauma on each individual from the Carlin 

cemetery. These injuries range in severity from 

small divots on the surface of the cranial vault to 

the complete fracture of both the tibia and fibula 

(Figure 2 and Table 1). The presence of even 

slight trauma is significant, as it illustrates that 

these individuals were an “at-risk” population. 

Perimortem Trauma 

Two of the thirteen individuals (Burial 8 and 

Burial 10) show evidence of suffering injuries 

that were severe enough to have caused death. 

These are the two burials that were the focus 

of Schmidt’s article about interpersonal violence 

(Schmidt 2009). Burial 8 has extensive 

perimortem trauma to the thoracic region. First,


93 

FIGURE 2. Nonlethal (antemortem) trauma. Top: Burial 8, left bottom: Burial 8, right bottom: Burial 9. (Photo by Ryan 

P. Harrod, 2011.) 

the sternal body is completely fractured between 

the third and fourth costal notches, and there is 

a comminuted fracture of the left clavicle that 

broke it into four separate fragments. Second, 

over half the ribs are broken, with nine fractures 

on the right and six on the left. On the right 

side, ribs 1 and 4–10 are completely fractured, 

and there is an incomplete fracture of rib 11, 

while on the left side ribs 1–4 are fractured, as 

well as ribs 9 and 10. Finally, the transverse 

process of the fifth vertebra is fractured, and 

there are multiple injuries to the os coxae and 

sacrum. According to prior analysis by Owsley 

and his team, the injuries sustained by this individual 

seemed to be the result of interpersonal 

violence and not the outcome of an accident 

(Owsley et al. 1997), although the latter cannot 

be completely excluded given that there is no 

perimortem trauma to the head. This lack of 

a cranial trauma also leads Schmidt (2009) as 

well as Chung et al. (2005) to conclude that the 

injuries were likely the result of an occupational 

activity. Given that the head is a primary target 

in interpersonal conflict, this seems a valid conclusion 

(Walker 1989). 

Burial 10, on the other hand, is perhaps more 

interesting because the injuries to the cranium 

and mandible are consistent with what modern 

clinical literature describes as a panfacial fracture 

(Figure 3). The term panfacial fracture 

is used to describe severe facial trauma that 

involves numerous bones of the face. Follmar 

et al. (2007:831) defines panfacial fractures “as 

fracture patterns that involve at least three of 

the four axial segments of the facial skeleton: 

frontal, upper midface, lower midface, and 

mandible.” The fracture pattern found on Burial 

10 matches this latter definition of what would 

be considered a panfacial fracture, in that there 

are fractures to the frontal, temporal, nasal, 

zygomatic, maxilla, and mandible. Past research 

has suggested that a separate blunt-force trauma 

caused the mandibular fracture (Schmidt 2009). 

However, the involvement of the mandible is


TABLE 1 

ANTEMORTEM TRAUMA 

Burial Age N Location Bone Description 

1 45–50+ 1 Cranial Parietal L Small shallow circular depression 

2 30+ 1 Postcranial Humerus L Proximal end with moderate displacement 

1 Postcranial Radius L Distal end 

1 Postcranial ? rib R Body a 

1 Postcranial 5th metatarsal L Distal end a 

3 35–45 1 Facial Nasal; maxilla R Hairline fracture 

1 Postcranial 4th rib R Sternal end 

4 50+ 1 Cranial Frontal R Large oval depression 

1 Cranial Parietal R Large deep oval depression 

1 Postcranial Tibia/fibula L Midshaft with significant displacement 

5 35–45 1 Cranial Parietal L Small shallow circular depression 

1 Cranial Parietal L Small shallow circular depression 

1 Postcranial Humerus L Greater tubercle 

1 Postcranial 10th rib L Body 

6 30–40 1 Cranial Parietal L Large linear fracture 

1 Cranial Parietal R Large linear fracture 

1 Facial Zygomatic L Complete fracture 

1 Facial Maxilla L Hairline fracture 

7 40–50 1 Cranial Parietal L Large shallow oval depression 

8 30–40 1 Cranial Parietal R Small shallow circular depression 

1 Facial Zygomatic R Complete 

1 Postcranial 2nd rib L Sternal end 

2 Postcranial 2nd–3rd rib R Sternal end 

1 Postcranial 3rd cuneiform L 3rd metatarsal articular surface 

1 Postcranial 5th metacarpal L Distal articular surface 

9 20–30 1 Cranial Parietal L Large linear fracture 

10 40–50 1 Cranial Parietal R Medium shallow circular depression 

1 Cranial Parietal R Small shallow circular depression 

11 40–50 1 Cranial Parietal R Large shallow oval depression 

1 Cranial Parietal L Small shallow oval depression 

12 50+ 1 Cranial Frontal L Small shallow circular depression 

1 Cranial Parietal R Small shallow circular depression 

13 45–50+ 1 Cranial Frontal L Medium shallow oval depression 

1 Cranial Parietal L Small shallow circular depression 

1 Postcranial 4th rib L Incomplete fracture 

a The x-ray image of the injuries indicated it was a fracture but physical examination was not possible.


95 

FIGURE 3. Panfacial fracture (Burial 10). (Photo by Ryan P. Harrod, 2011.) 

a result of the force of the blow and how that 

force interacted with the muscular architecture of 

the face and associated chewing muscles. In a 

now-classic study of facial fractures, Lewis and 

Peruisea emphasize that “[i]n double fractures the 

anterior portion is pulled down by the depressor 

muscles. In comminuted fractures of the symphysis, 

when there is bone loss, both halves of the 

mandible are drawn toward the midline by pull 

of the mylohyoid muscle” (Lewis and Peruisea 

1959:291). 

Burial 10 also has several postcranial traumatic 

injuries, including fractured ribs, sternum, and 

cervical vertebrae. The ribs are fractured on both 

sides of the body, the first through fourth rib on 

the right side and the third through the sixth rib 

on the left side. These ribs were fractured near 

the sternal end, and this injury is matched by a 

perimortem fracture of the sternal body. Another 

perimortem trauma to the postcranial remains 

(not noted in prior analyses of Burial 10) is the 

complete fracture of the transverse process of the 

sixth and seventh cervical vertebrae. 

It cannot be said with complete assuredness 

what caused the panfacial factures in Burial 10, 

but it is a sure sign that something with a lot 

of force smashed into his face. Today, the majority 

of panfacial fractures are overwhelmingly 

attributed to motor-vehicle collisions because of 

the high-impact forces involved (Magennis et al. 

1998; Le et al. 2001; Goodisson et al. 2004; Lee 

et al. 2007; Erdmann et al. 2008). The second 

leading cause of this type of trauma is interpersonal 

violence (Follmar et al. 2007:833; Lee et 

al. 2007:695); this is especially true if a large or 

heavy object is involved. One study, conducted 

at Sichuan University in the southwest region of 

China, found that violent encounters were the 

cause of 23.5% (16 of 68) of the reported panfacial 

fractures (Tang et al. 2009:172). Occupational 

activities and accidents can also cause this 

type of injury, but this is much less common. 

For example, the trauma could be caused by 

being kicked or trampled by a horse or other 

large domesticated animal, or simply the result of 

a fall. In reference to trauma related to domestic


animals there is no indication that this was a 

common problem in Carlin in the 1900s (Lee 

and Steenberg 2008). Additionally, Lee et al. 

(2007) argued that simple falls (tripping) are not 

a common cause of panfacial fractures, and falls 

from heights sufficient to cause panfacial fractures 

would be accompanied by severe trauma 

to other parts of the body. While Burial 10 does 

have several perimortem fractures to postcranial 

remains including the neck, ribs, and sternum, 

these fractures could have been the result of 

interpersonal violence. Clinical studies have 

shown that fractures of the cervical spine, ribs, 

and sternum are concomitant in patients with 

these injuries (Follmar et al. 2007:831; Tang et 

al. 2009:173). It seems reasonable to infer that 

violence may have played a role, especially 

since the fractures to the ribs could have also 

occurred as a result of a violent altercation. 

Repeat Injury or Injury Recidivism 

To identify possible injury recidivism in the 

Carlin sample, the co-occurrence of multiple 

injures (i.e., skull trauma and the presence of 

other trauma to the body) needs to be observed. 

Of the 13 individuals from Carlin, 10 (76.9%) 

have more than one traumatic injury, with 6 

(46.2%) of 13 individuals having cranial and 

post-cranial trauma, and 4 (30.8%) having 

multiple cranial injuries. In contrast, only 3 

(23.1%) of 13 have a single traumatic injury. 

The results indicate that there is a pattern of 

postcranial injuries that co-occur with other 

injuries, especially cranial injuries. A review 

of neurological and psychological literature has 

shown that the co-occurrence of cranial and 

postcranial trauma often results in traumatic 

brain injury (TBI). TBI is defined as injury to 

the brain when external forces are applied to 

the outside of the skull and transmitted inside 

to the brain. The damage occurs in two places, 

at the coup (where the blunt force is applied) 

and at the contra-coup (where the brain slams 

into the other side of the skull from the force 

of the blow). When the head is hit hard enough 

to cause tissue damage, the brain can be injured 

both at the site of the blow and also at the 

opposite side (Gurdjian and Gurdjian 1976; 

Dawson et al. 1980; Drew and Drew 2004). 

TBIs almost always follow blunt-force trauma, 

and the outcome of this type of trauma is 

typically neurological deficiency in the form 

of cognitive, motor, and speech problems; 

migraines and dizziness; poor concentration; 

emotional instability; increased aggressiveness 

and antisocial behavior; and amnesia (Cohen et 

al. 1999; Leon-Carrion and Ramos 2003; Brain 

Injury Association of Wyoming 2004; Glaesser 

et al. 2004; Stern 2004; Hwang et al. 2008; 

Center for Disease Control 2010). After the first 

TBI, behavioral changes may cause an individual 

to become marginalized and, so, a target 

for further aggression/violence. Thus, injury 

recidivism (repeated bouts of violent encounters) 

may be facilitated by injury to the brain from 

being hit or beaten. 

Co-occurrence of trauma and pathological 

conditions were particularly evident in Burial 5, 

which suffered from degenerative joint disease 

and a healed cranial trauma (Figure 4). Burial 

10 and Burial 12 have cranial trauma in addition 

to widespread active periosteal reactions 

indicative of nonspecific infections that could 

be Staphylococcus (staph) and Streptococcus 

(strep). 

Activity-Related Changes 

Stature and Robusticity 

An evaluation of stature indicates that the 

average height of the individuals from Carlin 

is 162.8 cm. A recent study evaluating stature 

change in China found that the average height 

of individuals from south China from 1880 to 

1929 was between 166 and 167.5 cm (Morgan 

2004:210). However, this same study noted 

that socioeconomic factors also had an effect 

on stature. For example, individuals working in 

occupations requiring less skill, such as railroad 

workers, had a stature that was on average 

1.1 cm shorter (Morgan 2004:211). For these 

individuals, the average was 164.9–166.4 cm, 

which is closer to the stature calculated for the 

immigrants in Carlin. The mean robusticity index 

of this population is 12.9. This is comparable to 

the mean robusticity of 12.3 ± 0.8 found among 

a population of modern Chinese (time period 

and geographic region not identified) (Pearson 

2000:601). Only one individual is significantly 

more robust, Burial 8, however, he is also 

the shortest in stature. Thus, the increased 

robusticity may not be significant.


97 

FIGURE 4. Injury recidivism (Burial 4). (Photo by Ryan P. Harrod, 2011.) 

Entheses 

Table 2 reports the data for the severity as well 

as the presence/absence of entheses. Focusing primarily 

on the expression of entheses, all the Carlin 

individuals show moderate to robust expressions 

of entheses that are more pronounced than those 

expected in an average population of individuals 

that was not working as hard, which indicates 

that moderate to rigorous physical activities were 

habitually practiced (Mariotti et al. 2007). Earlier 

analyses of the Carlin individuals (Owsley et al. 

1997; Chung et al. 2005; Schmidt 2006) suggested 

that some of the burials represented individuals 

who may have avoided the hardships of immigrant 

life (specifically Burial 7, Burial 11, and Burial 

12). Contrary to this claim, however, the results 

of this analysis showed that all the individuals 

were involved in laborious activity to a significant 

degree. (See below for a more-detailed discussion 

of the individuals identified as Burial 7, Burial 11, 

and Burial 12.) Burials of the dominant “white” 

or European American populations are not usually 

excavated, and what data is available is acquired 

from collections composed primarily of individuals 

of low socioeconomic status in major urban areas 

who had their bodies donated to medical collections 

(e.g., W. Montague Cobb, Hamann-Todd, 

and Robert J. Terry collections). Additionally, very 

little research has been conducted on entheses 

development within these populations. As a result, 

there is little comparative contemporaneous data, 

making it impossible to know how the entheses 

of the Chinese at Carlin compare to the entheses 

of other members of their community. In regard to 

spondylolysis, only one of the Chinese immigrants, 

Burial 6, has this condition. 

Pathological Conditions 

Skeletal Pathologies 

Four burials (Burial 1, Burial 4, Burial 8, and 

Burial 11) do not have any obvious pathological 

conditions of note. Burial 2, however, has a 

number of pathologies such as periosteal reactions


TABLE 2 

ENTHESES AND MUSCULOSKELETAL MARKERS 

(P=PRESENT, A=ABSENT) 

Burial Age Upper Extremities Lower Extremities PF a PG b PCI c SF d ASF e 

1 45–50+ Moderate/robust Moderate P A A A A 

3 35–45 Robust Robust P P P P A 

4 50+ Moderate/robust Moderate/robust A A A A A 

5 35–45 Moderate Moderate P P P P A 

6 30–40 Moderate/robust Moderate/robust P A P P P 

7 40–50 Moderate Moderate A A A P A 

8 30–40 Robust Moderate P A A A A 

9 20–30 Moderate Moderate A A A A P 

10 40–50 Robust Robust P A P P A 

11 40–50 Moderate/robust Moderate/robust P A P A A 

12 50+ Moderate Slight/moderate P A P A A 

13 45–50+ Moderate/robust Robust A P P A A 

a PF=Poirier's Facet 

b PG=Peritrochlear Groove 

c PCI=Posterior Cervical Imprint 

d SF=Squatting Facet 

e ASF=Accessory Sacral Facet 

on both tibiae, and osteolitic lesions of the first 

through third lumbar vertebrae and left iliac crest, 

which according to Thompson et al. (2002) may 

indicate the individual suffered from tuberculosis. 

Burial 3 has an area of localized periosteal reaction 

on the right parietal. Several of the burials 

(Burial 7, Burial 9, Burial 10, and Burial 12) have 

moderate cases of well-healed porotic hyperostosis, 

but since these occurred many years before death, 

this pathological condition does not offer insight 

into their lived experience in Carlin. However, 

in addition to the porotic hyperostosis, Burial 

7 appears to have a scalp infection around the 

cranial depression fracture that indicates that the 

wound had not been properly treated. Burial 10 

also has a severe case of generalized periosteal 

reaction (evidence of infections) that affects both 

tibia and fibula, as well as a more moderate case 

on the right and left humerus, ulna, and radius. 

Similarly, Burial 12 has a generalized, severe periosteal 

reaction of the right and left femur, tibia, 

and fibula. Burial 5 has degenerative changes to 

both of the elbow joints that, in the case of the 

left side, may be due to a dislocation. The degenerative 

joint disease is severe on the left side and 

mild to moderate on the right. 

Dental Pathologies 

Of the thirteen individuals, two were edentulous 

and one was mummified in a way that precluded 

dental analysis. Ten sets of dentition provided 

observations for a total of 212 teeth (Table 3). 

All 10 individuals exhibited a high prevalence 

of calculus, but the degree of buildup was slight. 

Caries were present in seven individuals and there 

were also seven individuals with abscesses, but 

these were not always the same individuals with 

caries. Signs of active periodontal disease were 

noted in five individuals. Staining occurred on the 

teeth of all individuals to varying degrees, possibly 

due to tobacco or opiate consumption (Chung et 

al. 2005; Schmidt 2006). Given that many of these 

individuals migrated into the area to work on the 

railroads and in the mines of Nevada, poor oral 

health is not unexpected. 

Discussion 

The immigrants from China living in Carlin 

demonstrate a pattern of traumatic injuries and 

pathologies that are pronounced, particularly 

when compared to data from contemporaneous


99 

TABLE 3 

DENTAL PATHOLOGY 

ADAPTED FROM VILOS ET AL. (2010) 

(P=PRESENT, A=ABSENT) 

Burial Age No. Teeth C a % A b % Ca c % PDD d EH e AMTL f 

1 45–50+ 6 2 33.3 1 16.7 1 16.7 P A P 

3 35–45 26 – – – – 26 100.0 P A A 

4 50+ 0 – – 1 – – – A A P 

5 35–45 20 5 25.0 5 25.0 6 30.0 A A P 

6 30–40 22 13 59.1 7 31.8 5 22.7 A A A 

7 40–50 18 9 50.0 4 22.2 14 77.8 A P P 

8 30–40 31 – – – – 31 100.0 P A P 

9 20–30 30 2 6.7 – – 12 40.0 P P A 

10 40–50 27 5 18.5 1 3.7 27 100.0 P A P 

11 40–50 16 – – 2 12.5 14 87.5 A A P 

12 50+ 0 – – – – – – A A P 

13 45–50+ 16 4 25.0 – – 12 75.0 A A P 

a C=Caries 

b A=Abscess 

c Ca=Calculus 

d PDD=Periodontal Disease 

e EH=Enamel Hypoplasia 

f AMTL=Antemortem Tooth Loss 

cemeteries, including one in San Francisco (Buzon 

et al. 2005) and four in Texas (Winchell et al. 

1995). In fact, the frequency and severity of 

trauma at Carlin is comparable to the trauma rates 

seen among lower-socioeconomic-status white and 

black individuals from the W. Montague Cobb, 

Hamann-Todd, and Robert J. Terry collections. 

These collections are represented by individuals 

born between 1832 and 1877, and thus include 

populations from the antebellum, Civil War, and 

Reconstruction periods (de la Cova 2010). 

It is challenging to say exactly what the circumstances 

were that led to these Chinese men 

sustaining the morbidity burden that they collectively 

demonstrate. Even in modern forensic 

cases the actual cause of death and interpretation 

of trauma are often presented as a series of 

alternative hypotheses (e.g., head fractures could 

be due to deliberate violence or accidental). 

Yet, the combined evidence from the historical 

records and the bioarchaeological indicators fits 

a pattern of endemic abuse and a relatively high 

chance of the men being the recipients of blows 

hard enough to leave marks on the bones. 

With regard to the cranial depression 

fractures, people may argue that some of the 

individuals received the head trauma during 

occupational activities (i.e., while working as 

miners or railroad laborers). While this may be 

a possibility, violence remains more likely in 

the majority of cases. Research suggests that 

violence-related injuries to the head typically 

occur above the hat-brim line, on multiple 

regions of the cranium, and often involve the 

facial region (Hussain et al. 1994; Kremer et al. 

2008; Brink 2009; Kremer and Sauvageau 2009; 

Guyomarc’h et al. 2010). These characteristics 

describe many of the injuries found among the 

individuals at Carlin. 

Additionally, the head is generally not shielded 

against blows or easy to protect, and as such 

offers a large target for perpetrators who wish 

to subdue a victim effectively (Shillingford 

2001; Hadjizacharia et al. 2009). Furthermore, 

according to Walker (1997:160) the cranial and 

facial areas are actually generally selected targets 

because they bleed more easily and there is 

more-visible bruising, due to the morphology of


the skin and the delicate nature of some of the 

bones, factors which perpetrators prefer since 

the injury effectively marks a victim. The lack 

of historical records documenting high rates of 

violence is not problematic, since the majority 

of the injuries affecting the Carlin men appear 

to have occurred as a result of low-level conflict 

and, as such, were not likely to have been 

reported to law professionals or recorded in 

news articles. Even today, research has found 

that violence in the workplace is severely underreported 

(Bachman 1994; Budd et al. 1996; 

Keim 1999; Hesketh et al. 2003). The evidence 

therefore suggests that the high frequency of 

cranial and facial trauma is more likely to be 

the result of violent encounters rather than multiple 

accidents. 

There is an association documented in this 

study between cranial trauma and other types 

of skeletal injuries, and an association between 

traumatic injury and pathological conditions. 

These are important findings, as they support an 

interpretation of injury recidivism. The distribution 

and type of antemortem cranial and facial 

trauma in relation to postcranial injury and other 

pathological conditions reveals a strong pattern 

of repeated trauma over the course of the adult 

life history for many of the Carlin men. 

Analysis of activity-level and nutritional 

changes to the bones supports the contention 

that every individual worked hard and showed 

signs of stress and strain on his bones. The data 

presented in Tables 2 and 4, however, indicate 

that there does appear to be a significant reduction 

in stature and evidence of other activityrelated 

changes (e.g., entheses and MSMs), 

but not in robusticity. As mentioned earlier, 

three individuals were identified by the original 

researchers as having higher status (Chung et 

al. 2005; Schmidt 2006). Burial 7 is considered 

higher status because he appeared westernized, 

with short hair concealed by a false queue or 

ponytail, and had American clothing (Chung et 

al. 2005:131). Both Burial 11 and Burial 12, 

on the other hand, are considered higher status 

because they were interred in higher-quality 

coffins and had identification bricks buried with 

them (Chung et al. 2005:131). Finally, all three 

burials had no indication of activity-related 

changes to the skeleton according to the original 

osteological analysis. The presence of grave 

markers and evidence of adoption of American 

TABLE 4 

STATURE AND ROBUSTICITY 

(BOTH MEASURES CALCULATED 

USING THE FEMUR) 

Burial Age Stature Robusticity 

1 45–50+ 159.43 ± 3.80 12.77 

3 35–45 168.46 ± 3.80 12.37 

4 50+ 169.75 ± 3.80 11.53 

5 35–45 162.44 ± 3.80 12.34 

6 30–40 165.02 ± 3.80 12.70 

7 40–50 167.6 ± 3.80 12.28 

8 30–40 154.055 ± 3.80 14.42 

9 20–30 159.645 ± 3.80 13.63 

10 40–50 167.385 ± 3.80 13.32 

11 40–50 158.14 ± 3.80 13.17 

12 50+ 157.71 ± 3.80 13.86 

13 45–50+ 163.73 ± 3.80 12.87 

culture is used to suggest that these individuals 

were merchants or shopkeepers who may have 

been wealthy compared to the other immigrants 

(Chung et al. 2005; Schmidt 2006). 

It was noted that four individuals (Burial 

1, Burial 5, Burial 6, and Burial 7) had short 

hair and false queues. The justification for the 

false queues is that they were a means for 

them to hold on to some of their traditional 

beliefs because they were unsure whether they 

would need them in the afterlife (Chung et al. 

2005:139). 

Short hair could have been a result of other 

things unrelated to status. It could have been 

ideological, in that they were actively declaring 

their intention, as part of the anti-Manchu 

movement, to not return to China (Chung et al. 

2005:116). An alternative reason, however, could 

be that these men chose to dress and cut their 

hair like European Americans because they had 

occupations as merchants, shopkeepers, cooks, 

or laundry workers that required them to appear 

more “American” for the their clientele. This 

hypothesis is supported by recent research on 

migrant men from Mexico coming to California, 

which found that the physical appearance, as 

well as the dress, of the immigrating laborers 

affected how Americans perceived them (Parrini 

et al. 2007). So, even though some of these 

men may have changed their hair and clothes 

to look more American in order to establish


101 

businesses and achieve some wealth, others of 

them may have made the decision because of 

anti-Chinese sentiment in Carlin at that time 

(Chung et al. 2005:116). Thus, the reasons for 

short hair on some of the men may have been 

because of political and/or economic pressures. 

In addition to racism and anti-immigrant 

sentiments in Carlin, there may have been 

immigrant-on-immigrant violence as well. This 

may have been a consequence of competition 

among different social/ethnic groups within the 

Chinese population itself. Some researchers 

suggest that some violence may have been the 

result of disputes between rival fraternal organizations 

that operated in Chinatown districts 

throughout America, often referred to as tongs 

(Bennett 1900; Wu 1927; Reynolds 1935; Light 

1974). The word tong is a shortened version of 

Chee Kung Tong (Lister and Lister 1989a:86) 

or Zhigongtang (Chung and Wegars 2005a:14). 

Zhigongtang are described in a number of different 

ways, using a variety of names dependent 

on region and time period, such as the Chinese 

Freemasons (Chung and Wegars 2005a:14), the 

Active Justice Society (Cheung 2002:40), the 

Hung League or the Society of Heaven and Earth 

(Ward and Stirling 1925), and the Triad Society 

(Murray and Qin 1994). The benefit of belonging 

to a tong is that it allowed individuals a means 

of arranging for their own funerals. The tong 

provided a group of compatriots who could be 

counted on to take care of the burial, the decedent’s 

family, and, if necessary, be relied on to 

rally for a cause in the name of that person. It 

was this last task that often resulted in violence. 

Thus, it is possible that the individuals indentified 

as Burial 11 and Burial 12 were placed in 

higher-quality coffins and given markers because 

they were high-ranking tong members rather than 

being merchants as suggested previously. The 

higher status in the tong would have afforded 

them a better burial, but it may not have protected 

them from violence. 

Documents indicate that some of the Carlin 

individuals may have been of higher status 

based on their occupations as shop or laundry 

owners. However, the data presented here show 

they were still working hard enough to have 

well-developed muscle insertion sites. Additionally, 

the difference in muscle development is 

not greater in the lower extremities but more 

robust in the upper extremities, a pattern that 

would make sense if the activity the individuals 

were performing was concentrated on repeated 

or continual arm movement (e.g., doing laundry 

or tasks related to shopkeeping) in lieu of carrying 

heavy loads (e.g., working on the railroad 

or in a mine). 

Together, these data indicate that none of the 

Carlin individuals was necessarily a high-class 

citizen buffered against the hardships of being 

a Chinese immigrant in the West during this 

time period. Instead, the data demonstrate that 

all of the men were undertaking repetitive tasks 

that caused notable entheses to develop. This 

conclusion is supported by the discovery that 

each of the 13 individuals had some form of 

trauma, and a number of them exhibited pathological 

conditions. Shopkeepers, merchants, and 

laundry workers may not be at risk for daily 

trauma related to occupational hazards, feuds 

with coworkers, or even beatings from employers, 

but their bodies reveal that they still were 

at a higher than average risk of trauma. This 

research proposes that, based on all of the 

available data, the Carlin Chinese immigrants 

experienced trauma as a result of violence, they 

were at risk for increased pathology, and they 

possess work-related entheses as a result of their 

low-status occupations. 

It could be argued that the violence found on 

these individuals was the result of one of the 

anti-Chinese riots (Elliott and Rowley 1987:167; 

Lister and Lister 1989b:57; Cheung 2002:50) 

and, therefore, represents a nonnormative event, 

simply the result of aberrant behavior. However, 

analysis of historical documents from Virginia 

City reveals that violence was not uncommon 

for Chinese immigrants, it was merely another 

part of their daily lives. 

Conclusions 

The Chinese immigrants living and working 

in Carlin, despite having different levels of 

social position within their own community, 

were generally considered lower-status members 

of society by the dominant European American 

population. This resulted in high frequencies 

of activity-induced changes (from hard labor), 

trauma (from being beaten), and pathological 

conditions (from cramped, unsanitary quarters 

and lack of medical resources). While others 

have noted some of these indicators of a hard


life (Owsley et al. 1997; Chung et al. 2005; 

Schmidt 2006, 2009), the reanalysis presented 

here adds additional forensic, medical, biomechanical, 

and bioarchaeological data for understanding 

what Chinese immigrants to Nevada 

experienced in their lifetimes. 

Although the motivations for the violence 

may have been multifactorial, one explanation 

is that beating someone repeatedly serves as an 

effective means of dominating and controlling 

those whom one wishes to exploit. Historical 

accounts of the Chinese immigrant experience 

throughout the colonial world suggest that the 

dominators were likely the “white” colonials 

(i.e., European Americans in Carlin). However, 

this project also leaves open the possibility that 

some of the violence was perpetrated within the 

immigrant Chinese community among different 

ethnicities or tongs competing with one another. 

The authors would caution that even if the violence 

were between rival Chinese groups, the 

competition that existed between these groups 

was supported and likely perpetuated by the 

values and behaviors of the dominant European 

American population (Light 1974). Some immigrants 

may have achieved higher status than 

others and possibly greater degrees of power. 

This is especially true for Burial 11 and Burial 

12 with the identification of the use of bricks, 

the higher quality of the coffins, and the moreabundant 

grave offerings (Chung et al. 2005). 

However, regardless of how violence was used 

within the immigrant community or between 

the colonial and immigrant communities, it is 

important to clarify the impact of violence on 

individual and collective bodies. Given that all 

the individuals in Carlin appear to have suffered 

some sort of trauma and some were repeatedly 

injured, it is likely that violence played 

a significant role in their lives. The intention 

of this analysis is not only to illustrate how 

challenging the Chinese immigrant life was in 

the West, but how little control some had over 

that life. Research has shown that social and 

political power was negotiated and secured for 

some Chinese immigrants (James et al. 1994), 

but even that may have been offset by pervasive 

anti-Chinese sentiments (Zhu 1997; Fosha and 

Leatherman 2008). 

Returning to Scheper-Hughes and Lock’s 

(1987) notion of the multiplicity of identities 

that can be read from the body, the combined 

analyses using skeletal markers of trauma and 

fractures, occupational stress, and pathologies 

have provided a way to look at the biological 

and social body, as well as the body politic. 

Previous studies of these remains documented 

only the ways in which the biological bodies 

were pathological. To expand beyond the biological 

body, this analysis reconstructed the 

cultural body, that is, the individual person 

within a larger cultural framework. This was 

done by adding to the analysis the historical and 

archival information on the mortuary context 

(how these men were buried) and the larger 

community context (where immigrants lived and 

worked). As a final step, the “body politic” was 

explored, which involves using information on 

power relations among the immigrants, as well 

as between the immigrants and the local population. 

Collectively, the trauma, pathologies, and 

anomalous changes in the skeleton were used 

to flesh out how individuals appear to have 

resisted, acquiesced, and used agency in their 

relationships with both the Carlin residents of 

European descent and their Chinese counterparts. 

This produced a more-nuanced and multidimensional 

reconstruction of the lives of these 

immigrant Chinese men. 


We would like to acknowledge Jamie Vilos, 

who conducted the dental analysis on the Chinese 

immigrants from Carlin. In addition, we 

would like to thank the anonymous reviewers 

who provided invaluable feedback that greatly 

improved the quality of this paper, as well as 

our colleague John Crandall who contributed a 

number of useful comments. 

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112 

Margaret C. Wood 

Mapping the Complexities of 

Race on the Landscape of the 

Colonial Caribbean, United 

States Virgin Islands, 1770–1917 

ABSTRACT 

Colonial race relations in the Virgin Islands developed as a 

graded color/class system that invested the category of whiteness 

with power and blackness with slavery. Between the two 

ends of the socioracial spectrum a population of freepersons 

of color emerged. Examination of two landscapes, one rural 

and the other urban, demonstrates how socially defined racial 

groups used landscapes to create, maintain, and transform 

racial identities. Focus on a Moravian estate landscape in each 

setting reveals a strong commitment to the ideology of white 

superiority espoused by the colonial authorities and landowning 

elite. After freepersons of color were granted full citizenship 

(1830) and the abolition of slavery (1848), socially defined 

racial groups in rural and urban settings used distinctly different 

spatial and social strategies to make claims about their 

racial identities in an environment of continued white privilege. 

Introduction 

In the colonial Danish West Indies (U.S. Virgin 

Islands), as in many of the slave societies of the 

Americas, an intermediate group of non-European 

freepersons emerged that separated the superordinate 

whites from the blacks over whom they 

exercised complete control. The very existence 

of such a category of “free” persons disrupted 

the neat binary oppositions in which white was 

virtually a synonym for freedom, power, and 

privilege, while black was synonymous with servitude. 

The social contradiction embodied in free 

people of color was compounded by the fact that 

many were of “mixed” racial ancestry. The existence 

of a category of people who were legally 

free (although with severely attenuated rights) 

and racially ambiguous threw into question the 

order and structure of the racial hierarchy of 

plantation society. 

Historian Neville A. T. Hall has referred to 

free people of color as an “an intermediate sort 

of class” (Hall 1992:139). An examination of the 

lives of free people of color thus offers a unique 

point of entry to understanding the broader question 

of the social construction of race in the 

Virgin Islands. Neither slave nor fully free, free 

people of color struggled to achieve civil equality, 

economic opportunities, wealth, and status in 

a society fueled by race-based slavery. To do so, 

they called upon material strategies that invoked 

racial categories to strengthen their position in 

society. In order to understand how free people 

of color used, manipulated, and transformed the 

material language of race, it is necessary to 

understand how the categories of blackness and 

whiteness were created and how ideologies of 

race changed over time. 

Over the past three decades historical archaeologists 

have demonstrated that landscape-oriented 

analysis is an effective way to reveal material 

traces of race, identity, class, resistance, meaning, 

memory, and power (McGuire 1991; Pulsipher 

1994; Delle 1998; Epperson 1999; Shackel 2003; 

Mullins 2006). To examine how identities of race 

were reinforced through material spatial practices 

in the Virgin Islands, two locations will be considered: 

one rural and one urban. The port city 

of Charlotte Amalie was the urban, commercial 

capital of the Virgin Islands and home to the 

largest community of free people of color in the 

islands. The sleepy East End of the island of St. 

John, on the other hand, was home to a small 

community of free blacks who operated modest 

provisioning estates and worked in a variety of 

maritime occupations (Figure 1). Attention will 

be drawn to the landscape of a Moravian estate/ 

mission in each locale that came to embody 

racial ideologies of the plantation elite. Material 

strategies used to claim, assert, and assign racial 

identities were similar in both rural and urban 

contexts during the height of the plantation era. 

Important differences emerged, however, as free 

people of color achieved full enfranchisement and 

slaves achieved freedom in the mid-19th century. 

In the urban context of Charlotte Amalie claims 

to greater degrees of whiteness were rewarded 

by more access to wealth and power. Exclusive 

spaces of whiteness were maintained to reinforce 

the power of white privilege. In the rural 


Accepted for publication 15 March 2012 


Margaret c. wood—Mapping the Complexities of Race on the Landscape of the Colonial Caribbean 

113 

FIGURE 1. Map showing St. Thomas and St. John with Charlotte Amalie, East End, Nisky estate, and Emmaus estate 

identified. (Map by author, 2012.) 

mostly subsistence-based community of the East 

End whiteness offered few benefits and spatial/ 

material distinctions between racial groups were 

downplayed. 

Race and Landscape 

in Historical Archaeology 

Historical archaeologists have been examining 

the complexities of race and its material 

manifestations for decades (Baker 1980; Otto 

1980; Orser 1988, 1999, 2001a; Leone et al. 

2005:580–581). Archaeologist Charles Orser 

argues that with the advent of plantation 

archaeology in the 1960s it was inevitable that 

historical archaeologists would eventually have 

to confront the complexities of race in some 

fashion (Orser 2001a:5). It was not until the 

1990s, however, that more researchers began to 

frame their inquiries explicitly as explorations 

of the social construction of racial identities and 

the lived material outcomes of racism (Babson 

1990; Epperson 1990, 1999; Shackel 1994; 

Delle 1998; Mullins 1999a; Orser 1999; Brandon 

2009:4). The ever-growing literature created 

by American historical archaeologists over the 

last decade suggests that race and racism are 

becoming significant topics within the discipline 

(Delle 2001; Epperson 2001; Matthews 2001; 

Mullins 2001, 2006; Orser 2001b, 2007; Paynter 

2001; Shackel 2003; Brandon and Davidson 

2005; Fennell 2009, 2010). 

In keeping with mainstream anthropological 

thought, historical archaeologists understand 

race to be a social phenomenon and not a 

biological reality. Racialization is the historically 

specific process by which categories are created 

to classify people based on perceived physical 

variations that are assumed to be real and 

clearly definable. Racial categories are invested 

with meanings that confer a suite of presumed 

characteristics upon entire populations (Harrison 

1998; Orser 2007:9–14). Modern forms of race 

that exist in the United States and Caribbean 

have their roots in the colonial experience, so it 

is no surprise that these systems generally associate 

superior cultural/behavioral characteristics 

with Europeans and negative/inferior traits with 

Africans and Native Americans. The construction 

of racial identities is not a neutral act; rather, 

it is one that involves the creation of a hierarchy 

of wealth, privilege, prestige, and power. 

Over time racial identities have been created to 

justify the treatment of conquered, enslaved, and 

impoverished peoples and rationalize domination 

by others. The ideology of race thus serves to 

naturalize profound political, economic, and social 

inequality by making it appear to be a product of 

the natural or supernatural order of things rather 

than a creation of people and society. Race is 

created to serve particular social interests and is 

championed by those that have something to gain 

from selectively marginalizing others (American 

Anthropological Association 1998). 

Scholarship on race in historical archaeology 

has drawn on mainstream anthropological 

research, as well as critical race theory, vindicationalist 

scholarship, and political economy 

(Matthews 2001; Epperson 2004; Mullins 2008). 

It is well beyond the scope of this paper to


discuss the details of these schools of thought; 

however, central concepts from these paradigms 

have been potently employed by archaeologists 

who seek to understand the material manifestations 

of race and racism. Critical race theorists, 

for example, embrace the premise that race is 

socially constructed and emphatically reject the 

notion that race exists as an objective biological 

reality. While challenging the reality of biological 

racial categories, however, critical race 

theorists also emphasize that in a social and 

material sense race is very real indeed. They 

caution that the analysis of race as a social 

construction should not be deployed to deny 

the “reality” of race or racism as a profound 

social force that shapes the lived experiences 

of all people (Epperson 2004:105). Race thus 

can be understood as a real dimension of social 

life that is rooted in some reasonably objective 

material distinctions. In the United States today, 

for example, a person’s racial identity will have 

an influence on a myriad of lived experiences 

including access to health care, income, occupational 

opportunities, home ownership, and 

educational level. Paul Mullins argues that race 

must have materiality because racial subjectivity 

is a concrete experience structured by lived 

reality (Mullins 2006:62–63). 

Much of the current uptick of interest in 

race and racism focuses on the experiences of 

African Americans (Orser 1988; Delle 1998; 

Mullins 1999a; Leone et al. 2005; Fennell 2009, 

2010). This research has produced important 

insights on the way that racially marginalized 

subjects have been instrumentally disempowered 

by antiblack racism or have sought to evade 

its effects. Some scholars have also recently 

begun to explore the “other side of racism,” 

white privilege (Epperson 1999, 2001; Paynter 

2001; Bell 2005; Brandon and Davidson 2005; 

Mullins 2006; Orser 2007:72–124). By tracing 

the emergence of whiteness as a racial category, 

as opposed to an inevitability, researchers draw 

attention to the fact that racial categories are 

entirely created and are as much about securing 

privilege for some as they are about oppressing 

others (Mullins 2006). The study of whiteness 

has the power to dislodge normalized views 

of difference and forces archaeologists to confront 

how racism is rooted in white supremacy, 

which grants privileges to those classed as white 

(Harrison 1998). By choosing to look at white 

privilege, it is possible to gain an understanding 

of who benefits from racism and how they 

do so. 

In order to break down the notion that whiteness 

exists as a transhistorical norm, historical 

archaeologists have worked to document the 

origin of the category of whiteness and the 

growth of white privilege (Epperson 1990, 

1999, 2001; Bell 2005). Allison Bell argues 

that material evidence of the roots of whiteness 

in the United States lies in the remains 

of early-17th-century Virginia, where the use 

of earthfast domestic structures with open floor 

plans was central to the process of creating 

social interdependence and white solidarity in 

the Chesapeake (Bell 2005). Terrance Epperson, 

however, argues that until the end of the 17th 

century “there were no white people in Virginia” 

(Epperson 1999:160). In other words, the 

term, concept, category, and reality of privilege 

defined by whiteness did not exist in the early 

17th century. Rather, the pertinent distinctions 

between people centered on a Christian vs. 

Negro dichotomy. The permanent enslavement of 

people from Africa was rationalized on the basis 

that they were not Christians (and concomitantly 

Negro). Epperson uses documentary and spatial 

analysis to chronicle the creation of the legal 

category of whiteness and its associated social, 

political, and juridical privileges. Epperson 

demonstrates a trend toward greater residential 

separation of white Christian indentured servants 

and enslaved non-Christian black people. Epperson 

emphasizes that the process of residential 

separation was not simply a reflection of the 

process of racialization but rather was part and 

parcel of the process itself. He argues that racial 

categories were created and recognized, at least 

in part, out of the initial separation of Christian 

indentured servants and Negro slaves. 

To be white in Virginia at the end of the 

17th century was to be free. Even the poorest 

white person had privilege greater than those 

who were considered nonwhite. Many scholars 

have pointed out that the creation of whiteness 

during this period helped to forestall the power 

of the lower classes through a divide-andconquer 

strategy that encouraged poor whites 

to perceive that they had more in common 

with elite whites than they did with poor and 

enslaved people of African descent with whom 

they shared a similar class identity (Shackel


115 

1994; Epperson 1999; Matthews 2001:76). In 

the Virgin Islands, it will be seen that a very 

similar process played out as some lighterskinned 

free people of color sought to secure 

their position in society through reference to an 

existing racial hierarchy that invested power in 

whiteness (Hall 1992:176). 

An excellent example of the perpetual remaking 

of whiteness and white privilege comes 

from the work of labor historian David Roediger 

(1991). Roediger documents how Irish immigrants 

to the United States in the late 19th century 

were initially assigned a nonwhite, immigrant/Irish 

racial identity. This racial category 

was similar to the status of blacks, in the sense 

that both groups were relegated to the lowestpaying, 

dirtiest jobs, and both groups hovered in 

the lowest strata of the social order. Over time, 

however, the Irish used a variety of strategies, 

including embracing antiblack racism, and were 

able to transform their racial identity to become 

“white” (Roediger 1991). Whiteness conferred a 

“white man’s wages” and improved social and 

material conditions for the Irish, as well as the 

psychological benefit of perceived superiority. 

Archaeologists Charles Orser (2007:72–124) and 

Steven Brighton (2005) have explored the ways 

that material culture was part of this process at 

the Five Points site in New York City, as Irish 

immigrants made efforts to conform materially 

to the perception of what it meant to be 

white in the United States. These studies are a 

reminder that racialization is entirely cultural, 

and qualities that are perceived to be pertinent 

to racial classification, whether they be physical, 

behavioral, or cultural, will vary over time. 

In the Virgin Islands it will be seen that some 

people of color were considered white and were 

afforded the social benefits of whiteness. In both 

cases whiteness was not solely about appearance 

but about status, class, and privilege. 

The subtleties of similarly complicated racial 

systems have been explored archaeologically 

and serve to disrupt assumptions that race is 

stable or exists separate from specific social 

circumstances. Christopher Matthews (2001), 

for example, examines how race developed as a 

contingent social fact in two different contexts 

in the 18th century. Using architecture and artifacts 

to piece together patterns in commodity 

and gift exchange, Matthews shows how a fluid 

racial system developed in New Orleans, marked 

by the emergence of complex creole identities 

that confounded early attempts by white elites 

to create a clear and simple class structure 

based on perceived racial difference. Matthews 

also points out the complexity of racial constructs 

and how they are often fractured by 

class interests. In the Chesapeake, whites created 

a coalition based on shared whiteness and 

the concomitant privileges of freedom (Bell 

2005). Elites, however, also distinguished and 

distanced themselves from the poor whites by 

enforcing rational commodity-based exchange 

in their material interactions. The construction 

of permanent, maintenance-free brick domestic 

structures in the 18th century allowed the elite 

to evade social relationships and obligations to 

poor whites. These homes signaled both the 

privileges and limitations of whiteness by reinforcing 

the power of the elite (Shackel 1994; 

Matthews 2001:75–80). 

Terrence Epperson has argued that attempts at 

domination, like those discussed above, always 

include gestures of both inclusion and exclusion 

(Epperson 1999). While gestures of inclusion 

facilitate the ability of the elite to control and 

manipulate oppressed populations, gestures of 

exclusion allow the members of the elite to 

distinguish themselves and validate their socially 

superior position. These tendencies of power can 

also be read on racialized plantation landscapes 

where enslaved workers were both subject to 

the unblinking disciplinary gaze of authorities 

and simultaneously rendered invisible as people 

and the real source of elite wealth (Epperson 

1990; Delle 1998; Brandon and Davidson 2005). 

Importantly, gestures of exclusion always make 

room for subversion and redefinition. 

While there is no single type of material culture 

that has proven most effective in the examination 

of the processes of racialization, many 

researchers have turned to landscape and spatial 

analysis as productive lines of inquiry. Drawing 

on scholars like Lefevre (Lefevre 1974), 

Foucault (Foucault 1979), Bourdieu (Bourdieu 

1990), and Soja (Soja 1989), archaeologists have 

explored the inseparable connection between 

physical landscapes and the social relations that 

are constructed, reconstructed, and maintained 

within them (Orser 2006). Landscapes thus are 

not only reflections of the social order, ideology, 

or particular ways of seeing the world, they are 

also vehicles that function to structure thought


and action. Because elites most often hold the 

power to create lasting, formalized landscapes, 

they most clearly contain information about this 

group of people that sought to legitimate the 

existing social order and make claims to power 

and identity. Because all landscapes, however, 

consist of what archaeologist Barbara Bender 

would characterize as positive space (elite discourse) 

and negative space (those to whom it 

relates), it is possible to reconstruct the world 

of the less powerful through absences, gaps, 

and in-between spaces. All claims to identity 

involve not only definition of the self but also, 

of necessity, must define an “Other” in contrast. 

Thus, any material claim to identity or 

authority will carry this contrast with it (Bender 

1993:248). 

Researchers working in plantation and postemancipation 

contexts alike have shown how 

arrangement of landscape and space has been 

used to both naturalize the power of the elite 

and discipline subaltern groups through surveillance 

(Shackel 1994; Delle 1998, 2001; 

Epperson 2000; Brandon and Davidson 2005). 

To some extent this strategy was symbolic, as 

elites claimed central and significant places on 

the landscape to demonstrate their personal or 

institutional authority. These material strategies 

also carried with them the real possibilities of 

control, domination, and violence (Delle 2001). 

Claims to power are not always couched in 

direct reference to clearly definable symbols or 

overt threats of control and violence. Charles 

Orser (2006) borrows from Pierre Bourdieu 

the concepts of cultural capital and symbolic 

violence in his examination of elite landscapes 

in Ireland. Cultural capital includes the things, 

skills, knowledge, education, social connections, 

and experiences that an individual needs 

to operate effectively as a member of a social 

class. These things confer a degree of power 

and authority in specific social settings. Symbolic 

violence involves the imposition of categories 

of thought and perception upon dominated 

social groups who then take the social order 

as just, right, or natural. In essence symbolic 

violence is enacted when overt coercion is 

deferred in favor of symbolic manipulation. In 

Ireland, elite estate landscapes with carefully 

created ruins, deer parks, and gardens of exotic 

plant species served a pedagogical function of 

reminding people of the antiquity and authority 

of the landowning family and asserting England’s 

control over its colonies. In the Virgin 

Islands color (as a form of cultural capital) 

was embedded in landscapes, which asserted the 

naturalness of racial difference and reinforced 

the power associated with whiteness. 

Just as the exercise of power can be subtle 

and hidden, so too can acts of racism be 

blurred and unclear. In his research on the 

19th-century community of New Philadelphia 

in Illinois, Christopher Fennel explores how 

structural racism impacted the destiny of this 

town (Fennell 2009, 2010). Founded by African 

Americans, New Philadelphia was home 

to a diverse community of blacks and whites. 

There were no documented incidents of conflict 

or racial tension in the community, but racism 

clearly led to its demise. Railroad company 

officials decided to bypass New Philadelphia 

when they created routes, despite the fact that 

the community was optimally positioned. Railroad 

officials who made these decisions did not 

leave any documentary trace of blatant racist 

sentiments. Fennel characterizes what happened 

at New Philadelphia as an example of averse 

racism, in which members of a dominant social 

group channel economic opportunities and social 

resources away from individuals targeted by 

their racial prejudices. Anthropologist Fay Harrison 

has argued that “even in the absence of 

overt race-centered prejudice, racism can be the 

unintended consequence of everyday discourses 

and practices that perpetuate and reinforce 

an oppressive structure of power” (Harrison 

1998:611). 

Bourdieu, Harrison, and Fennel’s observations 

are pertinent to this study in two ways. The two 

Moravian mission landscapes upon which I will 

focus were created by enslaved people under the 

rule of Moravian missionaries from Germany 

and the United States. Moravians were among 

the earliest missionaries to attempt to convert 

enslaved people. Missionaries were known to 

work alongside enslaved peoples in the fields, 

they taught slaves to read, educated children, 

and generally worked to ameliorate the condition 

of slavery. Moravians, however, also openly 

condoned slavery. They operated their permanent 

mission stations as profit-making sugar and 

cotton estates, and they owned enslaved people 

from the time they arrived on the island until 

the abolition of slavery in 1848. Some historians


117 

have treated this seeming contradiction with a 

degree of perplexity and have a difficult time 

acknowledging that missionaries who were doing 

good deeds on one level were ultimately perpetuating 

racism, inequality, and the institution of 

slavery. Although there is a dearth of venomous 

and degrading racialized rhetoric among the missionaries, 

an examination of the landscapes created 

by this group will demonstrate the extent 

to which they were representative of white elite 

planter-class ideology that sought to perpetuate 

class privilege linked to whiteness. 

Whiteness and Power: 

Ideologies of Race in the Caribbean 

Folk racial systems that emerged in the Caribbean 

were distinct from many of those that 

developed in the United States. Like most racial 

classifications this system used physical features 

to symbolize a suite of assumed biological, 

intellectual, social, and cultural attributes that 

were ultimately employed to rank groups in 

relation to one another and define each group’s 

role within stratified society. In the Virgin 

Islands, as in much of the colonial Caribbean, a 

racial hierarchy developed that arranged people 

on a loosely defined continuum between a prestigious 

white pole and a devalued black one. 

This folk racial system also asserted that differences 

between racial groups were differences 

in kind rather than differences in degree. Racial 

distinctions were believed to entail a strong link 

between race, character, culture, and class. 

Most white Europeans living on the Virgin 

Islands in the 18th century reasoned that Africans 

should and could be enslaved because they 

were “heathens,” not necessarily because they 

were black (Hall 1992:41–44). Conversely, white 

Europeans believed that they were free because 

they were Christians. While black/heathen/slave 

consisted of one identity package, white/Christian/freeperson 

existed as another. Indeed, these 

terms were often used interchangeably. Reimert 

Haagensen, an 18th-century planter, described 

mulattoes as “bred from a white and a black, 

or rather a Christian and a slave” (Haagensen 

1994). Estate-owner Johan Lorentz Carsten provides 

a detailed account of life on St. Thomas 

in the 18th century in which he makes a very 

clear link between Christianity, whiteness, freedom, 

and personhood. Carsten states that strictly 

“a Christian ... cannot be a slave or a servant” 

(Carstens 1997:1). Further reinforcing the link 

between Christianity, whiteness, and power on 

one hand and blackness and servitude on the 

other, Carsten elaborates the punishment for 

slaves in the following language: 

If a slave yells at a Christian, he loses his tongue. And 

if he defies a Christian he loses his life. If a slave lays 

hands on a Christian ... he must pay for that action 

by losing both his hand and his life ... if any Negro 

looks sour or grumbles against any Christian ... then 

he receives 100 lashes (Carstens 1997:16). 

Slave, negro, black, and non-Christian (implied) 

are clearly synonymous in this construction and 

white/Christian/free are synonymous. Mental 

and linguistic gymnastics were required when 

characteristics from these identity packages did 

not conform to the idealized structures. For 

example, “free Negro” could refer to manumitted 

enslaved people. Further distinctions were made 

for “free men” who had converted to Christianity 

and “free slaves” who had not converted to 

Christianity (Carstens 1997:2). As will be seen, 

the appearance of Moravian missionaries who 

sought to convert slaves to Christianity created 

something of a problem with this schema. 

Epithets of “heathenism” were hurled at 

enslaved people and free people of color, and 

were used to characterize a variety of cultural 

behaviors including dancing, drumming, storytelling, 

and healing, among others. Thus, heathenism 

did not solely imply non-Christian beliefs; it also 

entailed any African-derived cultural behaviors 

that could be construed as non-Christian and thus 

were perceived as synonymous with evil. Planter 

Reimert Haagensen offered a grim assessment 

of the enslaved population on St. Croix, asserting 

that “they are evil by nature. Their black 

skin gives proof of their wickedness and they 

are destined to slavery. In countries where these 

blacks enjoy liberty, no Christian can get on or 

be liked” (Haagensen 1994:36). 

The Danish West Indian Slave Code of 1733 

stated that enslaved people had been “consigned 

to servitude by the Almighty, and petrified 

in dumb superstition to his ignorance” (Hall 

1992:57). Thus, in the 18th century enslaved persons’ 

non-Christian identities were construed as 

the ultimate rationalization for their enslavement. 

Skin color, meanwhile, was an important physical 

distinction that had ramifications for a person’s


role in life. Blackness and the social role associated 

with this physical characteristic––namely 

slavery—were viewed as divine punishment for 

the ancient sins of Ham (Hall 1992:42; Sensbach 

1998:20,34). Skin color thus marked someone as 

a heathen and as a slave. 

While the general order of valued racialized 

categories was maintained over time, the 

underlying justification for the system changed 

at the beginning of the 19th century as alternative 

frameworks based on biological concepts 

of race were devised. According to this line of 

thinking there were many real, measurable, and 

observable physical differences between races. 

These physical differences were clues to deeper 

distinctions including intelligence, capacity for 

civilized behavior, moral orientation, and possession 

of refined human characteristics. While the 

18th-century framework justified slavery through 

supernatural sanction, the 19th-century scheme 

rationalized the existing structures of inequality 

as a product of natural forces. Both ultimately 

achieved the same ends. 

People who were enslaved on the Virgin 

Islands were called Negro, although their national 

origin and outward appearance varied greatly. The 

term Negro was used as a synonym of slave and 

seems to indicate the condition of enslavement 

as much as skin color. The term black was used 

interchangeably with both Negro and slave. 

Enslaved people always made up the majority 

of the population of the Virgin Islands in the 

colonial era. They outnumbered free people by 

a ratio of as much as 10:1 in rural areas and 

5:1 in urban settings (Hall 1992:162) (Table 

1). Slaves generally worked in the fields, mills, 

and the houses of sugar, cotton, and provisioning 

estates. A small number lived in the port 

city of Charlotte Amalie, where they labored 

in a variety of maritime and artisanal trades 

(Olwig 1985:13–42; Hall 1992:70–109). White 

Europeans were a small minority that controlled 

all economic and political activity throughout 

the 18th, 19th, and early 20th centuries. The 

Danes controlled the islands for most of their 

history, however, estate owners originated from 

a variety of nations, including Ireland, Scotland, 

Germany, and France. For a brief period in the 

early 19th century, the British controlled the 

islands and had an important cultural influence. 

In 1797 there were 726 whites, 239 free people 

of color, and 4,769 enslaved people living on St. 

Thomas. On the island of St. John, 113 whites 

operated estates where 2,306 slaves labored and 

15 free people of color lived (Hall 1992:5). The 

numerical supremacy of the slave population 

was magnified by the fact that most agricultural 

estates in the country were operated in absentia. 

Estate owners usually lived either abroad or in 

Charlotte Amalie, only occasionally visiting their 

holdings in the country. Estate business was left 

to a small number of bookkeepers and managers, 

who by the 19th century were primarily lowerclass 

Irish and Scots-Irish (Hall 1992:32). 

TABLE 1 

POPULATION OF BLACKS, WHITES, AND FREED 

BLACKS IN THE VIRGIN ISLANDS 

Year Slaves Whites Freedmen 

1755 5,980 583 138 

1770 6,640 546 67 

1789 6,814 659 176 

1797 6,761 839 254 

1815 6,699 2,279 2,555 

1835 7,258 9,239 a – 

1846 5,284 10,239 a – 

a Includes freedmen 

While Danish West Indian authorities attempted 

to discourage sexual relationships between white 

men and black women, it proved impossible 

to prevent white planters and overseers from 

having sexual intercourse with slave women on 

their plantations (Olwig 1985:37). The offspring 

from these unions were referred to a mulattoes, 

and their skin tone was perceived as yellow 

(Haagensen 1994). While most of these children 

toiled in servitude next to their mothers, others 

were granted their freedom. For children who 

were fathered by estate owners, manumission 

usually occurred at the death of their fathers 

and was stipulated in the will (Hall 1992:140). 

These bequests often included manumission of 

the mother of the child and sometimes included 

a stipend on which the newly free were to live, 

furniture, household items, and even slaves. Free 

people of color used these economic resources 

and became invested with a stake in slave ownership. 

By the early 19th century mulatto and 

black freedmen owned two-thirds of all slaves 

and a substantial amount of private property in 

the urban areas of the Danish West Indies (Hall 

1992:152). Other paths to manumission included


119 

self-purchase, which was achieved by some craft 

specialists in the cities. 

By the late 1820s the population of free people 

of color had grown to close to 9,000, most living 

on St. Thomas, where they could make a living 

in the harbor city. In Charlotte Amalie, free 

women lived in close proximity to a large population 

of sailors and traders who passed through 

the port, as well as the landed elite who kept 

homes in the cities. Mulatto and Negro women 

continued to have both short-term and ongoing 

sexual relationships with white men. White male 

dominance made the possibility of a relationship 

between a white woman and a black man next to 

impossible (Olwig 1985:37; Hall 1992:152). The 

somatic consequences of this sexual activity created 

an evolving mosaic of colors and classifications. 

Estate-owner Reimert Haagensen identified 

at least three intermediate racial categories. The 

child of white and black parents was a mulatto. 

The child of mulatto and white parents was a 

mucedis (mustice); and the child of a mucedis 

and white parents was “nearly white” (Haagensen 

1994:44). Other terms used for the “nearly 

white” category included “casticer,” “pusticer,” 

or “griffe” (Hall 1992:151). The community of 

free people of color thus included all of these 

categories in addition to Negro. It is not clear 

if there were specific terms used to refer to the 

child of mulatto and black parents, mucedes and 

black parents, or nearly white and black parents. 

Analysis of police records in Charlotte Amalie 

suggests that interpersonal conflict within the free 

black community often had its roots in considerations 

of color (Hall 1992:164). Individuals 

in the lighter categories often filed complaints 

against individuals in darker categories for 

“impertinence and threatening behavior” (Hall 

1992:164). Clearly, color graduations had become 

a component in the competitive race for status 

and economic opportunity in the Virgin Islands. 

Physical features that served to mark racial 

identity, such as skin color, were not easily read 

for individuals who fell between the socioracial 

poles. Color served primarily as a clue to an 

individual’s ancestry. An individual with lighter 

skin generally held higher social prestige and 

was presumed to have more genealogical distance 

from the state of slavery. Lighter-skinned 

free people were more likely to work in skilled 

professions and own real estate. The success 

of lighter-skinned free people of color was 

attributed to the belief that greater degrees of 

whiteness (in a strictly biological sense) carried 

with them superior culture, values, intelligence, 

and character. In reality lighter-skinned free 

people were given more opportunity by whites, 

and their somatic appearance translated into 

more avenues for economic and social success. 

Color in the Virgin Islands, however, was 

not an immutable and solely observable fact. 

Race was a malleable category, and a person’s 

family history, individual conduct, economic 

well being, profession, social interactions, and 

marriage choices could modify racial identity. 

In his study of race in the U.S. Virgin Islands 

in the 1940s, Eric Williams (1945) notes the 

confluence of race and class. He argues that in 

the Caribbean people are not only as white as 

they look. By virtue of their position or wealth 

people may move about in white society, and by 

virtue of that interaction are considered white. 

Within this system, lightness/whiteness and 

upper status tend to accompany one another as 

much as do darkness and lower status (Mintz 

1974:53). Whiteness or darkness, however, were 

not solely visual attributes but, rather, included 

important historical, social, economic, political, 

and gendered components. 

In 1830, free people of color were awarded 

full rights of citizenship. As part of this process 

they were divided into two classes. Those in the 

first category were made first-class citizens, with 

full rights, privileges, and duties. They were 

placed on equal footing with whites and were 

treated as whites. People in the second category 

were second-class citizens. The governor of the 

Virgin Islands was empowered to “transfer” a 

citizen from one status to another (Williams 

1945). The division between first-class and second-class 

citizens was clearly structured to benefit 

free people who most closely approximated 

the European phenotypic form, but allowed for 

the inclusion of those who could “pass” based 

on “good conduct, deserving rank, and cultivated 

mind” (Hall 1992:174). 

While official racial designation was controlled 

by the state, individuals also manipulated their 

racial identities through social behavior. Some 

families were known to have changed their 

racial designations within a generation through 

success, strategic interactions, and selective representation 

to state authorities, such as census 

takers. Some colonial legislators bemoaned the


fact that many reputable white families in the 

Danish West Indies could trace their ancestry to 

blacks. Accordingly they suggested that it may 

be “useful to prescribe certain generations after 

which, descendants of Negroes, who have white 

ancestry in an unbroken line could be declared 

white” (Hall 1992:153). 

Landscape and the Ideology of Race at 

Two Moravian Estates/Missions 

In 1732, two Moravian missionaries came 

ashore on the island of St. Thomas ready to 

begin their work in the Danish West Indies. 

It is no surprise that the white planter elite 

was concerned about the sudden appearance of 

missionaries who intended to convert slaves to 

Christianity. If slaves were to become Christian 

this would remove one of the primary distinguishing 

characteristics of a slave. The planter 

elite was at first determined to drive the missionaries 

from the islands. They soon realized, 

however, the benefits of the missionaries’ message. 

Indeed the Moravian missionaries and the 

planter elite shared very similar perspectives on 

the institution of slavery. Both believed that the 

existing social order had been created by God 

and thus was good. The Moravians preached 

that it was everyone’s duty to endure gladly the 

state into which God had placed them, slave 

or free. Enslaved converts were encouraged to 

respect their “duty to God and man” (Furley 

1965:15). The planter elite recognized that the 

corollary of conversion was a compliant labor 

force, and they soon were providing support for 

the missionary endeavor. The Moravians worked 

within the framework of slave society and did 

not seek to change it. By Christianizing slaves 

they hoped to make them better slaves (Furley 

1965:15). 

The Moravians began their work by integrating 

themselves into plantation society not as 

slaves or as simple laborers, which had been 

their original intention, but rather as slave 

owners (Furley 1965:3). In 1737, the missionaries 

acquired their first estate on St. Thomas 

along with 250 enslaved people who lived on 

the land (Hutton 1922:48; Hamilton and Hamilton 

1983:149). This provided the white missionaries 

with financial support and the seeds of 

a congregation, setting a precedent for land and 

slave ownership by Moravian missionaries that 

would continue until the abolition of slavery in 

1848 (Furley 1965:4). By the end of the 18th 

century Moravian missionaries ran six separate 

estates in the Danish West Indies. These 

included Nisky (founded 1771) in the urban 

port city of Charlotte Amalie on the island of 

St. Thomas, and Emmaus (founded 1782) on the 

rural East End of the island of St. John. 

The landscapes of Emmaus and Nisky missions/estates 

provide this study’s two key 

examples. Both estates have been impacted by 

hurricanes, fires, and other disasters so some 

structures have been rebuilt as many as four 

times on their original locations (Virgin Islands 

Planning Office 1976, 1977). Using both archaeological 

and documentary evidence, however, it 

is possible to piece together the essential elements 

of these landscapes and explore how they 

incorporated, internalized, and transformed the 

ideology of white privilege. 

The fact that these manmade landscapes exist 

at all is evidence of the strong social connections 

between the missionaries and other white 

elite landowners. Construction of the mission/ 

estates was completed almost entirely by enslaved 

laborers. While the missionaries owned slaves, 

they often did not control enough skilled labor 

to complete their building projects. Much of the 

work was accomplished by enslaved masons, 

bricklayers, and carpenters who were “loaned” 

by friendly proprietors free of charge. Large 

numbers of unskilled laborers were also provided 

to the Moravians for the more labor-intensive 

work of building terraces, clearing rubble, and 

carting donated raw materials to the building 

site (Furley 1965:7). The landed elite hoped that 

by encouraging missionary activities they would 

secure a tranquil labor force. These landscapes 

thus are monuments to the enslaved people who 

built and rebuilt them; and they are testaments 

to the interdependence of white elites. 

Moravian missionaries were acutely conscious 

that the landscapes they created were instrumental 

in shaping the perceptions of outsiders 

as well as fostering specific social relations 

within their communities (Murtagh 1967:9; 

Smaby 1988:95; Thomas 1994:15; Lydon 2009). 

Given the fact that Moravian missionaries in the 

Virgin Islands embraced slaveholding ideology 

and sought to ingratiate themselves with other 

landowners and colonial administrators, it is 

not surprising that they chose elite structures


121 

and landscapes as models for the estates they 

created. Danish West Indian plantation and 

elite urban architecture was centered on the 

construction of complexes that usually consisted 

of a centrally placed house, as well as other 

associated support structures including kitchens, 

privies, slave quarters, cisterns, workshops and 

outdoor work areas, and cemeteries (Chapman 

1995:150). The landscapes at Emmaus and 

Nisky also included one additional structure, a 

church (Figures 2 and 3). 

Most Caribbean plantation landscapes tended 

to focus on a centrally placed, large domestic 

structure or great house (Pulsipher and Goodwin 

1982, 1999; Armstrong 1990; Delle 1999). The 

plantation houses at both Emmaus and Nisky 

missions/estates served as the primary residence 

for the missionaries and were called either the 

mission house or manse. Despite the special 

terminology these structures were essentially 

like other plantation great houses. While the 

church structures were the dominant feature on 

the landscape in terms of massing and size, the 

mission houses were closely associated with the 

sanctuaries, and together these buildings anchored 

the estate complexes on the highest elevations 

of the properties. The mission house that is visible 

at Emmaus today is the original structure, 

which was built sometime between 1750 and 

1780 (Figure 4). It is a two-and-one-half-story 

structure constructed from rubble masonry, coral, 

and wood that was covered in plaster. The building 

measures approximately 37 × 50 ft., with a 

wood-framed gallery supported by brick pillars 

extending an additional 12 ft. from the west side 

of the building and overlooking the slave village 

below (Virgin Islands Planning Office 1976). The 

mission house at Nisky in Charlotte Amalie was 

gutted by fire in 1971, but much of the original 

exterior of an 1829 version of this building 

remains intact (Figure 5). The building is a twostory 

structure built from rubble masonry and 

wood with a full second-story gallery and hipped 

roof (Virgin Islands Planning Office 1977). 

Both the style and use of space in the mission 

houses conformed to patterns of elite architecture 

in the Danish West Indies (Chapman 1995:149). 

The height and prominence of these structures 

FIGURE 2. Map of the Emmaus estate/mission. (Map by author, 2012.)


FIGURE 3. Map of the Nisky estate/mission. (Map by author, 2012.) 

FIGURE 4. Photograph of the mission house (manse) at the Emmaus estate, St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands, showing secondstory 

gallery (Virgin Islands Planning Office 1976).


123 

FIGURE 5. Photograph of the mission house (manse) at the Nisky estate, St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands, showing the 

second-story gallery (Virgin Islands Planning Office 1977). 

corresponds to similar strategies that emphasized 

power and reinforced control in other Caribbean 

plantation contexts (Armstrong 1990; Delle 1999; 

Pulsipher and Goodwin 1999). The buildings 

that surrounded the mission house—including 

the slave quarters—were at a lower elevation, 

were smaller, only rose to one or one-and-onehalf 

stories, and housed greater numbers of 

people. The organization of the estate/mission 

complex speaks the same spatial language as 

other plantation houses and served to legitimize 

the social hierarchy by placing the missionaries/ 

estate owners in the center and diminishing the 

position of the enslaved. 

The organization of space within the mission 

houses is also consistent with general Danish 

West Indian plantation and urban elite patterns 

(Chapman 1995). For example, the second floor 

of both mission houses was reserved as a residence 

for the missionaries/estate owners, while 

the ground floor was used for more-utilitarian 

functions. The mission houses at both Emmaus 

and Nisky also have galleries, second-story 

porch-like features, that were a defining element 

of elite Danish West Indian houses (Figures 4 

and 5) (Chapman 1995:152). When the doors 

or windows connecting the gallery to the interior 

space were opened they provided a liminal 

space that was both (and neither) inside and 

outside. Galleries were intensely social spaces. 

They provided access to breezes in the evening 

and comfort and shade during the day. It is 

obvious that galleries allowed missionaries, in 

both their roles as pastors and as estate owners, 

a privileged perch from which to monitor their 

converts/slaves and thus were instrumental in 

enacting social control. Galleries had significant 

racial and gendered meanings as well. 

White women never made up more than 45% 

of the free white population in the Danish West 

Indies (Hall 1992:152). Moravian missionaries, 

however, came to the Virgin Islands as husband/ 

wife teams. Ideally, women missionaries were 

supposed to minister to women in the congregation; 

their actual activities, however, are not 

well documented. What is known about the 

experiences of white women in the Danish West 

Indies is that their lives centered mainly on 

their homes, which became both their domain 

and their prison. White women had extremely 

limited mobility and were condemned to stay 

inside, especially during the daylight hours when


workers, artisans, and other potentially polluting 

characters were roaming the landscape. The 

intensity of the heat and sunshine was often 

cited as a reason to reinforce white women’s 

captivity. Elite white women thus spent their 

days waiting for the sun to go down and for 

slaves and free people of color to clear the 

streets in compliance with their 8 P.M. curfew 

(Chapman 1995:167). The seclusion of white 

women in their homes during the daylight hours 

was also tied to expectations of feminine beauty 

that placed a high value on “whiteness” and 

the maintenance of pale complexions (Chapman 

1995:168). 

Galleries played an important role in this process. 

Contemporary accounts suggest that these 

spaces allowed women a view of the world 

from which they were isolated. In Charlotte 

Amalie white women were known to spend 

most of the daylight hours in their second-story 

galleries (Chapman 1995). From this privileged 

location they managed their household servants 

while not sullying themselves with interaction 

in the broader (blacker) social world. Lingering 

under the shade of the gallery roof also 

allowed women to conform to ideals of beauty 

that mandated pale, unblemished skin. Galleries 

thus served as stages for the enshrinement 

and enactment of proper white womanhood. On 

these second-story platforms white women were 

separate and inviolate, their white skin a badge 

of the difference between black and white, 

enslaved and free. 

Like other plantation residential complexes, 

housing for the enslaved at Emmaus and Nisky 

was placed at a lower elevation but contiguous 

to the main house (Hall 1992:76). At Emmaus 

the slave village consisted of at least four structures 

and was located west of the mission house 

and church (Figure 2). The foundations of these 

structures were documented archaeologically, and 

a watercolor painting of the area shows a slave 

village in this location at least as far back as 

1833. The remains consist of rubble-stone foundations 

built on terraced platforms with retaining 

walls. Only two of the foundations were 

complete enough to determine the dimensions 

of the structures; one measured 20 × 20 ft. 

and the other 40 × 20 ft. In the mid-19th century 

Emmaus was home to 48 enslaved people 

who must have lived in these four structures 

and shared the nearby kitchen/oven. At Nisky 

a standing one-and-one-half-story building that 

served as a slave house is located immediately 

west of the mission house (Figure 3). It is 

constructed from brick and stone rubble and 

has five doorway openings on both the north 

and south walls. An additional rubble-and-brick 

structure measuring 33 × 36 ft. has been identified 

as quarters for grooms and servants (Virgin 

Islands Planning Office 1977). It is not clear if 

this residential distinction indicated a difference 

in legal status (free black wage laborers vs. 

enslaved blacks) or merely marked a distinction 

between slaves who worked in the house 

and barns as opposed to field slaves. Whichever 

is the case, it is possible that this residential 

separation may also signal a distinction based 

on color. If the Danish West Indies system is 

similar to other plantation systems, house slaves 

and servants held privileged positions that were 

often, but not always, awarded to mulattoes or 

lighter-skinned people (Carstens 1997:4). 

Although missionaries attempted to teach by 

example by adopting a hardworking lifestyle–– 

laboring in the fields and at trades along with 

their slaves––they did not live like slaves. It is 

difficult to assess the living conditions in these 

structures, but one critic characterized the living 

conditions on a Moravian mission in St. Croix 

in the 1840s in the following way: 

We came upon 28 Negros who belong to them 

[Moravians] ... in exchange for the slave’ pains they 

give them neither good dwellings, good beds, nor 

good habits. We have visited the huts of the Negros 

belonging to the Moravian Brethren and we must say 

that there are no ... dwellings ... that are worse, none 

that are grosser, none more marked by the seal of all 

the miseries of servitude. The contrast between these 

miserable holes and the large, spacious airy houses 

into which the ministers retire is shocking and sad 

(Shoelcher 1994). 

The contrast between the conditions under 

which missionaries and their enslaved laborers 

lived was not only noted by outsiders. Missionary 

Leonard Dober served briefly as an assistant 

to the governor of the islands and expressed 

a sense of guilt about dining in lavish style 

with the island elite when he had originally 

intended to work with the enslaved population 

as a fellow slave (Furley 1965:9). The material 

distinction between the enslaved and the white 

missionaries was clear. Because missionaries 

shared a conviction that the existing hierarchy


125 

was justified, they allied themselves socially 

with white elite society through interaction and 

shared a vision of how landscapes should be 

organized, which provided a material reference 

to their shared ideologies of race. 

Race and Death at Moravian Missions 

Moravian missionaries differed from mainstream 

racialized thinking in the Virgin Islands 

in one important way. Heathenism, they reasoned, 

was a set of learned behaviors that could 

be eliminated through education and conversion. 

As discussed earlier, popular 18th-century justifications 

for slavery strongly emphasized that it 

was possible to enslave Africans and people of 

African descent because they were non-Christian 

heathen. When the Moravians arrived on the 

island with the intent of converting slaves to 

Christianity they threatened to undercut this 

rationalization. The ideologies that underpinned 

the institution of slavery, however, shifted during 

the first three decades of the 19th century. Race 

was a central aspect to both the 18th- and 19thcentury 

slave-owning ideologies, but the versions 

of racism that emerged in the 19th century 

more strongly emphasized physical differences 

that carried with them a suite of inferior social, 

moral, spiritual, and intellectual qualities. Burial 

patterns at Emmaus and Nisky estates reveal the 

emergence of this new way of thinking and may 

have played a role in creating more biological 

explanations for race and inequality. 

Enslaved people and free people of color in 

the Caribbean buried their dead in several ways. 

Some were interred under the floors of their 

houses, in their yards, or in slave cemeteries 

(Handler and Lang 1978:173–174; Oldendorp 

1987:97; Brady 1994:168; Carstens 1994:14; 

Armstrong 2002; Lenik 2004; Blouet 2007). 

Burial was preceded by a period of public 

mourning that included wailing, laments, a feast, 

and a procession (Carstens 1994:14–15). Funerals 

of enslaved people were very threatening to 

white plantocracy who feared the emotion, music, 

dancing, and rituals that were part of these 

events (Hall 1992:58). At the gravesite food and 

containers full of beverages were placed on the 

coffin before it was covered with earth. Burials 

placed in yards or cemeteries tended to be placed 

in clusters or rows and were marked in a variety 

of ways including mounds of rocks, rings of 

stone, conch shells, clumps of lilies, and bricks 

(Armstrong 2002; Lenik 2004; Blouet 2007). 

At least one contemporary observer notes that 

funerals were conducted for creole people who 

had been born on the island and had established 

strong social ties or achieved respected positions 

in the community. Bussals, slaves born in Africa 

who had not established significant social connections 

were lashed to a board and thrown into the 

sea (Carstens 1994:15). 

In the 18th century whites in the Virgin Islands 

were either buried in the Danish Cemetery in 

Charlotte Amalie or in special burial grounds 

on the rural estates. Many estate owners lived 

in Charlotte Amalie, and the Danish Cemetery, 

which was reserved for Lutheran and Reformed 

colonists, became their last resting place. Their 

burials were usually marked with formally 

engraved stones or tombs. On rural estates the 

burial places of white landowners and managers 

tended to be located on rises or hills, marked 

with formally engraved stones or tombs, and 

some were enclosed by fences (Blouet 2007). 

The preservation of these early graves is relatively 

poor, and it is often difficult to connect 

the identities of specific individuals with graves. 

During the 18th century, however, it does appear 

that enslaved people and free people of color 

were not often allowed in church cemeteries 

or other burial places reserved for European 

colonists (Blouet 2007). The important distinction 

between the two groups was their Christian or 

non-Christian identity. Non-Christians could not 

be buried in consecrated burial grounds. Thus, 

the 18th-century ideology that was used to rationalize 

slavery and racism mandated an absolute 

separation between Christian/white/elite bodies 

and heathen/black/enslaved bodies. 

When Moravians established their estates/missions 

they included spaces for the burial of the 

dead. Although the rest of their estates mirrored 

the material patterns of the planter elite, their 

cemeteries did not conform to the completely 

segregated patterns of burial used by other planters. 

The missionaries brought with them unique 

burial practices that had been established by the 

founders of their sect. Dead Moravians were 

interred in rows that were organized according 

to gender and age. At Nisky there were separate 

rows for boys, girls, women, and men. At 

Emmaus, there were separate rows for children 

(boys on one side, girls on the other), women,


and men. This practice was an extension of a 

social practice called the “choir system,” whereby 

church members associated with those who were 

most like themselves (Fries 1973:53; Smith 1978; 

Smaby 1988:10). Burials were placed sequentially 

in orderly, well-spaced rows with engraved 

headstones placed flush with the ground (Taylor 

1992). This practice was meant to emphasize the 

communitarian aspects of the religion and the 

Moravians’ “equal community in Christ” (Fries 

1973:49–50). 

In the cemeteries at Emmaus and Nisky burials 

are divided into two spatially and materially 

distinct zones (Figures 6 and 7). In Zone 1, flat 

engraved headstones are arranged in neat rows 

according to European Moravian tradition. A 

close examination of the burials in Zone 1 at 

both cemeteries reveals that until the middle 

of the 19th century all of the internments in 

Zone 1 contained the bodies of individuals who 

would have been considered white. Because 

these graves are marked with the name, place of 

birth, date of birth, place of death, and date of 

death it is possible to trace most individuals to 

a northern European birthplace or to Europeanborn 

parents. While this does not prove absolutely 

that these individuals would have been 

considered white in the Danish West Indian 

context, it is highly likely that they were. 

In Zone 2 graves are arranged in clusters 

and in rows, and are marked in several ways 

including rock ovals, mounds of earth, mounds 

FIGURE 6. Map of the cemetery at the Emmaus estate, St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands, showing graves dating between 

1770 and 1917, and graves without inscriptions. Ovals indicate mounded rock, shell, and earthen grave markers. Graves 

shaded in light gray are of individuals known to be of European descent. Graves shaded in dark gray are individuals of 

African or “mixed” descent. (Map by author, 2012.)


127 

FIGURE 7. Map of the cemetery at the Nisky Estate, St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands, showing graves dating between 1770 

and 1917, and graves without inscriptions. Ovals indicate mounded rock, shell, earthen grave markers. Graves shaded 

in light gray are of individuals known to be of European descent. (Map by author, 2012.) 

of rock, shell, lilies, and Christmas bushes 

(Comocladia dodonaea). The graves in Zone 2 

are not inscribed in any way. An approximation 

of the date of these burials, however, can be 

ascertained through an examination of ceramic 

sherds that are scattered around several interments. 

The shattered remains of annular and 

sponge-decorated pearlware vessels (1785–1840) 

that may have been used in mourning rituals 

suggest that some of these burials date as 

early as the late 18th century. If Zone 1 were 

reserved for white missionaries/estate owners it 

seems reasonable to assume that Zone 2 was 

the location where enslaved and free people 

of color were buried. Contemporary accounts 

indicate that enslaved people and free people 

of color were indeed buried in Moravian church 

cemeteries, however, inscribed burials of these 

people are not evident on the landscape today 

(Oldendorp 1987:418; Brady 1994:168). The 

argument that the stone circles, conch-shell 

mounds, and stone piles mark the interment of 

enslaved and free black converts is strengthened 

by the fact that there are striking stylistic similarities 

between these burials and other known 

African Caribbean burials (Jamieson 1995; Delle 

2001; Pulsipher and Goodwin 2001; Armstrong 

2002; Lenik 2004). 

By blatantly bringing slaves and free people 

of color into Christian cemetery landscapes in 

the 18th century, Moravians were challenging 

the validity of the existing conceptual distinctions 

between enslaved people and free people. 

If slaves and free people of color were Christians 

and could be buried in Christian space, 

then the underlying rationale that heathenism 

was the ultimate reason for their enslavement 

was no longer valid. Moravians, however,


maintained a clear and absolute division between 

black space and white space. Ultimately this 

burial pattern may have been instrumental in 

the acceptance (or perhaps development) of new 

ideas about race that were based more completely 

on physical difference rooted in whiteness 

and blackness. This landscape asserted that 

blacks and whites were different, not because 

of learned cultural behaviors like religion, but 

rather because of some essential distinctions that 

were rooted in biology. The renewed creation 

of racial difference was, in part, a result of the 

tension created by bringing white/free and black/ 

enslaved bodies into close proximity to one 

another while also maintaining spatial segregation 

between whites and blacks. 

Landscape and the Negotiation 

of Racial Identity 

With the poles of whiteness and blackness well 

established, free people of color in the Virgin 

Islands negotiated a discrete yet viable middle 

ground for themselves. The freedman population 

was relatively small in the 18th century, 

but by 1815 free people of color outnumbered 

free whites on all of the islands of the Danish 

West Indies. In 1835 they made up 72% of the 

population on St. Thomas, and in the port city of 

Charlotte Amalie they outnumbered whites by a 

ratio of three to one (Hall 1992:5,180,189). Most 

free people lived in Charlotte Amalie, where they 

could obtain employment in a variety of trades, 

serve in the island militia, or work as landlords, 

hucksters, and laundresses. On the island of St. 

John, however, a small landowning community 

of free people of color grew on the rural East 

End of the island. The population of free people 

of color exhibited considerable internal diversity 

with differences in wealth, capital, color, 

and national origin. With growing numbers and 

increasing capital the freedmen began to push for 

more social privileges and political rights in slave 

society. As they did so, rural and urban free 

people of color took different paths to establish 

their places in society. 

Before 1800 freedmen lived under restrictions 

that narrowed the avenues of economic opportunity 

open to them and defined their social 

space both literally and figuratively. Freepersons 

living in Charlotte Amalie were especially 

subject to these restrictions. Deep-seated racist 

antipathy toward freepersons espoused by the 

white population took the form of a variety of 

material and spatial strategies intended to signal 

clear distinctions between free people of color 

and whites. Freedmen were compelled to wear 

a cockade in their hats and carry papers with 

them at all times to prove their free status. 

Sumptuary laws restricted the kinds of fabric and 

jewelry free women of color could wear (Hall 

1992:149). The free black militia served as the 

main military defensive unit of the islands, and 

many free men enlisted for an opportunity at 

economic and social mobility. When officers in 

this regiment were invited to the governor-general’s 

residence, however, they entered through 

a side door and ate in a separate dining room. 

Although free people of color owned real estate 

in many areas of Charlotte Amalie, they could 

only live in specified neighborhoods called the 

Free Guts, where house size was limited to 30 

× 30 ft. (Hall 1992:146). Free people of color 

were legally forbidden to adopt “white” family 

names, and groups of free blacks were forbidden 

to gather for weddings, funerals, festivities, 

or any other social event without permission 

and oversight by white colonial authorities (Hall 

1992:173). All persons of color, slave or free, 

were required to conform to strict curfews and 

were obliged to be off the street by 8 P.M. These 

restrictions represented the persistent attempts 

of local elites to blur the line of distinction 

between freedmen and slaves, and widen the gap 

separating freedman and white. One contemporary 

observer expressed the hope that these forms of 

social and residential apartheid would impress 

upon free blacks their place in the social order 

(Hall 1992). 

In the first two decades of the 19th century, 

however, things began to change. Freedmen 

began forcefully petitioning for amelioration of 

their condition, and, whites began to grow less 

assured that the system of slavery could be perpetuated. 

In this fluid social landscape, whites 

feared the incipient class formation that could 

potentially link all people of African descent 

(Hall 1992:160). In order to stave off this possibility, 

many of the draconian restrictions on 

free people of color were relaxed, and by the 

1830s all of them were officially eliminated. By 

opening up the opportunity for economic gain 

and improvement of social status for some free 

people of color, whites hoped to take advantage


129 

of the buffer created by this intermediate class. 

They hoped that free people of color would perceive 

that their interests were more closely linked 

with the white elite rather than the enslaved 

black masses. By the 1830s residential segregation 

was not enforced, and more well-to-do free 

people of color lived in neighborhoods outside 

the Free Guts. Professional nonwhite businessmen 

emerged, and some free blacks even purchased 

sugar estates (Hall 1992:174). The unofficial 

consort of Governor Peter von Scholten was a 

free woman of color, Anna Heegaard. A woman 

of means in her own right, Anna Heegaard and 

the governor hosted glittering events, attended 

by the growing free black professional class and 

white elite alike. 

These new opportunities for free people of 

color were clearly linked to color. The legislation 

which abolished many of the restrictive 

policies on free blacks clearly favored individuals 

who most closely approximated the European 

phenotype (Hall 1992:176). Over the course of 

the 18th century free people of color had also 

created and participated in a system in which 

skin color was socially relevant (Hall 1992:186). 

Some members of both groups thus were in 

agreement that whiteness was equated with 

privilege. Indeed, as the rights of free people 

of color were being formalized, more “cultivated” 

freepersons pushed for the distinction of 

first- and second-class citizens and an enforced 

apprenticeship period for those manumitted after 

1830. A process of internal differentiation was in 

train, producing a stratum of freepersons with a 

suite of cultural capital, including skin color, that 

separated them from their peers. 

It is important to note, however, that this was 

primarily an urban phenomenon. In rural areas, 

like the East End of St. John, where free people 

of color did not articulate with white authorities 

on a daily basis, the population of free people 

of color had close ties to the enslaved community. 

On St. John free people owned their own 

land, boats, nets, and other means of production, 

thus, there were fewer benefits associated with 

whiteness for them. In addition, this free black 

community had formed through the intermarriage 

between a relatively small group of white 

settlers who owned modest provisioning estates 

and enslaved and free laborers whom they had 

brought to the island. Over time the community 

fused into a group of collectively managed 

family estates and maritime businesses operated 

by free blacks (Armstrong 2002). This social 

and economic context was very different from 

the one faced by free people of color in urban 

Charlotte Amalie. 

This difference in the strategies of urban and 

rural free people of color can be seen in the 

later-19th-century burial patterns at Emmaus (East 

End, St. John) and Nisky (Charlotte Amalie, 

St. Thomas). In the urban center, burials at the 

estate/mission of Nisky continued to be segregated 

by race, with whites interred in Zone 1 and 

all people of African descent in Zone 2 (Figure 

7). This pattern at first seems surprising because 

the 19th century was a period of dramatic social 

improvement for all people of color, including 

the abolition of the slave trade in 1806, formalized 

political rights for free people of color 

in 1830, and the abolition of slavery in 1848. 

These changes were accompanied by a dramatic 

decrease in the number of whites living on the 

island in the last quarter of the century. And, yet, 

every individual interred in Zone 1 at Nisky can 

be traced to European ancestors. Burials in Zone 

1 that date after the 1870s, when there were few 

whites living in the area, are marked by long, 

sometimes 50-year gaps between interments. This 

pattern continued until 1949. 

Perhaps it is predictable that the logic of 

racism would structure burial patterns in the 

context of plantation society. What is more 

surprising is that this pattern of segregated 

burials continued until the middle of the 20th 

century. After abolition the Moravians transformed 

their estates into churches and trained 

local West Indian “native” ministers to head 

the congregations. Even though there were very 

few whites on the islands and more opportunities 

were open to people of African descent, 

the spatial distinctions between white and black 

were maintained in the urban cemetery at Nisky. 

This may have been the case because, as Eric 

Williams noted, class and color were deeply 

intertwined (Williams 1945). Lighter skin was 

one type of cultural capital that afforded some 

people with greater opportunities. By maintaining 

segregated burial practices, people in this 

urban context both before and after abolition 

were reemphasizing the importance and value of 

whiteness, which they used to their own benefit. 

The abolition of slavery did not end racism, 

it simply transformed it. In Charlotte Amalie


white privilege was still a pertinent part of the 

landscape both socially and materially. 

In rural St. John a very different pattern 

emerges. The community at Emmaus did not 

maintain spatially segregated burial patterns. 

Beginning in the 1880s burials of people with 

some degree of African heritage begin to populate 

spaces previously reserved for whites. The 

burial of William George is the first to break 

the pattern of segregation. George died in 1881 

and was placed in a row that had previously 

been reserved for white men. The George 

family was one of the original white families 

that settled on the East End of St. John in the 

late 18th century. By the 1880s generations of 

the George family had intermarried with free 

people of color and enslaved people (Armstrong 

2002). William George’s burial is next to the 

grave of Henrietta Andrew, a mulatto woman 

born in St. Thomas. Her inclusion in a row 

reserved for men further suggests a breakdown 

of the rigid social and spatial organization that 

European Moravians had imposed. Other burials 

marked by mounds, rings, shells, and plants 

were added to the landscape as time went on, 

many occupying the zone previously reserved 

for white missionaries. 

Conclusions 

In the Virgin Islands, landscapes embodied 

the ideologies of race. Moravian missionaries 

embraced the racial ideologies of the slaveowning 

landed elite, and they incorporated 

themselves into plantation society as slave 

owners. As such their estates/missions look 

much like other estates in the Danish West 

Indies. The placement of the mission house/great 

house on a prominent elevation overlooking 

the diminished inferior slave residences mirrors 

the material claims to power and social control 

made by other white landowners. The use of 

elite architectural forms including the addition 

of second-story galleries to their homes that 

insured the surveillance of the enslaved population 

and provided a stage for the enactment and 

enshrinement of white womanhood. 

In the cemeteries associated with these mission/estates, 

burial patterns reveal a change 

in the underlying rationale for the existence 

of slavery. As Moravians and other Christian 

sects began to convert enslaved people, a more 

biologically based racism emerged. As the 

bodies of whites and blacks were brought into 

close proximity in cemeteries, the distinction of 

Christian vs. heathen no longer applied. Segregated 

burial practices within these cemeteries, 

however, maintained a distinction between white 

and black, and may have been instrumental in 

the development of forms of racism that essentialized 

physical features and innate characteristics. 

Learned cultural attributes like religion 

were no longer part of the racial package. 

Within the constraints of a racialized social 

and physical landscape, free people of color 

attempted to carve out a space for themselves. 

Free blacks living on the rural East End of 

St. John developed a relationship to the white 

community that was distinctively different from 

the relationship urban free people of color in 

Charlotte Amalie developed. In the rural setting, 

less-affluent white landowners intermarried with 

enslaved and free people of color, and formed 

an integrated, somewhat self-sufficient community 

based on maritime trade, for which the 

benefits of whiteness were less tangible. After 

the abolition of slavery the rural free black 

community downplayed class/color distinctions 

on the East End of St. John through both social 

and spatial strategies. 

Some urban free people of color attempted 

to use the cultural capital of skin color to 

improve their social opportunities. After earning 

full citizen rights in 1830, urban free people 

of color elaborated preexisting color/class differences 

within their community, which associated 

higher class and status with lighter skin. 

On the landscape of the Nisky mission/estate 

in urban Charlotte Amalie this translated into 

a continuation of segregated burial practices 

that served to reemphasize the significance of 

whiteness even after the abolition of slavery 

and departure of many whites from the islands. 

In Charlotte Amalie, color was still a pertinent 

part of peoples’ identities and could be segued 

into social and economic opportunities. 

Although these missions/estates are only 

a small sample of the total landscape, they 

reveal tantalizing clues to the ways that people 

use space to reinforce the social order, make 

claims to identity, and impose meanings on 

the cultural categories that people create. Race, 

of course, is not real in a biological sense, 

but it is meaningful as a social category that


131 

is created in a specific time and place. In the 

Danish West Indies, the values of blackness and 

whiteness were created through history, action, 

economy, and brute force. They were also created 

in everyday discursive spatial practice that 

embodied and sometimes created the categories 

by which people structured their thoughts. 

Cemeteries, galleries, great houses, sumptuary 

laws, architectural style, and residential isolation 

were all used to mark differences between 

people. These signs, symbols, and spaces 

became important embodiments and conduits 

of racialized ideologies that asserted the reality 

and purported rightness of white privilege in the 

colonial Caribbean. 


Thanks to Washburn University for granting 

me time off from my usual teaching schedule to 

write this article. Many thanks as well to Doug 

Armstrong who served as my advisor in graduate 

school (many years ago) and encouraged me 

to work in the Caribbean. Syracuse University 

provided funding that allowed me to travel to 

the U.S. Virgin Islands as a graduate student. 

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135 

Daniel O. Sayers 

Marronage Perspective for 

Historical Archaeology in the 

United States 

ABSTRACT 

Historical archaeologists in the U.S. have been interested 

in resistance among enslaved African diasporans for several 

decades. Marronage has often been noted as being a forceful 

and powerful example of captive resistance in these discussions. 

Generally, our understandings of U.S. marronage have been 

shaped by perceptions of the process that severely downplay 

its social, identificatory, cultural, and politicoeconomic impacts. 

Equally important, national academic and public discourses 

have long misinterpreted relevant phenomena, such as the 

Underground Railroad, in ways that undermine the realization 

of the expansiveness, historical gravity, and African diasporic 

roots of marronage in the U.S. There is thus a need for a 

perspective on the phenomenon of marronage in the U.S that 

accurately recognizes its origins, scope, scale, and complexity. 

In establishing the basis for this more inclusive marronage 

perspective, attention will turn to developing a preliminary 

archaeological model for the recovery of information about 

marronage in a variety of disparate site contexts. 

Introduction 

For many scholars of anthropology and history, 

maroons were profoundly significant people 

in enslavement regimes throughout the Western 

Hemisphere and in Africa (Herskovits 1941; 

Mintz and Price 1983; S. Price 1984, 1989; R. 

Price 1990, 1996, 2002; Weik 2002; Norton and 

Espenshade 2007). Maroons were self-liberators 

from the captive conditions of enslavement who 

regularly formed communities and other social 

enclaves, and they certainly represent very 

compelling examples of resistance, defiance, 

and group solidarity (Yelvington 2005:xi). But, 

equally important in contemporary discourses 

is the view that maroon communities were historically 

important loci of cultural, ideational, 

aesthetic, and politicoeconomic developments, 

an aggregate process generally referred to as 

marronage (Parris 1981; Patterson 1996; Price 

and Price 1999; Bilby 2005). Scholars recognize 

not only the dialectical relationship between 

marronage and globalized enslavement systems, 

but also the great significance of maroons in 

African diasporic histories (R. Price 1996). 

Archaeologists around the globe have made 

important contributions to discussions of marronage 

and have actively sought to provide 

interpretations that inform broader discourses 

on the subject across African diaspora–focused 

disciplines (Orser 1996; Orser and Funari 2001; 

Weik 2002, 2009; La Rosa Corzo 2003; Agorsah 

2007). In the U.S., which for the purposes of 

this study is understood as the current 50 states 

of the Union, marronage studies in archaeology 

have been much discussed and appear to 

be considered a major area of research and 

focus in the field (Ferguson 1992; Weik 1997; 

Singleton 1999; Leone et al. 2005). With Elaine 

Nichols’s late 1980s study of a maroon site 

associated with the Great Dismal Swamp (Nichols 

1988), an era of enthusiasm, discussion, and 

research began in U.S.-focused archaeology, 

which, for example, saw work at Fort Mosé 

(Deagan and MacMahon 1995) and Pilaklikaha 

in Florida (Weik 1997, 2002, 2009), as well 

as further studies in the Great Dismal Swamp 

(Sayers 2006a, 2008a). Several relatively recent 

reviews are quite informative on the surprising 

amount of maroon archaeology that has been 

done in the U.S. (Weik 1997; Leone et al. 

2005), and archaeologists can be satisfied with 

what are most obviously very great successes in 

a few research contexts. 

Nonetheless, it is the view here that historical 

archaeologists can—and in fact need to—dramatically 

expand the influence of their research and 

voices in discourses on marronage, a topic area 

that interests people across so many disciplines 

(and publics). As will be argued, in order to 

achieve this goal some fundamental misgivings 

and misperceptions of marronage in the U.S. 

that are also represented in and fueled by present 

professional vocabularies must be eliminated. 

This transformation will occur commensurate 

with a reconceptualization of U.S. marronage as 

a very complex and extremely expansive African 

diasporic historical process. It will be argued 

that a reconceptualization of marronage and 


Accepted for publication 30 August 2011 



attendant transformations in key areas of archaeologists’ 

analytical language will be a guide in 

the development of potentially highly productive 

research models. Such models can provide the 

basis for building solid knowledge of the generally 

downplayed, lost, and veiled histories of 

maroons in the U.S. Should a wide-ranging and 

contextually nuanced knowledge of marronage 

in the U.S. be developed through archaeological 

research, archaeologists will emerge as a powerful 

collective voice in ongoing international and 

national discourses, both public and academic, 

on this most significant African diasporic historical 

phenomenon. 

Global Historical Marronage 

In agreement with Marx, the view here is that 

the “Capitalist Mode of Production” (CMP) had 

its origins in the “Feudal Mode of Production” 

(Marx 1989, 1998). The early, immature CMP 

preceded (and spurred on) colonial and imperial 

occupation of the Western Hemisphere and 

regions of the Eastern Hemisphere (e.g., India) 

(Wolf 1997). Eventually, wage labor, in which 

workers’ labor power is bought by capitalists, 

emerged as a defining aspect of the relations 

of production in the mature CMP (Aptheker 

1966:17–34). This fact, perhaps more so than 

any other, distinguished the CMP from other 

contemporaneous modes of production around 

the globe and in North America, including that 

system typically called slavery. In the Marxian 

spirit, I here offer the phrase “Capitalistic 

Enslavement Mode of Production” (CEMP) 

to describe that notorious historical system in 

which human beings, most often but not exclusively 

Africans and people of African descent, 

were legally owned and exchanged as marketvalued, 

laboring, and biologically reproductive 

commodities (Aptheker 1966:17; Wolf 1997). 

The geographically expanding CEMP was thus 

severely racialized (Johnston 1970; Zinn 1980) 

and a critical force in promulgating the African 

diaspora. Importantly, while labor exploitation 

systems and other elements distinguish the CEMP 

and CMP, they dialectically articulated with one 

another and held many politicoeconomic aspects 

in common (Genovese 1965, 1976). 

With the emergence and growth of the 

racialized CEMP came resistance and defiance 

from within that brutal, violent, and oppressive 

system—among enslaved populations and 

communities agents acted out their wills, 

sought self-empowerment through purposeful 

action and praxis in the world, and exerted 

themselves to contest and undermine systemic 

thralldom (Franklin 1967; Frey 1991; Aptheker 

1993; Smith 2005). Resistance, as scholars have 

noted, was in fact inherent in the dialectics 

of the political economy and cultural systems 

of the CEMP (Genovese 1972; Zinn 1980; 

Davidson 1996:82). It is generally recognized, 

however, that resistance acts and processes 

must be contextualized within the cultural, 

ideational (and ideological), indentificatory, 

and/or politicoeconomic milieus in which they 

occurred or persisted (Blassingame 1972; Mintz 

and Price 1983; Thompson 2006; Weik 2009). 

So, while resistance represents a core or central 

aspect of African diaspora studies, researchers 

must recognize that it had complex multiscalar 

interconnections and power that should compel 

archaeologists to de-center, but by no means 

ignore, resistance as such within studies. This 

certainly holds true for scholars of marronage 

around the globe and in the U.S. 

Characteristics and Manifestations 

of Marronage 

At its basic level, marronage can be understood 

as the willful self-extrication of individuals 

or groups from conditions of enslavement, 

on short-term (petit marronage) and permanent 

bases (grand marronage) (R. Price 1996:3; Weik 

1997). All types of marronage, including various 

forms of short-term extrication on plantations, 

farms, and amidst other landscapes are historically 

and anthropologically significant (Thompson 

2006:53–66). Nonetheless, hereafter the 

focus will be primarily on marronage in which 

people self-withdrew from the CEMP on permanent 

bases (i.e., grand marronage). Novel communities, 

social enclaves, settlement networks, 

cultural traditions, and political economies 

emerged through the marronage process, and 

such formations often, though not always, lasted 

for years, decades, and even centuries up to the 

present (S. Price 1984; R. Price 2002; La Rosa 

Corzo 2003; Agorsah 2007). Equally important, 

in other cases of grand marronage, maroons 

joined existing non-maroon communities and 

contributed to their historical development. While

daniel o. sayers—Marronage Perspective for Historical Archaeology in the United States 

137 

such communities may not have been maroon 

communities in the strictest sense, they included 

maroons and were directly impacted by the process 

of marronage (Weik 2009). 

According to Alvin O. Thompson (2006:9): 

“Marronage was the most extreme form of ... 

resistance, since it involved opting out of the 

system of oppression altogether and establishing 

a new kind of society in which the former 

enslaved persons took (or sought to take) control 

of their own lives and destin[i]es.” And, 

as noted maroon-studies scholar Richard Price 

(1996:2) maintains, “Throughout Afro-America 

... [maroon] communities stood out as an heroic 

challenge to white authority, and as the living 

proof of the existence of a slave consciousness 

that refused to be limited by the whites’ conception 

or manipulation of it.” Marronage thus 

reflected not only self-determining resistance. 

It also represented a long-term consciousness 

formed through direct experiences of and 

being in a most oppressive and unjust system, 

a mode of production that worked to prevent 

such forms of existential and social awareness 

from erupting among the exploited and enslaved 

(Thompson 2006:21–28). That consciousness 

of condition, a “true consciousness” of a kind, 

clearly resulted in a consistent mode of praxis 

by which marooning human beings strove to 

eliminate the strictures and stranglehold of the 

CEMP through radical community and cultural 

genesis (Mulroy 1993:33). So, while marronage 

has direct implications for cultural, economic, 

and social resistance and development, it is crucial 

that it also demonstrates that enslaved African 

diasporans acted through autexousia, “the 

power to constitute one’s own being” (Pagels 

1988:74), and that such power in existential 

self-determination and self-awareness did have 

great historical impacts and gravity. 

Marronage was by no means rare or epiphenomenal 

in the Western Hemisphere. Rather, 

it occurred constantly and chronically in both 

hemispheres (Orser and Funari 2001). Ovando, 

a governor of Hispaniola in 1501, refused to 

allow more African laborers because “they fled 

amongst the Indians and taught them bad customs, 

and never could be captured” (Du Bois 

1915:47). In Panama, beginning as early as perhaps 

the 1520s, maroon settlements were a regular 

part of the economic and social landscape 

(Parris 1981:179–187). Maroon palenques were 

present in Cuba by the first quarter of the 16th 

century (De La Riva 1996:49–51), and enslavers 

viewed them as a chronic threat well into the 

19th century (La Rosa Corzo 2003). Spanish 

Mexico also saw the rise of marronage in the 

earliest decades of the 16th century (Davidson 

1996; Weik 2008), and the same held true in 

Colombia (Escalante 1996). Jamaican marronage 

is rightly well known for its long history, the 

roles maroons played in revolts and wars, and 

the emergence of maroon communities that have 

persisted up to present (Patterson 1996; Bilby 

2005). And, of course, there was Palmares, the 

maroon nation that emerged in Brazil and lasted 

for nearly 100 years—that duration representing 

the bulk of the 17th century (Orser 1996; 

Funari 2003; De Carvalho 2007). The list of 

geopolities in which marronage occurred can 

be extended to include all French, English, and 

Spanish colonies, a variety of locations in Africa 

(Wilson 2007) and North America, and the now 

U.S. (Rout 1976; Kopytoff 1978; Campbell 

1988; Agorsah 1994; R. Price 1996; Grant 2002; 

Ejstrud 2008). It is important to note that, in 

many instances, maroons throughout the Western 

Hemisphere played central and significant roles 

in various liberationist insurrections, rebellions, 

wars, and coups that occurred within the CEMP 

(Genovese 1979; S. Price 1984; Patterson 1996; 

Orser and Funari 2001). While there are many 

general characteristics of marronage at the 

global or mode-of-production scale, the specific 

forms and contours of local marronage varied 

extensively throughout the centuries in which 

the CEMP dominated in various geopolities (R. 

Price 1996 xi–34; La Rosa Corzo 2003). 

Maroon communities are seen by researchers 

as social formations through which to observe 

the historical development of new African-rooted 

cultural traditions and ideational systems through 

processes such as creolization and ethnogenesis 

(Herskovits 1941; Mintz and Price 1983; Weik 

2002; R. Price 2006). When maroon communities 

around the globe are considered, there exist, 

in various cases documented, historical glimpses 

of some community traditions; religious, aesthetic, 

and cosmological belief systems; kinship 

systems and gender relations; and the 

dynamics of social organization (Parris 1981; 

S. Price 1984; Kopytoff 1987; Van Wetering 

1996; Bilby 2005). Furthermore, as has been 

well studied, contemporary maroon communities


that are primarily composed of the descendents 

of original maroon populations are still located 

in traditional lands and territories, in Surinam 

and Jamaica for example (R. Price 1990, 2002; 

Bilby 2005). Such contemporary communities 

have provided scholars with the opportunity to 

examine cultural marronage, past and present, 

through historical and contemporary ethnographic 

and archaeological methods (Köbben 

1996; Van Wetering 1996; Price and Price 1999; 

Bilby 2005; Agorsah 2007). These studies point 

to some potential areas of research and analysis 

in archaeological studies of marronage in the 

U.S. and demonstrate a great diversity and range 

of cultural systems and practices among maroon 

communities past and present. Therefore, if 

marronage in the now U.S. is to be accurately 

comprehended, then the microscalar specificities 

and contextual characteristics of marronage, 

and the potential for explorations of resistance, 

political economy, communities, and cultural and 

social traditions must be carefully considered, 

while being very aware of the dynamic global 

dimensions of a locally contingent process. 

Perspectives on Marronage 

in the United States 

While usually working with very limited and 

scarce historiographic materials, historians in 

the U.S., since the publication of the vanguard 

study by Herbert Aptheker (1939), have produced 

much important work on marronage in 

the U.S. (Leaming 1979; Landers 1984; Katz 

1986; Bateman 1990; Mulroy 1993; Lockley 

2009). Maroons in the colonies and later states 

are often described in period sources, through 

enslaver language and terms, as “outliers,” 

“desperadoes,” and “banditti” who were guilty 

of “depredations” on farms and plantations, 

“guerilla” warfare, “raids,” “great mischief,” 

and “petty plundering” (Genovese 1979:52–81; 

Aptheker 1991:11–30). Thus, if one is to rely 

nearly exclusively on the documentary record as 

have most maroon scholars to date (Aptheker 

1939, 1991; Mullin 1972; Genovese 1979; Hall 

1992; Schweninger 2002), marronage in the 

U.S. appears to have been chronic, but sporadic, 

throughout the CEMP era. Nonetheless, 

for many, the significance of U.S. marronage 

is not without its qualifications and caveats. 

For example, Eugene Genovese (1979:76–77) 

has suggested that because maroons in the U.S. 

tended to collect in very small groups, “they 

may be called ‘maroons’ only as a courtesy” 

when considered comparatively with maroons 

and marronage elsewhere in the hemisphere. For 

Genovese, who echoes pre–Civil War enslaver 

sentiments, maroon activities in the U.S. generally 

amounted to harassment and “banditry” 

because maroons were often simply “outlaws” 

and “desperadoes” (Genovese 1979:78). In fact, 

Genovese comes close to adjudging that marronage 

in the Old South was not on par, in terms 

of its cultural impacts and politicoeconomic 

significance, with marronage elsewhere, mainly 

because of the limited number of successful 

CEMP insurrections in which maroons were 

involved and the dearth of documented large 

and multigenerational maroon communities or 

societies in the U.S. 

Certainly, not all scholars share Genovese’s 

surprisingly dismissive tone and acceptance of 

enslaver misperceptions of the extent and nature 

of marronage. Nonetheless, there does exist a 

general qualifying impulse to see marronage 

in the U.S. as having had less (or much more 

subtle and indirect) historical impact on and 

gravity within the CEMP and in the emergence 

of African diasporic cultural traditions than 

it had elsewhere (Frey 1991; Morgan 1998; 

Franklin and Schweninger 1999). Also, most 

historians and other researchers conservatively 

take the limited documentary record as a generally 

accurate and complete tool for assessing the 

degree to which marronage occurred and how 

influential it was in the social, cultural, and 

politicoeconomic histories of the U.S. (Genovese 

1979). There also appears to be a general 

understanding that marronage was a phenomenon 

only of the 18th- and 19th-century “Old 

South” (Lockley 2009:xvi–xx); though scholars 

and researchers recognize that enslaved captives 

did permanently escape to areas and other 

systems outside the “Old South,” they do not 

typically recognize such processes as marronage 

and participants as maroons (Merrill 1963; 

Blockson 1987; Switala 2001). Finally, it is 

underrecognized by—not at all to say unknown 

to—scholars that the CEMP, and thus marronage, 

existed in what later became “free” states 

in the north. 

As a result of such views, there is a tendency 

in most scholarship toward not recognizing


139 

significant aspects of marronage in U.S. history, 

and/or labeling and conceiving of the variety 

of forms of marronage differentially relative 

to region and time period. It is not surprising 

then that the historical importance and impact 

of marronage in the U.S. is often downplayed 

or lost in scholarship because that historical 

process is known and perceived in extremely 

attenuated or conceptually fragmented ways. 

In short, the collective comprehension of the 

power and significance of marronage has been 

severely weakened by a “divide and undermine” 

process of historical discourse, interpretation, 

and conceptualization in academic, public, and 

government sectors. 

Reconceptualizing Marronage 

in the United States 

In the United States, historians and archaeologists 

of marronage have admirably derived 

insights from documentary, oral-traditional, and 

archaeological sources (Nichols 1988; Mulroy 

1993; Thompson 2006; Weik 2009). From such 

source-based scholarship, a conceptual framework 

that highlights some of the main contingent 

forms and contexts of marronage and 

underscores the manifold and complex nature 

of that process can be developed. While not 

exhaustive in scope and breadth—that is, every 

possible and actual context in which marronage 

occurred in the U.S. cannot be elaborated upon 

or even recognized hereafter—this basic framework 

is one means by which a very complex 

and dialectical historical phenomenon and process 

can begin to be grasped. It is hoped that 

this reconceptualization can then provide the 

basis for the development of productive archaeological 

research models and compel future 

archaeological research to recognize marronage 

in historical contexts and at archaeological sites 

where, perhaps, it was not recognized before. 

In earlier work, I drew a distinction between 

what I called “extralimital” and “intralimital” 

dimensions of the historical marronage process 

in the U.S. (Sayers 2004, 2006a, 2008a; Sayers 

et al. 2007). The intralimital dimension consisted 

of those historical circumstances where marronage 

occurred in locations and places within 

the confines of the existing CEMP. Most U.S. 

marronage scholarship recognizes and focuses 

upon this dimension, though ultimately only in 

a limited range of contexts. The extralimital 

dimension consisted of those historical circumstances 

where self-emancipating maroons transplanted 

to and joined or formed social enclaves 

and communities at locations and places outside 

the structural extent of the CEMP as it existed 

at any given time. 

It is recognized that the boundaries and edges 

of the CEMP dramatically transformed and were 

occasionally loosely or ambiguously defined 

in the course of U.S. history. This means that 

researchers must determine where and when 

enslavement systems existed in the region 

wherein their sites are located. For example, 

northern and western areas of the U.S. may 

have been areas of intralimital marronage (earlier 

in CEMP phases) as well as extralimital 

marronage (later in CMP-dominated phases), 

and both processes might have had impacts on 

any given site or community prior to the Civil 

War. 

This perspective presumes that the historical 

CEMP was composed of a unique set of 

dynamic and contradictory structures and structurational 

elements (e.g., systemic reliance on 

enslaved and semi-enslaved labor, processes 

of resistance, social hierarchies based on class 

and racial caste, pursuit of surplus wealth, and 

racialized paternalistic ideologies). However, 

many aspects of the U.S. CEMP, such as commodities 

produced within its labor systems, its 

racial and political ideologies, and its monetary 

capital, flowed well beyond its structural limits 

and were key in its dialectical articulation and 

disarticulation with other modes of production 

around the globe, including indigenous modes 

and the CMP (Genovese 1965; Mintz 1985; 

Wolf 1997). Marronage was similarly extrastructural 

in its reach: while directly driven by 

African American autexousia and willful tenacity 

locally, marronage emerged dialectically from 

within the CEMP to have dramatic transformative 

social and economic impacts and articulations 

beyond the structural limits of that system 

in other modes of production (Thompson 2006). 

Intralimital Grand Marronage Contexts 

Herbert Aptheker’s (1939) research on maroon 

communities in the U.S. suggested that such 

groups formed in every CEMP-dominated 

state and many of the early colonies. When


considering intralimital contexts, primary sources 

infrequently contain information as to precisely 

where any given maroon settlement was located, 

how long it lasted, and details as to its appearance, 

although there are occasional exceptions 

(Hall 1992; Lockley 2009; Weik 2009). In short, 

historical intralimital grand marronage in the 

U.S. poses a range of interpretive obstacles 

for archaeologists, not the least of which are 

the extreme ambiguities and gaping lacunae in 

documentation, and uncertainties as to settlement 

locations in geographic space (Lockley 2009). 

But what is certain is that intralimital maroon 

settlements most often emerged within remote 

and systemically marginalized landscapes 

(Aptheker 1939; Genovese 1979; Thompson 

2006; Lockley 2009). While not without 

definitional gray areas, marginalized remote 

landscapes within the CEMP were those that 

were contained within its bounds but were not 

directly transformed and developed by purveyors 

of that system—one aspect of larger-scale 

uneven geographical development processes 

(Harvey 2006). So, vast wooded tracts, mountains, 

river courses, and swamps were predominant 

areas of grand marronage in intralimital 

contexts. For example, the Great Dismal Swamp 

in North Carolina and Virginia was home to a 

very large maroon population in the 18th and 

19th centuries (Nichols 1988), as were Florida 

swamps during those periods when enslavement 

labor systems were dominant (Weik 2002). The 

major bayous and swamps that surrounded New 

Orleans were also places of heavy marronage 

during the pre–Civil War centuries (Hall 1992). 

The large wooded tracts of Alabama and the 

woods, riverine landscapes, and swamps of 

South Carolina and Georgia were noted loci 

of rather intensive and chronic grand marronage 

(Aptheker 1939:175–176; Lockley 2009). 

Such are the kinds of landscapes and locations 

that are typically associated with marronage 

and maroon communities in the U.S. (Parent 

2003:159–172). 

Landscapes within pre– and post–Revolutionary 

War CEMP systems were subject to 

significant transformations in cast and character 

as settlement expanded and intensified. Swamps 

were drained and developed in whole or part, 

vast forests were lumbered, rivers were used as 

major transportation routes and power sources, 

and mountains mined and settled. Thus, a 

marginalized remote landscape at one point in 

time could have been developed at a later time, 

hampering and even eliminating the prospects of 

grand marronage. But marronage was a very 

fluid and flexible process that kept pace with 

the contingencies, exigencies, and transmogrifications 

of uneven geographical development, 

expansion, and colonizing settlement within 

the CEMP. Because of the dynamics of marginal 

landscape transformation and emergence, 

maroons did find remote places to settle. 

Intralimital urban environments also were a 

draw for maroons. In such populated landscapes, 

maroons found anonymity and larger African 

American communities to blend in with (Wade 

1964; Franklin 1967; Thompson 2006:104). While 

urban landscapes probably did not attract the 

large numbers of committed maroons that remote 

landscapes did, they were important loci of grand 

marronage. Cities did not assure the safety of 

maroons to the degree that remote places did, 

but for a minority of maroons it was worth the 

risk given the possibility of longer-term selfemancipation 

(Franklin 1967). 

Several variables that may be most apparent at 

smaller scales of analysis would have helped to 

determine the character and intensity of intralimital 

grand marronage in specific areas, including 

the speed with which the CEMP developed; the 

intensity and rapidity in the development of 

land; the overall size of the African diasporic 

population in a given region or locale at a given 

time; the specific character of colonial, state, and 

local governments (and legal systems); and the 

relative proximity of ecological zones and landscapes 

appropriate for long-term marronage. Such 

regional and local differences would help insure 

that intralimital grand marronage varied quite 

widely over the pre–Civil War centuries during 

which the CEMP persisted in the U.S. 

Extralimital Grand Marronage Contexts, 

Language, and Conceptualizations 

Most U.S. marronage scholarship must conservatively 

rely on the opinions, descriptions, 

interpretations, reports, and judgments found in 

period documents. As significant, it narrowly 

focuses upon a small range of intralimital 

contexts, ignoring the vast range of marronage 

contexts outside the CEMP. It is at this point 

that the so-called Underground Railroad must


141 

enter this discussion and a case be presented 

for the adoption of a different terminology that 

reflects a more African diasporic–focused perspective 

and conceptualization of the process 

of marronage. 

As I polemically argued elsewhere (Sayers 

2004), the popular labeling of one major aspect 

of U.S. marronage as the “Underground Railroad” 

(UGRR) represents a major unjustifiable 

linguistic and conceptual fragmentation of that 

process of African and African American resistance, 

self-determination, and cultural genesis. 

It is thought that the UGRR is different than 

and distinct from marronage, and this conceptual 

schism is apparent in nearly all literature 

on marronage and the UGRR (Sayers 2004). 

With some recent exceptions (LaRoche 2004; 

Leone et al. 2005; Thompson 2006), scholars 

who focus on marronage seldom connect that 

process with the UGRR, while very little UGRR 

scholarship equates its subject with marronage. 

Because the UGRR is rarely understood as 

having been marronage, the agentive autexousia, 

self-determination, and cultural genesis aspects 

of the process are virtually eliminated by typical 

and accepted definitions (Sayers 2004). The 

UGRR is most often defined in part or in whole 

as a system of assistance through which African 

American people achieved freedom with the 

help of benevolent assistants who are seen as 

the principal progenitors of that kindly, helpful 

system (National Park Service 1998; Thompson 

2006). Thompson (2006:104) allows the point 

to be made somewhat concretely: throughout 

the entire history of the so-called UGRR “3200 

active workers [assistants] ... helped 100,000 

fugitives to freedom.” Meanwhile, the primary 

African and African American actors are understood 

as having been anything but maroons— 

runaways, fugitives, and freedom seekers are the 

most common labels for such UGRR participants, 

and they are observed largely as a migratory 

population, defined only by their flight. It is the 

view here that understandings of this history 

that compel overwhelming scholarly emphasis 

and valorization to be placed on assistants (3.2% 

of the total population of people involved in 

the process, according to Thompson’s numbers) 

and their benevolent networks are fundamentally 

flawed (Sayers 2004). 

The decision to use the term “marronage” 

instead of the “Underground Railroad,” and 

the term “maroon” instead of others, such as 

“freedom seekers,” is not a mere preference or, 

in the vernacular, “simply semantics”—to the 

contrary, marronage and derivative terms have 

no synonyms. The words used to label, describe, 

and signify phenomena have direct connections 

with the way in which those phenomena 

are conceived (Wittgenstein 1958). Words and 

concepts are critical and active elements in contemporary 

discourses, narratives, and praxeologies 

(Habermas 1973:1–40; Foucault 1974), and 

perspectives on history (Pêcheux 1988), all of 

which are inherently politicized (Blakey 1994; 

Lindsey 2010). In agreement with Christopher 

Tilley (1995:108) that “[p]olitical values are 

embodied in the very language in which we 

write ... the choice of descriptive terms is valueladen,” 

scholars must be strategically selective 

in the terms chosen and marshaled in discussions 

because their conceptualizations hinge 

upon those words while the entire linguisticconceptualization 

process is discursively political 

(LaRoche and Blakey 1997:93–95). 

In using the term marronage and its derivative 

forms, radical action among African Americans 

is explicitly engaged, pernicious and weak 

Eurocentric conceptualizations (such as the 

UGRR, discussed below) are undermined, and 

direct discourses on the African diasporic nature 

of the process are generated (R. Price 1996:xi– 

30). Furthermore, the term marronage centers 

the view on the CEMP (and the conditions of 

enslavement) and directly connotes the sociocultural, 

ideational, and politicoeconomic strength 

and power of African American autexousia and 

praxis across the centuries (Sayers 2004; Sayers 

et al. 2007). Further, the word has very deep 

historical etymological roots in the Arawakan/ 

Taino language, transformed through early 

colonial Spanish, English, Dutch, and French 

translation processes that analogized maroons 

with wild nonhuman beings and emphasized 

uncontrollable resistance to captivity and fierceness 

(R. Price 1996:xi–xii; Weik 2002). Finally, 

the word has a most powerful intellectual and 

political significative freight and weight in 

public, nationalist, and scholarly discussions 

and understandings of history throughout the 

hemisphere and world (Hilliard 1995; R. Price 

1996; Bilby 2005; Agorsah 2007; Weik 2009). 

Of other terms, such as UGRR and freedom 

seekers, it could scarcely be suggested that they


command anything approaching the connotative, 

deep-history force of the term marronage, 

while it is also clear that they do not evoke 

and sustain such a rich and powerful African 

diaspora–focused conceptualization. Rather, they 

simply feed and sustain a kind of “feel-good” 

(or apathetic) and facile historical awareness 

(Sayers 2004). For example, the term “runaway” 

focuses all attention on a very limited aspect 

of each maroon’s life—the moments of flight 

only. The term “fugitive” defines maroons by 

direct reference to enslavers’ laws and legal 

customs, implies that they were still enslaved 

upon marooning, and connotes that they are 

living precariously as outlaws. The more 

recently embraced term “freedom seekers” has 

several inherent problems. One is certainly its 

transparent connection to modern bourgeois ideology 

that posits that wage-labor systems and 

CMP lifeways represent and provide freedom 

in any significant sense of the word. It also, 

like the other examples, draws attention to the 

transient moments of extrication from enslavement. 

Finally, it may presume that maroons 

were intending on finding “freedom” as it is 

understood contemporarily. 

The fragmenting view that separates the 

UGRR from marronage in the U.S. is perpetuated, 

in part, through the tacit assumption that 

extralimital maroons generally headed to Canada 

and, to a lesser extent, Mexico. In the typical 

view, UGRR “fugitives” simply passed through 

the “free” states and territories, and thus as individuals, 

families, and communities the primary 

actors in this process have been made somewhat 

invisible to U.S. historians, the public, and federal 

agencies. This has resulted in the relatively 

bizarre situation in UGRR discourses where an 

excessive amount of historical attention, often 

terribly romanticized, is paid to abolitionists 

and European Americans who assisted maroons 

(Hine 1992; LaRoche 2004; Sayers 2004; 

Lindsey 2010). While not all abolitionists were 

non–African Americans, it is a clearly European 

American–aggrandizing narrative and perception 

of an African- and African American–diasporic 

process and phenomenon (Paynter 1994; 

National Park Service 1998). Another result is 

that an excessive amount of attention is paid to 

the routes and paths that “freedom seekers” took 

to achieve their “freedom,” an additional point 

of emphasis that allows people to focus on 

those who helped the seekers of that freedom, 

because assistants to maroons lived along some 

such routes (Sayers 2004). 

It must be recognized that many maroons 

did not transplant to Canada (or Mexico) but, 

rather, stayed on in the farms, towns, and cities 

of the “free” states and non-CEMP territories 

of the U.S.; Harriett Tubman, Sojourner Truth, 

and Frederick Douglass were maroons in this 

view, then, to give familiar examples. With 

maroons settling in such a wide variety of 

locales in extralimital contexts, it can be said 

that grand marronage was a contributing force 

in the histories of those locales. Marronage did 

not somehow magically disappear once a given 

maroon settled outside the CEMP proper. When 

scholars neglect to explicitly supplant the term 

and concept “Underground Railroad” with the 

African- and African American–centered process 

of marronage, they are uncritically (and, one 

would assume, unintentionally) perpetuating the 

conditions of this popular misconceptualization 

of who was significant in this massive-scale 

process of defiance against the CEMP. 

This linguistic and perspectival shift entails 

seeing that marronage was very much an 

African diasporic and dialectical process that 

significantly engaged and impacted the political 

economies, social systems, and cultural traditions 

of innumerable towns, regions, and cities 

in the U.S. For example, maroons, despite high 

degrees of labor exploitation and social and 

economic racism (a challenge to any sense that 

“freedom” was a result of this process), found 

themselves amidst and among waves of colonizing 

settlers that flooded the territories, making 

significant contributions to early hinterland community 

development and political economies in 

the process (LaRoche 2004; Sayers 2004). It 

is also important to recognize that as CEMP 

and CMP expansion occurred and promulgated 

indigenous-American diasporas, marronage 

impacted both aspects of that process: maroons 

joined developing expansionist communities, 

and they joined indigenous Americans in newly 

diasporacized regions and territories beyond 

expansionist zones (Porter 1956; Willis 1963; 

Leaming 1979; Nash 1982; Katz 1986; Weik 

2009). Finally, extralimital maroons also formed 

communities within established and congested 

urban and maritime landscapes (Thompson 

2006). Thus, they continued leading meaningful


143 

lives as marooning people in non-CEMP states 

and territories, opened businesses, negotiated 

and resisted racism and exploitation, joined 

abolitionist causes, formed churches, labored on 

farms and in factories, joined indigenous-American 

communities and tribes, and developed kin 

and community groups and systems (Douglass 

1855; Blockson 1987; Hine 1992; Franklin and 

Schweninger 1999; LaRoche 2004). 

Extralimital marronage, then, was not just 

simply the event of escape from enslavement 

but also the continuation of social and politicoeconomic 

life for maroons in new contexts; 

this is how marronage in intralimital contexts 

is generally understood, and it is how it should 

be understood in extralimital contexts as well. 

For example, intralimital marronage scholars do 

not typically pay great attention to the flight of 

maroons and then consider their communities, 

cultural systems, and daily lives to be relatively 

unimportant. Thus, UGRR sites and other extralimital 

contexts can be productively explored 

from a marronage perspective. Studies of 18thand 

19th-century African American communities 

and enclaves in regions dominated by other 

modes of production, such as the CMP (Wild 

2008; Armstrong and Hill 2009; Barton 2009), 

should include understandings and perspectives 

that are formulated through the recognition that 

maroons were likely a significant demographic 

within those communities. Such an incredibly 

powerful and radical phenomenon in U.S. history 

as extralimital marronage (Buckmaster 

1992) merits this kind of attention and centralizing 

focus by archaeologists. 

Marronage Archaeology in the United States 

Over 15 years ago, noted maroon-sites archaeologist 

Terrance Weik (1997) outlined several 

central issues facing maroon scholarship in 

archaeology. He saw maroon studies as having 

already contributed, or as having the potential 

to contribute, to discussions of the African 

diaspora, resistance, cultural resiliency, and 

cultural syncretism (exemplified by discourses 

and debates on Africanisms). The view here is 

that in the U.S. discussions in maroon archaeology 

have been sustained on very important 

work done by individual researchers (Nichols 

1988; Deagan and MacMahon 1995; Weik 

2002, 2009). However, that work in aggregate 

amounts to an extremely limited universe of 

archaeological data and information, as literature 

reviews ultimately demonstrate (Singleton 1995; 

Singleton and Bograd 1995; Weik 1997; Leone 

et al. 2005)—at least when conceived of relative 

to the volume of work done in other African 

diasporic contexts. It is not the intent here, in 

any way, to impugn or cast aspersions on the 

previous work of archaeologists of marronage in 

the U.S. Rather, it must simply be pointed out 

that, given the expansiveness and significance 

of marronage in the U.S. and the apparent 

interest in the topic in the field and beyond, 

there is a need for more field-based information 

and analyses. A perspectival shift as advocated 

here may be one means by which archaeologists 

can explore the extraordinary contextual, 

politicoeconomic, and cultural complexities of 

U.S. marronage by allowing the recognition of 

marronage in a more diverse range of site types 

and contexts than other perspectives have hitherto 

allowed. And this perspective can be direct 

and overt. Sites and histories can be interpreted 

through an explicit “worn on our sleeves” marronage 

perspective in the same prima facie 

manner as do, for example, archaeological scholars 

that seek understandings of history through 

overtly expressed gender, class, and ethnicity 

perspectives—or evolutionary and “scientific” 

perspectives, for that matter. 

Most maroon-related archaeology that has 

been done in the U.S. has centered on Florida 

(Deagan and MacMahon 1995; Deagan and 

Landers 1999; Weik 2002, 2005, 2009). It must 

be stated outright: Florida marronage archaeology 

has been quite significant and has provided 

much insight for which documents may have 

not allowed. Florida represents a most unique 

context in which marronage occurred. The fairly 

consistent military struggle between the Spanish, 

English, Seminoles, maroons, and, later, the U.S. 

for control of Florida into the 1840s resulted in 

periods when maroons from neighboring Southern 

colonies and states (e.g., Georgia, South 

Carolina, and Mississippi) found refuge and 

periodic possibilities of legal manumission (e.g., 

maroons “earning” legal release from enslavement 

through military service) (Giddings 1858; 

Mulroy 1993). 

The half-dozen or so maroon studies in Florida 

collectively stand as not only the majority 

but exemplars in U.S. marronage archaeology


(Weisman 1989, 1999, 2000; Deagan and McMahon 

1995; Weik 2002, 2009; Baram 2009). For 

example, Terrance Weik (2002, 2007, 2009) has 

provided an extremely important study of Pilaklikaha, 

an early-19th-century African Seminole 

settlement in Sumter County, central Florida, in 

which maroons were critical participants. His 

research explores a variety of aspects of community 

life through an ethnogenesis perspective, 

including social structure and hierarchy, 

demographics, labor systems, exchange relations, 

community subsistence, and ceremonial customs. 

Because Pilaklikaha was relatively well documented, 

Weik was able to locate a portion or area 

of the overall settlement and recover more than 

1,000 artifacts that he determined related to it 

(Weik 2009:215). Despite the fact that few intact 

cultural features were recorded in excavations due 

to heavy plowing, the study was able to convincingly 

develop a sophisticated interpretation of the 

social, cultural-ethnic, and politicoeconomic complexities 

of Pilaklikaha community history. Also, 

the rich documentation and high degree to which 

historical research had been previously done on 

African Seminole and related histories was clearly 

important in helping Weik (2009) present his 

detailed and sophisticated analysis. Ultimately, 

Weik brought data and previous research information 

together and, with an anthropological and 

marronage-attuned perspective, generated novel 

insights into African Seminole and diasporic 

histories. 

Outside Florida, work at sites that are recognized 

by site analysts as being marronagerelated 

is relatively limited. In Virginia and North 

Carolina work on marronage sites has focused on 

the Great Dismal Swamp (Nichols 1988; Sayers 

2006a, 2006b, 2007, 2008a, 2008b; Sayers et al. 

2007). However, most Southern states are not 

represented in the archaeological literature on 

marronage, though, as discussed previously, what 

would be called intralimital marronage is known 

to have occurred in each of those states (Aptheker 

1939; Katz 1986; Hall 1992). There are also no 

archaeological studies in Northern states in which 

the CEMP existed prior to or in articulation with 

the CMP, where intralimital marronage as such 

is recognized as a diasporic process that may 

have impacted sites and regional histories, though 

there are some that recognize the UGRR having 

impacted such areas (Barton 2009). Finally, there 

are no published examples of archaeological work 

of which I am aware that focus on marronage, 

as such, in what here would be called extralimital 

contexts. While some researchers have focused 

on the UGRR, they do not explicitly supplant 

the divisive concept of the UGRR with that of 

marronage. For example, in a very laudable and 

nuanced work, LaRoche (2004) does explicitly 

recognize a diasporic connection between marronage 

and the UGRR. However, she does focus on 

the UGRR as such, and her framework subsumes 

more traditionally recognized maroon communities 

(i.e., remote intralimital communities) in the 

category of “Free African American Communities” 

(LaRoche 2004:105–106; Leone et al. 2005). 

The perspective that drives LaRoche’s important 

analysis thus represents a fundamentally different 

perspective than advocated here. 

With the vast majority of distinct studies 

that explicitly explore marronage having been 

done in Florida and the Great Dismal Swamp 

in North Carolina and Virginia (approximately 

eight sustained and/or ongoing promising studies 

in total), the knowledge of marronage through 

archaeological research is uneven and limited 

when considering all other CEMP colonies and 

states (again, reference at present is only to projects 

where analysts explicitly interpret their sites 

as being marronage related). Thus, archaeologists 

are not yet in a position to offer detailed insight 

from historical archaeological perspectives on 

marronage and the social and economic systems 

that emerged thereby. Equally important, the field 

does not have a solid understanding of basic 

archaeological aspects of marronage, such as the 

archaeological potential of maroon sites and the 

variability in maroon settlement locations, temporal 

durability, and size (both spatial and demographic 

scopes). In short, the basic elements of 

any systematic and accreting comparative knowledge 

base of maroon-sites archaeology, outside 

Florida and perhaps the Great Dismal Swamp, 

are generally limited at present. Thus, unlike 

other aspects of African diasporic archaeology, 

such as plantation studies (Orser 1988; Babson 

1990; Epperson 1999; Singleton 1999), a critical 

mass of researchers has yet to develop detailed 

and nuanced anthropological perspectives on marronage 

in the U.S. that are supported by strong 

material culture and landscape information from 

multiple sites that reflect, or begin to reflect, the 

dimensions, breadth, and transformative power of 

that historical process.


145 

In order for historical archaeological research 

to become a truly effective means of expanding 

and refining the knowledge of marronage in the 

U.S., there is a great need for basic, nuts-andbolts 

research driven by perspectives that allow 

for seeing marronage in contexts as differing as 

swamps, urban neighborhoods, maritime towns, 

and in Midwestern towns, for example. Of 

course, such an expansive range of marronage 

contexts means that there will be an equally 

diverse constellation of landscapes, site types, 

and artifact regimes associated with marronage 

in the U.S. Thus, it would seem that developing 

context-specific landscape and artifact-signature 

models might prove productive in opening doors 

to increasing the archaeological understanding of 

marronage in the U.S. 

Archaeological Modeling of Marronage 

It is the view here that in order for maroon 

archaeology to be a successful research area in the 

U.S., models for site location, landscape, artifact 

distribution, and artifact-assemblage patterns need 

to be developed and tested through intensive fieldwork 

in conjunction with document-based knowledge 

and, when germane, oral-history information 

(Weik 2002, 2009). Because of the apparent complex 

of contexts, archaeologists should develop a 

detailed sense of what to expect in terms of the 

following: variability in site types associated with 

marronage; the probable landscapes that were 

used and culturally developed under marronage 

systems; and the ranges of material culture that 

were used under varying conditions. Such models 

of varying scales and foci are commonly used 

archaeological tools, but in maroon archaeology 

little work has been done to develop them for 

anticipated and actual sites. Site type, proxemics, 

and landscape modeling and interpretation have, 

collectively, a long and successful track record in 

historical archaeology (South 1978; Garman 1994; 

Mires 1995; Delle 1998; Leone 2005, 2010), and 

few historical contexts call for the development 

of such basic analytical and practical tools and 

methods as do sites and landscapes associated 

with marronage. 

Intralimital Marronage Modeling 

Given the limitations and ambiguities in 

the documentation of most maroon lives and 

communities (Weik 2002:3), nuanced spatial, 

politicoeconomic, and historical contextualizing 

is necessary. But, however limited the documentary 

record may be for a given intralimital context, 

the information on marronage that it does 

yield must be used to the utmost. Explicit and 

implicit commentary on maroons and marronage 

can occur in every kind of document imaginable 

(Aptheker 1939; Leaming 1979; Cohen 

2001; Sayers 2008a; Lockley 2009). Secondary 

scholarly research sources will likely also be 

important in developing maroon-site research 

models. Researchers can use the information 

contained in such potentially disparate sources 

in an exhaustive, coherent, and critical fashion 

while also recognizing that the documentary 

evidence they have located, and most scholarly 

commentary, allows only a very small glimpse 

into the degree to which marronage likely 

occurred in most contexts. Finally, contemporary 

communities and tribes may be sources of 

historical information relevant to understanding 

marronage in a given context, though it may 

well be that, for many people, these will be 

guarded histories that are not easily or readily 

shared with others. 

With an informed understanding from documents, 

previous research, and oral traditions, 

archaeological-model development in most 

intralimital maroon contexts will also require 

some creativity and flexibility on the part of 

researchers insofar as maroon settlements represent 

relatively unique occupations. The general 

surreptitiousness that accompanied marronage, 

as well as variability in local conditions, will 

require researchers to be very sensitive to period 

temporal, spatial, cultural, and politicoeconomic 

conditions. Research at sites associated with 

intralimital marronage may also require creative 

and novel, or at least nonstandard, approaches 

in developing survey and excavation methods, 

given that they will often have to take place 

in remote and undeveloped landscapes (Sayers 

2006b; Sayers et al. 2007). 

Intralimital marronage contexts will represent 

great interpretive challenges to researchers. As 

can be extrapolated from Orser and Funari’s 

(2001) essay on maroon archaeology in the 

Western Hemisphere, many maroon contexts 

and sites in the U.S. will be virtually indistinguishable 

from indigenous-American habitation 

sites due to the fact that maroons often

146 HISTORICAL ARCHAEOLOGY 46(4) 

used hand-thrown ceramics and stone tools, 

and because indigenous Americans were often 

part of maroon communities (and vice versa). 

In addition, maroon sites will usually be very 

ambiguous and difficult to find on/in the ground. 

Finally, researchers may be tempted to seek a 

definitive “maroon” site signature and/or artifact 

regime, possibly driven by ethnicity and identity 

theories (Perry and Paynter 1999). That is, they 

may presume that there is a relatively repeated 

range of archaeological patterns and artifact types 

common to most or all intralimital maroon settlements 

given that they were composed primarily 

of Africans, African Americans, and indigenous 

Americans (e.g., expectations on recovering 

colonoware and quartz crystals). This kind of 

view and research goal may be, at a minimum, 

counterproductive and lead to excessive confusions 

and intractable ambiguities in such contexts 

(Sayers et al. 2007; Sayers 2008a). 

Productive Intralimital Models and Research: 

The Great Dismal Swamp Landscape Study 

I initiated the Great Dismal Swamp Landscape 

Study (GDSLS) in 2002 as a doctoral 

dissertation project. My interests at the start 

were primarily in the purported maroon communities 

that had formed in the Great Dismal 

Swamp prior to the Civil War. After six months 

of pre-field archival and library research, it was 

clear that, potentially, thousands of maroons 

had lived in the Dismal during the century 

and a half prior to the Civil War. However, it 

was also apparent that maroons were not the 

only people to have lived in the swamp after 

contact, as a large number of diasporic indigenous 

Americans (people forced/coerced from 

their traditional homelands in the region) and 

thousands of enslaved African American canalcompany 

workers (primarily from the 1790s 

until the Civil War) also lived for long periods 

in the swamp. If the limited documentary and 

secondary sources were to be believed, a “Diasporic 

World” (Sayers 2008a) emerged in the 

Great Dismal Swamp, one that had persisted for 

centuries and in which thousands of people from 

several social, identificatory, politicoeconomic, 

and ethnic backgrounds joined together. In that 

swamp world, marronage was a most important 

and impacting process throughout much of the 

pre–Civil War historical period. 

The Great Dismal Swamp is located in southeastern 

Virginia and northeastern North Carolina, 

between the James River and the Albemarle 

Sound, near the Atlantic coast. From contact to 

ca. 1800, the swamp was perhaps 2,000 sq. mi. 

in size. After companies began canal excavation 

and lumbering projects in the swamp, largely a 

post-1800 phenomenon with 18th-century roots, 

its size diminished, water flow in the swamp 

was altered by canals, and its floral and faunal 

regimes partially transformed. By the turn of 

the 20th century, the swamp was perhaps half 

its original size. At present, the U.S. Fish and 

Wildlife Service stewards the largest remaining 

contiguous tract of the swamp (ca. 190 sq. mi.) 

as a national wildlife refuge. 

I opted to focus my fieldwork within the 

refuge rather than the former swampland 

beyond. I knew from the literature that much 

of the refuge had been continuously owned by 

canal and lumber corporations since the late 

1700s and had thus probably not been impacted 

by wholesale disturbances like plowing. Furthermore, 

the refuge contained many antebellum 

canals (most of which were heavily discussed in 

period literature and sources) and was of appreciable 

enough size that, in my view, it stood as a 

reasonable representative sample of the pre–Civil 

War swamp landscape. But it was also clear that 

extremely limited previous archaeological survey 

and no intensive excavations had occurred in 

the refuge. 

In closely assessing a variety of primary 

sources (Aitchison and Parker 1763; Ruffin 1837; 

Crayon 1856; Olmsted 1856; Redpath 1857) and 

secondary sources (Leaming 1979; Wolf 2002; 

Martin 2004), I postulated that any actual swamp 

community would have been structurated by a 

relatively predictable “mode of communitization” 

(Sayers et al. 2007; Sayers 2008a). Dismal 

Swamp modes of communitization were rooted 

in the specific reasons each individual had for 

transplanting permanently to the swamp while 

also being dialectically related to the transforming 

nature of the swamp landscape throughout 

the 1600–1860 era. Because modes of communitization 

represented structurated social, 

cultural, and politicoeconomic processes (e.g., 

kinship systems, labor allocation, production and 

acquisition of resources and material culture, and 

social organization) through which daily life and 

cultural traditions among social groups emerged


147 

and persisted, it was further elaborated that each 

mode of communitization resulted in differing 

general landscape and artifact patterns that could 

be discerned through excavations. 

In all, three modes of communitization were 

discerned from preliminary primary and secondary 

sources, and, in keeping with the focus of 

this discussion, each mode made grand marronage 

practicable for individuals. These included 

the interior-scission, the perimetrical-semi-independent, 

and the canal-company-labor-exploitation 

(after ca. 1765) modes of communitization. To 

state it somewhat simply, each mode can be seen 

as falling within a continuum of community connection 

with the outside world, its markets, and 

its cultural systems. The scission mode stood 

at one end of the continuum, characterized by 

relatively extreme community self-reliance, community 

labor regimes, and swamp-subsistence 

practices; would-be maroon community members 

had to desire self-removal from the outside world 

and take part in and contribute to a self-reliant 

community on permanent bases. By contrast, the 

canal-company-labor-exploitation mode stood at 

the other end of the continuum, where communities 

were heavily (though not entirely) reliant 

on the outside world for daily used items, subsistence, 

and, of course, information. Maroons 

who wished to live in the swamp but maintain 

connections with the outside world and even possibly 

earn money to buy freedom for themselves 

or loved ones opted to work and live surreptitiously 

among enslaved canal-company laborers 

proper (Crayon 1856; Olmsted 1856). However, 

canals were relatively easy to access for 19thcentury 

enslavers, and there was an elevated 

risk and danger living and working in the canal 

settlements. While much more detail about the 

site landscape and artifact models developed for 

the project has been provided elsewhere (Sayers 

2006b, 2007, 2008a; Sayers et al. 2007), what 

should be clear from this abbreviated discussion 

is that pre-field research allowed me to postulate 

that maroons occupied a range of communities 

throughout the historical period, communities that 

may have had non-maroon diasporic members as 

well. I did not begin field research looking for 

a “maroon site” signature along any lines. But, 

I could hypothesize that all historical diasporiccommunity 

sites would be directly informative 

about marronage in the Dismal Swamp and its 

impacts on the diasporic world that emerged 

therein. Nonetheless, I also believed that eventually 

archaeologists might be in a position to 

postulate periods of time when maroons may 

have been the predominant population of a given 

community (i.e., a maroon-dominated community) 

and, possibly, determine with confidence that 

certain features, materials, or landscape signatures 

may be maroon related, once ample archaeological 

and field-developed data became available and 

analyzable. 

Site survey in the refuge began in the fall of 

2003, after Hurricane Isabel had done significant 

damage, razing tens of thousands of trees. Several 

islands (n=8) in the refuge were archaeologically 

discovered, ranging from 1 to 40 ac. in 

size, and, in most cases, the larger islands had 

relatively significant topographic variation. During 

the initial eight-month season, the team excavated 

shovel-test pits on several of the islands and 

also systematically surveyed Isabel-razed trees 

for exposed materials and features. The latter 

exponentially increased the yield of efforts and 

the percentage of subsurface island soils that 

were exposed for recordation. Both methods 

combined, the team was able to determine with 

certainty that soils of the islands visited were 

relatively pristine (no wholesale disturbances to 

stratigraphic sequences), was able to provide the 

first archaeological data on the temporal range 

of occupation of the landforms in the refuge 

(from at least ca. 3000 B.C. to present), and 

demonstrated the kinds of precontact cultural 

materials that were buried on islands that would 

have been available for reuse by later diasporic 

communities. Importantly, also found at several 

islands was strong preliminary evidence for the 

various modes of communitization that were 

hypothesized to have been formed by maroons 

and other diasporans (Sayers 2006b). 

The models developed for the GDSLS were 

extremely productive in site discovery and preliminary 

artifact and data recovery. Thus, two 

subsequent seasons (eight months each) followed 

that mostly focused on intensive and extensive 

excavations at sites that were particularly promising. 

As reported elsewhere (Sayers et al. 2007; 

Sayers 2008a, 2008b), these sites yielded very 

significant information on marronage and on 

diasporic communities that formed after 1600 but 

before the Civil War. For example, at a 20 ac. 

North Carolina island the team calls the nameless 

site (31GA120), I was able to demonstrate that


the archaeological record exhibited all major and 

most minor characteristics predicted for historical 

interior-scission communities. Over 100 excavation 

units yielded evidence of several historical post-inground 

structures and, possibly, water-storage pits, 

with an attendant artifact assemblage dominated 

by reused stone tools, debitage, and burnt clay, 

while mass-produced outside-world materials were 

rare and limited in the main to several examples 

of lead shot. The dearth of temporally diagnostic 

mass-produced materials required alternative dating 

methods, and optically stimulated luminescence 

samples were taken from five of the architectural 

and landscape features at the site. The dated 

samples, when combined with all chronological 

information, point to a relatively constant occupation 

of that area of the site from contact until ca. 

1775 (Feathers 2007; Sayers 2008a:176–182). With 

confidently contextualized archaeological information, 

I was able to explore issues centering on 

community organization, community subsistence 

and labor systems, possible exchange relations 

with other scission settlements in the swamp, and 

the role of community status in the development 

of scission cultural landscapes across the island 

(Sayers 2008a:144–197). Building off those arguments, 

I was then in a position to discuss the 

impacts and significances of marronage, diasporic 

exile, and politicoeconomic alienation on that 

island’s scission communities over two centuries 

(Sayers 2008a:238–273). Recent GDSLS archaeology 

field schools have, as a result of previous 

work, been able to investigate more fine-tuned 

issues that center on the impacts of 1800–1860 

canal-company operations in the swamp on scission 

communities, and post-1800 abandonment or 

differential use of certain parts of the nameless 

site (Sayers 2010). 

Beyond the nameless site, intensive work also 

took place at other sites in the refuge, and excavations 

also demonstrated the productivity of GDSLS 

models at those sites associated with the various 

diasporic modes of communitization postulated 

for the historical period of the swamp (Sayers 

2008a:197–237, 2008b). Ultimately, it is certain 

that had I not developed predictive models for 

site location, modes of communization, and artifact 

signatures, the results of excavations would 

have been far more muddled and perhaps very 

inconclusive. 

In other remote intralimital contexts, such as 

mountains, archaeologists might expect caves, 

ledges, and flat-area settlement to be commonplace 

among maroons, as might have been intentional 

flattening (terraforming) on mountainsides 

for settlement, as was done in Cuba (La Rosa 

Corzo 2003). But archaeologists could, in mountain 

and hill contexts, seek reasonably defensible 

locales to try to home in on maroon settlements. 

As with swamps and similar landscapes, higher 

relative percentages of locally available materials 

and lower relative percentages of mass-produced 

materials might be anticipated in mountain and 

hill contexts. 

Intralimital maroons who fled to urban areas 

took advantage of congested and anonymous 

conditions to live safely within the CEMP system. 

Researchers could include marronage in the 

conceptualizations of what processes impacted 

and contributed to social and politicoeconomic 

dynamics of specific urban landscapes. At the 

site scale, it might be most productive to seek 

the micromarginalized spaces and places within 

urban properties as loci of individual or smallgroup 

maroon inhabitation. For example, carriage 

houses, sheds, storage buildings, and perhaps even 

subterranean spaces like tunnels or rooms extending 

from standing structures might be productive 

points of focus. Researchers could develop models 

of expected landscape and artifact patterning. If 

anomalous and unanticipated areas of domestic (or 

other) debris are recovered, one might consider 

whether maroons lived in the marginal zones of a 

given urban property or landscape. Clearly, urbansite 

research has to gauge the possible impacts 

of marronage at several scales and provide some 

documentary evidence that marronage occurred 

in a given location in order to produce sound 

interpretations. But the first step toward doing this 

is to recognize that, historically, grand marronage 

did in fact happen in intralimital urban areas, 

and that maroons were community members and 

residents. 

Extralimital Marronage Modeling 

Marronage had far-reaching impacts in extralimital 

regions, as potentially 100,000 or more 

maroons transplanted to such areas throughout the 

pre–Civil War era (National Park Service 1998; 

Sayers 2004; Thompson 2006). Maroons who 

self-extricated to areas outside the CEMP relocated 

to cities, towns, and agrarian regions (Armstrong 

and Hill 2009), as well as indigenous-American


149 

territories and marginalized remote landscapes 

(Feder 1993), for example. It is difficult, in fact, 

to imagine any extralimital context that does not 

have the potential to inform researchers about 

marronage or, at least, allow for marronage as 

a key element in one’s research perspective. It 

certainly would be most interesting to witness 

archaeologists with a marronage perspective revisiting 

sites previously interpreted through UGRR 

foci. However, it must also be recognized that the 

diversity of the kinds of site impacted and directly 

connected with marronage will require archaeologists 

to move well beyond the preserved homes, 

parcels, and churches of European American and 

African American abolitionists. Similar to intralimital 

contexts, the documentary record in extralimital 

contexts has its lacunae and severe ambiguities 

in regard to maroons themselves. Researchers will 

likely find that they must take part in a greater 

degree of argumentation than is usual to make 

cases for maroons having been present at sites at 

which they work—though, of course, there will 

be exceptions. 

Given the ubiquity of farmstead sites in extralimital 

contexts (Wilson 1990; Orser 1991; 

Kulikoff 1992; Groover 2008), such sites may 

provide great, and readily available, opportunities 

to explore marronage. On farmsteads across most 

regions, laborers were brought onto farms, joining 

farm families in daily labor, socializing, and, 

often, residing at the places they worked (Schob 

1975; McMurry 1998). Maroons were among 

these nonfamilial laborers who directly contributed 

to the ascendancy of the family farm across the 

antebellum CMP landscape in the U.S. If archaeologists 

can begin to explore the day-to-day lives 

of maroons in such contexts, it will be recognized 

that farmsteads often had direct historical connections 

with the global African diasporic process of 

marronage, and that marronage was significant in 

the rise of capitalist agrarian America. 

Extralimital Marronage: An Example 

from the Midwest 

Battle Creek, Michigan, was settled as part 

of the processes of westward expansion of the 

CMP in the 1830s. Located in the southwestern 

part of the state, some 120 mi. west of Detroit 

(settled in 1701), Battle Creek developed quickly 

as one of the several towns in the region to and 

from which capital, people, and commodities 

flowed, while much of the surrounding landscape 

was turned over to agriculture (Dunbar 

and May 1995). This expansionist process was 

also a diasporic one as many indigenous Americans 

were forced to new homelands to the west 

(Neumeyer 1991). Extralimital marronage, also 

a diasporic process, was a critical aspect of the 

expansion and regional CMP development in 

southwestern Michigan (Sayers 2004). 

In the 1990s, I was involved with historiographic 

and archaeological work in Battle 

Creek and the southwestern Michigan region 

more generally. Excavations in Battle Creek at 

the Shepard farmstead site (1996 and 1998), an 

extant Greek Revival farmhouse constructed in 

the mid-19th century that is located just south 

of the city of Battle Creek proper, were in part 

prompted by local interest in finding evidence of 

secret tunnels or other archaeological evidence of 

the UGRR at the site. While no such evidence 

was found, documentary research on the site and 

region did indicate that the UGRR impacted the 

history of the region and, probably, the site itself 

(Sayers and Lapham 1996; Sayers 2004). 

Maroons did in fact settle in Battle Creek 

very early in the town’s history. Battle Creek 

was settled in 1833–1834, and the first maroons 

were present in the town and/or outlying regions 

as early as 1837 (Barnes 1908). Between 1840 

and 1860, the African American community 

continued to grow and flourish, spurred on by 

the arrival of maroons (including Sojourner 

Truth, who moved to the immediate area in 

ca. 1857), while being a critical force in the 

development and intensification of the townand-country 

dynamic that characterized the 

city’s relationship with outlying agrarian regions 

(Gaston 1976). During this time African Americans 

were employed as farm laborers, barbers, 

clergy, domestic workers, and house-maintenance 

workers, for example, throughout the city and 

immediate area (Sayers 1999). Contemporaneously, 

African American enclaves and communities 

that most likely included maroons had 

formed throughout the southwestern region in 

Michigan, including Ramptown, Niles, Vandalia, 

and Kalamazoo (Wilson 1985). 

Again, it was part of community lore that 

the Shepard farmstead and family had some 

connection to the UGRR, and documentary 

research did provide some support for that 

general idea. Warren Shepard, the husband of


Almeda Shepard and father of several children, 

kept an account book (Shepard [1843–1860]) of 

his various transactions between 1843 and the 

late 1850s. Of particular interest was that he 

maintained running debit and credit accounts for 

extrafamilial laborers (over 30 in number) who 

worked on the farm, including on the construction 

of the extant house (ca. 1853–1854). 

One worker, Pompey Tucker, is mentioned 

in several late-1850s entries in the account 

ledger. He stood out, given his first name; as 

is well known, enslavers forced names on captive 

people, often those of famous or ancient 

personages, and indeed scholars cite the name 

“Pompey” as a relatively common example 

(Davidson and Lytle 1992:170–171). Pompey 

Tucker’s status as maroon is confirmed through 

an early-20th-century article where he is listed 

as one of many maroons who came to the area 

very early (Barnes 1908), suggesting he had 

lived locally for some time before working on 

the Shepard farm. The account-ledger entries 

provide important information on the daily life 

of the marooning Pompey Tucker between 1857 

and 1859. During that time, Pompey performed 

a variety of jobs at the farm including threshing 

and harvesting grain, cutting and husking corn, 

butchering animals, drawing stalks, threshing 

beans and oats, planting, hoeing potatoes, sawing 

wood, backing the barn with potatoes, drawing 

fence rails, working on a drain (Shepard [1843– 

1860]:74,77–80,82), and doing “work on walk 

[and] garden” (Shepard [1843–1860]:77). Also, 

in several entries it is mentioned that his sons 

helped him in his work, and, interestingly, there 

may be an oblique reference to a connection 

between Pompey and Henry Willis, the Shepards’ 

abolitionist neighbor (Shepard [1843–1860]:78). 

For his work, Pompey Tucker received goods 

in-kind and occasionally cash. For example, 

Pompey took as remuneration a variety of items 

throughout the years, such as butter, pork, flour, 

cheese, wheat, lard, candles, mutton, meal, salt, 

corn, and fish. It is not clear if Pompey lived 

on the farm or whether he worked by day and 

lived elsewhere. But, given that it is certain that 

other extrafamilial laborers did live and work at 

the farm, it is certainly possible that Pompey and 

perhaps his children were housed somewhere at 

the Shepard farmstead. 

Also, in the Shepard account ledger, one 

Elijah Pitts has a short-term account (dated 5 

June through 11 September 1850) and Henry 

Willis appears to have been responsible for the 

cost of the food and items Pitts consumed at the 

Shepard farm (Shepard [1843–1860]:19). It is 

very likely that Elijah Pitts was a maroon, and 

Willis and the Shepard family worked out an 

arrangement to allow him to stay in the Battle 

Creek area in the summer of 1850. During that 

time, Pitts appears to have done no work at the 

farm, but he consumed a variety of foods and 

items (e.g., butter, potatoes, eggs, apples, and 

sundries at a local mercantilist’s shop). Many 

other extrafamilial workers on the farm that are 

recorded in the account ledger may have been 

maroons, but the evidence is not as strong or 

is lacking. Finally, the 1860 federal population 

census indicates that an African American 

laborer named Exum Johnson was at the farm, 

and he is listed as being born in Canada. It 

may very well be that Exum was a maroon, 

the assertion of Canadian birth being a ruse to 

indicate his birth outside enslavement conditions, 

though additional documentation was not located 

(Sayers and Lapham 1996). While it is possible 

that Exum was a Canadian by birth, it would 

seem unlikely that he would take the risks of 

false capture, mistaken identity, and subsequent 

enslavement in the U.S. (i.e., being forcibly 

taken to the South). 

Analyses of the historical and archaeological 

record of the Shepard farmstead focused 

on farmstead layout and landscape patterns in 

the region (Sayers and Nassaney 1999) and on 

exploring gender, class and labor, and ideology 

in the mid-19th-century transition to agrarian 

capitalism (Sayers 2003). While the UGRR was 

recognized in site-history narratives developed in 

the project (Sayers and Lapham 1996; Nassaney 

1998; Sayers 1999), excavated materials did not, 

at the time, appear to reflect its impact. 

While no definitive direct evidence of maroon 

inhabitation came to light in excavations, there 

may be certain subassemblages that could bear 

reanalysis through the marronage perspective 

advocated here. For example, a suite of artifacts 

associated with extrafamilial laborers who created 

a workspace in the rear of the extant farmhouse 

during its construction was recovered in 

excavations (Sayers 2003). It was interesting to 

me that, in the antebellum era, a central locus 

of labor was selected in the rear of the house, 

clearly within emerging private farmscape space


151 

and away from view of the public thoroughfare 

that ran in front of the domicile. I argued that 

this specific decision to have non-family workers 

stationed in the private rear areas of the 

farmstead had a complicated variety of class, 

labor, ideology, and kinship implications given 

the quasi-genteel, middle-class, and progressive 

position of the Shepard family and farm at the 

time (Sayers 2003). However, when African 

American maroons are known to have been 

part of the farm-labor force, the implications 

of such private labor spaces in the farmstead 

landscape become more dialectically complex 

than previously envisioned. Marooning African 

American laborers, such as Pompey Tucker, may 

have been a critical element in the emergence 

and perpetuation of multivalent private spaces, 

where workers and manual labor were in effect 

segregated from public areas and private family 

spaces in homes and yards. While class, gender, 

kinship relations, and ideologies had powerful 

roles in the emergence of private locales, 

spaces, and landscapes (Osterud 1991), racism 

and racialization may have been a critical aspect 

of those divisive processes as well (Stine 1990). 

In this case, marronage was a process that contributed 

to the racialization of an increasingly 

capitalist(ic) farmstead and likely had impacts 

on relations among workers and the gendering 

of spaces. At the same time, maroons were not 

entirely safe when living in extralimital contexts 

(e.g., there were laws that made marooning and 

harboring maroons illegal in such contexts), and 

maroons at the Shepard farmstead may have 

found working and living in its nonpublic areas 

to be a safer approach than risking exposure to 

informants in the more visible areas of the farm, 

such as in front of the house and along the 

roads that surrounded the parcel. Thus, countersurveillance 

and surreptitiousness may have been 

a daily aspect of life at the Shepard farmstead 

as maroons and members of the Shepard family, 

who likely knew or suspected the maroon status 

of individuals, sought to keep the presence of 

the former as unknown and unobserved as was 

possible. Like racialization, this also may have 

been a critical aspect of the emergence of private 

and public spaces in this agrarian context 

and others. 

Locating archaeological evidence of the outbuildings, 

including barns, associated with the 

antebellum farmstead was a significant goal 

of the project. Maps of the farmstead and 

account-ledger information indicate that at least 

two barns were present at the farm by the late 

1850s, and maps provided relatively precise 

information on the locations of each structure 

(Sayers 2003). Some excavation units were 

placed in a small woodlot just south of the 

extant house, thought to be the location of one 

of the barns. It is interesting that, despite the 

fact that the entire area had been greatly disturbed 

by the construction of a fish pond in the 

20th century, a possible plank of barn wood, a 

sherd of mid-19th-century brown transfer-printed 

ironstone, and a sherd of a thick hand-thrown 

ceramic bowl were recovered in excavations in 

that woodlot (Nassaney 1998). In fact, excavations 

in the woodlot produced the only other 

definitive 19th-century materials, some of which 

could be generally considered domestic items, 

recovered at the site outside of a significant 

domestic refuse midden located in the rear 

of the farmhouse. While there is no way to 

be extraordinarily confident with the limited 

evidence, the presence of domestic refuse concentrated 

in a former-barn area may relate to 

the housing of non-family workers in the barn 

(or near it). And, given the fact that a known 

maroon, Pompey Tucker, can be associated with 

a barn at the Shepard farmstead (even if only 

fleetingly in the documentary record), the presence 

of domestic items in a barn locus raises an 

eyebrow of interest. Might it be that racialization 

and countersurveillance processes instigated 

pressures on African American maroons to live 

in the outbuildings of the Shepard farm? Did 

maroons generally find themselves working and 

living in the non-family private spaces and 

buildings of the Shepard farmstead, perhaps 

using older vessels and other domestic items in 

those specific areas? There does seem to be a 

pattern observable in the kinds of work Pompey 

Tucker performed. Most of the jobs he is listed 

as having done were likely not performed in the 

front yard and public spaces of the farmstead. 

For example, it is known from farmstead modeling 

in the region that gardens and associated 

walkways were typically in the private, rear 

areas of farmhouse backyards (Sayers and Nassaney 

1999), and Pompey’s work on and in the 

garden, most likely including hoeing potatoes, 

occurred in the back spaces of the farmyard. 

Also, a creek ran through the property, primarily


near the barns and the private space of the 

farmstead (Sayers 2003), and perhaps the drain 

he worked on was associated with diverting 

flow from it. Finally, he clearly worked in the 

barn(s), and it is also reasonable to surmise that 

most of the tasks he was set to, such as sawing 

rails and wood, butchering animals, and husking 

corn were done in the barn areas or otherwiseprivate 

areas of the farmstead. 

The Pompey Tucker and Elijah Pitt entries 

in the account ledger demonstrate that maroons 

were part of key aspects of the day-to-day life 

at the Shepard farmstead—they worked assorted 

tasks that helped the farmstead persist, and they 

consumed products of their own labor and the 

labor of other workers and the Shepard family. 

With the knowledge that Pompey Tucker split 

rails, helped with drainage systems, and worked 

on the garden, it is also certain that he helped 

the development of the farmscape, which was a 

key element of the transition to agrarian capitalism 

(Sayers 2003). But in the general scenario 

suggested by existing evidence, marronage is 

directly connected and dialectically related to a 

number of phenomena at the Shepard farmstead, 

including the emergence of extrafamilial labor 

systems, the racialization of spaces and places, 

the multivalencies of private and public spaces, 

the production of agricultural surpluses, and the 

emergence of a capitalistic farmstead in general. 

Meanwhile, insight is developed into what the 

lives of maroons may have been like, especially 

on a day-to-day basis in an extralimital context. 

The archaeological potential for addressing the 

impact of maroons and marronage at the Shepard 

farmstead is strong, particularly if a marronage 

perspective were to guide future excavations and 

be used in refining models of farmscape layout 

and the constituent aspects of the 19th-century 

transition to agrarian capitalism (Sayers 2003). 

If several farmstead and agrarian sites were 

to be compared in the region, it should become 

much more apparent that marronage made significant 

contributions to such an important historical 

process as agrarian capitalist and cultural development. 

It should also become clear that marronage 

was a far more critical aspect of social and 

economic histories than is typically recognized. 

It is known that hundreds of maroons labored 

to survive and were members of communities 

in Battle Creek prior to the Civil War. It is also 

certain that in the southwestern Michigan region 

marronage was an important source of African 

American settlement, community development, 

and cultural genesis. The innumerable farmstead, 

town, and industrial sites in the region have the 

potential to provide archaeological evidence of 

maroon lives and this most important process. 

While rare, communities composed primarily 

of maroons emerged in extralimital contexts. 

These kinds of communities could have formed 

as maroons came to own land (or individuals 

opened their land to fellow maroons), or, as 

was the case with Ramptown, as labor-exploiting 

landowners granted plots of agricultural land to 

maroons, which helped a community of maroons 

to coalesce (Campbell and Nassaney 2005). In 

such extralimital communities, maroon families 

may have produced much of their own food 

and provided some of the surpluses to exploiting 

landowners while living in family cabins 

and accessing a variety of mass-produced goods 

(ceramics, iron objects, decorative objects, etc.). 

While they may have acquired many of their 

goods through donation, they may have also 

developed their own intracommunity trade networks 

as well as barter systems with people in 

nearby towns and farms (Campbell and Nassaney 

2005). 

There are also sites that do in fact represent, to 

varying degrees, the transient period of maroon 

escape itself, such as tunnels, paths of flight, 

and some abolitionist and sympathizer homes 

and churches (Armstrong and Wurst 2003; Delle 

2008; Delle and Shellenhammer 2008). Other 

possible extralimital contexts include urban areas, 

African American churches and related cemeteries 

(LaRoche 2004), lumber camps, mining districts 

and towns (Wild 2008), maritime ports and towns 

(and ships themselves), and indigenous-territory 

sites where maroons fled to join communities. 

While it is not possible here to detail every possible 

extralimital marronage context exhaustively 

and provide ideas on possible archaeological 

signatures, the few examples provided may help 

point in directions that will allow researchers to 

recognize marronage at whatever level(s) possible 

in the documentary and archaeological record. 

Conclusion 

Marronage not only occurred in the now U.S. 

during its complexly transforming diasporic 

CEMP era, it was an integral and far-reaching


153 

process in the country’s history. The perspective 

that has been advocated is a dynamic processoriented 

one that understands that marronage 

was intimately connected with the African 

diaspora and the various modes of production, 

such as the CEMP and CMP, that have existed 

throughout modern history. Scholars can envision 

and interpret African diasporic history in 

ways that make certain and clear the fundamental 

significance and near-universal impacts 

and dimensions of marronage. This is not an 

altogether common understanding in much literature 

on the African diaspora, marronage, and 

the UGRR in the U.S. 

In adopting the perspective advocated here, 

what the researcher recognizes is that a vast 

number of captive people in the CEMP did 

maroon in the U.S.—that number is surely in 

the hundreds of thousands between ca. 1550 and 

1860. This view does not allow us to think of 

and to consider maroons as having been only 

sporadically present outlaws and brigands, or as 

having been “freedom seekers” that are defined 

by the fact that a few apparently benevolent 

people assisted them in their efforts at successful 

freedom seeking (the standard UGRR-focused 

grasp of the situation). Rather, the process of 

marronage was a consistent aspect of the CEMP 

and CMP as generation after generation of captive 

African diasporans saw tens of thousands of 

people physically self-extricate from the social, 

economic, cultural, and existential brutalities of 

enslavement. And these numbers do not consider 

the millions of individuals across that span that 

extricated themselves for short periods of time 

or found other fleeting means of achieving a 

similar result (e.g., drinking alcohol [Smith 

2008], hiding across plantations, and imagining 

other living conditions). 

The potential significance of archaeology in 

expanding, refining, and galvanizing our general 

understanding of marronage in the U.S. is 

apparent. The documentary record of marronage 

in the U.S. is scant and dreadfully incomplete, 

as much research has shown. And yet glimpses 

of the significance of marronage in U.S. history 

are discernible. For example, the “Fugitive Slave 

Law” of 1850 (or, better, the “Anti-Marronage 

Law of 1850”), as well as earlier laws, stands 

as evidence of the great importance of marronage 

and its threat to the hegemonic power 

structures of the CEMP and CMP. Or perhaps 

the thousands of maroons who contributed labor, 

lives, and well-being to the Revolutionary War, 

the Seminole Wars, the Civil War, and various 

insurrections and revolts can be considered 

(Giddings 1858; Franklin and Schweninger 

1999; Thompson 2006). Common assumptions 

that maroons did not substantially contribute 

to significant revolts and insurrections compel 

researchers, such as Genovese (1979), to miss 

the opportunity to find the opposite evidence in 

the documentary record and assess the enormity 

of the significance of marronage in the history 

of radical liberationist revolutionary process and 

warfare in the U.S. Scholars can also certainly 

consider the great degree to which marronage 

and maroons contributed to the platforms and 

actions of the abolition movement—including 

but going well beyond figureheads such as Frederick 

Douglass, Sojourner Truth, and Harriett 

Tubman—and thus to state and national political 

histories (Quarles 1969; Sewell 1980). As one 

last example of the many possible, archaeologists 

can begin to consider how marronage and 

the threat of marronage impacted and perhaps 

stood as primary causes of surveillance systems, 

landscape arrangements, and structures of work 

and labor forces at sites (e.g., plantations, farms, 

and urban spaces) throughout the CEMP and 

beyond (Aptheker 1993). 

In thinking of sites directly associated with 

the central actors in the process of marronage, 

archaeological materials of the lived worlds of 

maroons have the potential to be used in dramatically 

effective fashion to explore heretofore 

uncertain and unknown aspects of their agentive 

autexousia, cultural systems, community structurations, 

political economies, and social relations. 

The contexts to which these many thousands 

marooned are quite varied and complex in their 

development. While the potential is great, in 

few cases have researchers been able to get past 

the potentiality stage. It is clear that there is a 

need for basic archaeological work in various 

marronage contexts in order for detailed site 

interpretations to be produced and for broader 

comparative studies to be successfully realized. 

It is also the case that, as the Shepard farmstead 

example indicates, previously excavated sites 

can be revisited and research designs further 

developed in ways that will allow researchers 

to recover evidence of marronage; existing collections, 

one would hope, could be reanalyzed


through a marronage perspective as well. However 

future research proceeds, without solid 

archaeological data generated from multiple sites 

in different contexts and with much discussion 

of marronage happening in the field, one must 

wonder if there is a danger of a myth emerging 

that allows archaeologists to think that enough 

fieldwork is being done and reasonable analytical 

ground is being covered, when in fact they 

are not. 

In order to identify, locate, excavate, and 

interpret maroon sites successfully, it has 

been argued that a comprehensive marronage 

perspective will help in the development of 

an array of site- and context-specific models 

for U.S. research. It is the hope here that the 

general framework that is based on the intralimital 

and extralimital distinction can be used 

and expanded upon in efforts to develop this 

comprehensive approach to U.S. marronage 

histories. Archaeology must bring its considerable 

interpretive power and access to new bases 

of information—the archaeological record—into 

the contemporary discourses on marronage and 

African diasporic U.S. history. One certain way 

to see this happen is to cast aside the view 

that marronage, though very significant on the 

global scale, was only a sporadically enacted 

form of resistance by a few thousand in select 

areas of the U.S. Archaeologists must begin to 

realize that for several centuries, marronage 

was a keystone African diasporic process in the 

U.S. through which a vast number of maroons 

led lives of inestimable historical consequence. 


I wish to thank the following colleagues, 

friends, and students: Warren Perry, Cheryl 

White, Michael Nassaney, Charles E. Orser, Jr., 

Allen Zagarell, Michael Blakey, Marley Brown 

III, Bill Fisher, Terry Weik, John S. Wilson, 

Brendan Burke, Aaron Henry, Martin Gallivan, 

Vipra Ghimire, Fred Smith, Jordan Riccio, 

Madeline Konz, Karen Lindsey, Bob Paynter, 

Elaine Nichols, Mark Leone, Bill Leap, Joe 

Dent, Lance Greene, and Kevin Caffrey. Many 

reviewers of this essay, including Grace Ziesing, 

Warren Perry, Jerry Sawyer, Janet Woodruff, 

and Michael S. Nassaney have my gratitude 

for invaluable insights and commentary. The 

Shepard farmstead work, which was the focus 

of my master’s thesis, and my research on 

marronage in southwest Michigan were made 

possible through Western Michigan University’s 

Department of Anthropology and the Historical 

Society of Battle Creek Berenice Bryant Lowe 

Fellowship. Since 2002, the Great Dismal 

Swamp Landscape Study has been supported 

by the College of William and Mary Department 

of Anthropology, the American University 

Department of Anthropology, and the U.S. Fish 

and Wildlife Service. The GDSLS has benefited 

from the generous support of the Canon 

National Parks Science Scholars Program and 

a National Endowment for the Humanities “We 

the People” Collaborative Grant (RZ-51219-10); 

the views expressed in this essay do not necessarily 

reflect those of the NEH or any other 

supporter of this project. While my gratitude 

for such professional and personal support over 

the past 15 years knows no limit, the ideas 

presented here are my own and, for good or ill, 

I stand responsible for them. 

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Hamilton Hall, Room 101 

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162 

Daniel G. Roberts 

A Conversation with 

Ronald L. Michael 

There is nothing typical about the way in 

which Ronald L. Michael came to embrace 

archaeology as a profession, nor in the way in 

which he pursued his career. From a very early 

age he had an interest in American history and 

later developed interests in anthropology and 

industrial technology that he ultimately parlayed 

into two advanced degrees and a 36-year 

teaching career at a university in Pennsylvania 

that many think is in California. His bachelor’s 

and master’s degrees are from schools in North 

Dakota that offered virtually no archaeology or 

anthropology courses. Undaunted, and together 

with his mentor at the University of North 

Dakota, Ronn created a master’s curriculum 

combining anthropology and history practically 

from scratch, and along the way received a 

teaching certificate that allowed him to teach 

various subjects most anywhere in North 

Dakota. After receipt of his master’s degree, 

and although he maintained a strong interest in 

history and his thesis was on the fur trade in 

North Dakota’s Red River Valley, he had little 

firsthand experience in historical archaeology. 

But three summer stints as a ranger/historian 

with the National Park Service at Grand Portage 

National Monument in Minnesota changed all 

that, and he went on to receive his doctorate 

at Ball State under the mentoring of archaeologist 

B. K. Swartz, Jr. Yet even his doctorate 

and dissertation topic were unusual: rather than 

the typical Ph.D., he received the Ed.D., and 

rather than the usual narrative dissertation his 

dissertation was a comprehensive, annotated 

archaeological bibliography that is still used 

throughout the state of Indiana today. 

After receipt of his Ed.D. degree, Ronn 

began a long and productive teaching career 

at California University of Pennsylvania, where 

he developed and creatively taught a number of 

highly unusual courses on various technological 

processes, and he founded and managed his own 

consulting company for two decades simultaneously 

with his teaching. But it is his work 

as the longtime editor of Historical Archaeology 

that best defines Ronn to most historical 

archaeologists. 

When Ronn took over the editorial responsibilities 

for the society’s journal, publication of 

Historical Archaeology was nearly two years 

in arrears. He quickly went about the task of 

marshalling old and new manuscript submissions 

to bring the journal up to date, which he 

accomplished in only one year. Although the 

first volume to bear his name as editor was 

volume 12, in reality he put together the previous 

volume almost single-handedly. By 1980, he 

had caught up and began making plans to issue 

the journal twice a year instead of only once. 

Amazingly, within a year, the journal was published 

with two numbers each year, and by 1990 

it had become a quarterly publication, which it 

still is today. Along the way, Ronn also revived 

the dormant Special Publications series, which 

saw seven volumes published before it morphed 

into a yearly thematic volume; initiated a very 

useful bibliographic series called Guides to 


Accepted for publication 30 August 2011 


daniel g. roberts—A Conversation with Ronald L. Michael 

163 

the Archaeological Literature of the Immigrant 

Experience in America, which has five volumes 

published to date; developed relationships with 

several university presses; and brought the society’s 

publishing programs into the digital age. 

The position of editor in the Society for Historical 

Archaeology is filled on an appointed, 

three-year renewal basis rather than an elected 

one. Every three years, Ronn would signify 

his willingness to continue on, and every three 

years the president and board of directors would 

recognize Ronn’s talents and reappoint him. 

Frankly, it was his job for life if he wanted it, 

he was that good, but after 27 years at the editorial 

helm Ronn finally made the hard decision 

to retire in 2004. Quite a run for a small-town 

boy from the Midwest who had little exposure 

to historical archaeology until he was well along 

in his career in, er, well, historical archaeology. 

During his highly productive career, Ronn was 

also busy doing other things besides tending to 

the society’s publishing programs. He routinely 

had a teaching load of three or four courses at 

California University of Pennsylvania and for 

many years directed the university’s archaeology 

program. In order to provide a ready outlet for 

his advanced students to gain hands-on experience 

in applied archaeology, in 1977 he founded 

his own consulting firm, NPW Consultants, Inc., 

which for 20 years was a cultural resources 

force to be reckoned with in Pennsylvania and 

the surrounding states. 

Meanwhile, in 1978 he began an eight-year 

tenure on the Commonwealth Historic Preservation 

Board, chairing the Pennsylvania National 

Register for Historic Places Review Committee 

for six years, and, in 1981, he was a founding 

member of the Pennsylvania Archaeological 

Council, the commonwealth’s first and only 

professional organization, and served three consecutive 

two-year terms as the organization’s 

first president. And Ronn didn’t limit his editing 

talents to the Society for Historical Archaeology––for 

more than 25 years he also served 

as editor of Pennsylvania Archaeologist, the 

quarterly journal of the Society for Pennsylvania 

Archaeology and one of the best state archaeological 

journals in the country. 

Ronn has been happily retired to his farm 

in southwestern Pennsylvania for several years 

now. To hear him tell it, he is now doing what 

he always wanted to do: planting trees, clearing 

trees and brush, mowing grass, and doing various 

other daily chores that keep him physically 

fit and looking a good 10 to 15 years younger 

than he really is. However, he still maintains 

frequent contact through email and by telephone 

with his many friends and colleagues in the profession, 

and rarely fails to attend the society’s 

annual conference. I caught up with Ronn on 7 

January 2010, in a suite at the society’s annual 

meeting at Amelia Island Plantation, Florida, 

and thoroughly enjoyed conducting the following 

interview. 

I’d like to start by asking how and when you first 

got interested in archaeology. 

Michael: My interest in archaeology first 

came about when I was at Jamestown College 

in Jamestown, North Dakota. There was no 

anthropology program at Jamestown College at 

that time, but at the end of my senior year I 

had gotten a job with the National Park Service 

as a seasonal ranger/historian at Grand Portage 

National Monument, Grand Portage, Minnesota. 

Although I was a physics major and graduated 

with a physics degree, I actually had a double 

major in history because, at some point in my 

four years as an undergraduate student, I realized 

I didn’t want to end up in a lab for the 

rest of my life. And so I got a job at Grand 

Portage, not really knowing what to expect. 

Alan Woolworth of the Minnesota Historical 

Society was in charge of a field crew under 

contract to the National Park Service doing 

archaeology at the fur-trading post. This really 

intrigued me, and I spent a lot of time talking 

to Alan and his wife Nancy, and some of the 

crew, about what they were doing. 

When I left that fall to go to the University 

of North Dakota to begin a master’s program 

in history, I inquired about the possibility of 

combining archaeology with history. My mentor, 

a gentleman by the name of Elywn Robinson, 

who was a well-known northern plains historian, 

long since deceased, got me into the anthropology 

program at North Dakota where there was 

a freshly minted Ph.D. anthropologist from the 

University of Missouri by the name of Raoul 

Anderson, who left North Dakota in 1966 for 

Memorial University, St. John’s, Newfoundland, 

where he became well known for his


whaling-community research. For some reason 

he was taken by the fact that I had an interest 

in both archaeology and history. The program 

offered no real courses for me to take, so 

Anderson designed some reading courses for me. 

I don’t know if he realized he almost killed me, 

but he gave me a reading list of 10 books every 

week for four semesters, which taught me in a 

real hurry how to use book reviews, learn how 

to look up topic sentences, and things like that. 

We discussed all 10 books each week. 

When I finished my master’s degree, my goal 

was not to find a job in historical archaeology. 

When I had begun at the University of 

North Dakota, I realized that it would take 

me two years to finish my master’s degree. So 

I enrolled in what at that time was called a 

fifth-year professional-education program, which 

would lead to a teaching certificate. So, with 

this teaching certificate in hand, I was certified 

to teach high-school history and physics in 

North Dakota and elsewhere. I started looking 

for high-school history-teaching jobs, mainly in 

suburban Chicago and was offered a few, except 

they were for teaching physics and coaching 

tennis, which I didn’t want to do. So again, my 

mentor at the University of North Dakota, Dr. 

Robinson, came through by saying, “I just heard 

from the president of a small college in Wisconsin. 

Would you be interested in a teaching job 

in that kind of environment?” And that was the 

first time I had ever given any consideration to 

college teaching, and so I went for the interview 

and was hired at Lakeland College, outside of 

Sheboygan, Wisconsin. I would teach history, 

but I still had to coach the men’s tennis team. 

What year was this? 

Michael: This would have been 1965. By the 

time I arrived at Lakeland, I had spent three 

summers at Grand Portage. During the summer 

before I started at Lakeland, Alan Woolworth 

was there again, and so I became more interested 

in archaeology, although I didn’t do any 

actual excavation. Once I started teaching at 

Lakeland College, I realized I was interested 

in going beyond a master’s degree, but I still 

wanted to combine anthropology and history. 

So I started contacting graduate schools, including 

the universities of Michigan, Illinois, and 

Wisconsin at Milwaukee, as well as Northern 

Illinois University. Eventually I applied to all 

of those schools and was accepted at each of 

them, but it was only at Northern Illinois and 

Wisconsin at Milwaukee where it seemed they 

were interested in letting me try to combine 

anthropology with history. 

In the meantime, one of my colleagues at 

Lakeland was finishing his doctorate at Ball 

State University. He informed me they had a 

doctoral program with a lot of flexibility. It was 

a history department program, but it allowed 

you to take courses in a variety of different 

disciplines. He put me in contact with the history 

department chair. I explained to him what I 

would like to do, and he provided me with contacts 

among the anthropology faculty, including 

Dave Scrutin and B. K. (Ben) Swartz, Jr. So, I 

applied to Ball State because they really seemed 

enthusiastic about what I wanted to do. They 

also offered me a nice fellowship, $3,600.00 a 

year, which was a lot of money at that time. I 

started classes in the fall of 1967. Ray White, 

who was a Western historian, was my history 

advisor, and Ben Swartz was my anthropology 

advisor. And so that’s the way I got started in 

historical archaeology. 

It sounds to me that the seeds of historical 

archaeology were really planted in your first 

summer at Grand Portage. 

Michael: They were. In fact, I forgot to say 

earlier that I wrote my master’s thesis at the 

University of North Dakota on the fur trade of 

the Red River valley of North Dakota. At Grand 

Portage I read practically every book and fur 

trade journal the National Park Service had in 

their library. From that reading it was clear little 

research had been done on the fur trade along 

the Red River. My thesis was all historical, as 

at that time no historical archaeology had been 

done in the river valley, not even in Winnipeg, 

Manitoba. 

What was your dissertation topic at Ball State? 

Michael: Well, my dissertation topic was very 

strange. I had to satisfy Ben Swartz, who had 

a reputation with graduate students of not being 

easy to get along with. He alienated his students


165 

more than anything else, and I believe I was the 

only student of his that ever got through the 

program. I approached him with various historical 

archaeology topics, and he had no interest 

in any of them. However, he had an interest 

in bibliographies, and I had known that for 

some time. In fact, I had done a few annotated 

bibliographies for him, just because he wanted 

them, and I needed him “to be on my side.” 

And so I did the only thing I could get him to 

agree to for my dissertation topic—a complete 

annotated bibliography of all archaeological literature 

in the state of Indiana “since year one.” 

This didn’t appeal to me to any great extent, but 

nevertheless, I started going through all the old 

publications in Indiana. I spent days down at 

the Indiana State Archives in Indianapolis going 

through everything relating to archaeology and 

history, including everything that Glenn Black 

had done. And that was my dissertation. It was 

the strangest dissertation you could ever think of. 

However, it’s amazing how many people have 

come up to me and mentioned how useful the 

bibliography was in their research. 

It seems to me that you were nearly in an 

intellectual vacuum at Ball State in regard to 

historical archaeology. 

Michael: Aside from Jim Keller at the University 

of Indiana, I didn’t run into anybody, while 

at Ball State, anywhere in Indiana that knew 

anything about historical archaeology, and at the 

time Kellar wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about 

it. There was an archaeology program in Indiana 

State University at Terre Haute, but they knew 

nothing about historical archaeology. There was 

nobody, absolutely nobody in historical archaeology. 

I got to know several prehistorians in the 

region through Ben Swartz, including Jimmy 

Griffin, but there were no historical archaeologists 

anywhere in the vicinity. 

That’s an interesting story. You really were sort 

of independently developing as a historical 

archaeologist. 

Michael: Yes, but I didn’t know it at the time. 

In fact, when I went out to look for a job, my 

initial job offers had nothing to do with historical 

archaeology, because nobody was hiring historical 

archaeologists. They just offered history jobs. 

Can you tell us why your doctorate is a doctorate of 

education rather than a doctorate of philosophy? 

Michael: At Ball State, at this time, you could 

take your doctorate either as a Ph.D. or an 

Ed.D. If you took it as a Ph.D. you had to pass 

two different language tests, but if you took it 

as an Ed.D, you could substitute statistics for 

one language. And so I decided to do the latter. 

I decided I didn’t need two foreign languages 

in order to do research, so that’s the reason I 

ended up with an Ed.D. 

So, you were awarded your doctorate of education 

in 1969. Is that correct? 

Michael: Yes, I finished in 1969, but I went 

through graduation in the spring of 1970. 

The only reason I mention this discrepancy is 

because the formal records of Ball State show 

my graduation date to be 1970. But, all the 

papers were signed in the fall of 1969. 

In the meantime, before you actually had your 

degree in hand, were you job hunting? 

Michael: Yes, in the spring of 1969, all of us 

who were going to be finished that year were 

counseled by the history department faculty. And 

they were very good, providing tips on how to 

get a job, and they helped us put vitas together 

and edited them. Using department funds, the 

department chair sent our vitas to all the colleges 

and universities in the United States. He 

just blanketed the whole country with them. 

And I had several responses. In particular, I was 

home for lunch one day, and the phone rang. 

The lady said she was calling from California 

State College and mentioned the department 

chair who wanted to talk to me. 

This call was made on the basis of the blanket 

mailing? 

Michael: Yes, the blanket mailing only. I had 

not applied to this school. I never heard of this 

school. In fact, I remember thinking she was 

calling from Sacramento or somewhere in California. 

I knew nothing about specific colleges 

and universities in Pennsylvania. Indiana, where 

I was living then, was the farthest south and east 

that I had ever lived. So, the department chair


got on the phone, told me that he had received 

my vita, and asked me to come for an interview. 

His name was Phil Jack. But since I had never 

heard of the school and I was just about ready to 

accept an offer at Eastern Kentucky University, I 

wasn’t really very interested in further interviews. 

I do remember asking Phil Jack questions about 

the program. He explained they were trying to 

develop a new anthropology program with a 

focus in archaeology instead of cultural anthropology. 

They already had three archaeologists 

on staff, although one was going to be leaving, 

and they wanted to replace him with a historical 

archaeologist. 

That was pretty forward thinking way back in 1969. 

Michael: Yes, it really was. They knew nothing, 

really, about historical archaeology. However, 

since it was a six-hour drive just to get 

there for an interview, I can remember asking 

him on the telephone, “What are my chances of 

you offering me a job if I come for an interview?” 

Obviously you don’t want to say that if 

you want a job, but I didn’t need another offer, 

as I already had several, and I especially didn’t 

need it at some place that I had never heard of. 

A bit forward of you, I’d say. 

Michael: Yes, but his immediate reply back 

was that if I was as good in person as I was on 

paper they would probably offer me the job. So, 

that intrigued me. I made the trip, and when I 

got there, they put me up in a small downtown 

hotel, where I had a room above a bar. When 

I got up the next morning, the morning of the 

interview, my car was covered with coal soot. 

Where I lived, coal was going out of fashion, 

but in California, Pennsylvania, coal was still 

king. And my car was all black, and I was 

not happy. But I went for the interview which 

was with an archaeologist, a historian, and the 

department chair. We spent several hours in the 

morning talking, and then they excused me and 

asked me to come back after lunchtime; when 

I did, only the department chair was there, and 

he said, “We’d like to invite you to join the 

faculty.” That really surprised me. He also said 

I needed to go talk to the president of the university, 

because it was the president who would 

decide the money part of the offer. The faculty 

had the authority to decide who to hire, but 

it would be up to the president to tender the 

money offer. I was advised by Phil Jack to say 

how much money I wanted, which of course 

stunned me. Because California State College (as 

it was called at that time) is wholly owned by 

the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, university 

employees collectively bargain by commonwealth 

law, and, as a result, there are salary schedules 

for each job title. I knew how much I had been 

offered elsewhere, and being young and naïve, I 

looked at the salary schedule and chose a sum 

that was beyond anything I had been offered 

elsewhere. Phil Jack told me that if it’s too much 

money the president will tell you so, but if it’s 

less than he would be willing to pay you, he 

will not increase his offer. When I talked to the 

president, I told him what I’d like for a starting 

salary, and he said, “That’s fine.” I then had 

to confess that I would not have my degree in 

hand, because I could not defend my dissertation 

until fall. I assured him it would be done, but I 

said I understand that it’s often necessary to pay 

a person less until they actually have the degree 

in hand. He said, “No, that’s okay, I trust you.” 

And so I got the salary I requested. The deal 

was actually better than that, because California 

State College at that time was on a trimester 

system, and since they had a big archaeology 

program during the summer, I was unconditionally 

guaranteed a third semester each year, which 

gave me 30% more money. So it was an offer I 

could not refuse. I went back to Ball State and 

told my advisor what I was offered as a ninemonth 

salary, and he said I would be making 

more than he was making, which was a little 

embarrassing. I let another person on my committee 

know what I was offered, and I’ll never 

forget that his whole facial expression changed 

when I told him the amount. So, that’s how I 

came to California State College, now California 

University of Pennsylvania. 

It sounds like you were really impressive in your 

interview, or they were really desperate. 

Michael: I’ve often wondered how or why 

this happened. I never could figure out why I 

got hired at such a high salary. I did find out 

a couple months after starting at California that 

the college was short of people with doctorates 

and would shortly be up for accreditation review,


167 

but they clearly didn’t have to pay the kind of 

money they paid me to get such people. In fact, 

I was hired as an associate professor, a higher 

rank than where I should have been hired. 

That’s unheard of. 

Michael: I only had two real years of college 

experience at Lakeland College. In order to hire 

me as an associate professor, I had to have five 

years teaching experience. When I came back 

from talking to the president, I remember very 

clearly that the department chair said, “We have 

to find some more teaching experience in your 

background to put on your application to the 

state.” And I thought to myself, “I don’t know 

where you’re going to find this experience.” I 

was only 27 years old. But he asked had I ever 

been a Boy Scout leader, and I had. Then he 

asked, “Did you ever teach Sunday school?” 

And, well, I had, and together we found other 

“teaching” experience in my background. I left 

that interview and headed back to Ball State 

convinced that the state would not accept my 

application with the “ginned up” teaching experience. 

But, within two weeks, I had a letter of 

appointment with everything approved. 

Talk about being in the right place at the right 

time. 

Michael: That’s exactly right. It was nothing 

more than being in the right place at the right 

time. I don’t know what they really saw in my 

vita because I hadn’t done a whole lot at that 

time. I guess whatever I said in the interview 

was exactly what they wanted to hear. And so, 

when I got to California, even though I didn’t 

know what to anticipate, having already taught in 

college, I wasn’t intimidated. All I knew was that 

I would be teaching mainly archaeology. 

This would have been the fall of 1969? 

Michael: Yes, fall of 1969. 

So, you got through this incredible interview 

process and, let’s be frank, lucked out. 

Michael: No question about it that I lucked out, 

and I continued to luck out. Instead of just running 

a historical archaeology field school, which 

had been the plan, health issues arose with Bill 

Womsley, the senior anthropologist/archaeologist 

who was supposed to be in charge. Consequently, 

I was asked to run the entire field school by Phil 

Jack, both prehistoric and historical archaeology. 

Furthermore, Phil also asked me to take over 

coordination of the Master’s of Arts in Social 

Sciences program. So, by the end of my first 

year at California, I was in charge of running 

both the historical and prehistoric field schools, 

plus a master’s program. Shortly thereafter, and 

for the next 10 years, I was also a member of 

the college graduate council. 

Sounds like you were doing everything. What were 

the other faculty members doing? 

Michael: Well, some of them didn’t do much, 

which became a point of contention in later 

years. After I was there for six or seven years, 

I was asked to run for department chair, which 

I did not want to do because I already had 

plenty to do. I was part of a 30-faculty social 

science department at that time, and fortunately 

I did not get voted in as chair, and several of 

my colleagues came up and apologized for not 

voting for me because they were afraid that I 

would expect them to do too many things. This 

was an absolute relief because, as I said, I did 

not want any part of it. The university provost 

had told me I wouldn’t like the job, although he 

noted I would likely find it easy, but annoying. 

The point is, California State College provided 

me with every opportunity to do almost anything 

I wanted. 

So going back to the summer of 1970, where were 

the two archaeological field schools held? 

Michael: I picked a 19th-century stagecoach 

tavern along the National Pike (present-day US 

40) for the historical archaeology field school, 

and the prehistoric field school was held at a 

big late-prehistoric village close to the college, 

where the field school had been held for the 

past couple of years. The previous archaeology 

was done by Bill Womsley, who was a 

Ph.D. student of Bill Sanders at the Penn State 

University. In 1970 another of Sanders’s Ph.D. 

students, Joe Marino, directed the prehistoric 

archaeology field school, and he decided that 

we were dealing with a huge mound where the


Aztecs had once been, and it caused an absolute 

furor. I got a call from Don Dragoo at the 

Carnegie Museum of Natural History, in Pittsburgh, 

who wanted to know what was going on 

down there. Barry Kent, the Pennsylvania state 

archaeologist also became involved because he 

had gotten calls from all kinds of people about 

what nut was attributing a late-prehistoric village 

site in Pennsylvania to the Aztecs. The 

situation was especially sensitive for Barry 

Kent because he, Marino, and Womsley had all 

graduated with Ph.D’s, from Penn State within 

a few years of each other. Attempts to temper 

Marino’s words and actions met with minimal 

success that summer, but he never again participated 

in any of the university’s archaeology 

field programs. 

It appears the college followed through with their 

intention to emphasize archaeology. 

Michael: Yes, they did follow through. We had 

access to the students in the Ph.D. program at 

the University of Pittsburgh. That’s how I came 

to know Ron Carlisle, who was a Pitt student 

working on his master’s degree at the time. He 

came to work for me as a field supervisor. Ron 

and other field supervisors were mostly students 

of Jim Richardson. At about the same time, 

Jim Adovasio came to Pittsburgh and began to 

excavate Meadowcroft Rockshelter, after California 

State College declined the invitation to 

excavate it. 

So you and your students actually had first 

reported Meadowcroft Rockshelter? 

Michael: Not exactly. Meadowcroft was a 

previously known prehistoric site on a family 

farm owned by Albert Miller. Miller had a 

strong interest in history and archaeology, and 

had convinced staff at the Carnegie Museum to 

test the site. They did test it, concluding that it 

didn’t have much research potential. 

Is that right? 

Michael: Yes, it’s well known that Carnegie 

wrote off the site; I think the staff later found 

this to be quite embarrassing. I don’t remember 

who did the testing, but that’s what the 

Carnegie opinion was. California State College 

thus had an opportunity to test and excavate the 

site, but it was just too hard for us to get to. 

The commute was a lengthy drive over several 

hilly, winding roads, and we had students who 

could only work in the field half a day because 

of their class schedules. The college would not 

allow us to set up a field camp to take the students 

overnight, so we simply weren’t able to 

accommodate our students at Meadowcroft. The 

property owner had collected numerous artifacts 

from the site and was quite persuasive. He felt 

strongly that the site had more research potential 

than the Carnegie Museum staff had projected. 

We were interested in doing additional study at 

the site, but we just couldn’t accommodate our 

field-school students. 

So you actually had the right of first refusal to 

excavate Meadowcroft Rockshelter and passed on 

it? I understand you then recommended the project 

to Jim Adovasio? 

Michael: Yes, and we were very happy to do 

so because we had become good friends with 

Jim, and we could not have done the rockshelter 

the justice it deserved, using it as a training site 

for undergraduate students. Adovasio’s training 

with Jesse Jennings at Utah had focused on 

rockshelter excavations in the West. 

You have no regrets turning down an opportunity 

to excavate the now world-famous Meadowcroft 

Rockshelter? 

Michael: No! If the truth be known, I was 

having fun teaching every day. I was given a 

lot of freedom, enough freedom that I could 

have hung myself in the process. I wasn’t 

particularly excited by the thought of a rockshelter 

excavation, because it’s a difficult type 

of site to research. I was more interested in 

other prospects at that time. The first year I 

was at the university I was asked to apply to 

the National Science Foundation for a Student 

Science Training Program grant. The previous 

year the staff had applied for the same grant, 

but it had been denied. The grant would allow 

us to bring highly motivated academic students 

from across the country to campus for a 

summer field program. We were in the midst of 

trying to build a strong, large, field program and 

trying to excavate a rockshelter wasn’t a good


169 

fit for us at that time. We were successful in 

obtaining the NSF grant. We were also getting 

a fairly large number of field school students 

from other universities, including the University 

of Pittsburgh. Prior to Adovasio operating a 

field school at the rockshelter, Pitt had no local/ 

regional archaeology field schools. At the time 

we probably had the largest regional archaeology 

field school. During the early to mid-1970’s 

we normally had six professional staff assigned 

to our field schools and would enroll 75 to 

100 students each summer through our two sixweek-long 

sessions, and we were operating both 

a prehistoric and a historic field school in each 

six-week session. 

How many years did you run the field school? 

Michael: I ran the field school from the fall 

of 1969 through 1985. 

Fifteen-plus years is a long time. 

Michael: Yes, and after a while, I became tired 

of it. It took a lot of energy, and by then I was 

doing so many other things. In fact, in 1978 I 

established a corporation to undertake compliance 

archaeology, hiring mainly our field-school 

graduates. It was time for somebody else to run 

the university field schools. 

What were you focusing on in your teaching at 

this time? 

Michael: When I came to California, much 

to my surprise, I was given all upper-division 

archaeology classes to teach, with the exception 

that every student at California University 

at that time had to take a course entitled 

World Culture. So, for the first three years, if I 

remember correctly, I was teaching two sections 

of World Culture each semester. Our total teaching 

load was four classes or 12 semester hours. 

That’s a pretty heavy teaching load. 

Michael: That was the state-system requirement 

in Pennsylvania and still is the same 

today. For the first several years, I would teach 

two classes in World Culture, and two upperdivision 

archaeology classes. Then I began 

teaching graduate research and writing methods 

in the graduate program that I was coordinating. 

We put a research methods course in the 

program that was subject specific, so I started 

teaching that once a year. I still continued to 

teach upper-division courses. Slowly the World 

Culture courses were phased out, so after a 

while, I didn’t have to teach them any longer, 

and I thereafter had a three-hour load reduction 

and thus only taught nine hours each semester. 

Were most of your students local? What kind of 

students were they, and how many of them went on 

to practice archaeology as a profession? 

Michael: At California, the majority of the 

students, probably 90%, were from southwestern 

Pennsylvania. We did have some students from 

Maryland, New York, and New Jersey. Interestingly, 

in spite of the predominance of local students, 

I’d say probably two-thirds of our anthropology 

majors were not from Pennsylvania. For 

some reason, archaeology and anthropology did 

not appeal much to local students as a career 

choice. I think part of the reason for this was 

because they were first-generation college students, 

and most families were employed in the 

steel or coal industry and were not oriented to a 

profession like anthropology/archaeology. Parents 

and students were more interested in a major 

that would lead to an instant job at the end of 

the four-year degree. During my earlier years at 

the university, the majority of the students were 

majoring in some kind of a teaching program; 

it changed through the years as public-school 

teaching jobs diminished. 

A reasonable number of our anthropology 

graduates went into graduate programs, but not 

always anthropology graduate programs. I don’t 

know how many of them finished, but our very 

first anthropology major, who graduated two 

years after I arrived there, later got his Ph.D. 

and taught in the Alabama university system. His 

name was Harry Holstein, and he’s now retired. 

We also had several that went into historical 

archaeology at the master’s level, including Mary 

Zylowski, Mark Wittkofski, Mark Henshaw, and 

Arron Kotlensky. The school did a poor job of 

tracking graduates in any program. They didn’t 

provide funds for us for such research, so we 

never really tracked graduates who enrolled in 

Ph.D. programs.


Another woman who went on to get her 

master’s degree and completed almost all work 

for a Ph.D. and is working successfully, at a 

high level, in the CRM field is Denise Grantz. 

I know there are several other practicing archaeologists 

with master’s degrees, but how many 

finished their Ph.D.’s I just don’t know. We had 

a fair number of graduate students at California 

who received a master of arts degree with an 

emphasis in CRM and worked or are working 

in that field. A couple of those graduates are 

working in the museum-management field, e.g., 

Kelly Cosgrove. 

What was the typical class size that you taught? 

Michael: Well, in the early years, we were told 

we would have about 35 students. We didn’t 

have large auditorium facilities in the newly 

built building where I taught and had an office 

and where our lab was located. There were 

three classrooms that would hold about 200 

students, but in anthropology we didn’t have 

any classes that size. Most of our classes were 

no larger than 30, but most of my classes were 

even smaller because they were upper-division 

classes and were with students who were specifically 

interested in anthropology. 

As I mentioned earlier, our field-school 

classes were some of our largest classes. A 

lot of students, from widely varying majors, 

were attracted to these field schools, but for 

some reason this didn’t translate into our 

anthropology program attracting large numbers 

of majors. Over the years, we had some very 

good students in the field programs, most of 

whom were not anthropology majors. Students 

frequently took the field school as an elective in 

their major or sometimes just as a free elective. 

Tell us about your early interest in 18th- and 

19th-century technology, and how you eventually 

used this interest and knowledge quite effectively 

in your teaching. 

Michael: As a youngster, my family moved 

around a lot. My father was in aircraft communications 

with the federal government, and 

I got to live in a number of different places. 

I was born in Ohio, went from there to Chicago, 

then to Detroit, to central Michigan, and 

then to North Dakota. From a young age, my 

father told me that I was inquisitive and a 

good observer. I would carefully watch adults 

do their daily tasks, and as a youngster growing 

up about 200 mi. north of Detroit, we had 

a neighbor who lived a lifestyle that was more 

like that of the late 19th century than anything 

else. I spent a lot of time with him. He was 

a man in his 70s, a retired lumberjack, and he 

was very friendly to me, although all the other 

neighborhood kids were scared to death of him. 

He was a very nice man and would let me tag 

along as he worked at home, let me observe 

what he was doing, and so on. He had chickens 

that he would butcher, planted a large garden 

with simple tools and horses, and repaired all 

types of equipment. A short distance away from 

his house and my home was a general repair 

garage, where they did auto-body and welding 

work, and I’d hang out there, learning to understand 

the technology of welding. In addition, I 

had a friend whose father owned a farm-implement 

supply store about two blocks away from 

my house. I spent a lot of time at this store, 

sometimes helping, but mostly just watching the 

men work. The people who worked there were 

very nice. I’m sure I asked more questions of 

them than they had ever heard anyone ask. All 

those experiences spurred my interest in technology, 

simple technology, how things worked and 

how you used tools, and so forth. My father 

had shown me the crafts of carpentry, plumbing, 

and electrical work as a youngster, and as 

I got older I was always very fascinated with 

that type of thing. 

When I was at Grand Portage, the Park Service 

was reconstructing part of the facilities, and 

they were squaring felled logs with felling axes, 

broad axes, and adzes, so I got the opportunity 

to learn to do that. This wasn’t part of my job, 

but when I showed an interest and was willing 

to spend some free time to do it, the craftsmen 

were glad to have me work with them to learn 

their craft. When it got closer to the American 

Bicentennial in 1976, I began tying technology 

into our historical archaeological field schools. 

The students and I would sit around at lunchtime 

and talk about the artifacts that we had 

been finding, and the students, of course, had a 

lot of questions about the technology, how the 

artifacts were made, how they functioned, etc.


171 

We’d also talk about the plants that had been 

growing across and around the site where we 

were working and how the people would use 

those plants. It was either in 1974 or 1975 that 

some of the field-school students approached me 

after the field school concluded, asking whether 

we could develop a class where they could learn 

more about 18th- and 19th-century technology. 

I had never really given such a class a whole 

lot of thought. At that time, curriculum development 

in colleges was very loose in the sense 

that all kinds of courses were being developed, 

unusual types of courses, so developing a class 

like this wouldn’t have been unreasonable. So I 

introduced such a class to the group of students 

who asked for it. I don’t remember now what 

subjects I initially selected, but I structured 

the class so that each week we would change 

subjects. We met for three hours one night each 

week for the 15-week semester. I had a reading 

component to the class, and this was just at 

the time when the first Foxfire books had been 

published. I used the first two Foxfire volumes 

and a few other things, such as Eric Sloane’s 

book Reverence for Wood. About one-third of 

each class was spent discussing the reading 

assignment, which would relate in some way to 

what we would do as a hands-on activity that 

evening. Then the other two-thirds of the class 

would be devoted to the hands-on activity, e.g., 

tinsmithing, blacksmithing, candle dipping, cornbroom 

making, cider pressing, shingle splitting, 

log hewing, and butter churning. 

So that’s the way the technology class got 

started. I had anticipated that I would teach it 

only once, but when it came time to set the 

curriculum for the following year, a group of students 

petitioned the dean to offer the class again. 

The upshot is I taught it at least once a year 

until I retired in 2005. It attracted a wide cross 

section of students on campus. I had to restrict 

the class size because our lab space was such 

that I couldn’t take any more than 25 students. 

We had the use of a loading ramp right beside 

our building, and I could take some activities 

outdoors, such as blacksmithing. But ultimately I 

had to quit blacksmithing because the fire department 

showed up too frequently. The problem was 

that if the wind was wrong, the smoke from the 

blacksmithing forge would draw into the air vents 

of the classroom building. After our forge smoke 

filtered into all the classrooms and the students 

were evacuated from the building one day, the 

dean decided that teaching blacksmithing wasn’t 

feasible any longer. 

How did you procure the necessary raw materials 

for the technology class? 

Michael: Most of the time I procured the 

necessary raw materials for the class myself. 

I would charge the students a $5 flat fee that 

netted about $125, and I would go to a dairy 

and buy cream for butter churning, to a farm 

to procure field corn, to a welding or machine 

shop to get steel for blacksmithing, and to a 

lumber mill to buy logs. For the most part, 

I’d get red oak for shingle splitting, and I 

would have a log cut up into the length that I 

wanted, put it in my pickup truck, and away I 

went. We made wooden shingles. I had made 

a couple of English-style shaving horses years 

ago to practice using a draw knife, something 

I had learned to use as a youngster. So I took 

one of the shaving horses to the university so 

students could dress the shingles they had hand 

split. For log hewing I’d set the log in the front 

of the classroom on blocks and demonstrate the 

use of a felling ax to score the log, a broad 

ax to square the log, and an adze to smooth 

off the broad-ax marks. It was kind of a demonstration, 

but the students could then actually 

engage in the activities. We did wood turning 

with a foot-powered counterbalanced wooden 

lathe I’d built. Students used the lathe until the 

university put a drop ceiling in our lab, and the 

lathe wouldn’t fit in the room. I had located a 

19th-century broom-making machine and lacing 

vise in the adjacent county and bought it so the 

class could make corn brooms. I grew some of 

the broom corn we used but bought most of it 

from a regional supplier. 

I changed the weekly subjects until eventually 

I found what worked best in a classroom setting 

and were crafts that the students liked to 

do. For candle dipping I had a big pot of wax. 

If you’ve ever dipped candles, you know that 

you have to wait between dips until they cool, 

so I’d have 25 students lined up around the 

perimeter of the room, walking around slowly, 

just about the right pace to dip candles. In all, it


took about one and one-half hours to dip a set 

of candles. One week we would dip candles, the 

next week we would do tinsmithing and make 

a traditional candleholder. I had gotten the basic 

tinsmithing tools from the college industrial arts 

department, so we had all the equipment we 

needed. We also dyed yarn and fabric using natural 

plant material that the students would collect 

for the dyestuff. 

I know of no other classroom setting where 

students could get this kind of instruction. 

Michael: I never met anybody who taught 

anything like it, either. 

It must have been a really unique experience for 

the students. 

Michael: Through the years I’ve had more contact 

with former students relative to that class than 

any other class I taught. In addition, a lot of inservice 

teachers took that class so they could use 

the concepts learned in their public-school teaching. 

There were people who went on and did all 

kinds of things, but they remembered that class. 

Just this past summer, I was at a theater performance 

in a neighboring town and a woman came 

up to me and said, “I bet you don’t remember 

me,” and, of course, I didn’t, but she had been 

in that class, noting how much she enjoyed it and 

remembered the projects, and that she was sharing 

portions of it with her young son. 

When did you decide to get into the consulting 

archaeology business and establish NPW 

Consultants, Inc.? 

Michael: That happened as a result of trying 

to develop a CRM program through the university. 

About a decade after the first U.S. cultural 

resource laws were passed in the 1960s, there 

were situations where we could take contracts at 

the university, and we did. We had U.S. Department 

of Agriculture, Soil Conservation Service, 

and Pennsylvania Department of Transportation 

contracts by about 1975 or 1976, and contracts 

with strip-mining companies after the passage of 

the Surface Mining Control and Reclamation Act 

of 1977. We were successfully doing these types 

of contracts through the university for a two- or 

three-year period until one of our clients went 

bankrupt. At that point, our contracts at the university 

were being administered in the name of 

the Student Association, Inc., a legal entity of the 

school, and, structurally, where the school decided 

it was better to handle contracts. I cannot tell you 

why they were administered this way, other than I 

was told the decision was based on legal advice. 

In the bankruptcy case, the Student Association 

didn’t want to pay the students who had worked 

on the project, even though the students had written 

contracts with the Student Association. I was 

told that the Student Association wasn’t going to 

pay the student workers because the association 

wasn’t getting paid. I said, “You can’t do that, 

you don’t have to pay me for my time, but you 

need to pay the students.” And they absolutely 

wouldn’t pay them, and I said, “I’ll get the 

bankruptcy papers and you can file in bankruptcy 

court, you might get a little money back.” They 

wouldn’t even do that. I got the papers, and they 

refused to even file. I said, “This is never going 

to happen again. I’m not going to have the students 

not be paid for the work they do.” So I 

set up a fictitious company named National Pike 

West Associates in June 1977 and incorporated a 

few months later as NPW Consultants, Inc. I was 

living along the National Pike (US Route 40), 

west of Uniontown, so the name came naturally. 

From then on I hired students outside of the university 

structure. 

Even though the university continued to give 

me a lot of flexibility, and they liked it when 

a faculty member would engage in professional 

activities that would bring positive feedback to the 

university, I had become disenchanted and wanted 

to secure an academic appointment elsewhere. But 

the academic job market had virtually collapsed 

in the early to mid-1970s, so in order to leave, 

I would have had to take a $15,000 to $20,000 

annual pay cut. I decided that with my young 

family I simply could not do that. Not only were 

the circumstances of my hire strange, but within a 

very short period of time I had been given merit 

increases, I had been given tenure, and at the 

end of five years I held the rank of full professor. 

By the end of seven years I was at the top 

of the Pennsylvania university system salary scale 

and remained there until I retired, which made it 

very difficult financially to leave. So, I developed 

a better archaeology structure that paid students


173 

regularly, at the higher end of the regional CRM 

pay scale, and on time. In a nutshell, that’s what 

drove me to set up a separate corporation. 

So, it was really for your students, not you, that you 

set up this new business? 

Michael: That’s correct. Initially, I had absolutely 

no interest in running a business, but after 

the first two years I concluded that the corporation 

was a much better structure for CRM work 

than the university. I ran the corporation for just 

over 20 years, during which time most of the 

employees were university students. They weren’t 

all anthropology majors because the work ethic 

of some people was simply better than others. 

That is, I found I could get some of the top 

academic students in other fields who were eager 

to have summer work doing something interesting. 

I vividly remember Pennsylvania State 

Archaeologist Barry Kent saying to me many 

times, “Why don’t you quit teaching and just do 

contract work, because essentially you’re doing 

two fulltime jobs.” I was, in fact, doing two 

jobs. It about drove me into the ground because 

I did everything for NPW. I did all the financial 

books, I did all the payroll, I did everything. I 

typically had a three-day teaching schedule at the 

university, including one night class. I would have 

two days free during the week, but I also taught 

morning classes. There were a couple semesters 

where I ended up teaching a class at 1 o’clock, 

but normally I was done at 11 o’clock, sometimes 

noon. I would get to the university between six 

and six-thirty in the morning, with my first class 

at eight o’clock, so I would get a lot of work 

done before that class, when few faculty, administrators, 

or students were on campus. When I had 

the corporation then I could come home and make 

the necessary business phone calls, do needed 

paperwork, write proposals, etc., until about nine 

o’clock most evenings. The structure of the state 

system required me to inform the president of 

the school, in writing, what I was doing. The 

president was very supportive because I was participating 

in many campus activities, was doing 

extensive public relations work for the school, 

was giving numerous public talks about our university 

archaeology field projects, was engaged in 

considerable professional activity, rarely missed 

teaching my classes, and always made myself 

available to students. 

He considered it moonlighting? 

Michael: Well, I guess he did, but since I 

was doing just about everything the university 

wanted me to do—field schools, talks to outside 

groups, public relations, scheduling, editing, and 

such—I was bringing more positive attention 

to the school than other department faculty 

members and practically any faculty member at 

the school, so the fact that I was running the 

corporation as a full-time business on the side 

was acceptable to the administration. It caused 

conflict and jealousy with my colleagues in 

the department but not with the administration. 

However, there came a point in time that NPW 

had so many contracts and so much work to 

do that I didn’t have much of a personal life. 

I would finish with business late at night, go to 

bed, and get up early the next morning. Literally, 

that’s all the time there was. I sacrificed 

my health and everything else, and that’s when 

I decided that part of it had to go. So I closed 

down NPW. 

Can you estimate how many projects you did 

during those 20 years? 

Michael: Somewhere close to 300. 

That’s a lot of projects, nearly 15 a year. 

Michael: It was a very nice situation, I guess an 

envious situation, because unlike a private CRM 

firm where you had to support a permanent staff 

of people, where you had to take contracts you 

might not really want, I had the luxury of doing 

what I wanted. I could say yes or no to working 

for clients, I didn’t need to take the work. My 

livelihood was not tied to the business. Professionally, 

it occasionally created some tension because, 

while I wouldn’t bid on certain projects, I would 

go after certain other projects, and because of 

the way we were structured, I could usually get 

the work. 

You mean your costs were low? 

Michael: Our overhead was low, which made 

us less expensive. For about half the years I 

was in business I bid on very little. The work 

was mainly repeat business, largely for the various 

utility companies that sole sourced the work to us.


That’s very nice when you can get it, as they say. 

Michael: Yes, but it also causes some hard 

feelings with competitors who are trying very 

hard to sustain a business. But from my perspective, 

it was a lot of fun. I discovered that 

I could do all right managing that type of 

enterprise. I did not like the bookkeeping part 

of it, but I guess I did all right at it. I didn’t 

delegate much because it was just easier to do 

it myself. I did enjoy the management end of it, 

especially the interaction with clients, although 

some clients more so than others. 

How did you wind up so heavily involved in the 

natural-gas industry? 

Michael: It happened because of one large 

gas transmission company, CNG Transmission 

Corp., out of Clarksburg, West Virginia. We 

were hired by them, actually kind of by default, 

after someone at CNG decided the morality of 

the crew and supervisor of a previous consulting 

company was unacceptable to them. CNG’s 

environmental manager was a religious person 

and a very nice gentleman, and we became 

good friends. NPW did most if not all of their 

cultural resources work for over a decade. And, 

like so many industries, word of mouth is 

frequently one of the best marketing tools. As 

a result, we began to get other gas transmission 

work. The CNG environmental manager 

left the company, moving to Washington Gas 

Light (Washington, D.C.) and so then we had 

the CNG work plus the Washington Gas Light 

work. We did projects in the Washington, D.C., 

and Maryland Eastern Shore areas. We then tied 

in with Baltimore Gas and Electric and gradually 

built up a lot of repeat customers in the 

industry. And that worked out very nicely. We 

also worked for Consolidation Coal Co. (Consol 

Energy—America’s largest coal producer), which 

was headquartered very close to us, and the 

environmental manager had graduated from 

California University and liked the university. I 

also did some pro bono work for him through 

the university. I felt as a public servant being 

paid by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania I 

had an obligation to help a lot of different types 

of businesses with their cultural resources needs, 

because it was the early years of the CRM 

regulations and small companies had practically 

nowhere to turn for advice. So, at the university, 

I would simply provide consulting services 

gratis, which led to paying work on a number 

of occasions. The university administration really 

liked the fact that I’d do that. I’d go out and 

meet with local business owners, and the feedback 

to the university was very positive. 

How did you get involved in editing, and when 

did you first realize editing might be one of your 

callings? How did you become editor for the 

Society of Pennsylvania Archaeology (SPA)? 

Michael: I had no aspirations to be an editor, 

absolutely never thought about it! In 1972, the 

SPA was looking for an editor. Phil Jack, who 

hired me at the university, came to me and said, 

“How about if we lobby for you to be editor of 

the Pennsylvania Archaeologist? The department 

and college will support you totally.” And I 

knew at that time I had the unconditional support 

of the top administration of the university, 

since he and the university president were good 

friends, having for a number of years been history 

faculty colleagues at the college. So it was 

Phil Jack who actually lobbied for me. He submitted 

my name, I didn’t do anything. I don’t 

know what he did, but at the society’s annual 

meeting the board of directors voted, and the 

next thing I knew I was editor of Pennsylvania 

Archaeologist. 

Do you remember who was on the SPA Board or 

who the president was at that time? 

Michael: No, I know the person who really 

wanted the editorship, but didn’t get it. However, 

I honestly don’t remember who was on the 

board at the time. It was 1972, and I was new 

enough to Pennsylvania I really didn’t know a 

lot of those people well. For some reason, I 

had the support of John Cotter, who wasn’t real 

active in the SPA but had a lot of influence in 

Pennsylvania archaeological circles. 

How did you know what to do when you first took 

over the editorship? 

Michael: Frankly, I didn’t know what to do. 

I had no journalism background and had never 

done any editing, except for my own manuscripts. 

The university employed a printer, a


175 

very eccentric gentleman, who I had become 

friends with because of our field-school brochures 

and some other media needs. I spent 

a lot of time with him because he knew the 

printing industry. I also spent a lot of time 

talking on the telephone with Schuyler Miller, 

a member of the SPA, a former SPA editor and 

an employee of Fisher Scientific Corporation 

in Pittsburgh, who was in charge of putting 

together the massive Fisher Scientific catalog. 

So between talking to Miller and the printer, 

I learned a lot about the publishing industry 

in a hurry. At that time, I had to paste up the 

galleys and do everything else by myself. I 

retained the printing firm in Michigan that had 

the journal printing contract when I took over. I 

kept them because I didn’t know anything about 

choosing printers, and it was easier to go with 

a known quantity. I would send everything to 

them. I learned how they wanted copy marked 

up, I learned how to use proofreading marks, 

which I had no experience with, and I would 

copy edit everything and send it to the printer. 

When I received the proof sheets I would have 

a pair of scissors and a Scotch-tape dispenser, 

and literally create the pages of the journal by 

cutting and taping. Copies of those pasted-up 

pages were what I sent to authors to proofread. 

After entering all corrections on the original 

galley pages, I would then ask the printer if, 

aesthetically, everything looked “all right.” And 

so that’s the way I learned to put out a scholarly 

journal. We also mailed the journals from 

the university, so I had to get student volunteers 

together so we could package and label all the 

envelopes. I’d then bring my pickup truck to 

the university and haul the mail bags to the 

California post office and bulk mail the journal. 

Editing isn’t a bad job unless you receive 

manuscripts that are just not of publishable 

quality from established archaeologists. I’ll never 

forget getting a horribly written manuscript from 

a very well-known New York archaeologist. This 

person was near the end of his professional 

career, had published several books, and had 

substantial stature in the field. I didn’t know 

what to do with the manuscript, so I called Jim 

Fitting, who was still in Michigan at that time, 

and said, “Jim, what do I do?” Fitting knew 

this person well too, so he said, “You send it 

back to him, tell him it’s a piece of crap, and 

have him fix it.” And I thought, oh my God, I 

can’t do this, this will be the end of me, so I 

spent an enormous amount of time copyediting 

the paper, and I sent it back. A few weeks later 

the manuscript comes back with a letter which 

I’ll never forget. This person was effusive in 

his praise that I had spent the time to fix his 

paper and said that throughout his entire career 

writing was his main shortcoming and that he 

constantly struggled with it. He found that most 

editors were not interested in helping him and 

truly appreciated the time I had spent. 

Those kinds of notes make it all worthwhile. 

Michael: They do, they do. And from that 

time forward I knew that no matter who it was 

I could do the same thing, even if the person 

had considerable stature in the field. 

It’s amazing how many established archaeologists 

are surprisingly poor writers. 

Michael: I don’t think it’s restricted to archaeologists. 

The New York archaeologist had relied 

on editors all his life to make his work publishable. 

Within several years of beginning as 

the SPA editor, I found that I could essentially 

rewrite any manuscript and still have it read as 

if it had been written by the paper author. As 

SPA editor, it was generally easier and quicker 

to rewrite a poorly written paper from an avocationalist 

than trying to force the author to 

do the rewrite when they lacked the skills to 

accomplish the task. The avocationalist would 

have the most important part of the paper—the 

content. I could, without too much effort, add 

the necessary structure to the manuscript so that 

it was a publishable paper. 

I imagine it becomes routinized to some extent. 

Michael: Yes, it does, it becomes very routinized. 

It took time, but it wasn’t hard to do. 

Did you do any other editing during this period? 

Michael: I was approached by the Eastern 

States Archaeological Federation to edit their 

bulletin. I said I really wasn’t very interested, 

but I said I would do it nevertheless, and I


think I did that for two or three years. About 

that same point in time I was approached by 

the Council for Northeast Historical Archaeology 

about editing their journal, Northeast Historical 

Archaeology, which I did for a few issues. Even 

though it had never crossed my mind that I 

wanted to do any editing, all of a sudden I was 

doing quite a bit of it. I guess what appealed 

to the folks at Northeast Historical Archaeology 

was the fact that I had put Pennsylvania 

Archaeologist back on track, having taken the 

reins of editor when publication of the journal 

was several years in arrears, and Northeast Historical 

Archaeology was behind in its publishing 

schedule when I accepted the editor job. 

They also must have thought you had connections. 

Michael: I guess they did. What was important 

to me with Pennsylvania Archaeologist was to 

have a better journal and to get it published 

on time. To me that made all the difference in 

the world, and once I was able to do this, I 

realized we couldn’t issue a quarterly because 

we weren’t getting that many manuscripts. So 

what we did for many years was combine issue 

numbers, numbers one and two together, and 

numbers three and four. 

My experience as editor of Pennsylvania 

Archaeologist opened doors for me in the profession 

that otherwise never would have been 

opened, because I began to know large numbers 

of people. When you’re the only person seeking 

reviewers and you have to call people you don’t 

know, you get to know them rather quickly. You 

pick up the phone and go from there, and as a 

result I met an awful lot of people. I do cherish 

those acquaintances. 

How did you come to be selected the editor of 

Historical Archaeology? 

Michael: In 1978, the SHA was looking for 

a new editor because the journal was behind 

in its publication schedule. Kathleen Gilmore 

was president of the society and appointed Jim 

Ayres (immediate past-president) to chair a committee 

to look for a new editor. I believe they 

advertised it, they had a piece in the society’s 

newsletter, and that’s how I found out about it. 

Historical Archaeology, by that time, was the 

journal that I actually was interested in editing, 

so I put together a proposal and sent it to Jim, 

who I did not know at the time. Actually, I 

believed my chances of being selected as the 

SHA editor were slim. 

This was in 1978? 

Michael: Yes, 1978. I was appointed somewhere 

around March 1978. SHA’s mid-year 

board meeting was in Tucson in April of 1978, 

and that was the first meeting I attended as 

editor. I only knew a few of the board members. 

At the meeting I was informed that shortly 

I would receive from the former editor, John 

Combes, the necessary materials, though nobody 

knew what they consisted of. Shortly thereafter, 

I realized I could not continue editing the Bulletin 

for the Eastern States Archaeological Federation, 

Northeast Historical Archaeology, and 

Pennsylvania Archaeologist, and also do Historical 

Archaeology, so it was an easy decision 

for me to give up the Bulletin and Northeast 

Historical Archaeology. I felt that I should keep 

my hand in Pennsylvania Archaeologist because, 

being in Pennsylvania, it was an entrée to a lot 

of different things, and I didn’t mind doing it. 

Of the journals I was doing, it was probably the 

most enjoyable at that time, although Northeast 

Historical Archaeology was also fun to edit. 

This was after you submitted your proposal? 

Michael: Yes, it was after I submitted the 

proposal, was selected by the committee, and 

appointed by the president as SHA editor that 

I got invited to the meeting. I don’t remember 

the exact timing of when I got the letter saying 

they had selected me as editor, but the next 

meeting was the mid-year meeting in April of 

1978, so that’s when I actually took over. Upon 

returning home after the meeting I waited for 

my package from John Combes to arrive, and 

when it did, it was frightening because the 

expectation was that I would get the journal 

caught up real soon. What I found in the box 

were unreviewed manuscripts! I didn’t have the 

circle of contacts that I needed to be able to get 

the papers reviewed quickly. Also, I could see 

that the task I was facing was more grim than 

expected. I needed help! So I enlisted the help 

of Ron Carlisle, because at that time he was


177 

working with me in the university field-schools 

program. For several years Ron handled preparing 

about one-third of the manuscripts. Finally, 

Ron’s other commitments forced him to resign 

as my associate editor. I then enlisted the help 

of Donna Seifert, and we worked together for 

several years before I added other associate 

editors. 

When you took over from Combes, it was an 

annual publication? 

Michael: Yes, once a year. 

And when did you go to twice a year? 

Michael: Again, I don’t recall. I’d have to go 

to the shelf and look up dates. Our goal was to 

expand to more than one issue, which we did in 

a relatively short time. [Editor’s note: The transition 

to biannual publication took place in 1981.] 

Tell us more about those early days, and how 

you corrected a situation that was getting pretty 

intolerable to the members. 

Michael: There were an awful lot of members 

who were annoyed because they weren’t getting 

the journal on time, and this was the only 

thing they thought they were paying for. Before 

the box arrived from Combes, I believed that 

the next issue was pretty much set to be sent 

to a printer, but I quickly found that absolutely 

nothing was set to go. Combes used an editorial 

advisory committee, so I talked to the members, 

Chuck Cleland, Stan South, and Paul Schumacher, 

about how the process worked. At that 

time, this small committee reviewed all submitted 

manuscripts. And I realized that it was probably 

not the best approach to rely on the same small 

group of people to review absolutely everything. 

We needed to match reviewer expertise with 

the content of the submissions, so I separated 

out the editorial advisory committee from the 

manuscript readers. I wanted an editorial advisory 

committee that would do exactly what the 

word says, advise, and I wanted a functioning 

committee because I needed additional expertise. 

I felt that the committee should be composed of 

people who had some stature in the field, and I 

also thought it was important to maintain SHAboard 

support by involving current and former 

board members. So I started building an editorial 

advisory committee with those types of people. 

With regard to manuscript reviewers, I had 

decided that, like I had been doing with Northeast 

Historical Archaeology, I wanted to have 

a minimum of three reviewers for every manuscript, 

with no exceptions. I had intended from 

the very beginning to listen to the reviewers. I 

felt that was important if I was going to ask 

people to review manuscripts, that I needed to 

respect what they had to say. If I didn’t want 

their opinion, I shouldn’t have bothered to ask 

for it to start with. In this way, it wasn’t so 

much my making the decision of whether we 

would publish or not publish a given manuscript 

as much as it was the reviewers. If two of the 

three reviewers agreed the manuscript should be 

published, I typically went with that opinion. I 

always started by calling a person and asking 

if they would review the manuscript. I felt it 

extremely important from my own experience 

of submitting manuscripts for publication that 

the reviews should be done in a timely fashion. 

I had had manuscripts of my own out for 

review for a year or more and I found that to 

be totally unacceptable. So I set up guidelines 

that were very structured, asking people if they 

could review something within 30 days, asking 

them for an honest answer if they couldn’t 

meet that deadline. I’d rather know it up front 

that I wasn’t likely to receive comments within 

my stated 30-day window rather than having to 

browbeat a reviewer into getting comments to 

me after the 30-day period of time. This system 

worked quite well. Authors appreciated it, I think 

reviewers appreciated it knowing that they had a 

set timeframe, and if they didn’t meet the timeframe 

they were going to get a telephone call. 

And they also seemed to appreciate that I would 

respect what they had to say. I was looking for 

their critical evaluations, and I would utilize 

them in my decision-making process. There were 

authors early on that would “bug us,” asking 

why I didn’t accept their manuscript for publication, 

but I had the expert reviewers’ comments 

to fall back on. At times, it was very difficult 

to get authors to accept that, but that’s really 

the way it worked. Ron Carlisle and I worked 

very hard the first several months to get through 

the manuscript backlog. The first issue under my 

editorship was shipped in 1978, so we got caught


up within a year, and that helped a lot to gain 

the board’s support. 

I remember when the journal got caught up, and I 

thought that was great. 

Michael: I thought that was the most important 

thing to do while still maintaining the quality of 

it. The next goal was to expand to a biannual 

publication with the ultimate goal of being a 

quarterly. At that time, nobody knew whether it 

would ever happen. We were not getting enough 

quality manuscripts. We knew that we did not 

want to publish site reports, and we wanted to 

publish material that would appeal to a more 

national audience. From the very beginning, 

when I became editor, it was always difficult to 

get theoretical submissions. As editor, if I had 

one disappointment, it was not being able to 

publish more theoretical pieces. We even tried 

soliciting theoretical pieces, with only limited 

success. 

Slowly the number of submissions picked up. 

We were able to go from an annual publication 

to a biannual in 1981, to a quarterly in 1990. To 

switch to the quarterly, we also had to expand 

the editorial staff, so I appointed several new 

associate editors, because as we got more and 

more manuscripts, we needed more people to 

oversee the review process. I think you were 

added as an associate editor around that time. 

Yes, I was. 

Michael: An expanded group of associate editors 

was not foreign to me because it had been successful 

for me with Pennsylvania Archaeologist. 

So I expanded the SHA editorial staff to keep 

up with the increasing number of manuscript 

submissions. I made sure I put people on the 

committee who I knew would deliver, possessed 

the necessary manuscript evaluation and editing 

skills, and were familiar with the field of historical 

archaeology, and I found it to be a very good 

group with which to work. When I would consult 

with them on various subjects I would get excellent 

feedback, and they worked together, I think, 

as a group quite well over a long period of time. 

Unfortunately, there were times when manuscripts 

just weren’t coming in, so we hit upon the idea 

of publishing thematic issues, never thinking that 

the thematic issues would become really popular 

with society members. Inserting a thematic issue 

within a quarterly journal structure is not something 

that other journals were typically doing 

at the time. But after we started doing this, we 

found that thematic issues had a lot of support 

from our members because many of these issues 

were useable in a classroom setting, since they 

focused on a single subject. It wasn’t planned 

that we’d publish thematic issues; we came out 

with thematic issues because we couldn’t initially 

produce a quarterly publication otherwise, and 

even today the thematic issues are still popular 

with the members. We also spent a lot of time, 

off and on, trying to solicit manuscripts, but 

we never had much success with that. We tried 

targeting good papers or sessions presented at 

the SHA annual meeting—we had people from 

the editorial advisory committee sitting in on 

paper sessions quite frequently—but this approach 

wasn’t altogether successful. 

Another problem with that approach is that you 

can be accused of favoritism in the procedure you 

use to select the paper or sessions. 

Michael: That’s always a risk if you solicit, and 

some people think soliciting excuses them from 

having their paper vetted, and that by soliciting 

you make a promise that it will be published. 

I always felt that we just could not do this. 

I knew as an editor you have the prerogative 

to do that, but I did not feel that publishing 

unreviewed papers was appropriate. I had made 

a commitment to myself as well as to others 

that we would have manuscripts peer reviewed 

before they would be published, and I know 

that I lost several manuscripts from prominent 

people in the field because I wouldn’t accept a 

paper without subjecting it to peer review. A few 

authors wouldn’t submit a solicited manuscript to 

the journal under those conditions, and that was 

just the way it was. 

When I solicited peer-review comments in my role 

as associate editor, I was constantly amazed at 

the incredible knowledge some people had about 

certain topics. 

Michael: Yes, the detailed comments that some 

reviewers provided were incredible, but occasionally 

you’d get a review letter that didn’t


179 

say much. I always tried to make it clear that a 

review is absolutely worthless unless you provide 

critical feedback. There are some well-known 

people in our profession who didn’t review critically, 

and I would tell them we can’t use you as 

a reviewer because you provide no feedback to 

the author. I promised the author that we would 

provide feedback to him or her, and if you can’t 

provide a candid, detailed review you won’t be 

helping the author. Some would change the way 

they wrote a review, some preferred just not to 

review, and some indicated they just did not have 

the time to write the review. I respected knowing 

up front when someone was not going to do the 

review for whatever reason, and I didn’t call on 

that person again. 

Would you agree that your work as journal editor 

is your most significant professional contribution? 

Michael: Yes, I guess it is. Although editing 

became a very rewarding experience for me, 

I realized at some point in time that my own 

publishing just wasn’t going to continue. There 

weren’t enough hours in my life, what with 

teaching full time and doing other things at the 

university, running the corporation, and editing. 

It was a sad decision for me to make, but it 

wasn’t a real hard decision, because I realized 

that I was making a greater contribution to the 

profession as a managing editor than I ever 

would as an author. 

Whether that was true or not, you certainly made 

major contributions, but the important thing I’d 

like to observe is that it takes a very selfless person 

to do what you did, and you are to be commended 

for it. 

Michael: I enjoyed editing and meeting people, 

the contacts, the interactions, and being able to 

see a profession evolve. Historical archaeology 

was still a very young profession at the time I 

became editor, and being able to be involved for 

as long as I was, seeing our profession evolve, 

seeing the journal evolve, I’m glad to say I was 

part of it. 

Yes, you were a major part of it. 

Michael: And the professional opportunities 

that it gave me were extremely rewarding. We 

spent a lot of time and effort on working with 

first-time authors and people publishing for the 

first time in a national or international journal, 

reassuring them that their writing could be 

published and we would work with them to get 

it published. We told them that addressing the 

review comments may appear to be daunting, 

but the reviewers are positive that if you can 

make most of the recommended changes, the 

piece will be much improved. And we would 

also assure them that we really did want to publish 

their paper. It’s not that we’re being critical 

to get rid of you, we actually want to publish 

your work, and if you are ready to work with 

us, then we’ll work with you to help make a 

good paper even better. We will get you through 

the process. It was very rewarding to see some 

young professionals get published in a national 

or international venue for the first time and to 

read what they had to say. They sometimes did 

not express to me that they were pleased to 

accomplish this, but we knew they were, and it 

was very enjoyable to see some of those same 

people go on and become respected members 

of our profession. 

Did you get as much pleasure out of teaching? 

Michael: I liked to work with students. I found 

the administration part of it to be easy, but I also 

found it to be annoying. At the university I was 

not a good meeting person. I did not want to run 

a department. To have to sit through meeting after 

meeting after meeting in that kind of structure just 

annoyed me. I spent 10 years attending meetings 

as a member of the university graduate council 

early in my career, and I finally said I can’t tolerate 

these meetings any longer. I just find that 

sitting through meetings wastes my time for the 

most part. I can interact with two or three people 

and we can get something done. I much prefer to 

do that. But working with students and being able 

to see a student evolve from an unsophisticated 

freshman to a mature graduate can be extremely 

rewarding. 

Grading, however, was something that I just 

hated to do. I never graded on a curve, and a lot 

of my students weren’t very happy as a result. If 

everyone in the class earns Cs, then you’re all 

going to get Cs. My grades were low in comparison 

to colleagues, but I felt that my students


should be asked to meet a certain standard, and 

when they didn’t I wouldn’t reward them with a 

contrived grade. Some of my best students were 

not anthropology majors. They would come from 

the natural sciences or some other field. I found 

that they would respect you if you had welldefined 

expectations of them and would spend 

the preparation time if you’re willing to work 

with them. I found working with students under 

these conditions, and seeing them mature and go 

on, a very pleasant thing. Although I enjoyed it 

immensely, I don’t think I’m as good at teaching 

as I am at management. 

I think a lot of your students would probably 

disagree with that assessment. 

Michael: Well, I think I was always relatively 

good at establishing rapport with students in 

a classroom setting. I never seemed to have a 

problem with talking to students on the subject 

and keeping their attention. When push comes 

to shove, I suppose teaching was my first love. 

That’s why I have maintained contact with some 

students since I retired. 

What kind of contact? 

Michael: I mainly work with international students 

that I’d come into contact with in the social 

science graduate program. Toward the end of my 

career, I worked with several African and Latin 

American undergraduate students, and I’ve had 

contact with some of them since my retirement. 

International students have a lot of problems or 

concerns that other students don’t have. They have 

the same kinds of problems that a typical student 

does, but, in addition, because they’re not close 

to home, because they have visa issues, because 

of language, and because they don’t know the 

culture, they need somebody that they can talk to, 

that understands their problems, and that they can 

ask for help and advice. I enjoy helping to fulfill 

that role with international students. 

Well, I think we’re just about at the end of this 

really fascinating conversation, so I’d like to ask, 

if you could do anything differently in your career, 

what would it be? 

Michael: I haven’t lost a lot of sleep over that 

question, but I have thought about it. When I 

started college, I was really serious. I was going 

to become a physicist, and that was that. After 

I graduated with a B.S. degree and changed 

career paths completely, I guess I had a guilty 

conscience for awhile. This was primarily due 

to the fact that there were five physics majors 

that graduated the same year, and not one of us 

went on in physics, although four of the five 

earned doctorates. One became an astronomer, 

one a mathematician, and one got his Ph.D. 

in English. The fifth student earned a master’s 

degree, but I don’t know in what field. After I 

finished graduate school, I had an opportunity 

to go back to Jamestown College, and I asked 

our physics mentor, “Doesn’t it make you feel 

strange that all five of us abandoned physics?” 

And his answer surprised me, to say the least. 

What did he say? 

Michael: He said, “No, that’s one of the best 

compliments I ever had, because all of you 

have become very successful in your chosen 

fields, and you all have my science training in 

common. Knowing that I must have trained you 

all well, even if it was in a different field than 

the one you chose to follow, is the ultimate 

compliment.” And through the rest of my life 

I have thought about that comment and have 

never had any regrets about leaving physics as 

a result. 

As far as any other regrets go, I don’t have 

any. Because I didn’t have etched-in-stone goals, 

I didn’t fail in that sense. I was amazed, first of 

all, that I never ended up teaching in a public 

school, and instead I started out teaching college. 

I really liked that teaching experience and 

instinctively knew soon after starting to teach 

at Lakeland College that I wanted to go on to 

get my doctorate. I did not, however, anticipate 

that it would lead in the direction that it did. I 

felt that it would probably be more in the field 

of history. When I left Ball State and went to 

California State College—as it was called at the 

time—I never, ever, could have pictured that 

federal legislation would have been passed creating 

the cultural resource industry, allowing me to 

establish a consulting business, and I never could 

have pictured myself doing editing. I never realized 

until later in my career that so many things 

would come so naturally to me, that there were


181 

so many different things that I enjoy. And so, 

when I look back and try to think what I should 

or could have changed, I don’t know what it 

would have been. Initially, one thing that I had 

wanted to do was to stay at California only for 

a few years and go on to a larger school. In 

retrospect, I think that I probably made the right 

decision to stay. I don’t think I would have had 

the same latitude had I left for a larger university—the 

publishing expectations would have been 

totally different at a larger university. 

How many years were you at California? 

Michael: From 1969 until 2005, 36 years. I’m 

certain that, had I left California for a larger 

university, I would have been forced to devote 

a substantial amount of time to research. I 

wouldn’t have had the time to do the editing 

and run NPW. I also doubt that I would have 

found that the administration of a larger university 

would have afforded me the flexibility, 

the time, to do the editing that I did, because 

I wasn’t fulfilling the academic expectation of 

publishing original research. So my career took 

a different path, and I have absolutely no major 

regrets. There were times with the editing, 

when I was under time pressure, that I probably 

wasn’t as kind to somebody as I should 

have been, knowing that I had to meet a tight 

deadline, so I do regret instances such as that. 

Do you consider any of your work to be a legacy? 

Michael: Well, I suppose the body of journals 

is a legacy of a sort. 

There’s no doubt about that. But I think that some 

of your students would also say that your teaching 

is an important legacy as well. 

Michael: I do understand that. There are students, 

though, that would probably disagree. 

The student that found my tests too hard, my 

assignments too long, my expectations too high, 

and my unwillingness to compromise my ideals 

is likely to totally disagree with the statement. 

And there were plenty of those students through 

the years. For me a teaching legacy is hard to 

evaluate. How do you measure your legacy? By 

the number of students who obtained advanced 

degrees? By the number of students who have 

become anthropology professionals? By the 

number of students who maintain communication 

with you? If I had taught at a university where 

I largely worked with graduate students, I think 

measuring my legacy might be easier. Having 

taught largely undergraduate students I don’t 

have a large body of master’s or Ph.D. students 

in the profession that are tangible evidence of 

my teaching success or legacy. 

Over time, having periodically considered 

the legacy issue, I’ve come to understand or 

accept that my teaching legacy can be better 

measured by the highly praiseworthy comments 

I received from academically talented students, 

the comments from more-typical college students 

that they really enjoyed how I exposed them 

to subjects they knew nothing about and how 

well I was able to explain concepts to them, 

and the comments from graduates about how 

many things they still remember from a class 

I taught. I also believe my teaching legacy can 

be evaluated from comments of graduates, years 

after their graduation, relative to how much they 

have used something I taught and how much I 

contributed to their present career situation. I 

typically don’t dwell on comments from graduates 

as to how much I contributed to their being 

able to obtain their present job, but when I hear 

a comment, as I did recently in a restaurant, 

from a Pennsylvania county district attorney 

that I was his mentor, it does feel good, and 

when you think about it, that is part of my 

teaching legacy. Of course, there is the young 

lady I failed in class who ends up being my 

son’s grade-school teacher, or the young man to 

whom I gave a D grade that becomes the highschool 

principal where my wife teaches—those 

are my legacies too! 

Quite possibly, though, my greatest teaching 

legacy was being able to provide support and 

advice to young women, who had been reared 

in a cultural environment where women were 

typically treated as inferior to men, that they 

had value, were intelligent, could have meaningful 

and significant professional careers, and 

could feel good about themselves and have 

strong self-worth. To hear from a number of my 

former students years later about how important 

that support had been to them probably 

has been my greatest teaching reward. Soon


after arriving in southwestern Pennsylvania, 

as I taught sections of the course titled World 

Culture, I discovered how poorly many area 

women were treated by men of all ages. Quite 

accidentally I began to indicate what I had 

observed and began, in the classroom setting, 

to provide encouraging support to the women 

students. I did so primarily because of my disgust 

of the male behavior I was observing, but 

I soon learned from the woman students how 

much they appreciated my classroom support 

and advice. 

My editing and CRM work have also contributed 

substantially to my teaching legacy. I 

wouldn’t have been nearly as good a teacher 

had it not been for my editing and CRM work. 

Did your students know much about your editing 

responsibilities? 

Michael: Some of the undergraduate students 

knew about my editing, some of them knew 

quite a bit about the editing, but most of them 

didn’t because it’s not something that a professor 

would normally discuss with students. 

A lot of what I did in editing carried to the 

classroom because it gave me the contacts with 

people in the profession. More of my work 

in CRM transferred to the classroom, because 

of its practical application, and it’s applied 

anthropology, but most undergraduate students 

just weren’t aware of my professional editing. 

They would sometimes come into my office 

and see the publications that I had edited, on 

the shelves and around my office, and look 

at them. Some of them would ask questions, 

because collectively the journals extended across 

many shelves and together impressed students 

because they were so numerous. A few would 

ask questions, but I really don’t think many 

of them knew much about what I was doing, 

except for the graduate students in the research 

methods and writing course I taught for over 

30 years. Those students really benefitted from 

my editing experience, and over the years I’ve 

frequently heard from those students after they 

were established in their careers that the methods 

and writing class I taught was probably 

their most useful graduate class. 

Well, I think that brings us to the end of the 

interview, and we have the perfect opportunity to 

thank you for your many, many years of dedicated 

service to the society as editor, and also a personal 

thank you from me for the 16 years of working 

with you as an associate editor. I enjoyed those 

years immensely. 

Michael: Well, as you know, a big part of the 

editorial process is getting to work with talented 

people, the editors, associate editors, and the 

authors themselves. Getting to know talented 

and dedicated people, working with them in 

this way, is one of the most rewarding aspects 

of the job and certainly makes all those volunteer 

hours worthwhile. I worry that the younger 

generation does not have the same volunteer 

spirit and commitment. I used to get asked 

often, “Why do you volunteer so much of your 

time?” And I always answered, “Because you 

get so much in return.” But it’s personal and I 

enjoyed it, and I thank you for your comments, 

but it was my pleasure to do it, it really was. 


I’d like to thank my long-time administrative 

assistant at John Milner Associates, Inc., 

Margy Schoettle, for cheerfully and most ably 

transcribing the spoken to the written word, and 

for enduring several editorial review episodes. 

I’d also like to thank John Milner Associates, 

Inc. for providing the time and resources that 

enabled both of us to complete this interview 

for and with Ronn. 

Daniel G. Roberts

183 

Reviews 

The Editorial Advisory Committee of 

Historical Archaeology advises its readers 

that the book reviews are posted on the 

SHA website . 

Edited by Richard Veit

185 

Making Archaeology Happen: 

Design versus Dogma 

Martin Carver 

Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA, 

2011. 184 pp., 30 illus., 5 tables, 

bib., index. $94.00 cloth, $29.95 

paper. 

The subtitle, Design versus Dogma, gets to 

the heart of this book. In this contribution to 

archaeological thought, Martin Carver jovially 

and controversially advocates a more holistic 

and flexible approach to the central craft of 

archaeology: discovering new knowledge about 

the human past from landscapes, sites, features, 

contexts, artifacts, sediments, and, increasingly, 

from molecules and atoms. 

Carver is dissatisfied with the current state 

of the discipline, particularly with the way 

in which field projects are done: “practice ... 

unduly fossilized ... procedures are unambitious, 

unquestioning, standardized, resigned to a low 

quality and wedded to default systems”––the 

“Dogma” of the title. Archaeologists are all 

taken to task: cultural resource management 

(CRM) (“the wrong job [done] in the wrong 

way,” “paid to record sites rather than research 

them”), and academic archaeology (“[work] 

often of low standard done without recognition 

of ... obligations to CRM ... not making 

enough use of the professional sector”). 

Carver is a British pragmatist whose treatment 

of archaeological theory from Binford 

to the present is concise (three pages) but 

unenthusiastic and mildly sardonic. He is much 

more interested in the how and the why of 

archaeological research in its widest sense 

and in archaeologists’ role in society than in 

the virtues or vices of, for example, postprocessualism. 

In chapter 1, “A Visit to the Ancestors,” 

archaeologists are shown what dogmatists they 

all are. Carver adroitly kicks Sir Mortimer 

Wheeler, a British archaeological icon, off his 

pedestal. He exposes Wheeler as an overly rigid 

practitioner, convinced of his own rectitude and 

of everyone else’s folly, especially his benighted 

archaeological rivals of the Middle East. Carver 

turns Wheeler’s dogma on its head and argues 

that the supposed inadequacies and chaos 

Wheeler saw in Middle Eastern archaeology 

were nothing of the kind. 

Archaeologists in that region, like 

archaeologists everywhere, worked to develop 

an effective methodological (or “Design”) 

response to three key factors: terrain, objectives, 

and social context. The skill of archaeological 

design, as Carver uses the word here, is to 

integrate these three factors in such a way as 

to maximize the recovery of new knowledge 

from the earth. By terrain, he means all the 

physical and environmental factors that influence 

archaeological resources at a particular location. 

Objectives are just that: what do archaeologists 

want to discover? Social context is the social, 

economic, and political environment within 

which archaeologists work and are a part. 

Carver stands back from testing and recording 

systems and shows how dogmatic and 

“cultural” these are too. This reviewer now 

realizes that he has been one of those who has 

promoted the British “context and open-area 

excavation” system with “an almost religious 

fervor” (p. 21). The wearer of such ideological 

blinkers fails to give credence to other valid 

systems developed for other types of “terrain” 

and moderated by objectives and social context. 

Carver’s examples of the New World test-pits 

culture and the North European schnitten complex 

are interestingly plotted in perhaps the 

first-published distribution map of different 

archaeological testing philosophies (fig. 4.8). 

Pragmatism is once again the message here. 

Having introduced his three concepts, 

Carver gives two of them––the terrain and 

the social context––their own chapters. Along 

the way he manages to give an informative 

summary of emerging archaeological analysis 

tools, presents case studies of social context 

and archaeology (including New York City’s 

African Burial Ground saga), and then plunges 

into the world of archaeological sociopolitics. 

What social and political circumstances make 




archaeology happen? Who does it? Who pays? 

What is getting studied? In this wide-ranging 

critique he makes some trenchant remarks 

about outmoded class attitudes in the profession 

and on the threat posed by postmodern 

attitudes to universal archaeological value and 

objectives. Historical archaeologists come into 

his sights on the latter point. 

At this point (p. 78) Carver raises a key 

question: “Does the value of archaeological 

strata lie in their being monuments or in 

giving knowledge?” (Non-British readers 

should understand the rather quaint-sounding 

term “monument” to mean, in this context, a 

legally designated, preserved, and [often] displayed 

or interpreted historic site that is seen 

as part of the cultural patrimony). 

This question goes to the heart of CRM 

as it is currently being practiced. Is it primarily 

concerned with conserving resources or 

seeking new knowledge? Carver thinks both 

are key, but in effect bucks a 50-year trend 

by advocating a bolder approach to archaeological 

research that privileges knowledge over 

preservation (while certainly not abandoning 

the latter). The archaeological community of 

today is heavily vested in a conservation ethic, 

and anything that seeks to modify that is likely 

to be challenged. Carver, however, seeks to 

convince the reader that his approach is better 

by design. 

His vision, expressed as a “remedial 

strategy,” is chiefly laid out in his core chapter, 

“From Procurement to Product: a Road Map.” 

It goes something like this: in the future, 

archaeologists will always be selected by 

project sponsors (be they public or private), 

not on the basis of competitive tender, but by 

winning a design competition process modeled 

on that used for selecting architects. This is 

another of the roots of the design philosophy 

of the title: archaeologists are as skilled and 

socially relevant as architects and should be 

seen to be so. Sponsors will have taxation 

and broader social inducements to follow this 

new system. 

The project designs he envisages would be 

founded on much sounder evaluation methodologies 

than those now reflexively used. That 

accomplished, terrain (or resource model), 

objectives (or research agenda), and social 

context are brought together into a project 

design. The latter is explicitly divided between 

a research program, to acquire new knowledge, 

and a resource management program, 

to protect whatever remains of the resource. 

As an example of this approach, he cites his 

Sutton Hoo Project, which was a test bed for 

this book’s ideas. This system, he argues, must 

apply as much to academic archaeologists as 

to commercial ones, and indeed he looks to a 

time when sensible teaming between these two 

groups will be routine. 

Woven through this less-than-200-page 

“polemic” is useful, practical, and well-referenced 

information. Carver asserts that this 

published version of his 2010 Rhind Lectures 

to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland is 

like “a lunchtime chat at the site edge.” It 

is much more than that, and it deserves to 

generate an active debate. 

Ian Burrow 

Hunter Research, Inc. 

120 West State Street 

Trenton, NJ 08608

187 

St Pancras Burial Ground: 

Excavations for St Pancras 

International, the London 

Terminus of High Speed 1, 2002–3 

Phillip Emery and Kevin 

Wooldridge 

Gifford/Rambol, London, UK, 2011. 

231 pp., 180 illus., 35 tables, bib., 

index, app. on CD-ROM. £27.95 

cloth. 

This monograph on the burial ground at 

St. Pancras, London, recounts the recovery 

process and findings from an intensive cultural 

resource management undertaking in the face 

of an impending rail construction project. The 

research is comprehensive and includes detailed 

investigations into the organization and development 

of the burial ground, osteological 

remains, gravemarkers, coffin hardware, and 

other decorations. The presentation is direct 

and technical, which provides valuable data and 

description that does not get lost in elaborate 

storytelling. While technical, presentations of 

the findings are integrated into historical contexts 

and concise biographies of some of the 

notable dead recovered from the burial ground. 

The monograph is also wonderfully illustrated, 

showing aspects of historical funerary culture 

and biological human experiences that are 

often buried and unrecognized 

The burial ground at Anglican/Church 

of England St. Pancras represents a population 

from a dynamic period of London history. 

The church, established as early as the 

Norman period, was situated in the rural 

outskirts of the growing city, and for a great 

length of time it serviced a small congregation. 

By the 18th century, urban expansion 

encroached outwards and the metropolis 

ultimately engulfed the small church. The 

swelling London population strained the 

burial capacity of St. Pancras, even though 

the church was able to acquire and incorporate 

some neighboring fields for burials. A 

unique mixture of French Catholic royalists 

fleeing the French Revolution, Jacobites, English 

poor and criminals from the neighboring 

workhouse, victims of cholera outbreaks, and 

families of London artisans and tradespeople 

comingled their dead in what would become 

the impacted portion of the burial ground 

dating from 1793–1854. 

The 2002–2003 excavations revealed St. 

Pancras’s adaptations to accommodate the 

great numbers of dead from the metropolis’s 

expanding population seeking a resting 

place. The historically efficient use of the 

burial ground made it a complex task for 

the archaeologists, who were aided by good 

preservation, a number of legible coffin plates, 

and remarkable centuries-old grave-plot references, 

dating from the period of the burials, 

kept by the management of St. Pancras. In 

order to fit thousands of corpses into the 

burial ground, St. Pancras resorted to stacked 

plots with numerous individuals on top of 

each other. Infants were often fitted between 

plots, and trenches for the poor were stacked 

with lines of coffins with their heads in opposite 

directions to their neighbors in order to 

fit in as many as possible. Even the affluent 

did not maintain private plots after death, as 

shown by Arthur Richard Dillon, archbishop 

of Narbonne, who was buried with other 

individuals. 

The complexity of the burial ground is 

well illustrated using AutoCAD and Google 

SketchUp images. Attractive three-dimensional 

Google SketchUp reconstructions of the 

stacked burial plots provide an interesting 

window into the arrangements and relationships 

of the numerous burials. The use of 

this software for St. Pancras shows how this 

relatively friendly tool can be an affordable 

method for reconstructing aboveground 

structures, as well as being adept at allowing 

reconstructions of subsurface features. 

The great comparative contribution of 

the St. Pancras monograph is the bioarchaeology 

of a postmedieval/early modern urban 

population. Due to time limitations only a 

small fraction of the remains were studied, 

but they provide valuable data that adds to 




and builds on other significant osteological 

studies, such as those from nearby Christ 

Church at Spitalfields and a large number of 

other English burial grounds. The monograph 

details and graphically illustrates the results of 

demographics, biological development, dental 

and venereal diseases, injuries, and other 

more-scarce conditions. Another significant 

contribution of the St. Pancras osteological 

research comes from the large proportion of 

identified individuals. Information recorded on 

coffin plates and other documents provided the 

researchers with demographic information such 

as sex, age, and ethnicity. With this knowledge, 

tests of various bioarchaeological methods were 

possible, particularly those determining aging 

and development, on a postmedieval/early 

modern population in order to verify whether 

the models and calculations are accurate for an 

historical population. 

The remainder of the monograph is concerned 

with funerary culture studied through 

gravemarkers, coffin hardware, and even some 

fabric. The presentation on the gravemarkers 

is not the most valuable contribution since 

they are few in number, most are fragmentary, 

and they were ex situ, having historically 

been used as pavings and blocks in a stone 

retaining wall. Selections are illustrated and 

discussed to show the variability and artistry 

represented. At this point, several interpretations 

of the iconography can be considered 

dated, as it is now more widely understood 

that medieval memento mori traditions gave 

way to the later, more-fashionable styles in 

rococo and neoclassical forms. 

Coffin plates inscribed with the deceaseds’ 

names and ages were noteworthy, as the 

authors remind that examples from other 

burial grounds are often poorly preserved. In 

addition to being invaluable for identification 

of remains and checks against St. Pancras 

documents, the stamped metal plates are 

highly decorated in rococo and neoclassical 

styles, with putti, frames, and other adornments 

around carefully engraved inscriptions. 

Recovery of these plates allows researchers to 

see an element of London industry and technological 

innovation that was not intended to 

be seen after burial, except perhaps by the 

gravediggers interring even more bodies in 

the burial plots. 

This monograph contains points of interest 

from the skeletal remains and the funerary 

culture to the stories of deceased individuals, 

which should be appealing to a wide range 

of readers interested in deathscapes, funerary 

culture, and bioarchaeology. It is well presented, 

illustrated, tabulated, and thoroughly 

cross-referenced with context numbers to 

provide a valuable resource for learning about 

burial practices at St. Pancras and comparative 

information. If the reader finds that the 

authors have not gone deeply enough into 

any particular topic, a suite of additional 

publications by the contributors, cited within, 

can make up for any deficiencies. 

Adam R. Heinrich 

Department of History and Anthropology 

Monmouth University 

West Long Branch, NJ 07764

189 

God’s Fields: Landscape, Religion, 

and Race in Moravian Wachovia 

Leland Ferguson 

University Press of Florida, 

Gainesville, 2011. 256 pp., 54 b&w 

illus., app., gloss., notes, bib., index. 

$74.95 cloth. 

In 1994, when workers pulled up the 

floorboards of a century-old addition to St. 

Philips Church on the outskirts of Salem, 

North Carolina, they discovered 14 carved 

gravestones. Some stones supported floor 

joists; others had simply been dropped 

between the joists or scattered haphazardly 

on the ground. All were the small, uniform, 

rectangular stones designed to be placed flat 

at the head of mounded graves and usually 

associated with the Moravian Church. The 

simple uniformity of such stones, say Moravians, 

represents the equality of all Christians 

before God. Yet the stones beneath the St. 

Philips floor came from an old African American 

graveyard that was intentionally obliterated 

in the early 20th century. The text on 

one stone was particularly evocative; it read: 

Timothy, a native of AFRICA. Dep. Nov 

1, 1838 Aged upwards of 100 years. More 

compelling still was the link between the 

deceased and the Moravian Church, for the 

inscriptions on some stones testified that the 

church viewed these people as church property. 

Although Salem’s Moravians considered 

everyone to be cherished children of God, 

they gradually became involved in a system 

of slavery and segregation that conflicted with 

their ideals and eventually created “a physical 

landscape that encouraged religious division 

rather than unity, racial alienation rather than 

fellowship” (p. 7). 

God’s Fields explores that discord. In 

this fine study of Salem’s landscape and 

the archaeology around St. Philip’s Church, 

author Leland Ferguson asks how people as 

good as the Moravian Brethren made peace 

with slavery and racist segregation. The 

landscape gradually revealed the “subtle and 

often unconscious ways even the most wellmeaning 

of people can become entangled in 

practices at odds with their ideals” (p. 12). 

With the discovery of the forgotten gravestones, 

Ferguson and his archaeological team 

finally had the connection they had long been 

seeking between the lost African American 

graveyard they had been working to recover 

and mountains of gathered archival data. The 

information gleaned from their archaeological 

and archival research at the St. Philip’s Church 

complex has helped to lay the groundwork for 

an important reconciliation process that began 

in 2006, when the Moravian Church apologized 

for its participation in the slave system. 

Although St. Philip’s is now a part of Old 

Salem Museum and Gardens, when the town 

was first established as a living museum in 

1950 the story of the many African Americans 

who had lived and worked there for nearly 

200 years was absent from the exhibits. Now 

that the complex is open to the public and 

the research of Ferguson’s team constitutes an 

integral part of the tour, visitors often report 

that St. Philip’s is one of the most meaningful 

exhibits in the restored town. 

God’s Fields contributes to a growing body 

of archaeological and landscape studies that 

have expanded and refocused the discussion 

of African American history, including work 

by Paul Shackel, Theresa Singleton, Charles 

Orser, James Delle, Michael Blakey, and Lesley 

Rankin-Hill. To explore landscapes from the 

point of view of the people who once lived 

them, the author draws upon Christopher Tilley’s 

concept of phenomenological archaeology 

and Anthony Giddens’s notion of structuration. 

The result is a fascinating case study that 

reveals how Salem’s Moravians slowly moved 

from toleration to participation in the peculiar 

institution. The landscape reflects these changing 

attitudes, as Moravians began to segregate 

all black burials and created a separate African 

American mission church—a practice that 

would have been repellent to Moravians from 

only two generations before (p. 199). 




Ferguson’s research provides more than 

just a case study of changing racial attitudes 

reflected in burial practices, however. Since 

the narrative also shifts repeatedly between 

past history and present-day archaeology, 

and key pieces of evidence only gradually 

come into focus, it evokes the archaeological 

process itself, where patterns slowly emerge 

within a mosaic of possibilities. This narrative 

structure also effectively draws readers 

into the process of archaeological discovery, 

historical sleuthing, and interpretation. This 

tension sometimes causes God’s Fields to 

alternate between a book that seems aimed at 

a general readership and a much more finegrained 

archaeological report. 

The book is divided into 10 chapters, 

a foreword, a glossary, a note on sources, 

a bibliography, several appendices including 

burial lists, and an index. Multiple photographs 

and line drawings as well as several 

early plats, maps, and views of the Salem 

landscape augment the text. Many of the plats 

and landscape views offer particularly revealing 

evidence, but unfortunately, some of the 

images are so small as to be rendered nearly 

illegible. The opening chapters examine the 

archaeological fieldwork at St. Philip’s, the 

history of Salem’s Moravians, and burial practices. 

One of the strongest chapters explores 

the process of planning the town in the 

mid-18th century, showing how the reality 

that emerged reflected German pietism, while 

also accommodating to local topography and 

prevailing attitudes of white non-Moravians. 

Subsequent chapters explore the development 

of segregated burial space and the history 

of the individuals interred in the graveyard. 

While Moravian graveyards typically separated 

Moravian from non-Moravian Christians in 

order to suggest to living observers that a 

sincere and earnest confession would bring 

them closer to God’s kingdom, archaeology 

revealed changing racial attitudes in Salem, 

where “black Moravians, regardless of their 

relationship to Christ, were buried at the 

lowest end of Church street in a place traditionally 

set aside for outsiders. The racial 

segregation that local Moravians had found a 

way to excuse was explicitly exhibited on the 

landscape” (p. 161). 

This is an important study that builds 

upon the author’s three-plus decades of 

archaeological research into African American 

history and race relations. Just as the 

archaeology at the African Burial Ground in 

New York City has helped to rewrite the history 

of slavery there, the work of Ferguson’s 

team is likely to force a reevaluation of what 

is known about enslavement in the South 

(p. xiii). While the book’s first few chapters 

are the strongest, the narrative occasionally 

bogs down in subsequent chapters detailing 

the burials and the history of the individuals 

interred in the graveyard. Still, these are 

minor issues that in no way detract from the 

significance of Ferguson’s contribution. On 

balance, God’s Fields provides a compelling 

and highly readable examination of how the 

landscape reveals developing race relations in 

antebellum North Carolina. 

Gabrielle M. Lanier 

Department of History 

James Madison University 

MSC 2001, 58 Bluestone Drive 

Harrisonburg, VA 22807

191 

Jefferson’s Poplar Forest: 

Unearthing a Virginia Plantation 

Barbara J. Heath and Jack 

Gary (editors) 

University Press of Florida, 

Gainesville, 2012. 242 pp., 40 figs., 

tables, 8 maps, bib., index. $29.95 

cloth. 

In Jefferson’s Poplar Forest: Unearthing a 

Virginia Plantation, editors Barbara J. Heath 

and Jack Gary compile 10 articles that collectively 

highlight the multivocal historical and 

archaeological landscape of Thomas Jefferson’s 

Poplar Forest Plantation. The book focuses on 

the property’s ownership and occupation by 

the Jefferson and later Hutter families during 

the 18th and 19th centuries; the varied ways 

in which the two families utilized and modified 

the landscape over time to suit changing 

economic and social needs; the environmental, 

economic, cultural, and social impact of property 

owners’ decisions on the larger plantation 

community; and the ways in which their collective 

actions manifested archaeologically at 

the site. 

Ongoing since 1986, archaeology at the 

plantation has comprehensively examined the 

estate’s 10 ac. core and 61 ac. surrounding 

curtilage. By investigating several aspects of 

the plantation, including the main mansion, 

ornamental grounds, ancillary buildings, tenant 

houses, and several slave quarters, the authors 

present data on the notable and wealthy Jefferson 

and Hutter families that once called the 

estate home. Research also focused on the plantation 

as a population center where individuals 

of varied status, race, gender, ethnicity, class, 

skill, and education socially and culturally interacted 

with one another and the landscape on a 

daily basis. The holistic approach offers an array 

of information from which the authors interpret 

and relate the lives of the plantation’s former 

occupants, both owners and slaves alike, who 

collectively shaped the Virginia landscape in 

lasting ways. Utilizing historical ecology, landscape 

and plantation archaeology, and a variety 

of theoretical approaches, the authors present 

micro–case studies of the complex Poplar Forest 

Plantation community. The approach used 

allowed the authors to explore intimately the 

dynamic relationship between agriculture and 

the local environment; the roles plantation landscapes 

assumed for their residents; the development 

of interplantation social networks and 

community identity formation; and the social 

impact cottage-industry and mass-produced 

consumer goods had on the European American 

and African American plantation populations. 

The data obtained by sampling the plantation 

community enabled the presentation of a plantation 

microhistory based largely on the juxtaposition 

of plantation owners’ and slaves’ lives, and 

changes experienced over time. 

Following Barbara Heath and Jack Gary’s 

descriptive introductory overview to the book, 

Heath presents a brief history of plantation 

archaeology in Virginia, setting the stage for 

the varied theoretical approaches applied in the 

volume. Eric Proebsting’s chapter examines the 

plantation’s historical ecology and changes in 

resource exploitation over time. Jefferson’s and 

Hutter’s role in and intellectual, economic, and 

aesthetic responses to resource exploitation had 

significant impacts on landscape use and slave 

community cultural development over time, a 

theme that flows throughout the book. Timothy 

Trussel’s short but informative chapter on 

Thomas Jefferson’s efforts to create the mansion 

and formal gardens at Poplar Forest highlights 

the garden movement in Virginia. Trussel’s 

chapter also focuses on the “autobiographical 

nature” of Jefferson’s formal landscape and the 

social expectations of the former president to 

express his knowledge of and ability to translate 

international styles and aesthetic expressions in 

an elegant, tasteful, and appropriate manner 

fitting to an American landscape (p. 16). In 

a similar vein, Jack Gary focuses the reader 

on Thomas Jefferson’s aesthetic philosophy 

by examining Jefferson’s consumer choice in 

table settings, reaffirming Jefferson’s attempt 

to adhere to the ideal of social harmony in all 

aspects of his life. The devotion of 4 of the 




book’s 10 articles to slave life at Poplar Forest, 

written by Barbara Heath, Lori Lee, Jessica 

Bowes, and Heather Trigg, emphasizes the slave 

community’s prominence in the plantation’s rich 

archaeological record. These four articles offer 

an important and emotive voice to individuals 

silent in the historical record. Each provides 

valuable insight into the development of slave 

life on the plantation, domestic landscapes, 

resource exploitation, subsistence activities, cottage 

industries, and inter- and intraplantation 

social networks. Stephen Mrozowski concludes 

with a reflection on the importance and ability 

of varied archaeological approaches to present 

the detailed realities of a complex, multivocal 

landscape shaped by vast discrepancies and 

changes over time in resource exploitation, 

access, land use, demography, economy, social 

and cultural traditions, and historical contexts. 

The authors admit to shortcomings in the 

volume due to data availability, such as poor 

faunal preservation in the archaeological record, 

inconsistent recordation of events in estate 

ledgers, and modifications to the landscape 

that obscured or destroyed archaeological data. 

Noninvasive investigation methods, such as 

LiDAR (light detection and ranging) mapping 

and geophysical testing are also absent. Despite 

these limitations, the authors present rich interpretations 

based on the available data and offer 

insightful questions to guide future research at 

Poplar Forest and other Virginia plantations. 

The articles in this volume could have been 

strengthened through the presentation of more 

detailed comparisons of archaeological data, 

including illustrations and data tables, from 

Poplar Forest and other contemporary Middle 

Atlantic archaeological sites, but this does 

not appear to be the authors’ intent. Rather, 

by using Poplar Forest as a case study and 

examining the multidimensional and dynamic 

components of the plantation’s physical and 

social landscape, the authors present a detailed 

overview of the complex historical development 

of one Virginia plantation and community. 

A reasonably priced text, this book can be 

easily understood by the general populace, yet 

remains engaging for professional archaeologists. 

The lay reader is left eager to embark on his 

or her own journey to inquire more about the 

rich topics surrounding Thomas Jefferson’s postpresidency 

life, American formal gardens, plantation 

archaeology, historical ecology, and slave 

life in the Middle Atlantic region; professional 

archaeologists benefit from the production of 

a scholarly text. For these reasons, the volume 

also makes an excellent addition to college texts. 

Michael J. Gall 

Richard Grubb & Associates, Inc. 

Cranbury, NJ 08512

193 

Virginia City: Secrets 

of a Western Past 

Ronald M. James 

University of Nebraska Press, 

Lincoln, 2012. 276 pp., 36 illus., 1 

map, bib., index. $16.95 paper. 

The allure of the Wild West has always 

had a way of capturing the imagination of a 

wide range of people; however, many of the 

“facts” about the West are imparted not from 

history and archaeology but from Hollywood 

and popular culture. So what happens when 

decades of research and investigation into a 

Western town culminates in a publication? 

You end up with a thoroughly enjoyable historical 

and archaeological book by Ronald M. 

James. That book, Virginia City: Secrets of a 

Western Past, is a wonderful addition to the 

literature of Virginia City, Nevada, as well as 

the “Historical Archaeology of the American 

West” series edited by Annalies Corbin and 

Rebecca Allen. James’s succinctly presented 

research is accessible to both professional and 

public spheres. 

Virginia City’s significance is not lost on 

archaeologists and historians working in the 

American West. Mining shaped the West, and 

the Comstock Lode and Virginia City were the 

stages of the West’s key players. Due to the 

research that has been conducted in Virginia 

City, archaeologists and historians, such as 

Ronald M. James, can paint a more realistic 

portrait of this town. Each chapter concisely 

layers the contexts of archaeological investigation, 

historical research, mining history, 

cultures, and identities. 

In the introduction, James captures the 

readers’ attention by bringing them along on 

the journey of discovering fragments of glass 

that, when mended, reveal a Tabasco bottle. 

This bottle would prove to be a missing link 

in the lineage of Tabasco bottles and would 

lend insight into activities at the Boston 

Saloon, an African American establishment. It 

is with this introduction that James sets the 

stage for his following chapters that read as 

a “who’s who” of Virginia City. 

A town built and founded by the mining 

industry is the subject of chapter 1, “Gold 

and Silver.” A unique opportunity presented 

itself to archaeologists to examine abandoned 

tools and reconstruct mining activities that 

occurred when the Middle Hill Rathole Mine 

was opened. As James states, they were given 

the chance to “walk into the shoes of a miner 

from a previous time” (p. 7). Chapter 2, 

“A Crowded City on the Mining Frontier,” 

delves into a couple of historic structures 

that still survive today. These structures are 

atypical of the stereotype of Western buildings, 

as they were built of brick rather than 

wood. James explores the reality of many 

historical Western towns and the impacts that 

fires had, a theme that is carried through a 

number of the chapters, as the artifacts were 

also impacted by these fires. 

Chapter 3, “An Irish Blacksmith and the 

Archaeology of Belief,” centers around Timothy 

Francis McCarthy, who left numerous 

records that allowed a glimpse into his life. 

James brings up the important question asked 

of historical archaeologists––if so much is 

already known from the historical record, why 

do archaeology? He answers this by explaining 

to the reader that historical records were 

subject to the interpretation and censorship 

of the author, thus the archaeological record 

can give us a clearer window to examine the 

past. Chapter 4, “The Chinese,” highlights a 

group of people for which the written record 

is clouded with racism. James discusses the 

contemporary and historical impacts of artifact 

collecting and exoticism on investigating 

the material culture of overseas Chinese in 

Virginia City. 

James briefly discusses the results of 

excavations conducted at four Virginia City 

saloons in chapter 5, “Saloons and the 

Archaeology of Leisure.” The results of each 

excavation have shed new light into each 

saloon, from the different activities occurring 

to the food being consumed. While men 




constituted the majority of the population 

in mining towns, James includes chapters 

discussing the lives of the women and children 

who were also present in Virginia City. 

Chapter 6, “Women on the Mining Frontier,” 

starts out focusing on a well-known prostitute, 

Julia Bulette, and what the probate 

records and archaeology can reveal about her. 

Although prostitution did play a role in the 

American West, families helped to shape the 

landscape of this town. Single women working 

in Virginia City were not all prostitutes, as 

popular culture has led us to believe. 

As a part of the landscape of the West 

and Virginia City, children are often easy 

to identify through their toys found in the 

archaeological record. In the chapter, “Kids 

on the Comstock,” James examines children 

through the Fourth Ward Schoolhouse, an 

old schoolhouse built during the heyday of 

the Comstock and still standing today. James 

brings us into the building and examines the 

physical marks children made on the building, 

as well as the contents within. Another 

intact structure of Virginia City is examined 

in chapter 8, “Piper’s Opera House and the 

Archaeology of Theater.” One of the betterknown 

theaters in the American West, Piper’s 

Opera House served not only as an entertainment 

venue but as a cultural link to the 

outside world. 

In James’s last chapter, “Death and the 

Material Culture of the Final Chapter,” he 

discusses mortuary practices in regard to the 

cultural shift from the use of graveyards to 

cemeteries for the residents of Virginia City. 

Many points are discussed in this chapter, ranging 

from types of grave markers to burials that 

were “supposedly” relocated from the graveyard 

to cemeteries but were in fact left behind. 

The issue of bottle collectors and the 

havoc they wreak is a topic that emerges 

throughout the book. One only needs to 

read the story about archaeologists leaving 

some privies and known areas undisturbed 

to have a contractor seize the opportunity to 

loot these untouched sites and sell the findings 

(p. 102). This book serves to remind 

archaeologists working in high-profile areas, 

as well as the general public, what damage a 

bottle collector can do. Yet this destruction 

is not only limited to bottle collectors, but 

includes tourists of Virginia City who pocket 

mementos of their trip to the Wild West. 

Another topic that is found throughout the 

book is the partnership that archaeologists 

should have with historians and vice versa. 

This helps to strengthen not only historical 

research but also creates more complete 

archaeological results. 

This book offers insight into a Western 

town that could only be achieved through 

decades of research and can only be touched 

on briefly in the context of this review. James 

did a nice job of reminding the reader of 

how expensive and dangerous it is to conduct 

archaeology in historic mines. The historical 

photographs, artifact photographs, and drawings 

within the book are superb. The only 

visual component lacking is a map of the 

town for reference. Virginia City: Secrets of 

a Western Past is strongly recommended to 

historical archaeologists who specialize and 

are interested in the American West and is 

a wonderful tool for engaging the public in 

archaeology, as well as drawing attention to 

the ethical dilemmas of historical and archaeological 

tourism. 

Molly E. Swords 

SWCA Environmental Consultants 

919 East 6th Street 

Moscow, ID 83843

195 

The Archaeology of 

Post-Medieval Religion 

Chris King and Duncan Sayer 

(editors) 

Society for Church Archaeology 

and Society for Post-Medieval 

Archaeology, Monograph 6, Boydell 

Press, Woodford, UK, 2011. 288 pp., 

66 illus., 20 tables, index. $50.00 

cloth. 

This volume of edited papers is designed 

to fill a gap in studies of early modern Britain, 

with some additional studies from continental 

Europe and colonial New England. 

The editors argue that the material changes 

in landscape, community, and the built environment 

associated with the upheaval of 

religious tradition have been overlooked, and 

this volume is intended to shed new light on 

this aspect of social life in the recent past. 

The book is organized into three sections: 

“Church and Society,” “Landscapes and Chapels,” 

and “Burial Customs.” Many of the 

papers are studies of specific sites or communities, 

mainly in England but also elsewhere 

in the British Isles. There is one selection 

on Le Mans in France, one on northern 

Germany, and one on Puritan New England, 

which provide some comparative material. 

This focus is not unreasonable, as the Society 

for Post-Medieval Archaeology and the Society 

for Church Archaeology, the organizations 

responsible for the collection, are both based 

in the United Kingdom. The recurring theme 

is the rise and expression of religious pluralism, 

and the physical and social variations 

that accompanied this change from the earlier 

English and broader European past. 

The first section of the book, on “Church 

and Society,” demonstrates how archaeology 

is much more than excavation but is the 

exploration of visual and material culture as 

it relates to social meaning and action. Each 

of these chapters draws on both material 

culture and documentary evidence to explore 

archaeological questions, which is to say, the 

construction and transformation of meaning 

in the material world. The focus is mainly on 

religious buildings, either the contents thereof 

or their place in physical and social landscapes. 

These chapters are especially valuable 

for their portrayal of the intricacies of action 

and behavior behind the remnants left to be 

deciphered in material form. While certain 

elements may be obscure to American readers, 

such as the events of the French Wars of 

Religion in the 16th century or the patterns 

of political control in northern Germany, 

the broader issues of French Protestantism 

and German Lutheranism, respectively, apply 

directly to the experiences of New World 

societies. For those working in a European 

context, these studies are invaluable as they 

give specific examples of practices that had 

a lasting impact on the material and social 

world of early modern Europe. The simultaneous 

maintenance and transformation of 

social meaning in the built environment, and 

the significant interconnection between place 

and other aspects of society, including economic 

and political relations, is amply demonstrated 

and valuable for any reader. Chris 

King’s chapter on Low Country immigrants 

in Norwich (pp. 83–105) does rely mainly 

on excavated materials and is an excellent 

example of linking material culture with specific 

groups in an urban context. King also 

looks at churches used by these “Stranger” 

or immigrant communities, using a broader 

range of archaeological study than the other 

chapters. This may be somewhat more appealing 

to traditionalist archaeologists who prefer 

to define archaeology as excavation, but these 

two aspects of material culture are independent 

though complementary, even in this 

chapter which relies on both. 

The second section, “Landscapes and 

Chapels,” explores how the socially meaningful 

built environment is connected to identity. 

This identity can be ethnic and linguistic 

identity, such as in Wales or the Isle of 

Man, or economic or political identity, such 

as miners in Cornwall or industrial laborers 




in the British southwest. Methodist and other 

nonconformist chapels served as centers for 

the expression of social identity both through 

membership and through material expressions 

of identity. This section also includes 

the single chapter examining a New World 

society, the Puritans of colonial New England, 

specifically Connecticut and Massachusetts but 

also venturing into New York’s Hudson Valley 

and the Dutch Reformed churches constructed 

there during the 17th century. This chapter 

by Peter Benes (pp. 179–195) is more focused 

on the origins of architectural form and the 

social meaning associated with the changing 

patterns of church form than on direct social 

identity of the congregations like the other 

chapters of this section. Specifically, Benes 

argues that the origin of meetinghouses in 

New England arose from the intersection 

of Continental forms and religious practice, 

but, starting about 1700, a shift to a more 

English church style developed, much like 

the transformation seen in New England 

domestic architecture. These changes came 

about, according to Benes, due to both a 

reinvigorated English identity and changing 

attitudes within the entire Atlantic Protestant 

experience as it shifted from a minority to a 

majority role in society. This latter question, 

which Benes advances as part of the conclusion, 

is a fitting end to the section; the role 

of the built environment in expressing and 

manifesting changing cultural beliefs and 

practices is a recurring element of this section 

of the book. 

Section 3 explores funerary customs 

and looks at burial yards, grave goods, and 

osteological evidence for mainly Protestant 

or nonconformist populations. The authors 

link not just religion but social status, health, 

and identity to the rites and treatment of the 

dead. This section helps sort through the 

bewildering array of funerary practices during 

the 16th through 19th centuries and provides 

concrete examples of both variety and identity 

linked to religious practice and broader 

social trends. The osteological evidence 

reveals patterns of health and illness in the 

burial populations linked to age, gender, and 

religious affiliation, among other factors. The 

final chapter of the section deserves note as 

it discusses maiden’s garlands, usually ephemeral 

commemorations made of paper or fabric 

and placed on the graves of young women. 

Seventy extant garlands have been identified 

from the 19th century and treated as the subject 

of a material culture study. This specific 

memorial was a contested practice in Anglican 

churches, and the origins, maintenance, and 

tolerance of this practice was varied through 

the 18th, 19th, and early 20th centuries. 

The Archaeology of Post-Medieval Religion 

effectively demonstrates the need for multidisciplinary 

research and the benefits and 

insights that come from exploring archaeological 

questions through more than just 

excavated remains. It also shows that the 

areas of intellectual investigation that fall 

into disciplinary-boundary areas can yield up 

remarkable results. The focus on religion is 

a necessary addition to the array of archaeological 

studies of the early modern world. 

Many studies focus on power, economic, or 

other social issues, while treating religion in a 

cursory way. This may be in part due to the 

increased secularization of the modern world 

and the influence of modern thinking on how 

questions are addressed to the remains of the 

past. It also may be part of the “taken-forgranted” 

assumptions that religious plurality is 

a social norm, as that is what is experienced 

today. This volume shows how that plurality 

developed during the postmedieval period, 

with references to the lack of religious plurality 

of medieval England and the rest of 

Europe. The postmedieval period truly was 

one of experimentation, exploration, and 

transformation of religious practice, among 

other aspects of culture, and this volume 

reveals how religion was expressed and 

manifested in material form, from church and 

landscape to the treatment of the dead. While 

focused on England, the lessons are valuable 

for anyone studying the postmedieval world 

and can serve as a useful comparative body of 

work for those who work in the New World, 

especially in areas with a dominant English 

colonial society. My chief complaint is that 

some of the chapters do not include a map 

to help guide spatial understanding, particularly 

in the earlier portions of the book. This 

flaw can be overlooked, given the otherwise 

informative chapters, but, when exploring 

space and landscapes, maps can allow greater

197 

insight into a topic, and the chapters would 

have been improved had they been included. 

That critique is not enough to prevent a 

favorable review, especially as there has been 

little comparable work assembled into one 

volume like this. 

Scott D. Stull 

Department of Sociology-Anthropology 

SUNY Cortland 

Moffett Center 2108 

PO Box 2000 

Cortland, NY 13045


Chinese Export Porcelains 

Andrew D. Madsen and 

Carolyn L. White 


2011. 157 pp., 142 figs., 1 table, 

index. $27.95 paper. 

Chinese export porcelain had been a difficult 

topic to research partly because books 

like this one had not yet been written. Most 

of the pieces found on both underwater and 

terrestrial sites have been hard to match with 

the large examples and imperial wares found 

in many books. Armorial porcelains, those with 

coats of arms that were ordered for specific 

families, have been much studied and published. 

As Madsen and White state: “the vast array of 

common wares made specifically for export to 

the West” have been ignored (p. 9). This book 

presents many examples of the sorts of wares 

for daily use that are found on archaeological 

sites: dishes and plates that were used by North 

Americans during the period from the late 17th 

century until the early 19th century. 

Porcelain was first made by the Chinese 

during the 6th century A.D., and their secret 

was kept for a long time. (The Koreans, who 

had little contact with the West, made porcelain 

from the 12th century on. The Japanese 

did not make porcelain until the early 17th 

century.) Although stoneware and soft-paste 

porcelains were made in the Middle East and 

Europe, true hard-paste porcelain was not made 

in Europe until the Meissen factory at Dresden 

began making porcelain in the beginning of the 

18th century. There were many European factories 

on the Continent and in England making 

porcelain by the middle of the 18th century, 

but these factories did not produce porcelain 

in quantity. The Chinese could not only make 

true porcelain; they could also mass-produce 

it, and therefore Chinese porcelain was valued 

all over the world. Hard, white-bodied, dense, 

resonant when struck, porcelain was far superior 

to the other possibilities available for everyday 

use (tin-glazed earthenware, such as delft or 

faience; wood; or pewter) and was easy to clean, 

as well as beautiful. 

The Portuguese made initial contact with 

China during the early 16th century; the trade 

was taken over by the Dutch in 1602, and 

the English entered the trade in the late 17th 

century. 

There is a useful discussion of shipwrecks, 

beginning with the Vung Tau of ca. 1690. 

Madsen and White make the point (p. 8) that 

although they “strongly oppose commercial 

dissemination of archaeological materials,” the 

results can be useful in dating Chinese ceramics, 

and they are correct. The number of 

well-documented wrecks continues to increase 

(p. 11), and scholars of Chinese ceramics are 

dependent on the wares found in commercially 

excavated shipwrecks. Each wreck is a time capsule, 

evidence of the taste of a particular time. 

Madsen and White do not deal with the 

period before 1690, but with pieces found 

in North America during the time of British 

hegemony and then later into the 19th century. 

(The Chinese ceramics found in Latin American 

sites that came through the Spanish trade are 

not discussed here.) 

The book is divided neatly into five chapters, 

with chapter 1 about background and overview, 

chapter 2 about Chinese export porcelain 

and Western society, and chapter 3 about the 

porcelain industry in China. 

In a particularly important section about 

tea drinking and tea equipage, Madsen and 

White make the point (p. 23) that by the close 

of the 18th century, all social classes in the 

British Empire were drinking tea, necessitating 

porcelain vessels, including teapots and various 

cups and saucers. Madsen has been through 

inventories in colonial Virginia that document 

the growth of this habit. 

Madsen and White discuss the history of 

the Chinese trade, including the VOC (the 

Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie or Dutch East 

India Company) and the British East India 

Company, and have used their records to find 

important information about the porcelain trade. 

There are many extremely useful charts, 

graphs, and tables. In table 4.1 on page 52, 

Madsen and White have a summary of patterns 

found on 21 dated shipwrecks, from the Vung 

Tau (ca. 1690) through the Frolic (1850), that 



199 

is tremendously useful. They also include tables 

about the various armorial patterns, using the 

chronology developed by David Howard, the 

English authority on armorial porcelains from 

1690 to 1820. 

Chapter 4, the “heart of the volume” (p. 

14), presents a broad range of “tightly datable 

examples.” The authors make the point that 

additional available data, such as shipwrecks or 

terrestrial excavations, may modify and supplement 

the data presented. The most important 

feature of this book lies in the 100 illustrations 

in this chapter that can be used to help date 

Chinese ceramics. Having used this book myself 

for this purpose, I have found it invaluable. For 

the researcher with porcelain sherds in hand 

who needs to figure out what they are, this is 

the real value of the volume. Looking through 

this most useful book can help find a match 

and hence to date the sherds. 

The book is a handy paperback, but the 

black-and-white illustrations are somewhat 

indistinct, and because there are no color illustrations 

the discussion of the polychrome wares 

is less useful than it could have been in color. 

The “Thumbnail Dating Guide” (chap. 5) 

on pages 140–141 is useful to enable the reader 

to quickly identify and date Chinese ceramics. 

However, identification does depend to a great 

extent on the color of the cobalt painting. The 

authors touch on the fact that in some periods 

the painter loaded his brush with cobalt paint, 

while in other periods the painting was done 

in a lighter fashion (p. 67). However, these distinctions 

are somewhat lost in black-and-white 

photography. 

Madsen and White consulted many of the 

appropriate sources, but not all are equally reliable 

and some are out of date. They complain 

(p. 59) about art-historical descriptions of the 

painting styles on porcelain because they want 

more definitive ways of dating style. Their 

feelings are understandable, but this lack of 

understanding of art history, as well as of their 

sources, has led to several over-generalizations. 

They claim that (p. 38) “[t]he Europeans 

were mistrustful of the Chinese and established 

their commercial bases of trade outside China.” 

On the contrary, the Dutch had to establish 

their base in Batavia because the Chinese did 

not want to trade with them. 

Madsen and White claim that it was only 

after the reopening of the kilns at Jingdezhen 

in the early 1680s (p. 40) that the export and 

domestic markets were separated for the first 

time, and for the first time overglaze ceramics 

were made for the export market. These 

statements are incorrect. The Chinese began to 

make porcelain in European shapes to Dutch 

order in 1635, and even before then, in the 

16th century, plates with European rims were 

made. Going back to the 13th century, during 

the Yuan dynasty, large blue-and-white platters 

were made for customers in western and 

southeastern Asia. The Chinese made overglazeenamel 

wares for the Japanese market in the 

17th century, and also there were certainly 

transitional overglaze wares that reached Europe 

before this period. 

The authors (p. 60) claim that the paneled 

or segmented decoration on Kangxi porcelain 

originated in Holland, because they can be 

related to the paneled kraak wares, which probably 

originated in the 1570’s and were popular 

in Holland. Kraak paneled wares originated 

in China, were popular in Holland, but that 

doesn’t mean that paneling originated in Holland. 

The reasoning here is faulty. 

A caveat: there is no substitute for taking 

the time to actually see the porcelains. There 

are museums all over the United States that 

have wonderful collections of Chinese ceramics, 

with storerooms filled with 18th- and 19thcentury 

porcelains, and cooperative curators who 

would probably be delighted to work with an 

archaeologist with datable sherds. (Failing the 

cooperative curator, even just looking at the 

18th-century porcelains displayed in the cases 

would be of value.) Important collections are 

not only in museums in the larger cities, such 

as Boston, New York, Chicago, Seattle, and 

San Francisco, but also in Birmingham, Cleveland, 

Kansas City, San Antonio, and in many 

university museums, such as the University of 

Michigan at Ann Arbor and the University 

of Florida at Gainesville. Looking at Chinese 

ceramics that can be seen at antique dealers, 

auction houses, and art fairs is another instructive 

way to comprehend the changes in painting 

styles on porcelains throughout this period. 

Linda Rosenfeld Pomper 

1165 Park Avenue, Apt. 10D 

New York, NY 10128


Jordan’s Point, Virginia: 

Archaeology in Perspective 

Prehistoric to Modern Times 

Martha W. McCartney 

University of Virginia Press, 

Charlottesville, 2012. 148 pp., 100 

illus. $14.95 paper. 

Jordan’s Point, Virginia: Archaeology in Perspective 

Prehistoric to Modern Times is a new 

publication, written by Martha W. McCartney. 

McCartney is an historian who has spent a 

great deal of her career studying the history 

of Virginia. This particular work focuses on 

the history of Jordan’s Point, an archaeological 

site that was excavated in 1987 and 1988 by 

students of the Virginia Commonwealth University. 

This work introduces Virginia history 

to the reader and provides an interpretation of 

the excavations at Jordan’s Point. 

McCartney leads the reader on a journey 

to better understand a chapter in Virginia history 

that has been carefully tucked away, until 

now. McCartney achieves this by introducing 

the different cultures that inhabited the area 

over the centuries. She begins the story of 

Jordan’s Point in the first chapter with an 

introduction to Virginia’s First People and the 

region’s prehistory. She transitions from the 

Late Woodland period into the colonial contact 

period with ease. The reader is informed 

of the Spanish Jesuits’ attempt at settling 

part of Virginia, an event that is often overshadowed 

by the success of James Town that 

occurred 30 years later. McCartney introduces 

the Powhatan stronghold to the reader early 

on. She then chooses to gloss over the presence 

of the Virginia Indians in later years. 

Their significance and influences on early 

colonial life are noted, though McCartney 

hesitates to provide a more in-depth description 

of these early interactions. As a reader, I 

found this to be an acceptable gesture in the 

book, because the Virginia Indians are not the 

primary focal point of this work. 

The Indians settled along the James River 

because of its geographic location. The sandy 

loam soil is fertile, the surrounding forest 

would have provided ample vegetation for 

foraging, and fresh water was accessible by several 

surrounding creek beds (p. 6). Thanks to 

McCartney’s illustrative description of the site, 

the reader is left with little doubt as to why 

the colonists selected this territory to serve as 

the future site of Jordan’s Point. An excavation 

in 1990 seemed to validate the suspected location 

of a native settlement from John Smith’s 

17th-century map of Virginia. Other Indian 

domestic structures and graves were discovered 

in other locations on Jordan’s Point. The context 

and analysis of the goods excavated from 

these graves are discussed in depth. 

McCartney’s skill as a writer and historian 

becomes most prominent when she begins 

discussing the colonial contact period. She 

appropriately describes the initial interaction 

between Indians and colonists as a “cultural 

collision” (p. 15). Both cultures experienced 

conflict and peaceful exchange, depending on 

the circumstances of each encounter. This is 

the chapter that paints the setting for the 

remainder of the book. 

This publication includes a grand selection 

of color photographs that complements the 

text. One of these images is a color spread of 

John Smith’s famous map of Virginia, although 

the very center of the map is distorted by the 

binding of the book. The majority of photographs 

are of artifacts recovered from Jordan’s 

Point, while other images depict paintings and 

engravings intended to represent scenes from 

associated time periods. The illustrations and 

text are well balanced. Neither element overpowers 

the other. 

The only component that the book is 

lacking is an index. Indeed, I found this to 

be the only major shortcoming of the layout 

of this book. I believe that an index is a necessary 

asset to all well-informed texts. The 

work also lacks a bibliography. McCartney 

may assume that the intended audience for this 



201 

book is well aware of the histories and sites 

explained in the text. 

McCartney sets out to prove that Jordan’s 

Point is a significant site in both American 

and Native American history. In this respect, 

the work is a great achievement. Much of 

Virginia’s early history is overshadowed by 

other early settlements like Jamestown and 

Roanoke. McCartney’s writing style is fluid, 

well balanced, and easy to digest. I would recommend 

this book to any scholar, student, or 

enthusiast who is interested in learning more 

about the history of early Virginia settlements 

and Virginia’s First People. McCartney’s work 

is short in length but rich in content. This 

was an exceedingly enjoyable read. 

Tabitha Hilliard 



400 Cedar Avenue 

West Long Branch, NJ 07764-1898


Power and Landscape 

in Atlantic West Africa: 

Archaeological Perspectives 

J. Cameron Monroe and 

Akinwumi Ogundiran (editors) 

University of North Carolina Press, 

Charlotte, 2012. 390 pp., 69 illus., 

33 maps, bib., index. $99.00 cloth. 

The Atlantic World is increasingly a topic 

of investigation for historical archaeologists 

who have followed the lead of historians 

in designating a number of “Atlantics” as 

analytical units defined by region, ethnic, or 

national affiliations. One of the many Atlantics 

is the “African Atlantic,” which has been 

proposed as a distinct area of study with 

its own research agenda by one of the editors 

of Power and Landscape in Atlantic West 

Africa: Archaeological Perspectives (Ogundiran, 

Akinwumi, African Atlantic Archaeology and 

Africana Studies: A Programmatic Agenda, 

African Diaspora Archaeology Newsletter 2, 2008, 

). This research program 

aims to understand the impact and nature of 

the Atlantic experience for those of African 

origin living throughout the Atlantic basin by 

fostering a dialogue between archaeologists 

on both sides of the Atlantic. Studies of the 

African diaspora form an overwhelming majority 

of these studies. Power and Landscape in 

Atlantic West Africa is a welcome addition to 

this growing body of literature that enhances 

understanding of this period on the African 

side of the Atlantic. However, this is only a 

secondary contribution of the text. The primary 

goal of the editors is to raise awareness 

of the work by Africanists in understanding 

complexity and long-term historical processes 

in African history. 

In their volume Monroe and Ogundiran 

compile a well-rounded collection of papers 

that pursues their central argument “that the 

commercial revolutions of the 17th and 18th 

centuries dramatically reshaped the regional 

contours of political organization across West 

Africa” (p. 2). Individual contributors are asked 

to examine this idea through the lens of landscape 

by examining various forms of landscapes 

in West Africa during the Atlantic period that 

are tied to shifting commerce, political allegiance, 

and exhibition of authority. The case 

studies in the book answer these questions by 

offering examples of the assertion and maintenance 

of power. 

The text is comprised of 12 chapters 

including an introduction, conclusion, and 10 

case studies developed from original research. 

Three forms of landscape within Atlantic West 

Africa serve as the organizational foundation 

of the text: fragmented landscapes (Thiaw, 

Richard, Spiers, and Norman); state-generated 

landscapes (MacDonald and Camara, Monroe, 

and Ogundiran); and internal-frontier landscapes 

(de Barros, DeCorse, and MacEachern). 

Monroe and Ogundiran define each type 

broadly, but this is where the editors’ direction 

regarding a specific definition of landscape 

ends. The individual authors define landscape 

locally by “examining a plethora of ways in 

which social and political transformation in 

West Africa are observable in reference to 

regionally defined archaeological remains” 

(p. 5). The editors urge their contributors 

to move beyond traditional archaeological 

approaches to landscape as a simple unit of 

analysis. Some authors directly engage with 

the editors’ challenges, including the assertion 

that a landscape is socially constructed (p. 14). 

This active engagement is seen in Richard’s 

examination of the historical construction of 

the Siin (Senegal) as a colonial backwater; he 

challenges the long-held belief that the Atlantic 

era in this region translated into little material 

change under state control. Archaeological 

survey findings demonstrate that pockets of 

densely populated areas that existed in the 

Siin constitute a fragmented landscape with 

regional manifestations balking the intentions 

of the state. Similar processes are investigated 

by Thiaw (chap. 2) in the upper Senegal 

drainage polities of Gajaaga and Bundu. His 



203 

analysis does not explicitly define a perspective, 

yet it is clear that he views landscape as 

settlement patterning. The differential presence 

of trading sites and tatas, or defensive sites, 

reveals a fragmented landscape developed 

around commerce and political authority. 

Norman (chap. 5) applies similar methods to 

investigate urban/rural relations in Hueda (in 

modern-day Benin). Drawing on settlement 

patterns and artifact distributions, he reveals 

that the centralized nature of commerce and 

political authority in Savi the capital left the 

countryside less willing to rise to its defense 

against Dahomey. Here too, landscape is not 

explicitly defined, but the construction of the 

urban/rural dichotomy through state-level 

authority is clear. 

Spiers (chap. 4) also engages with the 

definition of the fragmented landscape within a 

single settlement, examining how the transformation 

of the town of Eguafo, capital of the 

Eguafo polity, reflects political realignment in 

precolonial times (p. 116). In doing so, Spiers 

draws on Lefebvre’s work to define landscape 

as an approach which “tries to encompass the 

spaces in between, which situates Eguafo in a 

broader network of social, political, and economic 

relations” (p. 118). Spiers convincingly 

argues that, despite Eguafo’s position in the 

hinterland, it was entangled in Atlantic commerce, 

thereby creating a fragmented society 

in which expensive trade goods are restricted 

to elite spaces. 

Monroe and Ogundiran define “stategenerated 

landscapes” as those created by the 

state to overcome challenges of the fragmented 

landscape (p. 25). Three case studies in this 

section examine the variable impact on different 

regions of direct involvement in Atlantic 

commerce. MacDonald and Camara (chap. 6) 

engage with the eternal landscape of marka 

towns (Islamic holy cities tied to Mande civilization) 

vs. the state-generated patterns associated 

with the slave trade. More so than other 

studies in the text, they engage with the oral 

rather than the documentary record to tease 

out the social creation of the Segou landscape. 

The most dramatic example of state building 

is presented by Monroe (chap. 7). The use of 

palace construction throughout the Abomey 

Plateau by various rulers of Dahomey created 

a symbolic landscape of power. This is contrasted 

with Ogundiran’s (chap. 8) investigation 

of Oyo with a focus on the settlement of 

Ede-Ile. Similar to Spiers’s chapter, Ogundiran 

analyzes a single site and its landscape by 

examining the settlement’s relationship to the 

core. Like Thiaw and Norman, Ogundiran 

does not explicitly define landscape, leaving 

the reader to infer a definition based on his 

discussion. 

The final case studies engage with Kopytoff’s 

(1987) original formulation of internal 

frontiers within sub-Saharan polities. De Barros 

(chap. 8) provides the most detailed examination 

of internal-frontier creation within the 

state in his study of the Bassar Chiefdom 

of northern Togo. This chapter, as well as 

DeCorse’s analysis of the Koinadugu Plateau of 

Sierra Leone in chapter 10, problematizes how 

archaeologists use the chiefdom concept as a 

form of sociopolitical organization. MacEachern 

(chap. 11) presents the most introspective 

piece, questioning his own past assumptions 

regarding settlement and change in the Mandara 

(Cameroon) landscape. 

As with any edited volume, some chapters 

are inevitably stronger than others; however, 

this compilation is both rich in the depth of 

analysis provided in each chapter as well as 

the geographical range covered within West 

Africa. Each chapter can stand on its own as a 

separate paper, while simultaneously adhering to 

the editors’ goals, as the chapters each examine 

aspects of the impact of Atlantic entanglement 

on the landscape at multiple scales and degrees. 

The contributors present a rich set of examples 

of how power is exhibited in the landscape 

through settlement strategies, town layout, 

architecture, and material culture distribution. 

The concluding remarks include the perspective 

of historian Kea, who states that the researchers 

demonstrate that “a landscape is a site of 

agency” (p. 342). This closing argument accurately 

points to the richness of landscape studies 

in understanding the complex nature of power, 

resistance, authority, and political realignment 

driven by shifting commercial spheres. Power 

and Landscape in Atlantic West Africa is an overdue 

addition to African Atlantic and Atlantic 

World studies more broadly. The emphasis on 

transformation in West Africa during the Atlantic 

era provides a counterbalance to the dominant 

Americanist perspective and focus on the


African diaspora within historical archaeology of 

the African Atlantic world. The further appeal 

to historians of Africa’s recent past regarding 

lines of inquiry and the role of archaeology in 

historiography expands the potential influence 

of this text beyond historical archaeological 

circles. The editors should be commended for 

developing a tightly focused yet broadly relevant 

collection of essays. 

Liza Gijanto 


St. Mary’s College of Maryland 

18952 E. Fisher Road 

St. Mary’s City, MD 20686-3001

205 

New Philadelphia: An Archaeology 

of Race in the Heartland 

Paul A. Shackel 

University of California Press, 

Berkeley, 2011. 207 pp., 45 figs., 

5 tables. $29.95 paper. 

This volume reports on the first phase of 

the well-known New Philadelphia Archaeological 

Project centering on the town of 

New Philadelphia, Illinois—the “first known 

town established, platted, and registered by 

an African American” (p. xv). Founded by 

“Free Frank” McWorter in 1836, the multiracial 

town existed in some form into the 

20th century, and Shackel’s book describes 

the first three years of what is now a multiyear 

collaborative research project involving 

Christopher Fennell, Terrance Martin, Anna 

Agbe-Davies, and others. In 11 short, readable 

chapters, Shackel describes the way the 

town was settled, as well as how it expanded 

and later declined. He also explores the contemporary 

issues that emerged as a result of 

the archaeology project, the process of listing 

the town on the National Register of Historic 

Places, and a later successful effort to honor it 

with National Landmark status. Some chapters 

focus specifically on the archaeology that took 

place in three field seasons, and all include 

some aspects of the historical research that 

took place throughout. Every chapter also, to 

one degree or another, describes how concerns 

with race and power emerged during 

all phases of the work, and how members of 

various publics, descendants and otherwise, 

changed and enhanced the research process. 

Even though the book is linear with respect 

to the three years of archaeological research 

it covers (which is dealt with sequentially, by 

field season), the narrative is rich with description 

about process, and the archaeological and 

historical data are woven into a narrative that 

never abandons or ignores the contemporary 

context of its construction. There is no “just 

so” story here. There is instead a rich tapestry 

of scientific archaeology, historical narrative, 

“public archaeology” in its broadest form, 

commentary about the effects of racialized 

society and race-based oppression on past 

and present, and personal reflection. Shackel 

says that he hopes that the book will be a 

“useful model where race is central or even 

peripheral in a project” (p. xxi), and he succeeds 

in this goal. 

Some of the findings from the New 

Philadelphia Project have already been published 

(e.g., Fennell, Christopher C., Terrence 

J. Martin, and Paul A. Shackel [editors], New 

Philadelphia: Racism, Community, and the Illinois 

Frontier, Thematic Issue, Historical Archaeology 

44[1], 2010), and more will undoubtedly 

follow, so this volume can be seen as an 

important part of what will eventually become 

a much larger narrative in historical archeology. 

It stands on its own, however, especially 

with respect to Shackel’s nuanced discussion of 

some of the “stakeholder” issues that emerged 

early on in this project, which have apparently 

abated somewhat since the book’s publication, 

but not disappeared. One of archaeology’s 

ethical mandates is to fully report on research, 

and Shackel reports on the entire research 

process—both the “positive/feel good” parts of 

it as well as the more “negative/painful” parts. 

His respectful account of “what happened” is 

a model for transparent, candid, yet respectful 

and sensitive, reporting. 

Several aspects of the writing were 

particularly effective. Historical data is 

woven in with archaeological data and public 

interpretations, as is narrative about the 

research process—the “what happened when,” 

which makes for interesting reading. The work 

of individual project participants, including 

students, is discussed by name, with full credit 

given—student work is not marginalized or 

appropriated in any way. Information about 

archaeological method is also provided for 

those who want to know about unit sizes, 

depth of plow zones, excavation procedures, 

and other details of the specific phases of 

fieldwork. Examples were provided that 




illustrate clearly how archaeology can provide 

new information that is often not available 

elsewhere. As noted above, the archaeological 

information was organized by research years, 

but within that basic scheme it was organized 

by the name of the families who lived at each 

place excavated. People in the past were not 

treated as abstract entities in the archaeological 

account, but as agents with full and rich lives. 

The steps involved in applying for National 

Science Foundation funds and, later, achieving 

National Register and National Landmark 

status were detailed with clear references to 

national politics and named players—the book 

could be a primer for that sort of work on any 

project. Personal reflections about race were 

shared in meaningful ways—this was not navelgazing, 

and every personal reflection informed 

and enhanced specific observations about 

race, racism, oppression, Jim Crow, census 

data, “sundown towns,” racial “harmony,” the 

effect of racism on community development 

and decline, and other topics. The discussion 

of different material culture categories, with 

respect to consumer choices and ethnicity, was 

particularly thorough. 

The field-school classes, and the discussions 

that took place within them, showed clearly 

how doing this sort of archaeology can change 

people and attitudes—for example, some 

students began global-justice work as a result 

of their work in New Philadelphia. Public 

events—reunions, tours, talks, meetings— 

were described as a necessary part of the 

archaeological process, not marginalized 

to something that happens “later on” or 

peripherally to “real” archaeology. These events 

included discussions about difficult topics, such 

as the need to “create a color-conscious past 

rather than a color-blind past” (p. 115). This 

public archaeology went well beyond artifact 

show-and-tell. All of this was compelling and 

interesting to read. 

I only have two quibbles—very minor 

ones, easily fixed in future editions. First, 

the presence of the McWorter family tree 

(inserted in the appendix but not referred to 

in the narrative) needs to be made clearer. 

Second, because of the way that various data 

and events are interwoven (which is, as noted 

above, a positive feature of the writing) a project 

timeline would be useful. This would also 

make it clearer that this book covers only the 

first three years of the multiyear project—this 

is not hidden, but also somewhat confusing 

unless one knows something about the project 

before reading the book. 

This is an interesting and useful book, 

highly recommended for lay, student, or professional 

audiences. 

Carol McDavid 


Rice University 

Community Archaeology Research Institute, Inc. 

PO Box 131261 

Houston, TX 77219-1261

207 

Archaeological Theory in Practice 

Patricia Urban and Edward 

Schortman 


2012. 334 pp., 37 figs., 3 tables, 

gloss., bib., index. $34.95 paper. 

In Archaeological Theory in Practice Patricia 

Urban and Edward Schortman present a 

coherent argument for the justification and 

application of theory to archaeology. Throughout 

the book there is an emphasis on overarching 

theoretical frameworks rather than 

individual theorists. This book is intended for 

students embarking on their first exploration 

of archaeology, who already possess a working 

knowledge of the development of the 

discipline. The book concludes with several 

archaeological case studies including Mesopotamia, 

Stonehenge, and the authors’ own work 

in the Naco Valley of Honduras. 

The opening two chapters focus on establishing 

a definition of theory and its application 

in the social sciences. Urban and Schortman 

explain that theories take several forms 

with various levels of complexity. There are 

low-, middle-, and high-level theories that 

can challenge students to conduct multilayered 

analysis (p. 21). Urban and Schortman present 

a good argument that theories can coexist and 

do not always have to be competing. Theories 

make “it easier to talk about and imagine the 

world in certain ways, but they do not prevent 

us from pursuing other modes of perceiving, 

thinking and talking” (p. 44). 

Chapter 3 narrows the focus to 

archaeological theory, specifically, four main 

archaeological schools of thought are discussed 

at some length, they are cultural history, 

processualism, Marxism, and interpretivism (p. 

68). The antiquarian movement is glossed over 

briefly, only to be referenced later in the book 

on several occasions primarily concerning the 

discussion of Stonehenge (p. 174). To students 

unfamiliar with the early history of archaeology 

these allusions may lead to confusion. To 

the authors’ credit they discuss the interplay 

of archaeological movements within the 

framework of larger cultural trends, such as 

modernism and romanticism. The emphasis on 

the dialogue between archaeology and wider 

cultural trends of Western thought is the 

strength of this book. Often a field of study 

is divorced from wider cultural movements, 

which, at times, gives the false impression of 

spontaneous development. 

One minor shortcoming of the volume is 

the misuse of the word “concise” in the summary 

of the book on the back cover. With 

three extended case studies, the purpose of the 

book to demonstrate theory’s application in the 

field is lost in the diversity of facts regarding 

the specific examples of archaeology in Mesopotamia, 

Stonehenge, and the Naco Valley. 

These case studies occupy chapters 5 through 

9. In their attempt to intrigue students with 

divergent interests, the authors occasionally 

wander from their central argument. 

Chapters 8 and 9 focus on Urban and 

Schortman’s excavations in the Naco Valley. 

Throughout these chapters the authors discuss 

how they used theories to guide their thought, 

occasionally misguide them, and how newer 

theories led to insights and, in the end, to 

greater understanding regarding their site. The 

“Naco Valley of AD 825, as seen from 2011, 

bears little resemblance to how the valley 

looked to us in 1979. ... What we can say with 

confidence is that the above reconstruction 

[that of 2011] is almost certainly closer to the 

messy, shifting realities that all residents of the 

Naco Valley faced in AD 825 than the earlier 

versions we have outlined” (p. 289). Through 

the case study of the Naco Valley, readers 

are able to follow the theoretical evolution of 

Urban and Schortman’s work from processual 

and cultural history to world-system theory 

and practice theory (p. 299). In a field that 

often feels built on developing one coherent 

and concise interpretation, it is refreshing to 

see some archaeologists placing an emphasis 

on the evolving nature of interpretations. The 

authors also draw on theories from far afield 




and not just from their specific area of study; 

in a classroom setting this could lead to a 

discussion of the reasons for cross-cultural 

comparison. 

This is an approachable book that students 

may enjoy reading. The glossary and 

bolded terms help draw the eye to important 

names and people. There are sidebars 

throughout the book explaining theories and 

individual theorists. The sidebars are very 

useful for reviewing concepts, but they do 

upset the flow of reading. Instructors will 

find the text very approachable for students 

of various academic levels. It would work 

well in courses of all levels, but a senior-level 

class with talented students might be a touch 

bored. The text would serve well if read prior 

to tackling an anthology of archaeological 

theory in a class setting. 

Urban and Schortman succeeded in creating 

a textbook exploring the application 

of theories during fieldwork. Their volume 

would be a good opening for students to 

enter the conversation on the application of 

theory during fieldwork. The text is approachable 

without talking down to students. The 

authors’ use of case studies provides real-world 

examples that are far more interesting than 

a purely theoretical discussion. The book’s 

ability to ground the theoretical discussion in 

the wider historical and cultural context is its 

strongest asset. It serves as a leading point for 

the discussion of the evolution of theory itself. 

Urban and Schortman’s Archaeological Theory 

in Practice provides a coherent and insightful 

discussion of theory and would be a resource 

in any archaeological theory class. 

Katherine Ambry Linhein Muller 



400 Cedar Avenue 

West Long Branch, NJ 07764-1898

209 

An Isolated Frontier Outpost: 

Historical and Archaeological 

Investigations of the Carrizo Creek 

Stage Station 

Stephen R. Van Wormer, Sue 

Wade, Susan D. Walter, and 

Susan Arter 

California Department of Parks and 

Recreation, Archaeology, History 

and Museums Division Publications 

in Cultural Heritage, No. 29, 

Sacramento, 2012. 194 pp., 74 illus., 

24 tables, bib. $15.00 paper. 

A report title that includes the phrase 

“Carrizo Creek Stage Station” brings to mind 

movies set in the desert West that feature 

stage stops threatened by outlaws or rampaging 

Native Americans, films such as Stagecoach 

(1939) (“Dry Fork” and others en route to 

“Lordsburg”) and She Wore a Yellow Ribbon 

(1949) (Indians attack “Sudro Wells”). 

This report deals with a real stage stop, 

Carrizo Creek, on the Great Southern Route 

in far southeastern California close to the 

Mexican border. This site saw thousands of 

immigrants pass through, as they were heading 

west to the gold fields, and saw thousands 

more livestock headed west to feed them. 

This publication, a reworking of the original 

2007 contract report, is a result of efforts 

by California Parks and Recreation to preserve 

and protect the evidence of this genuine stage 

stop. There are four main sections: chapter 3, 

“Historical Background”; chapter 6, “Results”; 

chapter 7, “Artifact Identifications”; and chapter 

8, “Artifact Synthesis and Interpretations.” 

The history discussion provides context, 

placing Carrizo as an important stop on the 

Butterfield Overland Stage Route from the 

Mississippi to Los Angeles and San Diego. 

This was because it had the first potable 

water (from a stream that ran only 2 mi. on 

the surface) after a particularly brutal crossing 

over 30 mi. of desert that over the years 

killed thousands of mules, oxen, and horses, 

and forced many parties to abandon their 

equipment. 

The historical background is enlivened by 

the use of numerous “then” and “now” paired 

photographs of the site and the area, by period 

paintings and engravings of the vicinity, and by 

stark accounts by military and civilian travelers 

passing along the Carrizo Corridor. There are 

numerous maps, although it might have been 

useful to have a larger-scale map that shows 

the larger relationship between the Carrizo 

Creek site and the routes to the east and west. 

The description of the architectural discoveries 

at this site in the “Results” chapter 

is useful, as the site has been severely damaged 

by machine leveling and subsequent flash 

flooding. The archaeological team unraveled 

a complex stratigraphy, generated by multiple 

occupations of the same space, that was preserved 

only in a 3 ft. tall rubble mound. 

They identified three structures, named 

A, B, and C. A was built first, and then C 

perhaps as a kitchen for A. They are very different 

in construction, though both are made 

of local materials. A is a rectangle built of 

adobe bricks on a foundation of cobbles, had 

a pebble and mortar floor, and was divided 

into two rooms, one with a fireplace. The roof 

was not much more than thatch. Paying close 

attention to soil stains, the team discovered C 

was evidently built as the regional jacal version 

of post-in-ground wattle and daub, with 

two small cobblestone hearths that contained 

largely Native American ground-stone artifacts 

and pottery sherds. C was at least rectilinear, 

but much of it had been destroyed by a severe 

erosion channel. The team also discovered pits 

(original functions not discussed) filled with 

discarded material culture of both European 

American and Native American origin. 

An important change in appearance of the 

stage station occurred when C was demolished 

and structure B was constructed over 

it. Although also damaged by the erosion 

cut, B is largely identical and parallel to A. 

One could not help but notice that the plans 




of A and B (30 ft. wide and 18 ft. deep), 

when combined with the 7 ft. wide hallway 

in between, present a floor plan remarkably 

similar to the proverbial pioneer dogtrot log 

house erected across the Eastern Woodlands 

and more commonly surviving today built of 

lumber or brick. 

The deliberate demolition of the jacal 

structure, an intrinsically regional statement, 

and its replacement by B, built of local materials 

and technology, to be sure, but the placement 

of which completes the open central-hall 

plan, seems to be a deliberate decision to 

transform a disorderly hodgepodge of spaces 

and building styles into an ordered landscape 

representative of and familiar to the “more 

civilized” travelers and employees from the 

Anglo-Americanized eastern U.S. and far West 

Coast. The effect was somewhat spoiled by 

the brown adobe walls and thatched flattish 

roof, but, at minimum, the benefits of the cool 

shaded “dogtrot” were probably appreciated by 

the people who lived there or passed by. 

Chapter 7 is a thorough description of the 

artifacts. Discoveries included a bone toothbrush 

handle with a Philadelphia maker’s mark; 

a transfer-printed lid to a ceramic toothpowder 

jar, also from Philadelphia; table wares from 

Staffordshire, some in sets; gin bottles with 

New York marks; window glass; wine-bottle 

fragments, including an absinthe bottle with a 

shoulder seal from a Swiss manufacturer; and 

95 nail fragments from the jacal structure. 

There were also fragments of Native American 

cooking vessels in structure B. More sherds 

were in the trash-filled pit, B4, that contains 

European American diagnostic artifacts dating 

the fill to the late 1850s and early 1860s, not 

incidentally the period of the Butterfield Stage 

operations, 1857–1861. 

There are some problems with aspects of 

the analysis of the artifact assemblage, perhaps 

because of the limited number of items 

recovered, no more than 400 items, excluding 

adobe and rock construction materials, 1,738 

nails or nail fragments, and 144 charred barley 

seeds. This is not adequate for comparative 

purposes as proposed in chapter 5, which discusses 

research design and methods of artifact 

analysis. Nonetheless, the authors explicitly 

chose to place their minimal finds, identified 

and catalogued according to an expanded set of 

Stanley South’s activity groups, into the confines 

of South’s quantitative “pattern analysis” 

and then into indices developed by George 

Miller and others to define “socioeconomic 

distinctions.” These are research questions that 

at best succeed to some degree only with large 

sample sizes. 

One must therefore question interpretations 

when the authors conclude differing room functions 

for the two rooms in structure A based 

on the total number of artifacts recovered from 

each room, evidently fewer than 75 items (and 

there is no discussion of how the items ended 

up on or in the pebble-and-mortar floor). 

Seeking only pattern analysis also obscures 

the discussion of the “munitions group.” Given 

that this group dominates the total artifact 

assemblage at 20.42%, excluding building materials 

and nails, it seems to confirm the Wild 

West image of violence and gun play. The 

travelers’ accounts note that practically everyone 

passing through Carrizo Station was armed 

against Native Americans and outlaws, often 

with multiple blades and firearms. However, of 

109 artifacts in this group, 89 are fragments of 

percussion caps, with no estimate of the minimum 

numbers of intact or fired caps, or even 

types, represented. There is no mention that 

these may simply be lost or damaged merchandise 

(modern caps are sold in packages of 100 

or more). Even if one includes the seemingly 

high number of percussion-cap fragments, the 

range of munitions-related items, from two 

French gun flints and a possible English flint, 

to a minié ball, to lead shot, is not much different 

than what one finds on farmsteads from 

the mid-19th century back East. It is in fact 

astonishing how few munitions-group items 

were recovered, with travelers and inhabitants 

reportedly so well armed. 

Nor should it be a surprise that when 

authors calculated ceramics indices they were 

only able to conclude, weakly, that in comparison 

with four other sites in California of 

similar dates, the occupants of Carrizo were 

no different in this regard than other middleincome 

households on the West Coast. If this 

is the case on such an unusual, dynamic, and 

clearly multiethnic transit locus such as a stage 

station, of what use are such indices? The Carrizo 

site’s table wares do look quite ordinary for 

a mid-19th century occupation anywhere to the

211 

east, including painted wares in the small floral 

patterns sometimes called “cornflower,” red and 

flow-blue transfer-printed vessels, and reliefmolded 

pieces. This is yet another indication 

how pervasive the products of British ceramics 

manufacturers were around the world. 

There is also the question of interpreting 

the Native American ground-stone tools 

and ceramics recovered at the site amidst 

all the European American material culture. 

The Native American artifacts are thoroughly 

described, even to noting that eight of the vessels 

present were likely imported from near the 

Colorado River area to the east. When combined 

with the foodways data from the faunal 

analysis, the predominance of regional Hispanic 

and Native American cuisine is as clear as with 

the technology used in the architecture. Now 

one knows more is implied than the passing 

reference that at least one of the Butterfield 

stationmasters, Mailland, had a Native American 

wife (p. 145). The household now looks a 

bit different, indeed, than other middle-income 

households. 

Finally, there is the label of “isolated frontier 

outpost.” It is assumed that the category 

fits, but the issue is not addressed directly. 

Today the site is in the middle of nowhere, but 

in the past it was on the main road from somewhere 

to somewhere else. The nearest stations 

were no more than 30 mi. away at maximum. 

It is becoming more and more difficult to 

sustain labels of “isolation” or what isolated 

might mean in the past when one finds British 

ceramics on the most deserted islands in 

the Pacific and Chinese porcelain all over the 

Anglo world. That label does speak to the 

need for reflexive archaeology so that one’s 

own assumptions do not mislead. 

This report is a fine example of where 

focus on a single site can provide information 

on a series of once-crucial sites that no 

longer exist. The archaeological fieldwork 

shows how much can be preserved in spite 

of heavy machinery and flash floods. One can 

look forward to further analysis of the artifacts 

to answer some of the questions raised above. 

The information generated by this project is 

significant in many ways and should be read 

and used by historians, archaeologists, and 

anyone interested in the actual people, places, 

and events in the desert West. 

Not incidentally, the report also says much 

about the integration of Hispanic, Native 

American, and Anglo-American cultures. Being 

an “American” is and has been a complex 

identity to wear. 

Leslie C. Stewart-Abernathy 

Arkansas Archaeological Survey 

Winthrop Rockefeller Institute 

1 Rockefeller Drive 

Petit Jean Mountain 

Morrilton, AR 72110


The Archaeology of Colonialism: 

Intimate Encounters and 

Sexual Effects 

Barbara L. Voss and Eleanor 

Conlin Casella (editors) 

Cambridge University Press, New 

York, NY, 2011. 350 pp., 70 illus., 

5 tables, refs., index. $99.00 cloth, 

$36.99 paper. 

This short review cannot do justice to 

the complexity of this volume, which provides 

diverse case studies exemplifying theory and/ 

or methods for interrelating private and public 

sensual, intimate, emotional, sexual, gendered, 

social, and/or embodied meanings of colonial 

material culture. The focus on the cultural 

pervasiveness of sexual relationships is related 

in most cases to the broader context of gender 

power dynamics. Casella and Voss’s chapter distinguishes 

colonialism from imperialism. Sexuality 

is broadly defined to include “socialities” and 

“affects” of “embodied and expressive human 

intimacies,” from the “parental” to “seductive,” 

“non-normative,” “involuntary,” and “exploitative.” 

However, many embodied intimacies that 

are sensual, emotional, and/or social, are not 

sexual. For instance, European imperial parent/ 

child relationships are usually considered gender 

relations because they did not normatively 

involve sex. Because this volume is focused 

on sexuality, it does not define gender and its 

complex relationships to sexuality. 

Voss’s chapter discusses how the volume 

aims to “forge a strong connection between” 

archaeological research on colonization, and 

feminist and postcolonial scholarship. She 

draws ungendered models of colonialism from 

homogenizing postcolonial theory, concepts of 

culturally contingent constructions of variable 

sexualities from queer theory, applies social 

agency theory to colonized women, and discusses 

the close relationship between colonial 

binary gender systems, imposed heterosexuality, 

and racism; but does not discuss the especially 

relevant feminist critiques of ungendered 

postcolonial theory and feminist theorizing 

of internal colonialism affecting intersecting 

gender, sexual, racial, and class power dynamics. 

Postcolonial theory and research are critiqued 

for neglecting material culture. 

Out of 19 chapters, two analyze material 

depictions of sexuality: (1) López-Bertran 

speculatively interprets Punic colonial votive 

figurines as representing three genders/sexes, as 

well as sex and male masturbation performed 

in rituals at a Spanish-island well shrine; and 

(2) Weismantel discusses the modern colonialism 

of museums protecting Peruvian Moche 

sex-depicting pots from handling that sheds 

light on their uses. Voss traces archaeological 

research on sexual effects of empire to 

early classical and Egyptian archaeology, and 

discusses their effects on modern concepts of 

sexuality and its regulation. Unfortunately, no 

chapters analyze Egyptian, Greek, or Roman 

imperial depictions of sexuality. The volume’s 

focus on colonialism is not related to brothel 

or domestic sites where excavations have recovered 

artifacts pertaining to sexual acts. 

In most chapters information about intangible 

sexual effects of colonialism is gained 

from documents. A few chapters lacking documentary 

or other evidence speculate on past 

sexualities, such as the possibility of homosexuality 

among Brazilian maroons (Funari) 

and López-Bertran’s speculations about sex in 

Punic rituals. Most important are the documented 

colonialist sexual and gendered meanings 

and uses of material culture. For instance, 

Shepherd considers the possible colonial pornographic 

eroticism of photographing burials 

of South African “Bushmen” and taking “scientific” 

sexual measurements of living “Bushmen” 

prior to their exhibition at public fairs, 

where their near nudity was photographically 

exploited. Rubertone discusses two unusual 

gravemarkers of Narragansett leaders’ wives 

who were friends of colonists and the social 

agency of Narragansett women in commemorating 

King Philip’s War at the monument 

erected by European American men to their 

victory in Kingston, Rhode Island. 



213 

Some chapters discuss how documented 

colonial gender policies and nonsexual labor 

regimes promoted or prohibited certain sexual 

relations, affecting procreation, and materialized 

domestic or social groups. For instance, 

colonial policies structuring labor led to 

gender segregation of male workers both in 

the Spanish presidio in San Francisco and in 

later Chinatown tenements in San Jose, where 

Voss interpreted the tensions between collective 

homosocial living and individuality from 

the uniqueness of opium pipes and ceramics 

peckmarked with Chinese names. Weiss discusses 

how the segregation of male miners 

in penal barracks at South African mines led 

them to court younger miners with gifts, such 

as dresses and jewelry, to become “wives” in 

homosexual relationships, employing blankets 

around beds for privacy. Weiss contends historical 

archaeology is always about production 

and reproduction, but she actually researches 

documentation and excavated remains of men’s 

consumer choices in the barracks and in an 

earlier miners’ tent hotel that emulated Victorian 

domesticity in tableware. Dawdy discusses 

how French laws permitting the female-owned 

and -operated hospitality industry in New 

Orleans led travelers, predominantly men, 

to perceive the city as expressing feminine 

sexuality. Dawdy excavated women’s hospitality 

sites outside the red-light district, interestingly 

arguing against the sexual interpretation that 

prostitutes used the large numbers of rouge 

pots found at the Rising Sun Hotel site, 

because male dandies also wore rouge in the 

19th century. 

Many chapters show how ordinary material 

culture is related to interethnic mating 

and/or procreation, sometimes involving 

women’s social agency in the context of 

colonial labor relations. Garraffoni found that 

gravestone inscriptions of Roman gladiators, 

paid for by wives, were more detailed concerning 

their careers and ethnicity in Spain 

than in Rome. Croucher uses oral histories to 

interpret a well-constructed house with a lot 

of jewelry as belonging to a concubine at a 

Muslim colonial clove plantation in Zanzibar. 

Tarble de Scaramelli researched how Jesuit 

missions on the Orinoco River in Venezuela 

allowed indigenous women to negotiate 

upward social mobility through mating with 

male colonists, conversion to Catholicism, 

ceramic commodity production for personal 

economic gain, acquisition of European 

status display items that were excavated from 

indigenous women’s graves, and a shift in 

excavated settlements from polygynous to 

monogamous households with individual-size 

dishes. Loren discusses the documented fear 

and desire generated among male colonists in 

French Louisiana by the sensual ways Indian 

women wore trade beads and other items of 

adornment excavated. Hull argued for widespread 

intermarriage between male colonists 

and indigenous women in California’s Yosemite 

Valley based on demographic estimates of 

rapid indigenous-population increase following 

European-disease epidemics. Frequent sexual 

relationships were documented in colonial 

Honduras, where indigenous-warrior masculinity 

resisting colonization was evident from 

many excavated projectile points (Russell, 

Blaisdell-Sloan, Joyce). Colonial leaders documented 

their unsuccessful attempts to stop 

male colonists from “going native.” Delgado 

and Ferrer’s excavations of two western Phoenician 

colonial cemeteries found indigenous 

women and their cooking pots were excluded 

from elite lineage-based southern Iberian 

tombs, but were included among standardized 

Sicilian burials that expressed multiethnic 

hybridity. 

Some case studies found evidence of 

mating that was forbidden by colonial laws 

or policies, such as the Spanish woman captured 

and married by an indigenous leader in 

Honduras. Voss discusses documentary and 

archaeological evidence of Spanish military 

men’s common illegal practice of raping Indian 

women. Casella researched colonial Australian 

documents describing how convict women 

who were assigned to work in male-dominated 

households and ranches were returned to 

prison when they committed the sinful crime 

of becoming pregnant out of wedlock. The 

criminal influence of convict mothers on their 

children was prevented by segregating infants 

in walled nursery wards where the mothers 

could hear but not see their infants, who 

were called “Little Bastard Felons” and suffered 

from documented physical abuse, theft of 

their food, high mortality, and, from excavated 

evidence, a lack of of toys.


Hall’s commentary compares book chapters 

to develop a generalized methodology for 

analyzing the intangible and tangible, normative 

and transgressive, sexual effects of colonialism. 

This book provides useful methods that 

encourage further research on interrelated 

ephemeral and material sexual and gendered 

effects of colonialism. 

Suzanne M. Spencer-Wood 

Department of Sociology, Anthroplogy, and 

Social Work 

Oakland University 

Rochester Hills, MI 48309 

Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology 

Harvard University 

Cambridge, MA 02138

Reviews 46(4) - Society for Historical Archaeology

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