Can archaeologists and weekend relic-hunters find common ground in the search for Civil War knowledge?
I can’t help but feel a bit nervous as the two men approach, wearing full Army fatigues adorned with patches, formidable-looking in their combat boots and aviator sunglasses. It’s a sunny April morning in the sleepy town of Orange, Va., and Civil War aficionados Steve Sylvia and Larry Jackson are about to introduce me to the world of relic-hunting. My apprehension quickly subsides when we meet—I later learn that relic-hunting in fatigues is a good way to dissuade curious onlookers—and we climb into Sylvia’s big red Ford, headed for nearby Montpelier, President James Madison’s palatial estate. We’re scheduled to meet with Matt Reeves, head of Montpelier’s archaeology program, who is spearheading a program aimed at mending fences between archaeologists and relic-hunters—two groups that share a passion for artifacts and, all too often, an intense mutual disregard.
Earlier this year, I earned my master’s degree in historical archaeology. I am, in fact, well-steeped both in the field’s traditional and current methods, from meticulous note-taking to the use of the latest geographical information systems mapping software. I wield my trowel with deadly accuracy in a test pit, and can dig down a perfect 30 centimeters using just my instincts and a shovel. In my world, relic-hunters usually are considered little more than high-tech grave robbers, but I suppose that they in turn view archaeologists as overeducated snobs who are all convinced their own tedious methods are the only approach to take. Today I’ll see these two worlds collide when I try my hand at relic-hunting for the first time.
During the short drive to Montpelier, Jackson, a retired civilian fingerprint examiner, explains what he believes pulls so many people to the metal-detecting community: “Everyone from bikers to high-powered doctors can come together and share a passion for history. Nobody gets judged.”
Among relic-hunters, Civil War artifacts are by far the most desirable, and well-preserved and complete Civil War relics can fetch a high price from the right bidder—as much as $15,000 for a breastplate in good condition. Bullets, Minié balls, buttons and other trinkets can fetch a cool $50 each, even more if the regiment and state can be identified. However, many relic-hunters have cashed out big time after finding diamond rings, antique jewelry or other highly prized items forgotten in the ground. Archaeologists, on the other hand, do not dig artifacts for their monetary value, as all artifacts are considered intrinsically valuable because of the clues they provide to a site’s historical context. Ceramics and glass, for example, can be traced to their place of manufacture and precisely dated, so they are valuable finds in an archaeological sense, but are worth little to nothing on the open market.
We meet up with Reeves in Montpelier’s archaeology lab— little more than a converted house with the usual stacks of papers, books and familiar research tools, smelling strongly of coffee and old paper. Reeves has been head of archaeology since 2000, and he puts the goal of the Montpelier metal-detecting project simply: better communication. “If we as archaeologists can’t get relic-hunters excited about what we’re doing, then there’s no way the public will get excited,” he muses. “The biggest problem between our communities is that we are using the same words, but speaking an entirely different language. If we can’t speak to each other, then we’re all lost in translation, and everybody loses: archaeologists, relic-hunters and especially the public.”
Reeves and Lance Crosby, the metal detector technician at Montpelier, have created a program known as “The Metal Detector Expeditions” that teaches metal detectorists how to discover and identify site patterns, familiarize themselves with artifact groups other than metal objects and use archaeological survey methods. The program, aided by the metal detector company MineLab Americas, began in 2012. Since then other historical parks have founded similar programs to allow for responsible metal detecting on historic lands.
To get a look at the project, we leave the lab and drive back to the expansive front yard of the Montpelier estate, where we meet up with Crosby. Since 2008, he has been helping the archaeologists survey the vast 2,650-acre estate for evidence of several home sites, road traces, Civil War encampments and the original James Madison property lines. The most recent group of trainees in his certificate program is looking for “hits” within the 10-meter squares staked throughout Montpelier’s west lawn. This meticulous sweep will eventually cover all of Montpelier’s front lawn, in hopes of discovering the original round carriage road that led guests to the front door of the Madisons’ home.
What initially looked like a random assortment of red, blue and pink flags developed under Crosby’s guidance into a cohesive map. Evenly spaced 10-meter squares were marked at their corners with red flags, and any blue flag marked a hit on a metal detector. The locations with the highest numbers of hits were tested for metals, and the first results suggested the possible site of a blacksmith and a late Civil War encampment. But the excavation was in the early stages; more extensive study will be conducted in coming months.
Sylvia and Jackson enjoyed finding out about the current and future use of metal detectors on the Montpelier site, and said they would be sure to pass on information about the certificate program to their friends and fellow relic-hunters.
Now it was time for my first relic hunt.
With the columns of Montpelier in Sylvia’s rear-view mirror, we were on the road to do some detecting on property owned by one of his friends. (While the rules for whether metal-detecting is permitted on public lands and federally protected parks vary from state to state, it is always allowed on private land, as long as the owner has given permission.)
I felt that it was a good time to confess a dirty secret: In my 2009 field school I was taught how to use a metal detector on an archaeological site. My classmates and I didn’t find anything beyond bottle caps, beer cans and shotgun shells, but it was a fun technology to learn and use. On later excavations, I quickly learned how abnormal my field school experience was; none of my fellow technicians knew how to hold one, let alone use it. Some regarded the machine with Luddite-like hostility, clutching tighter to their Marshalltown trowels. Thus I learned never to bring it up, but I always wondered how different some excavations might have been if we could have detected our boundaries with more than a shovel.
After winding through several cow fields, we reached the property we would be searching. Peeking into Sylvia’s truck revealed two well-fielded metal detectors, complete with battery pack additions and even a back harness for stability. Armed in addition with two pointed shovels, candy bars and enthusiasm, we marched out to a sunny spot. Jackson gave me a quick rundown of the various settings metal detectors can run at and what each sound means. Wearing headphones, I listened to the PACMAN sounding “wham-WHAM, whamWHAM” of a steady detect versus the less desired “wham-wham [pause] wham-wham,” indicating a smaller or more corroded object. After adjustments had been made and headphones finely tuned, Jackson and Sylvia began slowly sweeping the field, keeping a good distant apart. During the sweep, Sylvia educated me on the ways in which relic-hunters record their finds out in the field, so as not to lose the historical context in which they were discovered. He pinpointed his finds on self-drawn maps and groups collections together via their location. Some hunters use global positioning system coordinates to record finds and keep databases of locational data, while others organize personal collections via the battlefield where the artifacts were found. Sylvia’s methods are not as precise as the methods I learned, but they are analogous.
It didn’t take long for Jackson to have a steady hit. When his shovel struck ground, my inner archaeologist screeched and I nearly stopped him to grab my trowel out of my pack. But my excitement at maybe finding a regimental button or a bullet quickly shushed me. In that moment, the thrill of the find overshadowed all differences.
Sadly, it was not a button or a bullet, but a corroded piece of wire. While digging, Jackson had been unable to pinpoint the location of the beep with his detector, so he unsheathed his Garrett Pro-pointer to precisely locate the sound. I am rarely wowed by new technology, but seeing the accuracy of the pin-pointer to within 2 or 3 inches was incredible. If there is any piece of technology the field of archaeology should embrace, it should be that. While Jackson continued to sweep the field, determined to find me a bullet, Sylvia and I stomped around the woods just outside of the fence looking for the depressions that wartime encampments leave on the landscape. Since I was unfamiliar with Civil War or battlefield landscape archaeology, it took a little while for my eyes to catch sight of the rises and depressions that denoted regimental tent locations, but once you see them, they’re everywhere.
Leaving the cow field empty-handed, we drove to the far end of the property to an old home site that has since been razed. From there Sylvia and Jackson fiddled with their detectors again and we set out along an old road that wound its way back into the woods. Making a hard right up an embankment and trekking through a 19th-century trash dump—which the archaeologist in me couldn’t pass without looking at the interesting glass fragments—we stumbled into the middle of a Civil War campsite. My newly trained eye picked up on at least 10 obvious depressions and rises in the ground, demarking where soldiers’ tents once sat.
Everywhere we walked, I noticed more. This site had been hunted on several times in the past, and as Sylvia swept across the ground, he expressed a keen interest in what a rich archaeological area this would likely be, given the density of the campsites and our understanding that, each time they broke camp, soldiers would toss their ashes, trash and other odds and ends into pits at the back of their tent platforms.
By the end of the day, we still hadn’t found anything. But I came away with a lot to think about. There are no easy ways to bridge the rift between archaeologists and relic-hunters. What we must remember is that we share a passion for uncovering and preserving our American history. I implore archaeologists to embrace a technology that will only become more precise in the future. We cannot afford to be left behind to play catch-up with a growing field of innovative hobbyists.
On the other hand, relic-hunters, “diggers,” metal-detector hobbyists and others must respect the laws wherever they’re searching—for the good of the artifacts. Many times artifacts are safer and better protected in the ground, in a chemical environment where they have stabilized since being deposited. More must be done to curb scofflaw relic-hunters who sometimes draw criticism to the practice as a whole.
Though archaeologists and relic-hunters should be close allies in the work to protect and preserve our common heritage, our perceived differences and misunderstandings have driven us into unproductive opposition. We can all benefit from learning more about each other.
Lily Kleppertknoop, a graduate of the Historical Archaeology Master’s Program at William and Mary College, recently interned at Civil War Times.
Originally published in the October 2013 issue of Civil War Times. To subscribe, click here.
