Historical Archaeology in the Twenty-First Century: Lessons from Colonial Williamsburg [1 ed.] 9780813057934, 9780813069050

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Historical Archaeology in the Twenty-First Century

University Press of Florida Florida A&M University, Tallahassee Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton Florida Gulf Coast University, Ft. Myers Florida International University, Miami Florida State University, Tallahassee New College of Florida, Sarasota University of Central Florida, Orlando University of Florida, Gainesville University of North Florida, Jacksonville University of South Florida, Tampa University of West Florida, Pensacola

Historical Archaeology in the Twenty-First Century Lessons from Colonial Williamsburg Edited by

Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards Foreword by Jack Gary

University Press of Florida Gainesville · Tallahassee · Tampa · Boca Raton Pensacola · Orlando · Miami · Jacksonville · Ft. Myers · Sarasota

Copyright 2021 by Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards All rights reserved Published in the United States of America 26 25 24 23 22 21

6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Edwards-Ingram, Ywone, 1961– editor. | Edwards, Andrew C., editor. | Gary, Jack, author of foreword. Title: Historical archaeology in the twenty-first century : lessons from Colonial Williamsburg / edited by Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards ; foreword by Jack Gary. Other titles: Historical archaeology in the 21st century : lessons from Colonial Williamsburg Description: 1. | Gainesville : University Press of Florida, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021027302 (print) | LCCN 2021027303 (ebook) | ISBN 9780813069050 (hardback) | ISBN 9780813057934 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Archaeology and history—Virginia—Williamsburg. | Colonial Williamsburg (Williamsburg, Va.)—History. | Colonial Williamsburg (Williamsburg, Va.)—Antiquities. | Colonial Williamsburg (Williamsburg, Va.)—Social life and customs—History. | BISAC: SOCIAL SCIENCE / Archaeology | SOCIAL SCIENCE / Anthropology / General Classification: LCC F234.W7 H57 2021 (print) | LCC F234.W7 (ebook) | DDC 975.5/4252—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021027302 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021027303 The University Press of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State University System of Florida, comprising Florida A&M University, Florida Atlantic University, Florida Gulf Coast University, Florida International University, Florida State University, New College of Florida, University of Central Florida, University of Florida, University of North Florida, University of South Florida, and University of West Florida. University Press of Florida 2046 NE Waldo Road Suite 2100 Gainesville, FL 32609 http://upress.ufl.edu

Andrew Carlton Edwards August 18, 1949–January 19, 2021 Andy on holiday in Prague, Czech Republic, September 2013. Photograph taken by his husband, Robert T. Lyon, and used with permission.

This book is dedicated with great appreciation to Andrew Carlton Edwards, who saw the volume in its final form before he had to leave. His inspirations and insights shine throughout its pages as clear and vivid statements of his life, service, and contributions to historical archaeology and to the spirit, fruits, and possibilities of collaboration, diversity, and inclusion. Andy, as he was affectionately known, was “always there” in any weather and in any situation: steadfast, reliable, yet flexible, showing unwavering empathy and understanding in the most difficult circumstances. He was well known and loved in many circles, both professional and personal. Andy always came through and worked tirelessly. His achievements in Williamsburg, especially at Colonial Williamsburg, but also for the City as a member of its Architectural Review Board and its Planning Commission, are heralded as invaluable contributions to the fields of archaeology, public history, and historical reconstruction.

Contents List of Figures ix List of Maps xi List of Tables xiii Foreword xv Acknowledgments xvii A Word about the Maps xix Introduction 1 Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards Part I. Historical and Archaeological Overviews

1. From Middle Plantation to Modern Metropolis: Evolution and Change 11 Martha W. McCartney

2. Town and Gown Archaeology in Eighteenth-Century Williamsburg 28 Mark Kostro

3. Discovering What Counts: Ninety Years of Archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg 42 Meredith M. Poole and Patricia M. Samford Part II. Environmental, Biological, and Economic Studies

4. Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape 67 Joanne Bowen

5. “To be SOLD, for ready money”: Reconstructing Patterns of Human Predation, Marketing, and Oyster Exploitation 95 Dessa E. Lightfoot, Stephen C. Atkins, and Irvy R. Quitmyer

6. “Useful Ornaments to His Cabinet”: Analysis of Anatomical Study and Display in Colonial Williamsburg 116 Ellen Chapman

7. Architectural Reconstruction and the Importance of a Name 135 Andrew C. Edwards Part III. Community, Neighborhood, and Identity

8. From Household to Neighborhood: Toward a Community-Oriented Archaeological Approach in the Plantation Chesapeake 151 Jason Boroughs

9. Reconstructing the Landscape of African and African American Burials and Commemorations in Williamsburg, Virginia 172 Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram Part IV. Standards, Practices, and Goals in Conservation and Reconstruction

10. Framing the Questions That Matter: The Relationship between Archaeology and Conservation 195 Emily Williams

11. A Diachronic Study of Window Leads from Williamsburg 206 Kelly Ladd-Kostro

12. A Virtual Williamsburg: Contextualizing Archaeological Data within a Virtual Environment 221 Peter A. Inker

Afterword 239 Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 241 Works Cited 271 List of Contributors 313 Index 317

Figures 1.1. William Peirce’s house lot 12 1.2. Conjectural map of Middle Plantation 13 1.3. Redrawn map of Secretary Kemp’s holdings in 1643 14 1.4. John and Alice Page House cartouche 15 1.5. Plan map of Rich Neck Plantation 16 1.6. Theodorick Bland map of Williamsburg 18 1.7. Detail of Rochambeau map of Williamsburg and environs 23 2.1. The Brafferton during excavation 35 2.2. Glass tool recovered from the base of the Brafferton 37 2.3. Brick out-building foundations at the Bray Site 39 2.4. Slate pencil fragments from the Bray Site 41 3.1. Archaeological cross-trenching 49 3.2. Aerial view of 1981 excavation of the Public Hospital 53 3.3. President Richard Nixon examining artifacts 55 3.4. Guests watching excavations at the Public Armoury 61 4.1. Chesapeake and archaeological sites 69 4.2. Meat consumed at Jamestown Fort 75 4.3. Consumption of fish and game 78 4.4. Swine slaughter ages, rural sites 85 4.5. Swine slaughter ages, Williamsburg 85 4.6. Cattle slaughter ages, rural sites 88 4.7. Cattle slaughter ages, Williamsburg 88 4.8. Size of Chesapeake cattle 92 5.1. Williamsburg and its Hinterland 96 5.2. Oyster shell height and human population 104 5.3. Concentration of oxygen and carbon isotopes 108 5.4. Population chart of Virginia 1630–1860 112 6.1. Trade card of Nathaniel Longbottom 122

x · Figures

6.2. Gilmer mandible showing wiring hole 124 6.3. Phalanx from Charlton’s Coffeehouse and radiograph of same 126 6.4. Completed replica of skeleton 133 7.1. Reconstructed Tin Shop 137 7.2. Before and after Armoury construction 139 7.3. Archaeology of the Gillett House/Tin Shop 143 8.1. Plan view of the Quarterpath domestic complex 153 8.2. Quarterpath neighborhood 159 8.3. Spatial bounds of sweeping activity 163 8.4. Harvesting wheat with mechanical reapers 165 9.1. Map of Williamsburg and environs 1782 173 9.2. Map showing burial location 176 9.3. Cartouche of Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson map 181 9.4. Memorial honoring Mammy Sarah 184 9.5. Tombstones of Robert F. Hill and Lucy Ann Dunlop 188 9.6. Bird’s-eye-view map of Market Square area 190 10.1. Early display of artifacts recovered 197 10.2. A bone fan guard 201 10.3. Watering can from Mathews Manor 202 10.4. X-ray of watering can from Mathews Manor 204 11.1. Glazier’s vice 209 11.2. Turned lead 210 11.3. Drawing of 1766 turned lead from Charlton’s Coffeehouse 216 12.1. Virtual Garden with guides 224 12.2. Virtual reconstruction of Crichton Store parlor 229 12.3. Reconstruction of the Charlton Coffeehouse topography 232 12.4. Reconstruction of William & Mary’s Wren Yard 233 12.5. Reconstruction of Williamsburg’s environs 234

Maps 1. James–York peninsula 4 2. The Frenchman’s Map of Williamsburg 5 3. Williamsburg sites outside of the Historic Area 6 4. Williamsburg Historic Area East portion 7 5. Williamsburg Historic Area West portion 8

Tables 4.1. Archaeological sites from lower Chesapeake 72 8.1. Seasonal agricultural tasks by locale 164 9.1. African and African American burials 189

Foreword I am honored to write the foreword to this volume. As the newest director of archaeology for the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, I am daily in awe of this institution’s legacy of research. The body of work that constitutes this volume is no exception, and while these case studies were conducted before my tenure began, I am proud to be associated with them. This volume comes at the beginning of another phase in the history of archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg and helps to provide the context for a vision of where this department and archaeological research can go in the future. Throughout, the reader will encounter references to the length of time that archaeology has been conducted by the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. From employing an Egyptologist in the 1930s, to Ivor Noël Hume’s focus on material culture, to more recent innovative regional environmental analyses and involvement with descendant communities, the progression of archaeological research at Colonial Williamsburg mirrored—and influenced—the development of the modern field of historical archaeology. This compilation of case studies continues to reflect the advancement of the field in general and more specifically the work conducted in Williamsburg and the tidewater region of Virginia. Another thread that runs through this volume is the assertion that archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg, for a long time, has not been just about reconstruction. No doubt this is true, however, it could just as easily be said that it is about a different type of reconstruction—one that addresses and attempts to reconstruct the full range of human experience in this town. Many of these works also convey that Colonial Williamsburg stewards not just the physical resources of the past, but also has an obligation to steward the memories and histories of the diverse range of Williamsburg’s past residents. The history of Williamsburg, which the volume draws on, is covered by Martha McCartney in her chapter. Her work provides a framework for the historical analyses of the other chapters. Mark Kostro’s work specifically highlights the importance of holding ourselves accountable to our stakeholders and descendant communities, while the works by Andrew Edwards, Ywone Edwards-Ingram, and Jason Boroughs remind us that archaeological research provides a means to move beyond static “snapshot” interpretations of a single group’s past. The attention to

xvi · Foreword

the most minute details of the archaeological record, as seen in the works of Ellen Chapman, Dessa Lightfoot, Stephen Atkins, Emily Williams, Irvy Quitmyer, Joanne Bowen, and Kelly Ladd-Kostro, proves that the process of trying to reconstruct the past can answer questions more complex than, “What did it look like?” and “How much did ______ cost?” Meredith Poole and Patricia Samford as well as Peter Inker conclude their chapters with the acknowledgment that much work is still before us. With a foundation of research as strong as that published here, we are prepared to enter a new era of archaeological endeavor. This next era will be one marked by increased public interaction, a continued commitment to the stewardship of the collection, increased involvement with descendant and stakeholder groups, and research that continues to address the intersection of human actions, the environment, and the communities that arose out of colonial encounters. At the time of this writing, we have begun a project to explore the site of the First Baptist Church of Williamsburg. One of the oldest black congregations in the country, the church traces its beginnings to 1776, and a congregation of the present church still worships in Williamsburg today. Initiated as a joint project between the extant Church and Colonial Williamsburg, our research is designed to uncover the earliest building in which the congregation worshipped and to better understand the experience of this community of enslaved and free blacks from the late eighteenth through the twentieth century. The church has also had white worshippers among its different congregations over the centuries. The descendants of this community are still here, and we look to them, along with other African-descendant groups, to help guide this project. While the expected in-ground signatures and material culture resources excite archaeologists, it is the collaboration with descendants, the modern congregation, the black community, and other stakeholders on how those resources are interpreted that gives the project its true purpose—further empowering the community to tell its history. I have the privilege to direct a program with an amazing legacy and a bright future. It keeps me up at night, not out of fear of what could go wrong, but out of excitement at the potential. Colonial Williamsburg is known for many things, and archaeology should always be at the top of the list. Jack Gary Director of Archaeology, Colonial Williamsburg Foundation

Acknowledgments Many people were integrally involved in the writing, mentoring, and finally getting this volume to press. The editors would like particularly to thank the authors of the various chapters for their patience through several years of uncertainty and two rounds of edits by our faithful readers: Dr. Audrey Horning and “Reader #2,” both of whom offered encouragement and sage advice throughout the process. Dr. Horning invested more of her time and effort in indexing the chapters, adding to her other invaluable contributions. We are thankful for her dedication to the project. Joanne Bowen and Ellen Chapman graciously helped with the volume, beyond working on their chapters. From the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Edward Chappell, Director of Architectural and Archaeological Research from 2008 until 2016 was encouraging and supportive of our efforts, as were former vice president of research Cary Carson and senior historian Linda Rowe. Several of the sites discussed and many of the authors, including the editors, were archaeologists working for the Colonial Williamsburg’s Department of Archaeological Research when directed by Marley R. Brown III between 1982 and 2008. Much of the scholarship owes credit to his mentorship. Additionally, from Colonial Williamsburg, the editors would like to thank Marianne Martin of the Visual Resources Collection for providing copies of many of the images and the permission to use them. Gerald “Jay” Gaidmore, Marian and Alan McLeod Director of The Special Collections Research Center, William & Mary, graciously provided images and permission, too. We appreciate the time he spent doing so. The editors would also like to thank University Press of Florida acquisition editors Meredith Babb and Mary Puckett, managing editor Marthe Walters, and other involved staff whose guidance and patience have been exemplary. The volume benefited tremendously from the hard work of our copy editor, John Wentworth. We hope that our gratitude is felt and accepted by many others we have not named here individually, including our immediate family members, former and present administrators and other staff at Colonial Williamsburg, colleagues at William & Mary, and other friends, and well-wishers. We know you were rooting for this book project. Thank you.

A Word about the Maps Some of our chapters require subject-specific maps to elucidate details included in the narrative. Those maps are placed within the respective chapter text and have figure numbers as reference. Several chapters refer to the same locations within Colonial Williamsburg’s Historic Area so that individual maps within the chapter would be cumbersome and redundant. So many sites are located within the Historic Area that it was divided into two halves for clarity, East and West. We placed several maps at the beginning of the volume that show the locations, or in some cases the approximate locations, of places mentioned in the various chapters. These are • The Peninsula area of the Chesapeake Bay • The Frenchman’s Map, 1782, a well-known billeting map drawn by an unknown French cartographer • The Greater Williamsburg area • The Eastern half of the Historic Area • The Western half of the Historic Area with the Middle Plantation sites mentioned in the text

Introduction Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards

This edited volume provides a unique opportunity for the reader to take an in-depth look at the comprehensive reach of historical archaeology in one place—Williamsburg, Virginia, but especially at Colonial Williamsburg. At the same time, it presents analyses that go beyond Williamsburg to connect other local places, some comparative cities, and even faraway communities in the Atlantic World such as the Caribbean, Africa, and Britain. Archaeologists and associated scholars have coalesced around powerful topics and themes to provide in-depth insights about Williamsburg not only during the time it was the eighteenth-century capital of Virginia, but for earlier and later centuries of the town’s history as well. The volume illustrates how Williamsburg has remained a significant site in the practice and development of historical archaeology. Williamsburg is indeed a place where archaeology has delivered lessons of consequence about the past and the present. Archaeology in Williamsburg is reconstruction “or it is nothing.” This adaptation of Gordon R. Willey and Philip Phillips’s powerful adage that has intertwined American archaeology with anthropology (Willey and Phillips 1958, 2) also aptly describes this body of work on the buried and other physical remains of Williamsburg’s past in a broad narrative covering aspects of the tangible and intangible in America’s history and culture. This collection of essays deals with the theories, methodologies, and results of many decades of interdisciplinary studies of this tidewater town in southeastern Virginia as well as its surrounding areas of Jamestown and Yorktown. Many of the volume’s chapters focus on the historic area of the town, now the living-history museum of Colonial Williamsburg, to highlight the development of archaeology as well as architectural reconstruction. As a body of work showcasing the dexterous and applied nature of historical archaeology and reconstruction, the volume explores how various projects

2 · Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards

and practices, both individual and collaborative, have strengthened this field of anthropology with many lessons learned over the years. The archaeology of Williamsburg is uniquely linked to educational goals, especially in public history and reconstruction. Nowhere is the power of research and its public consequences more evident than at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Historical archaeology has a long, varied, and pivotal role in the institution’s mission and achievements. Many leading scholars in anthropology, material culture studies, and history rose to prominence through their work and association with the practice and results of archaeology in Williamsburg, and especially at Colonial Williamsburg and the College of William & Mary. This is clearly the case for most of the contributors of this volume, who are veterans in the field of archaeology or architecture with many years of their work histories spent at Colonial Williamsburg. All share affiliations through William & Mary and the Society of Historical Archaeology. This group of accomplished scholars is joined by others who have started working more recently and, together, they bring new perspectives to topics and themes in archaeological field and laboratory techniques, landscape analyses, environmental studies (including zooarchaeological and botanical), architectural research and reconstruction, historical research, conservation, collection management, digital history and virtual applications, artifacts and material culture studies, bioarchaeology, and public archaeology. The book uses a four-part division to group the chapters by main themes and important topical areas integral to an understanding of American life and culture, changes in the society through times, as well as diversity of people and cultures in different centuries. Part I provides the historical underpinnings, covers earlier sites, and connects early and later periods of Williamsburg, Colonial Williamsburg, and the practices in the discipline of historical archaeology, as well. The chapters in part II group similar topics on people, animals, and their physical and cultural environment. This section also deals with reconstruction of artifacts and sites in the interpretations of the past. The two chapters of part III share a focus on community, neighborhood, and identity; they reflect on the differential experiences of Williamsburg populations who were not white, within specific sites as well as broader neighborhoods of slavery and freedom. Part IV houses chapters on conservation, preservation, and different types of reconstruction. The book’s four sections delineate soft boundaries, serving more as hermeneutic devices rather than hard separations. They interconnect themes and issues that each chapter

Introduction · 3

addresses. These points are further underscored by how the chapters explicitly study changes in the town but use different approaches and data. The individual and collaborative projects have largely an eighteenthcentury emphasis of America’s history. This concentration, however, does not limit diachronic perspectives and references or inclusions of materials from earlier and later periods to enrich the analyses. While the range of the volume chapters are diverse, they coalesce around the key questions of how did demographic changes, some tied to large-scale events, impact the social, material, and cultural life of the town? What can the environmental data tell us about humans, animals, and their occupations of and interactions within Williamsburg and its surrounding areas? What were the urban and rural dynamics in the town’s development, provisioning, and land management? How is the landscape reflective and constitutive of social and political changes? What are some of the main ways of understanding strategies and spaces important to identity and inequality? And how can these be read from the archaeology and the reconstruction of the historic landscape? While dealing with the specifics of their research data and topics, the contributing writers address larger theoretical and ethical questions about archaeology and reconstruction. For example, the issues of significance: whose heritage is strongly represented on the built historic landscape of today and why? What does reconstruction conceal as well as reveal? Some of these scholars rely on access to materials from a number of sites; some count on the reservoir of information from previous work for reconstruction data and include artifacts, human remains, buildings, and images for the digital layout of the town; and others focus on recent excavations. Whether using data from single or multiple sites and excavations, these researchers seek to break new ground. These studies also presage the increasing orientation of historical archaeology as a discipline willing to address the often uncomfortable and unresolved legacies of early modern colonialism. Several of the projects described in this volume highlight the value of engaging with contemporary communities—work that has materially aided the process of challenging and overturning traditional narratives of early Virginia’s history in favor of more inclusive and more honest histories. In this effort, the longstanding motto of the Colonial Williamsburg museum remains highly relevant: “So the future may learn from the past.” The result is a body of work that promises to innovate, making significant contributions to the discipline in ways that count.

Map 1. James–York peninsula, Norfolk to Richmond and Chesapeake Bay. Based on map created by Heather Harvey as part of Provisioning Early American Towns, The Chesapeake: A Multidisciplinary Case Study (Walsh et al. 1997). Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

Map 2. The Frenchman’s Map of Williamsburg, 1782. Courtesy of the Special Collections Research Center, William & Mary Libraries.

Map 3. Williamsburg sites outside of the Historic Area. Courtesy of the City of Williamsburg. Projected Coordinate System: NAD 1983 State Plane Virginia South, FIPS 4502 Feet. Author: City of Williamsburg GIS. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Annotated by Peter Inker, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

Map 4. Williamsburg Historic Area East portion. Map by Peter Inker. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

Map 5. Williamsburg Historic Area West portion with Middle Plantation Sites. Map by Peter Inker. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

I HISTORICAL AND ARCHAEOLOGICAL OVERVIEWS

1 From Middle Plantation to Modern Metropolis Evolution and Change Martha W. McCartney

The First Capital

In 1607 when the first European colonists came ashore on Jamestown Island, they landed in the heart of the Powhatan Chiefdom, a dynamic political entity whose home was Virginia’s coastal plain. The culturally sophisticated Powhatans relied on the region’s wealth of natural resources that included game, fish, oysters, and other shellfish (Davidson 2000:8–9). As soon as the colonists had adapted to frontier living and secured their capital city, they began advancing into the Natives’ territory. Archaeological research by the Jamestown Rediscovery team led by William M. Kelso carefully documented the cultural features associated with James Fort (Kelso 2006). The discovery that tobacco was a highly marketable commodity fueled rapid expansion and brought an influx of new immigrants. African captives, brought to Virginia involuntarily in 1619, possessed numerous useful skills, gained in a largely agrarian society. They were familiar with the hill-andhoe agricultural techniques that the colonists had learned from the Indians, and many Africans knew how to raise tobacco. A growing need for labor eventually culminated in Africans’ enslavement. Currently, Jamestown Rediscovery archaeologist David Givens is searching for evidence of Angelo, one of the first Africans, a member of Captain William Peirce’s household in urban Jamestown. Predictably, the Powhatans resented the European colonists’ intrusion into their homeland, and in 1622 they attacked, killing

12 · Martha W. McCartney

Figure 1.1. Captain William Peirce’s house lot as described in the 1625 muster. Courtesy of the Jamestown Yorktown Foundation.

more than a third of the settlers. This interrupted, but did not curb, expansion into Native land. The Settlement and Development of Middle Plantation

By 1633, Virginia’s burgesses had decided to build a palisade across the James–York peninsula to secure the colonists’ territory. The structure erected in 1634 traversed the broad ridge connecting the heads of Queens and College Creeks. Virginia’s governing officials adopted policies intended to promote settlement within the area the palisade delimited, and soon a small community took root, the Middle Plantation. To its east were sizable plantations owned by prominent government officials such as councilor George Menefie and one-time governor, Dr. John Pott, along with the homesteads of people of considerably more modest means. After a second Powhatan attack in 1644, the colonists undertook retaliatory raids against the Powhatans and constructed primitive forts or checkpoints intended to control the Natives’ access to the peninsula. They also rebuilt the decade-old Middle Plantation palisade whose trajectory is shown on a plat made for Secretary of the Colony Richard Kemp in 1643. During the 1990s, Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeologists unearthed sections of the Middle Plantation palisade, whose subsurface features survived despite three centuries of development (Metz et al. 1998). In 1645, the Indians of the Powhatan Chiefdom, whose ranks were weakened by disease and the colonists’ relentless attacks, suffered the loss of their elderly and charismatic paramount chief, Opechancanough, who was captured and subsequently killed while incarcerated at Jamestown. The Powhatans signed a peace treaty in October 1646, ceding much of their

Figure 1.2. Conjectural map of Middle Plantation. Archaeological Research, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

Figure 1.3. Redrawn map of Secretary Kemp’s holdings in 1643, Archaeological Research, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

From Middle Plantation to Modern Metropolis: Evolution and Change · 15

Figure 1.4. John and Alice Page House cartouche, 1662, Archaeological Research, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

territory to the colonists and agreeing to allow Virginia’s governing officials to choose their leaders (Hening 1809–1823:I, 324). This signaled the disintegration of the Powhatan Chiefdom but not the Natives’ disappearance. During the mid-seventeenth century, while the Commonwealth government was in power, many of the smaller farmsteads near Middle Plantation were purchased by the elite and absorbed into their larger plantations. Astride the undulating horse path that passed through Middle Plantation was acreage that John Page, a member of the governor’s council, began accumulating during the mid-1650s. Archaeological excavations undertaken near the Bruton Heights School unearthed the remains of John and Alice Page’s brick dwelling. A brick cartouche found at the site likely graced the building’s lintel. It bears the date 1662, a heart-shaped image, and the Page couple’s initials. By the time the Page home was built, the rights of people of African descent had begun to erode (Hening 1809–1823:I, 208–209,

16 · Martha W. McCartney

Figure 1.5. Plan map of Rich Neck Plantation, Archaeological Research, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

239, 290; McIlwaine 1924:277, 296, 501; Metz et al. 1998:73; Patent Book 7:280–282). At nearby Rich Neck, on the road to Jamestown, Secretary of the Colony Richard Kemp and his successor, Philip Ludwell I, had an upscale home. During the mid-1640s the Rich Neck tract, which earlier had belonged to counselor George Menefie, encompassed more than 4,300 acres. It extended along the west side of the palisade and traversed the horse path that became a focal point of development at Middle Plantation (McCartney 2000b:10–11, 17–23; Muraca et al. 2003). Excavations at Rich Neck unearthed human burials and evidence of structures that housed indentured servants and slaves, as separate spaces or within the same units, and other outbuildings on the plantation (see Edwards-Ingram, chapter 9 in

From Middle Plantation to Modern Metropolis: Evolution and Change · 17

this volume; Muraca et al. 2003). The recovered artifacts, botanical data, and documentary records associated with the John Page house site and the Rich Neck plantation are important to understanding the lives of free and enslaved people in Williamsburg during the colonial period. In 1676–1677 Indian attacks on the colony’s frontier and frustration with government policy led to a popular uprising, known as Bacon’s Rebellion, which reached Middle Plantation. Ringleader Nathaniel Bacon and his followers plundered Colonel John Page’s house and seized his wife, Alice, using her as a human shield while building a defensive trench at the entrance to Jamestown Island. Later, Bacon and his men took control of Middle Plantation, making the home of Captain Otho Thorpe their headquarters. After Bacon’s death from natural causes, Governor William Berkeley gained the upper hand, and William Drummond, a Bacon partisan, was hanged at James Bray I’s Middle Plantation home. In February 1677, Jamestown residents William Sherwood and Thomas Rabley were authorized to construct a guardhouse, a storehouse for powder, and a large warehouse on their seventeen acres in the heart of Middle Plantation. On May 29, 1677, public officials and Indian leaders met at the new guardhouse and signed the Treaty of Middle Plantation. This monumental agreement governed relations with the Natives for more than a century (McCartney 2006:246; McIlwaine 1905–1915, 1660–1693:71–73, 140, 178, 256; 1925–1945:I, 13, 25). The College of William & Mary Middle Plantation’s population continued to grow, and in 1678 Colonel John Page donated the ground on which Bruton Parish’s centrally located brick church was built. In 1693, King William and Queen Mary granted a charter to the College of William & Mary, whose officials acquired 330 acres of land just west of the parish church. Within months, the college’s grammar school opened “in a little School-House,” and two years later, the main building was ready for use. By 1699, Middle Plantation had a church, an ordinary (tavern), several stores, two mills, and a smith’s shop (Beverley 1947:266; Hartwell et al. 1940:71; Hening 1809–1823:III, 122; Kornwolf 1989:35–36, 67; Meade 1966:I, 147). Town and Gown: The Establishment of Williamsburg In April 1699, after a fire destroyed the colony’s statehouse at Jamestown, the assembly convened at the college. A group of students, who urged the burgesses to make Middle Plantation the colony’s new capital city, proffered

Figure 1.6. Theodorick Bland map of Williamsburg, 1699, Special Collections, John D. Rockefeller Library, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

From Middle Plantation to Modern Metropolis: Evolution and Change · 19

that the site was well suited for trade and that the college and nearby community would attract skilled workers (Chandler and Swem 1930:323–337). With relatively little deliberation, the burgesses passed “An Act Directing the Building of the Capitoll and the City of Williamsburgh,” which was named for King William, the Duke of Gloucester. The new capital city was carefully planned, unlike Jamestown, which National Park Service archaeologists J.C. Harrington and John Cotter and Colonial Williamsburg Foundation archaeologists Audrey J. Horning and Andrew Edwards found had developed in a piecemeal fashion. The 220-acre town site at Middle Plantation straddled the boundary line between James City and York Counties, enveloping a substantial portion of Colonel John Page’s 280-acre patent. Duke of Gloucester Street, which ran along the ridge back separating the James and York Rivers’ drainages, formed the central axis of the new town, which was to be laid out into half-acre lots. Williamsburg was to have two public landings: Queen Mary’s Port on Queens Creek in York County and Princess Anne’s Port on Archer’s Hope (College) Creek in James City County. By the 1730s, the tandem ports had become known as the Capitol and College Landings. Theodorick Bland, who in 1699 was commissioned to lay out Williamsburg and its ports, produced a detailed plat. Notations on that survey suggest that the roads leading to both landings used well-worn paths that predated the establishment of Williamsburg (Bland 1699; Hening 1809–1823:III, 197, 419–432; Reps 1972:141–142). Urban Planning and Subsequent Development

In 1705, the year that enslavement of people of African descent was codified and the college’s main building was destroyed by fire, members of the colony’s assembly passed the third in a series of town-founding acts. They reaffirmed the 1699 legislation that formally established Williamsburg and included provisions that controlled how the town would be developed. Trustees were authorized to sell Williamsburg’s lots, which had to be developed within twenty-four months of the date of purchase, with restrictions placed on the dimensions, character, and placement of the buildings that property owners could erect. Structures built along Duke of Gloucester Street had to conform to height and setback rules. Lots in the city’s twin ports were to be no more than sixty feet square, and “a sufficient quantity of land at each port or landing place” was to be reserved for a common, an area of community use. Governor Francis Nicholson and other highranking officials made plans for the construction of an imposing brick

20 · Martha W. McCartney

statehouse, intended to accommodate the House of Burgesses and the Governor’s Council, whose members also convened regularly as justices of the General Court. Plans were made to build a suitable governor’s residence and, later, a brick powder magazine (Hening 1809–1823:III, 419–431; Lounsbury 2000:31–35). In 1716, the college’s main building was replaced, and in 1723 the Brafferton, a school in which young Indians could be educated, was erected, thanks to scientist Robert Boyle, whose philanthropy some scholars describe as paternalistic. A brick residence was built for the college’s president in 1733. Over the years, archaeological excavations have been undertaken near all of these buildings, which collectively delimit a courtyard replete with evidence of landscape features (Archer 2014:16–27; Hening 1809– 1823:III, 419–431; Kostro, chapter 2 in this volume; Lounsbury 2000:31–35; Moretti-Langholtz and Woodard 2019). A Small but Flourishing City

Merchants, planters, artisans, and ordinary-keepers were among those who owned and developed lots in Williamsburg and its sister ports, and some people invested in lots in more than one location. Between 1715 and 1721, the seat of James City County’s monthly court moved from Jamestown to Williamsburg and a county courthouse was built. The fledgling city began to thrive, and its ports became ferry-landings and hubs of commercial activity. In 1730, tobacco inspection warehouses that operated in tandem were built at both of Williamsburg’s landings. The community continued to grow, and in 1749 Benjamin Waller purchased land contiguous to Williamsburg’s corporate limits and subdivided it into numbered lots that were annexed in 1759. They quickly developed, as did land along the roads approaching Williamsburg. Near Capitol Landing, but beyond the city limits, was the Bruton Parish poorhouse, a church-run workhouse eventually converted into a cloth-making facility (Hening 1809–1823:IV, 267–269; McCartney 1987:287–303; York County Deed Book 5:334). During Public Times, when the assembly and courts were in session, throngs of people, some accompanied by their slaves, converged on Williamsburg. They patronized the city’s stores and shops, shared the latest news, and socialized. Free black people visited the capital city regularly, as did Native Americans, often as tribal emissaries fulfilling their obligations as tributaries. Although the Capitol burned in 1747, it was quickly rebuilt and Williamsburg remained the focal point of the colony’s political life.

From Middle Plantation to Modern Metropolis: Evolution and Change · 21

Urban Life

Eighteenth-century Williamsburg’s elite and the city’s more prosperous entrepreneurs, using slave labor, built fine urban residences, where they could nurture social, commercial, and political relationships. Many of the well-to-do also owned plantations outside of the city, where enslaved workers produced food crops and tended herds of livestock. For example, James Southall, the Raleigh Tavern’s proprietor, owned a large plantation that bordered the south side of the city. There, his enslaved people raised the food stuffs and livestock that provided table fare for the tavern’s clientele. Archaeological excavations conducted by the College of William & Mary uncovered evidence of Southall’s slave quarters and a diversity of artifacts that further our understanding of plantation life and culture (Pullins et al. 2003). Some city dwellers could supplement their income by having their slaves produce surplus agricultural crops and other marketable commodities. Successful planters also could profit handsomely by selling grain crops, fodder, straw, and even firewood, harvested during the winter months when slaves were shifted to other areas of work and draft animals were underused. Some of these agricultural commodities were sold in the city’s centrally located Market Square off Duke of Gloucester Street (Bowen, chapter 4 in this volume; Lightfoot et al., chapter 5 in this volume). Williamsburg residents of middling means often owned a slave or two and enjoyed a measure of self-sufficiency by keeping a cow and growing some food crops in their kitchen gardens or perhaps in small orchards. Nonetheless, most urban lots were so small that they allowed only limited agricultural pursuits. Enslaved people living in Williamsburg and outside the city grew or had access to produce from small gardens, and also raised poultry. As the eighteenth century wore on, middlemen such as merchants and butchers became increasingly important in urban provisioning. One of the city’s more successful butchers was Benjamin Hanson, a free black entrepreneur whose clientele included the College of William & Mary (Walsh et al. 1997:11, 13, 23, 49, 67, 139). One prominent feature in Williamsburg’s cultural landscape was America’s first health care facility for the mentally ill, the Public Hospital, built in 1773. Also present was James Wray’s carpentry yard, where workers, enslaved and free, toiled as joiners, glaziers, carpenters, and cabinetmakers (Edwards et al. 2013; Lounsbury 2000:36–37). A more subtle feature was

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the philanthropically funded Bray School, where during the early 1760s enslaved children received a rudimentary education (Ackermann 2009; Meyers 2009). Williamsburg, as the colonial capital, was at the hub of cultural life and during the mid-to-late eighteenth century had three theaters in succession. When prominent planter Landon Carter, who took a dim view of theatrics, attended performances in Williamsburg in April 1752, he declared that he was surfeited with “Stupidity and nonsence [sic] delivered from the mouths of Walking Statues.” By 1760, the city’s second theater had been replaced by a third playhouse, the Douglass Theater, on a lot bordering the Duke of Gloucester Street extension, just east of the Capitol and directly across from the Blue Bell Tavern. This third theater was still in existence in 1775 but was gone by 1780, when a lot was identified as the land “whereon the Old Play House lately stood” (Carter 1962:I, 103; McCartney 1996; York County Deed Book 5:497; 6 [1777–1791]:94). A Seat of Government

In November 1769, the House of Burgesses authorized the court justices of Williamsburg and James City County to build a new brick courthouse for both jurisdictions’ use. Because the preferred site was on the north side of the Duke of Gloucester in York County, a small plot of ground was annexed to James City County. Williamsburg was authorized to build a market house and to hold an unlimited number of market days. Revolutionary War cartographers’ maps indicate the market house stood near the Powder Magazine (Anonymous 1782; Dewitt 1781; Hening 1809–1823:VIII, 420; Lounsbury 2000:36–37). Williamsburg and the American Revolution

During the early 1770s, the relationship between Great Britain and her American colonies gradually deteriorated. When a detachment of royal sailors and marines slipped into Williamsburg before dawn on April 21, 1775, and seized the gunpowder stored in the city magazine, it became clear that the British intended to assert their authority. After war broke out, Virginia officials became increasingly concerned that Williamsburg, as the capital city, was vulnerable to attack. By that time, a Public Armoury and a tin shop had opened for business, a facility that employed free and enslaved workers (Edwards, chapter 7 in this volume). Also present was

Figure 1.7. Detail of Rochambeau map of Williamsburg and environs. Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division.

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the Commissary’s Store, which supplied the Allied Army. Its workforce included James Lafayette, an enslaved man who volunteered to become a spy and eventually was freed for his service. On June 12, 1779, Richmond was designated Virginia’s new capital. That transition occurred in April 1780. When the Chevalier d’Aucteville, a French military officer, visited Williamsburg in 1781, he declared it, “a handsome American town.” He added: “It is traversed from East to West also by a broad street and from North to South by several other transverse streets.” He noted that at each end of the main street were “two handsome edifices, the College at the West and the Capitol at the East.” Also present were “the house of the Governor, a church, a government House and a good many other handsome private residences built of brick and crowned with domes and peristyles.” He noted “a great many” other houses “constructed of wood and of planks en recouvrement” and “built with taste and propriety,” adding that “some even have colonades [sic]” (Bonsol 1940:502–503). Aftermath

The relocation of the capital to Richmond had a profound effect on Williamsburg, which was no longer at the center of Virginia’s political, social, and cultural life. The Tidewater region’s population dwindled as westward expansion took hold, but Williamsburg, as the seat of city and county government, attracted numerous visitors whenever court was in session. In 1835, one man commented that Williamsburg, which then had a population of around 1,600, had a college, an asylum, a courthouse and jail, three churches, sixteen stores, three tanyards, a saddlers’ shop, and four nearby merchant mills, but that the city’s older public buildings evinced “decaying grandeur.” Years later, an African American woman, Eliza Baker, born in 1845, recalled the trauma of witnessing slave auctions held on the courthouse green. She also mentioned a whipping post nearby, in the ravine near the corner of Francis and South Henry Streets (Baker 1933:3, 5; Carson 1961:99). The Civil War

In 1861, when war broke out between North and South, Confederate military leaders acknowledged that the Union military’s presence at Fort Monroe posed a serious threat to Richmond, the Confederacy’s capital city. They thus decided to fortify the lower peninsula to slow their adversary’s

From Middle Plantation to Modern Metropolis: Evolution and Change · 25

progress. Colonel John B. Magruder had his men build three parallel lines of earthworks across the peninsula, utilizing the region’s steep ravines and water courses as a deterrent. These fortifications’ westernmost band, dubbed the Williamsburg Line, extended from Tuttey’s Neck, at the head of College Creek, to Cub Run, a tributary of Queens Creek. At the center of this line was Fort Magruder, a complex earthen feature situated above the junction of two public roads. Colonel Benjamin S. Ewell, a West Point graduate and president of the College of William & Mary, was the architect of the Williamsburg Line, and enslaved and free African Americans were conscripted to build the earthworks intended to impede the Union Army’s movement up the peninsula (Chapman 1984:125, 127–132; Webb 1881:37–43). In early May 1862, the Union Army, under the command of General George B. McClellan, marched up the peninsula and seized—and retained—control of Williamsburg. Churches were converted into military hospitals, and the Sir Christopher Wren Building became the 5th Pennsylvania Cavalry’s headquarters and a supply depot. The Vest Mansion (or Palmer House), a stately brick dwelling near the old colonial Capitol, was occupied by the Union Army’s provost (McCartney 1997:308, 312–314). After Yorktown became the Union Army’s headquarters, Williamsburg was considered an outpost. During the three years Federal troops controlled the town, Fort Magruder was manned and checkpoints maintained to control access. While Williamsburg was occupied, some drunken Union cavalrymen put the Wren Building to the torch. According to one eyewitness, after three years of occupation, the former colonial capital, a “lovely sweet College Town of charming villas & old mansions,” was scarred and dilapidated. William & Mary’s main building and the Brafferton were gutted, hollow shells, grim reminders of the war (Charles 1928:2; Cronin 1862– 1865:8; McCartney 1997:318, 347). Reconstruction and Growth

After the Civil War, Williamsburg, like many other Southern communities, faced staggering economic problems, while African Americans, Native Americans, and whites sought to eke out a living and redefine their roles in society (Boroughs, chapter 8 in this volume). Virginia’s agricultural economy was irrevocably changed due to the loss of slave labor, and inflation was at an all-time high. Local families struggled to survive; some succumbed to bankruptcy. During the 1880s and 1890s, however, Northern

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capital began to flow into the region, creating new business opportunities. In 1881, the Chesapeake and Ohio built a rail line that connected Richmond with Newport News and deep-water shipping. This transportation conduit provided local farmers with access to urban markets and stimulated commercial development. Soon, the Peninsula Bank and Trust Company opened its doors, as did an ice plant, a steam laundry, and a knitting mill. In 1890, when Williamsburg’s population was around 1,830 and Jim Crow laws were beginning to gain traction, the city’s first telephone was installed, and soon after, the old knitting mill was converted into a power plant. Other modern improvements, such as sewer and water lines, were installed just before World War I, and the old community well was backfilled. Duke of Gloucester Street, which lacked pavement and gutters, was lined with dilapidated homes and businesses. The post office, the bank, and several law offices were situated across from the city–county courthouse, and near the colonial powder magazine were unpainted shanties occupied by African Americans. A plaque marked the old colonial Capitol’s foundations at the east end of Duke of Gloucester Street. Although Williamsburg still served as the seat of the city–county and district courts, its economy depended on the College of William & Mary and the state-run asylum, which in 1894 became known as Eastern State Hospital (Belvin et al. 1982; Virginia Gazette 1894, 1950). Growth and Change

In 1917, when the United States entered World War I, an influx of workers, employed in nearby munitions facilities, sought homes in Williamsburg and fueled unexpected prosperity. Real estate speculators carved large tracts into lots they marketed as developments. Some of these properties, in James City and York Counties, later were annexed by the city of Williamsburg. When World War I ended, some local businesses that had boomed during the war languished for lack of support (Belvin et al. 1982). The Coming of the Restoration

In 1923, when Dr. William A. R. Goodwin, Bruton Parish’s former rector, returned to Williamsburg, he saw a hodgepodge of modern structures that had begun to obscure the city’s eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings. Telephone poles festooned with wires ran down the center of Duke of Gloucester Street, paved during World War I to accommodate army

From Middle Plantation to Modern Metropolis: Evolution and Change · 27

convoys. By 1926, Goodwin, an avid antiquarian, had succeeded in interesting philanthropist John D. Rockefeller Jr. in restoring Williamsburg to its colonial appearance. To some locals, this infusion of funds was a dream come true; others resented the disruption of what they considered a cherished way of life. In fact, one local wit wrote a poem in which he declared, “My gawd, they’ve sold the town” (McCartney 1997:406). African American families who lived within the area slated for restoration were uprooted from their homes. Many moved to nearby neighborhoods to try to reestablish. After a corporation was formed to manage the colonial capital’s restoration, teams of specialists began gathering historical and architectural information. Shops catering to visitors were built in a block that became known as Merchants Square. When the restored colonial city opened to tourists in October 1934, the Raleigh Tavern, the Capitol, the Governor’s Palace, and a few other buildings on Duke of Gloucester Street were the main attractions (Belvin et al. 1982). The ongoing creation of Colonial Williamsburg continued to impact African Americans well into the 1960s, as their homes, businesses, churches, and a school were relocated from the historic core of Williamsburg (Edwards-Ingram 2009). From the early days of the restoration, teams of excavators, architects, and archaeologists, using contemporary techniques, have undertaken excavations at the Capitol, the college, and sites occupied by seventeenth- and eighteenth-century homes and businesses (Poole and Samford, chapter 3 in this volume). Thanks to historical, archaeological, and architectural research, and reconstruction as well as living-history interpretations, Williamsburg became—and still is—a major center of education and the exploration of Virginia’s past.

2 Town and Gown Archaeology in Eighteenth-Century Williamsburg Mark Kostro

On May 1, 1699, students of the recently founded College of William & Mary gathered in the newly built main building for a May Day celebration that included “Scholastick Exercises” before an audience that included Governor Francis Nicholson and members of Governor’s Council and House of Burgesses. At the event, five students delivered Latin orations on the advantages of relocating the capital of the colony from Jamestown to Middle Plantation, which at the time was little more than an inland crossroads amid dispersed tobacco plantations. Already home to the College, Middle Plantation was known for its well-drained soils and comparatively moderate climate, but also as an enclave of elite settlement (Levy 2011). The student speakers enthusiastically listed and argued the various benefits of co-locating the capital and the college within the nascent community, but it was the day’s third speaker who was the most succinct: “ . . . the Town and the Colledge [sic] will be mutually assistant to one Another, that is, that the Colledge will be a great help towards the making of a Town, and the Town towards the improving of the Colledge” (Chandler and Swem 1930:329). The desired outcome was a university town, as was common across Europe, that would be a center of political, cultural, and social influence (Bender 1988)—a community ancestral to the modern American concept of a college town—a “unique type of place, shaped by the sometimes conflicting forces of youth, intellect, and idealism” (Gumprect 2008). At the end of the seventeenth century, aside from the original small and poorly sited capitals at Jamestown and St. Mary’s City (Maryland), cities and towns were scarce in the overwhelmingly rural Chesapeake (Reps 1972). Tobacco cultivation dominated the region’s landscape, but that is not to say that Chesapeake planters were disinterested in town building.

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Quite the opposite, as for roughly three generations Chesapeake planters repeatedly sought to establish cities and towns. Their urban ambitions, however, were recurrently undercut by conflicting political and economic ideologies about the contours of urban development (Musselwhite 2019). Notwithstanding the prior disappointments with creating urban centers, that same May Day speaker went on to characterize the group’s idealistic aim as “an opportunity not only of making a Town, but such a Town as may equal if not outdo Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Charlestown and Annapolis. . . .” (Chandler and Swem 1930:332–333). The students’ grandiose ambition found resonance with the British colonial administrators and elected officials, many of whom had long harbored aspirations for a proper urban capital in the colony, long unfulfilled by Jamestown, in spite of various attempts to facilitate an urban infrastructure (Bragdon et al. 1993). The following month, the General Assembly voted to approve the proposed relocation, and renamed Middle Plantation as Williamsburg in honor of William of Orange (King William III). The new capital would endeavor to “serve as a theatre of culture and politics. . . . a commodious place, suitable for the reception of a considerable number and concourse of people” (Fries 1977:108). Drawing on the extensive tradition of archaeological research in Williamsburg dating back to the early years of the Williamsburg Restoration in the late 1920s, this chapter considers the documentary and material evidence of the different ways the College and Williamsburg have developed in tandem with each other to influence each other’s growth over the course of the eighteenth century. Measurable connections can be seen in the architecture, spatial patterning, and population, to name a few. Town and Gown Landscape Design

The plans and spatial patterns of cities relate directly to how urban spaces were conceived and used by their planners and residents. Henry Miller (1988, 2000) notes how the American colonies offered European landscape designers and urban planners unique opportunities to create new communities out of the supposed wilderness. Some early American cities, such as Boston, grew in piecemeal fashion over the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and thus featured an irregular layout. In contrast, designed cities such as Charleston and Philadelphia used orthogonal plans in which streets run at right angles to each other, forming a grid. The latter were popular because they were simple to survey and provided equitable divisions of

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land (Conzen 1981). A less common third option was the Baroque plan adopted from Italian Renaissance ideas emphasizing formal order, visual grandeur, and focused attention on the seats of authority (Miller 1988:58). One effect of the new Baroque style was an environment in which institutional influence was visually naturalized (Chappell 2019:154). Prominent North American examples of Baroque city plans include Annapolis and Williamsburg, both designed by Francis Nicholson, who served as royal governor of both colonies at different times (Miller 1988:58).1 Cartographic evidence of Nicholson’s Baroque design for Williamsburg consists of Theodorick Bland’s 1699 survey of the boundaries for the newly chartered colonial capital (see figure 1.6 in chapter 1 of this volume). Bland’s survey illustrates the 220-acre town site bisected by a ninety-ninefoot-wide thoroughfare that would be named Duke of Gloucester Street. Anchoring the town’s east end was none other than the College Building, now known as the Sir Christopher Wren Building (the Wren), the largest building constructed in the Chesapeake at the time (Chappell 2019:151). Nicholson’s intent was to place the proposed “Capitoll” as Williamsburg’s western anchor. With the colony’s centers of cultural and legal authority facing each other, the union of town and gown in the new capital would now be forged (Tate 2000:138). The varied challenges of implementing Nicholson’s Williamsburg design are well documented in the historical and archaeological records of both the town and the campus. The opening of Duke of Gloucester Street, for example, required the demolition of several Middle Plantation–era buildings belonging to John Page (Metz et al. 1998:34). Archaeological evidence of a seventeenth-century cellar possibly belonging to a Page building was unearthed in 2016 during an investigation of the Raleigh Tavern’s front porch (for information on other findings the author of this chapter uncovered, see Erickson 2017). Other Middle Plantation landowners or tenants also had buildings that required demolition or removal to make way for the new capital. Among them, Colonial Williamsburg archaeologists investigated a possible ordinary, or tavern, dating to Middle Plantation under the road at the corner of Duke of Gloucester and Nassau Streets (Levy 2000). Although not under the road, a pair of successive seventeenth-century earth-fast tobacco barns superimposed one on top of another were also excavated northwest of the corner of Prince George and North Henry Streets (Kostro 2009). In addition, evidence of silted or filled-in seventeenth-century boundary or drainage ditches have been found under Williamsburg’s eighteenth-century streets and crossing several properties (e.g., Brown

Town and Gown Archaeology in Eighteenth-Century Williamsburg · 31

et al. 1990:41–44; Edwards et al. 1988:111–113; Kostro 2003:35–38; Kostro 2004:31–34). Williamsburg’s undulating and frequently sodden topography posed another significant challenge that required a variety of interventions to make the city streets navigable and the lots buildable. Over time, workmen filled in a series of deep and wide gullies in their effort to straighten and flatten the capital’s main street (Brinkley 1991). In 1722, Hugh Jones recorded that money “was expended in removing earth in some places, and building a bridge over a low channel; so that it is now pleasant, long dry walk, broad, and almost level from the College to the Capitol.” Surviving eighteenthcentury elements of the town’s various land reclamation efforts include a massive brick retaining wall between the post office and Dubois Grocery along Duke of Gloucester Street, and five or six vaulted brick drains under and around the street to carry away water (Brinkley 1991). Smaller brick drains have also been found attached to the basements of several homes and workshops in town (e.g., Edwards et al. 2013; Noël Hume 1996; Richards 2001), as well as a large drain leading out of the basement of the Wren Building discovered in summer 2019. In some cases, the topography necessitated the redesign of Nicholson’s urban plan. For example, at the east end of town, a large natural ravine forced the relocation of the Capitol building two hundred feet to the east of the location intended by Nicholson (Brinkley 1991). The most complicated challenge, however, was articulating the preexisting Wren Building and the newly gridded-out town. The Wren Building, originally designed as an enclosed quadrangle with a central court, was modeled on earlier British equivalents, specifically Oxford and Cambridge. Derived from monastic designs privileging social distancing, collegiate buildings were designed to be shut off from the secular world (Turner 1984). By 1697, the College’s visitors reported that “two sides of the designed square of the Colledge” consisting of the main hall and north wing had been built, but construction on the remainder of the building was halted due to a funding shortage. A catastrophic fire burned the building in 1705 before the second half of the square was ever built (Kornwolf 1989:36).2 When Alexander Spottswood arrived in Williamsburg in 1710 to take up the governorship, he immediately began to promote the rebuilding of the College (Martin 1991:23). Over the next six years, the College Yard was teaming with local tradesmen and enslaved African laborers employed on the campus in the rebuilding of the burned Wren. Archaeological evidence of their efforts includes a subterranean saw pit abandoned and filled c.1720,

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uncovered in 2014 to the south of the Wren. Measuring 18.4 × 10 feet, the pit was used by carpenters in the 1710s to saw timber into beams and planks for use in the rebuilt Wren, and was abandoned and filled by 1720. Similar saw pits have been found at the c.1750 Wray and c.1770 Kendal Gardner carpentry yards in Williamsburg, as well as at James Anderson’s 1778 Public Armoury (Edwards et al. 2016). As rebuilt, the College had evolved from an introverted space to a new three-sided form open on the fourth side and featuring an east-facing forecourt. By the 1720s, the forecourt included a formal garden of hedgerows, topiaries, planting beds, and marl paths (Martin 1991:40–42). While the garden physically linked the College to the town, travel between the two was discouraged. To control trips into town, the College provided a boy, possibly enslaved, to run errands for “the young gentlemen” of the college. As further evidence, in 1763, the College restricted its white housekeeper’s trips into town because her absence was having an unfavorable impact on the productivity of the enslaved Africans she supervised (Edwards-Ingram 2019). While Spottswood’s c.1710 redesign allowed for a reorientation of the College toward the town, the full integration of the town and college landscapes was complicated by the fact that Governor Nicholson’s planned route for Duke of Gloucester Street did not align with the College, but rather followed the topography of a flat ridge that ran down the middle of the peninsula between the James and York Rivers. The route minimized changes in elevation over the course of the road, but to do so meant that Duke of Gloucester Street would be approximately 5 degrees off the alignment of the Wren. The variance between the two was cleverly masked through the creation of illusionary sightlines using architecture and landscape. Detailed landscape design research by Ben Skolnik and Steven Archer (2010) reveals the creative ways in which the college planners manipulated the angles of orientation and planes of symmetry of more recently built campus buildings (Brafferton and Presidents House) in order to tie in the town grid while still maintaining visual harmony between the campus buildings. The garden hedgerows, topiaries, planting beds, and marl paths further connected the three College buildings with the town to the east (Archer 2014). In order to make the symmetric garden design work in an asymmetric space, it appears that, as Skolnik (2014) puts it, “the rules of symmetry were broken in order to maintain the illusion of symmetry.” Although Williamsburg was a “new” place on the Virginia landscape in 1699, city planners and builders still had to determine how best to incorporate existing elements, in this case, the College. Significant in this

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case is not simply the College’s inclusion, but the prominence it was given within Nicholson’s Baroque urban plan that incorporated it. The pairing of the College and the Capitol on opposite ends of Duke of Gloucester Street reflected primacy of both the English Crown and the Anglican Church. More than just a cultural institution, the College was part of an emerging Anglican establishment where the sons of wealthy Virginians could receive ecclesiastical training in the Church without having to travel abroad. Finally, the extensive, albeit unseen, efforts to manipulate sightlines from the town through the college garden and onto the Wren to preserve the illusion of symmetry was crucial to maintaining the perception that the college and town, the church and the state, were seamlessly integrated and naturally intertwined. The Brafferton Indian School

As a center of politics, commerce, and education in the eighteenth century, Williamsburg attracted people from all walks of life and from across the Chesapeake and beyond. Prominent among them were Native Americans who came to the colonial capital on diplomatic errands or to conduct commerce. Additionally, Williamsburg was the site of the College of William & Mary’s Indian school, known as the Brafferton Indian School, or more simply, the Brafferton. Documentary sources relating to the school are almost exclusively authored by colonial officials and clouded with the Eurocentric assumption that Native society was savage and deficient. Recent investigations, however, have teased out a more nuanced story of Native American agency from a combination of traditional documentary sources and more critical approaches to their archaeological remains (Moretti-Langholtz and Woodard 2019). The College’s 1693 charter specified, among other things, that the institution was established so “that the Christian faith may be propagated amongst the Western Indians, to the glory of Almighty God.” Over thirty years later, William & Mary’s Statutes reaffirmed the mission to “teach the Indian boys to read, and write, and vulgar Arithmetick. . . . to teach them thoroughly the Catechism and the Principles of the Christian Religion,” although recent archival research into the College’s beginning and early finances indicates the inclusion of Indian education was primarily motivated by monetary opportunity rather than piety (Woodard and MorettiLangholtz 2019). Similarly, Harvard College in Cambridge, Massachusetts, struggled financially in its early years until funds from the English Society

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for the Propagation of the Gospel in New England (SPGNE) provided Harvard with financial stability on the condition that Native Americans also be instructed in “knowledge and godlines(s)” (Hodge et al. 2015:143). The Harvard Indian school closed just after King Philip’s War (1675–1676), while William & Mary’s remained in operation until the American Revolution. The latter was made possible by the Robert Boyle Charity, which provided funds for the purchase of an estate in Yorkshire, England. Rents from the estate were used to fund the Indian School in Williamsburg (Woodard and Moretti-Langholtz 2019). Shortly after the chartering of William & Mary, colonial officials encouraged Virginia’s tributary tribes to send their young men to the College. Local Native leaders were skeptical, however, fearing they would never see their children again—and thus sent no students. Eventually, the fears of the tributary tribes were overcome, and Native students were brought to the College, including Chickahominy, Meherrin, Nansemond, Nottoway, Pamunkey, Saponi, Tuscarora, Tutelo, and several others. The largest number of students to attend the school in one year was in 1712, when twenty-four students were listed. The number fell to seventeen students the following year, and hovered between four and eight students in the second and third quarters of the eighteenth century. In total, approximately 125 students were enrolled at the Brafferton, of which the names of only twenty-seven are known (Woodard 2019). The early curriculum included reading and writing, arithmetic, literature, and mechanical arts, as well as instruction in the “principles of Christian Religion” through the study of the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, Catechism, and twice-daily prayer. While colonial officials hoped to create agents for conversion and change amongst the American Indians, the Indians hoped to develop go-betweens or mediators between their people and their Anglo neighbors (Woodard 2019). In the beginning, classes were held in temporary quarters, and later in the Wren Building; the boys lived with families in town until the Brafferton was constructed in 1723. Described by Hugh Jones in The Present State of Virginia in 1724 as “a good House and Apartments for the Indian Master and his Scholars,” the Brafferton has two main floors divided by a wide center hall, to the west of which is a single large room and to the east two smaller rooms. The large room on the first floor was probably used as a classroom, with the two smaller rooms providing an apartment for the Indian Master. The young scholars would have slept in dormitories on the second floor, taking their meals with the rest of William & Mary in the

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Figure 2.1. The Brafferton during excavation (M. Kostro 2011). Photo by Mark Kostro. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

great hall of the Wren Building. Some years after the construction of the building, dormers were added to the roof, making the attic habitable (Nelson 2003). Archaeological investigations of the Brafferton were carried out in the summer of 2011 in advance of plans to waterproof the Brafferton building’s exterior foundations, and in 2012 prior to the installation of new mechanical systems into the building’s basement. In addition, the Brafferton Legacy Group, an advisory body assembled by Danielle Moretti-Langholtz and Buck Woodard of William & Mary Native American alumni, provided guidance on how the Brafferton’ s archaeological investigation and its subsequent renovation might provide an opportunity to bolster connections between the College and contemporary Native American tribes. Although the area for investigation was limited to those areas to be impacted by planned renovation-related earthmoving, it was hoped that the project would result in the recovery of material evidence relating to Native Americans attending the Brafferton prior to the Revolutionary War, and represented the first large-scale archaeological effort to focus on the Native American presence in eighteenth-century Williamsburg (Kostro and Martin 2019).

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Architecturally related discoveries included an intact builder’s trench that relates to the original excavation of the Brafferton’s cellar in the first quarter of the eighteenth century. In addition, the below-ground elements of an eighteenth-century wrought-iron lightning conductor were also found intact, as was a brick-lined sump that was part of a system for drawing groundwater out of the Brafferton’s basement. The sump was abandoned at the beginning of the nineteenth century and its four-foot-deep brick shaft was filled with refined earthenware dinner plates, an English Black Basalt tea set, German Westerwald stoneware, and a table glass and glass wine bottles artifacts dating to the fourth quarter of the eighteenth century and early nineteenth century. The ceramic and glass debris was likely discarded into the sump when the former Indians School Master and president of the College Rev. John Bracken moved out of the Brafferton in 1814 following his resignation from the college (Kostro and Martin 2019). New details relating to how the Brafferton articulated with the adjacent college yard were also revealed. At the building’s northeast and northwest corners, evidence of wooden post-and-rail fences enclosing the town-facing forecourt garden in the eighteenth century, including one fence that pre-dated the Brafferton’s construction, were discovered. The posts align with fences depicted on eighteenth-century maps that enclose the garden, indicating the garden was a highly structured space from its inception up to at least the end of the Revolution, with access to the interior controlled via gates. Archaeological evidence of an ornamental gate was also recovered in the form of an elaborately carved stone finial fragment that was frequently used to ornament the tops gateways and fences in the eighteenth century (Kostro and Martin 2019). An intriguing possibility is that this was one of six finials that stood atop gate piers marking entries into the College Yard shown on the Bodleian Plate (Chappell 2019). Finally, a remarkable collection of chipped stone and glass artifacts likely associated with the Native American boys attending the Brafferton was also recovered. These included a quartzite biface or scraping tool, identical to those typically found on pre-colonial archaeological sites; a scraping tool or drill fashioned from the base of a stemmed wine glass; and several fragments of green wine-bottle glass exhibiting evidence of having been knapped—made into cutting or scraping implements by working their edges into cutting surfaces. The glass tools and flakes suggest the boys were continuing Native tool-making traditions while living at the Brafferton, and exemplify how Native Americans experimented with and incorporated

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Figure 2.2. Glass tool recovered from the base of the Brafferton, Collections of William & Mary. Repository, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

new types of raw material introduced by European colonists into their existing traditions (Kostro and Martin 2019). In summary, the archaeological investigation of the Brafferton yielded significant new evidence relating to the building’s design, construction, and use; the evolution of William & Mary’s Wren Yard over the course of the eighteenth century; and material evidence on Native Americans living at the College. Native Americans regularly visited Williamsburg, arriving from all parts of the surrounding countryside, yet isolating archaeological evidence that speaks to their visits has been frustratingly sparse. In this context, the Brafferton represents a unique site type within Williamsburg where Native Americans lived in town on a consistent and long-term basis. The Bray School Archaeological Project

Williamsburg, as a capital of a colony entrenched in plantation-based agriculture that depended extensively on race-based slavery, seems an unlikely site of early African American education. Most considered the enslaved incapable of learning much, or feared that an educated slave was more likely to find a way to escape (Bly 2013). Additionally, although many of the wealthy had tutors, the majority of white children in Colonial Virginia did not attend schools at all or received only one to three years of basic

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instruction. Nevertheless, between 1760 and 1774, a “Bray School” for African Americans successfully operated in Williamsburg. The Associates of Dr. Bray was a philanthropic group founded in 1724 by the English clergyman Dr. Thomas Bray (1658–1729) to educate enslaved African Americans in the British North American colonies. The society established its first North American school in Philadelphia in 1758. When that succeeded, Benjamin Franklin, who had been invited to join the Associates in 1760, recommended an expansion of the schooling efforts to New York; Newport, Rhode Island; and Williamsburg, Virginia. Franklin may have seen Williamsburg as an appropriate site for a Bray school in part because of a local tradition of evangelizing to Native Americans at the Brafferton Indian school. Additionally, and more pertinent, when Franklin visited Williamsburg in 1756 and received an honorary degree from the College, he likely learned that some faculty and two of its presidents, William Dawson and Thomas Dawson, had previously made commitments to the Christian education of African Americans in addition to Native Americans. Taken together, Franklin’s consciousness of the Brafferton, and disposition of the faculty and both President Dawsons, led him to see local inclinations that would favor Williamsburg as a site where a Bray School might succeed. Thomas Dawson later served as a trustee of the school alongside Williamsburg printer William Hunter, a close friend to Franklin (Meyers 2010).3 Williamsburg’s Bray school opened in September 1760 in a rented dwelling on lots adjacent to the college’s campus—the first of three locations occupied by the school over its fourteen-year history. Instruction of the students was carried out by Ann Wager, an experienced educator and the former tutor to the Burwell children at Carter Grove. While the education of African Americans was not always embraced by slave owners, the stated aim of the Bray School was an ecclesiastical one—the safeguarding of the immortal soul of both the free and enslaved, which would have overruled most anxieties about enslaved Africans learning to read and possibly write. Both male and female, enslaved and free black students attended the school, where they were taught Anglican Catechism in addition to skills such as reading, good manners, knitting, and sewing (Van Horne 1985:184–191). Archaeological evidence further suggests that writing may have been an informal part of the curriculum (Kostro and Norman 2013; Trovato 2016). Williamsburg’s Bray School permanently closed in 1774 upon Ann Wager’s death. Over its fourteen-year history, enrollment was generally around thirty students, aged primarily between three and ten years old. In that time, approximately 400 students attended the school. Many of those

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Figure 2.3. Brick out-building foundations at the Bray Site (M. Kostro 2014). Photo by Mark Kostro. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

undoubtedly passed on what they learned to others who did not attend. Among its possible alumni was Gowan Pamphlet, who in 1779 was identified as belonging to Williamsburg tavern keeper Jane Vobe’s household, and would become well known in the late eighteenth century as a charismatic preacher who ministered at Williamsburg’s historic First Baptist Church. Vobe is known to have enrolled enslaved children, including possibly Pamphlet, in the Bray School (Rowe 2012). Archaeological investigations of the Bray School site between 2012 and 2014 were focused on locating the architectural footings for the Bray School, as well as evidence of the lives, daily routines, and perhaps even the curriculum offered to its students. Three summers of fieldwork permitted archaeologists to look closely at the evolution of this property, including evidence of the lot’s development before and after the Bray School’s tenure on the lot. Unfortunately, a three-story cellared dormitory was built directly over top of the school’s footprint in 1930, although the brick footings of at least two eighteenth-century outbuildings were identified poking out from behind the dormitory: a detached kitchen and a square brick foundation for either a smokehouse or dairy. These were likely service buildings that stood behind the structure in which the Bray School was conducted.

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While the school’s architectural signature was wiped out, not all traces of the school were destroyed. Over the course of three summers of excavation, forty-seven slate pencil fragments were recovered from the site. Used for writing, tallying, and arithmetic, among other uses, writing slates and slate pencils were inexpensive and plentiful. Williamsburg merchants routinely advertised writing slates alongside slate pencils in the second half of the eighteenth century, and fragments of slate pencils are often recovered from eighteenth-century archaeological contexts in and around Williamsburg, including the Rich Neck Slave Quarter (Franklin 2004). Elsewhere in Virginia, slate pencil fragments have also been recovered from plantation slave quarters at Monticello and Fairfield (Bly 2008). Notably, the Bray School slate pencil assemblage is the largest of any site excavated in Williamsburg. The recovery of such a large assemblage of writing equipment raises the interesting question: was writing also part of the school’s curriculum? The extensive documentary record of the Williamsburg Bray School makes no mention of writing instruction, suggesting that if writing were included, the school’s mistress Ann Wager could have taken it upon herself to facilitate it. A definitive answer to the writing question is hampered by the absence of comparable archaeological evidence for the pedagogical use of slate pencils. Prior to the nineteenth century, formal education was limited by class and gender, and for the most part, purpose-built schoolhouses did not exist (Baugher 2009). Intriguingly, though, excavations of nineteenthcentury schoolhouses in diverse geographic contexts such as Bermuda and Michigan have all yielded large quantities of slate pencil fragments (AgbeDavies 2002; Beisaw 2003; Davies 2005). Hall (2003) credits their widespread adoption to Joseph Lancaster, the English education innovator who championed their use in the 1805 edition of Improvements in Education as a cost-effective medium of instruction for spelling, writing, and arithmetic (Lancaster 1805). While the documentary record is quiet on where and how long slate pencils likely were used for instruction, the archaeological evidence suggests experienced instructors like Ann Wager were exceptionally familiar with their utility, and employed them whenever possible. Conclusion

The development of Williamsburg as an urban colonial capital went hand in hand with the early history of the College of William & Mary. As predicted in 1699 by the student May Day speaker, the College was a great

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Figure 2.4. Slate pencil fragments from the Bray Site (M. Kostro 2014). Photo by Mark Kostro. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

help toward the making of Williamsburg, and Williamsburg in turn improved the College; together they fostered a unique community within British North America that was a center of political, cultural, and social influence. Archaeological excavations at the Brafferton and Bray schools reveal a dynamic multicultural community occupying a carefully scripted physical environment that attempted to hold everyone in check within a created hierarchical order through subtle visual cues. At the same time, the excavations revealed the varied ways that Native Americans and enslaved Africans living in Virginia’s colonial capital resisted standard imperial notions of Englishness, Native American, and enslaved African. Notes 1. The Baroque plans of Annapolis and Williamsburg were preceded by St. Mary’s City, Maryland’s first capital. Miller (1988) suggests St. Mary’s City plan was implemented by at least 1667. Annapolis’ plan dates to 1696, while Williamsburg’s dates to 1699. 2. Attempts to complete the quadrangle were revived in the 1770s when Thomas Jefferson was asked to design an addition to complete the quadrangle. Construction began in 1774, but was halted during the Revolution. The work was never resumed and the bricks were sold off. Archaeological evidence of Jefferson’s addition was discovered in 1940 and partially excavated in 1950 (Kocher and Dearstyne 1951). 3. Thomas Dawson died soon after his appointment. Robert Carter Nicholas and Rev. William Yates, Dawson’s successor at William & Mary, were recruited to help oversee the school. Yates’s selection ensured the continued affiliation of the Williamsburg’s Bray School with the College (Meyers 2010).

3 Discovering What Counts Ninety Years of Archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg Meredith M. Poole and Patricia M. Samford

Williamsburg, capital of the Virginia Colony for more than three quarters of the eighteenth century, is among the most studied of British North America’s colonial towns. Founded in the 1630s as Middle Plantation, a small settlement anchored along a defensive palisade, Williamsburg supplanted Jamestown as the colony’s capital in 1699 (see McCartney, chapter 1 in this volume, for a comprehensive overview of the founding and history of Williamsburg). By the middle of the eighteenth century, Williamsburg was a busy and crowded urban center, pressed for space and straining at the confines of its original 220 acres. Outbreak of the Revolutionary War heightened this activity for a time, but the boom was not to last. In 1780, the Burgesses moved to relocate the capital westward to Richmond, and as the capital moved, so went government business, money, and prestige. Relinquishing its place of prominence, Williamsburg began a long and slow period of physical decline. The nineteenth century saw new and acute economic blows: two years of Union occupation during the Civil War, unpredictable enrollment at the College of William & Mary, and a devastating 1885 fire at the “Public Hospital for Persons of Insane and Disordered Minds,” once a perennial source of employment. Throughout these misfortunes, the town’s dwindling population tightened its collective belt, delayed repairs, and lived amid the vestiges of a more prosperous past. Then in 1926, a reversal of fortune occurred. Philanthropist John D. Rockefeller Jr. took an interest in financing this town-sized restoration, signaling the start of a project that is now approaching its centennial celebration. Today, Colonial Williamsburg is regarded as one of the nation’s premier living history museums. Within the 301-acre Historic Area, visitors may

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explore more than 500 restored and reconstructed eighteenth-century homes, trade shops, public buildings, and gardens, interacting with costumed “interpreters” and immersing themselves in the daily lives and concerns of the town’s colonial citizenry. While it is eighteenth-century history that serves as Williamsburg’s primary focus, the institutional journey from the “then” of 1926 to the “now” of the early twenty-first century is another important story worthy of consideration. How did this living history museum come to be? How was a relatively modern early twentieth-century townscape returned to an approximation of its eighteenth-century appearance? What questions have shaped and molded Colonial Williamsburg’s evolution as a museum? At the very least, tracing the institution’s path over the last hundred years serves as a useful context for the articles to follow in this volume. Extensive research underpins both reconstruction and interpretation at Colonial Williamsburg. Working behind the scenes, generations of documentary, architectural, and archaeological researchers have pored over a rich assemblage of each discipline’s unique artifacts. Initially cast as an architectural restoration, it was Williamsburg’s eighty-eight surviving eighteenth-century buildings, slowly acquired through purchase, that received earliest attention. The Foundation’s architects found that some of these colonial structures, such as the 1755 George Wythe House appropriated as the parish house for neighboring Bruton Parish Church, were hiding in plain sight; others were hidden beneath modern porches, facades, and later additions. The 1930 “Harvard Footage,” recorded by students at Harvard’s University Film School (purportedly from the back of a Model A) captures the pre-restoration streetscape at the outset of the restoration process. Documentary records for the town proved uneven. York County, lying predominantly on the north side of the main street, provided ample fodder for historians. The richness of these records—court orders, deeds, wills, inventories, guardian’s accounts, tax records, newspapers, church records, and other sources—helped compensate for the absence of documentation for James City County on the south side of the street, records burned during the Civil War. Arguably the most important document to surface that aided the early restoration period was the “Frenchman’s Map” (see map 2). Drawn by an anonymous French cartographer in 1782, presumably as a billeting map, it identifies Williamsburg’s structures suited as accommodation for French

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soldiers following the Battle of Yorktown. Lost for over a century, this map was discovered in 1909, sandwiched between the pages of a book purchased as part of a small library in Norfolk, Virginia (Lombardi 2007). In the search for long-vanished Revolutionary-era architecture, this document came to be regarded as the “Bible of the Restoration” (Yetter 1988:16). Williamsburg’s buried archaeological resources have been revealed more slowly than either its architectural or documentary artifacts. To date, only an estimated 25 percent of the Historic Area’s 301 acres have been fully explored—a surprising statistic, given the town’s established appearance. That such a small percentage of the town has been fully dug speaks not only to the labor-intensive and expensive nature of archaeological excavation, but to the evolving goals and techniques of archaeology as practiced at Colonial Williamsburg. Introduced as “a tool of the architectural restorer” (Noël Hume 1969:72), early excavation focused solely on the recovery of brick foundations—the lost architecture of the colonial capital. The utility of recovered artifacts for restoring historic building interiors, to provide insights into status, to reconstruct foodways, and to represent individuals and activities missing from documented histories was not fully embraced until the 1960s. With the benefit of that accumulated information, archaeologists today address broader questions revolving around economic systems, environmental change, manipulation of landscapes, and the development of Chesapeake urban centers and of rural plantation society in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Virginia. Archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg has matured, aspiring to study the town not only within the larger regional, national, and international landscape, but also well beyond its tenure as Virginia’s colonial capital. This chapter reviews the history of archaeological research at Colonial Williamsburg as a context for the works to follow. Four historical periods are identified. Although changes in leadership introduce each new phase, management is but one of several contributing influences. The evolution of modern historical archaeology is readily traceable throughout this history, including the introduction of standards of practice and new technologies now widely accepted in the field. While some of these groundbreaking innovations were rooted in Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeology program, the progress that they represent is not unique to work at this institution. More unique to Colonial Williamsburg has been the influence of the museum’s overarching mission on the direction of its archaeological program. Colonial Williamsburg promotes itself as a living history museum, a

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place where the daily activity and events of the Revolutionary War period play out against a carefully restored and reconstructed backdrop. Archaeological evidence plays an important role in reconstruction, restoration, and interpretation, but archaeology does not occupy center stage. Colonial Williamsburg is not an archaeological museum. Described by one researcher as “the first historic American townscape systematically and consciously transformed to serve as a site of patriotic inspiration, instruction, and recreation” (Tyler McGraw 1998:54), Colonial Williamsburg has broader interpretive goals only tangentially connected to the work of its archaeologists. This chapter describes how archaeologists have found ways to “discover what counts” within this larger framework. Setting the Stage: 1928–1957

December 16, 1927 Williamsburg, Va.

Dear Dr. Goodwin: We suggest that steps be taken as soon as they can properly be taken toward the uncovering of the present foundation for the House of Burgesses. This work should be painstakingly done and care taken not to destroy any of the foundation, merely to expose it so that it can be accurately measured. Very truly yours, William G. Perry (Colonial Williamsburg Corporate Archives, CWAR 1927) This brief note, sent from the Boston-based offices of architects Perry, Shaw, and Hepburn to W.A.R. Goodwin, the visionary behind Williamsburg’s restoration, marks the opening volley in what would unfold into decades of exploration. While eighty-eight surviving eighteenth-century structures dotted streets throughout the mile-long town, the Frenchman’s Map served as a reminder that dozens more had not survived. Among the missing were important public buildings that symbolized Williamsburg as a place of prominence: the Capitol, the Raleigh Tavern, and the Governor’s Palace, all lost to fire in the intervening centuries. Locating evidence for these buildings was necessary not only to ensure accurate reconstruction, but to excite the public’s imagination, support, and confidence in this unprecedented restoration effort. Excavation, narrowly defined as the recovery of architectural evidence, was regarded as vital to the restoration effort from the outset. In an October

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1927 meeting to review architects Perry, Shaw, and Hepburn’s projected plan for Williamsburg, A. Lawrence Kocher and Fiske Kimball, both noted preservation architects, championed archaeology’s inclusion as an essential component in the restoration’s research. Although their position was not necessarily the dominant one, these two men, who Goodwin would label the “archaeological architects,” prevailed, and in July of 1928, the sum of six thousand dollars was authorized for excavation on the site of the colonial Capitol building (CWAR 1928). Hired laborers completed the work within four months, exposing both the first Capitol foundation (completed in 1705) and its mid-eighteenth-century replacement, occasioned by a 1747 fire. As the architects puzzled over building sequences, shovel-wielding excavators turned their attention to the site of the Raleigh Tavern, slated to be the first reconstructed building opened to the public. Excavations continued there until March of 1929, again with no trained archaeologist on site. While most agreed that “archaeology” was necessary to get the restoration off the ground during these opening years, the expected outcome of that work was less clear. Howard Carter’s discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb in 1922 piqued public interest in archaeology, inspiring one Williamsburg businessman to post a sign instructing his garage patrons to “TOOT-ANCUM-IN” (Noël Hume 2002). Archaeology was in the public consciousness in 1928, lending excitement, as well as a degree of credibility, to the work that the Foundation was poised to undertake. By November of 1928, at a meeting of the restoration effort’s Advisory Committee of Architects, Fiske Kimball insisted that “someone, preferably an archaeologist, be hired to make a thorough record of the entire restoration” (Hosmer 1981:37). Excavation was needed to extricate building foundations from Williamsburg’s sandy loam, and the role of an archaeologist, it appeared, was to record what was discovered. Prentice Duell was the first archaeologist to arrive in Williamsburg (Noël Hume 2005b:63). Trained as a draftsman, and employed as a lecturer in classical archaeology, Duell had recently been named the Oriental Institute’s Field Director for the Sakkarah Expedition. To twenty-first-century sensibilities, Duell seems an unlikely choice to fill a Williamsburg post, but trained archaeologists were hard to come by, and so little excavation had taken place on British colonial sites that specific training in that field was extremely limited. Duell’s drafting skills, rather than his archaeological background, were

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most valued in this position. His first assignment, in 1929, focused on the College of William & Mary’s Wren Building, a surviving early eighteenthcentury structure that had evolved over centuries. Prentice Duell’s detailed drawings of brickwork both above and below grade revealed four phases of building construction, which he laid out in great detail, not only in an archaeological report, but also later in an issue of the Architectural Record (Duell 1931). Duell’s undeniable skill as a draftsman, the panache lent by his Egyptian connection, and the professional credibility he brought to this fledgling endeavor all played in his favor. During a break in his Egyptian field season in 1930, he was invited to return to Williamsburg to oversee the excavation of the Governor’s Palace (CWAR 1929). The Palace excavation was Duell’s most significant Williamsburg assignment—and his last. Late in June 1930, after consulting the Frenchman’s Map, he assembled a small band of seven laborers behind Williamsburg’s newly built high school on the Palace Green and began digging exploratory trenches. Within days, foundations of a building that burned in December of 1781 began to emerge. Workers were instructed to undercut rubble in the cellar with their pick-axes to prevent damage to surviving walls, steps, and stone paving (Ragland 1932:10). The work was inelegant, but efficient, and Duell left his archaeological mark in subtle ways. At a time when foundations were prized far above their contents, he divided the cellar into excavation areas, identifying the provenience of several important architectural elements: decorative mantle pieces, delft fireplace tiles, and black-and-white marble flooring, all of which were used to inform careful reconstruction. Duell further insisted that fill from the cellar be screened. Although this activity occurred months after the project ended, the number of retained artifacts—fifty crates—from the Palace excavation would not be exceeded for several decades. Work was alarmingly quick. Within a four-month period, Prentice Duell and his pick-axe-wielding laborers exposed and recorded not only the Palace cellar and its ballroom addition, but more than a dozen outbuilding foundations, the walls and paths framing a formal garden, and a Revolutionary War cemetery containing 158 bodies. Outside experts were occasionally summoned, and screening would continue for months to come, but by October the work on this site, and ten other sites around Williamsburg, was largely complete (Duell and Ragland 1930). Duell was on his way

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back to Egypt. While he agreed to return each summer for the next five years to oversee excavations, those plans never materialized. By the end of 1930, Williamsburg was again without an archaeologist. Although Prentice Duell boasted a longer professional pedigree, James (“Jimmy”) M. Knight is most frequently associated with early excavation in Williamsburg. Despite nearly a quarter century of supervising fieldwork, Jimmy Knight never claimed to be an archaeologist. “Archaeology,” he confessed in an oral history interview, “always was a hard word for me to spell” (Knight 1972). Knight, like his predecessor Prentice Duell, was hired on the merits of his skills as a draftsman. His archaeological reports, when written at all, were brief. His archaeological maps, however, are wonderfully detailed, and often include text and labels that were more descriptive and useful to later researchers than submitted reports. Jimmy Knight’s Williamsburg career began in 1931, just as excavation was concluding on two sites of public importance: the Palace and Capitol, with their sound documentation and even more solid foundations. As attention shifted toward finding dozens of ordinary shops, dwellings, and dependencies, Knight recognized the need for a more systematic approach to excavation. The “cross-trenching” technique he devised became Williamsburg’s standard excavation practice from the early 1930s through the late 1950s, thanks to the efficiency with which it revealed brick building remains. Excavators were lined up, side by side, along the edge of each Historic Area property, and instructed to dig trenches the width of a shovel blade, and one shovel handle apart (~5 ft.), to the opposite property boundary. Upon encountering brick foundations, workers trenched around them, allowing an architect and a draftsman to draw the architectural remains. Brick size, brick color, mortar composition, and agreement with the Frenchman’s Map all factored into the identification of eighteenth-century structures for reconstruction. Once a property was fully explored, trenches were backfilled, and excavators moved on to the next lot. So synonymous are these trenches with Jimmy Knight that they are referred to as “Jimmy trenches” by archaeologists encountering them in the field today. Although Knight claimed to have borrowed the basic trenching technique from Prentice Duell (Knight 1976:57), he made it his own by trenching at regular intervals, and by a small modification he implemented in 1938 (Knight 1972). Recognizing that trenches dug at 90-degree angles sometimes fell between the fragmentary remains of structures built square to the street, Knight rotated the trenches to run at 45-degree angles to the lot lines. This adjustment improved his recovery rate and the effectiveness

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Figure 3.1. Archaeological cross-trenching in Colonial Williamsburg, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

of this technique. By the late 1950s, Jimmy Knight and his work crews had trenched an estimated 75 percent of the Williamsburg’s Historic Area. Although a fast and efficient means of architectural recovery, trenching had significant limitations. It recovered only the most robust buildings. Post-in-ground structures, less permanent and lightly constructed buildings, and pier-supported structures were largely invisible within these trenches, and as the Restoration grew, this had a pronounced influence on Williamsburg’s appearance. In rebuilding only the most consequential structures, with a blind spot for the lowly, less grand, and impermanent, the Restoration reinforced the view of a glorified and an elitist past. Formal gardens, for which the Restoration was famed, also proved challenging to recover. Only the sturdiest elements—brick and marl walks, paved service areas, and fragments of surrounding walls—could be detected through excavation. Arthur A. Shurcliff, the Foundation’s first landscape architect, was forced to draw heavily on documentary evidence, and on English eighteenth-century survivals, as precedent for gardens that “recall[ed] the period of the ancient dwellings and the old city itself ” (as cited in Brinkley and Chappell 1996:3). These Colonial Revival gardens, established across town during the restoration, were not intended as literal interpretations of Williamsburg’s eighteenth-century landscapes. Indeed,

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early restorers made no claims that such evidence could be recovered. Instead, gardens were designed to frame architectural reconstructions. They were somewhat indiscriminately planted, without regard to the character of lots in question. As a result, tradesmen and households of greater status were given the same embellishments. Case in point: the yard surrounding the Geddy foundry was framed by boxwood-bordered tulip beds. Among the greatest omissions of Williamsburg’s thirty years of trenching activity, however, may have been the lack of concern for recovered artifacts. Collected in limited numbers, and prejudiced toward objects informing architectural reconstructions, artifacts were not a central part of the early restoration effort. They were employed principally as “proof ” or insurance against assertions that the restoration was a fabrication. The Courthouse Museum, established in Williamsburg’s “Courthouse of 1770,” featured exhibit cases of recovered artifacts, and what a later archaeologist would recall as “a wall of hinges arranged in a sort of sunburst” (Noël Hume and Miller 2011:18). These exhibits reminded visitors that Historic Area reconstructions were well researched, and had precedent in the eighteenth century. Because so few changes were made to excavation procedures between 1930 and 1960, it is tempting to ignore small successes where they occurred. In fact, progress was being made by the late 1940s and 1950s, particularly in the areas of artifact identification and treatment. In an oral history interview, lab manager Minor Wine Thomas describes early efforts to devise a classification system for ceramics. Beginning as rough classifications based on color, these systems grew more refined through time. There was a clear need for outside expertise, and Thomas actively sought it: On one occasion, I packed up a whole suitcase full of fragments and went to the Metropolitan Museum and asked for some help in identifying these things. And you know they couldn’t help me. In the first place they were unacquainted with dealing with busted stuff . . . What they collected was the crème de la crème of any kind of ceramic and these ordinary things they had never seen. They were just no help at all. And then finally—little by little by reading here, there, and yonder talking to other people who knew something about it . . . we began to identify the things. (Thomas 1956) Thomas’s experience of inventing a system where none existed appears to have been a recurrent theme throughout the Foundation’s early years. Ceramic identification, artifact conservation, and architectural preservation

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all lacked guidelines, particularly in the United States. The rule book had yet to be written (Yetter 1988:61). The creativity of the work evoked a certain exhilaration: this was a time for experimentation, for trying things to see what worked, and for learning as you went. This was a period of writing the rules. Establishing Archaeology: 1957–1982

It was not until the early 1960s that archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg began to resemble the discipline we know today. The seeds of that transformation were planted in 1956 when Colonial Williamsburg, at the suggestion of J. C. Harrington, invited a young British archaeologist named Ivor Noël Hume to consult on the subject of English wine bottles—an artifact so common that excavators had stopped saving them with any regularity (Knight 1972; Miller and Noël Hume 2013). Noël Hume must have presented a compelling case not only for the lowly wine bottle, but for the overall value of archaeology, for he returned the following year as Colonial Williamsburg’s first Director of Archaeology. The beginning of this institutional relationship was not particularly auspicious. Even as Director of Archaeology, Noël Hume continued to report to the Architecture department. It was not until 1964 that Archaeology would finally declare its independence. In the meantime, trenching continued to be regarded as the most efficient means of recovering information. But the tide was turning. By the late 1950s, the need for architectural trenching was on the wane. The remains of the majority of Williamsburg’s eighteenth-century structures had been successfully recovered, and reconstruction work was slowing. Approximately 400,000 annual visitors were touring the town, enjoying its carefully furnished exhibition buildings and colonial revival gardens. The physical “stage” had been accurately and even charmingly rebuilt, but it lacked animation. As Colonial Williamsburg crossed the threshold into the next phase of its development, what was needed was a sense of life within this living history museum—a sense that people went about their daily routines in these houses and worked in these shops that had been so painstakingly reconstructed. Archaeology’s ability to recover the evidence of daily life could not have coincided more perfectly with this shift in the museum’s goals. Over the next few years, Ivor Noël Hume would institute dramatic changes that refocused the work of archaeology from an architectural tool

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to a method through which the recovered artifacts of everyday life were connected to people and activity in the past. Among the changes he implemented was large-scale, stratigraphic excavation in which patterned activity could be revealed and recorded across a site and over time. Abandoning narrow trenches, he opened large portions of the town’s half-acre lots: fiftyfoot excavation blocks were subdivided into ten-foot squares with alternating balks of two- and three-foot widths. In the former was preserved a record of successive soil layers, while the latter allowed for the passage of wheelbarrows. More careful work demanded more precise tools. Picks and shovels from the previous era were traded for trowels with which excavators carefully removed soil layers, guided by changes in color and texture. With each layer, they exposed successive living surfaces, and revealed subtle evidence of past activity: the contours of trash pits, fences, planting beds, backyard workspaces, and the outlines of post-in-ground buildings. Brick foundations were uncovered as well, along with their associated builder’s trenches. Systematic retrieval of artifacts became a hallmark of archaeological work in Williamsburg beginning in the late 1950s. Whereas earlier excavation privileged unusual artifacts and those enhancing architectural reconstruction, Noël Hume saw all artifacts as relevant to archaeological interpretation. Perhaps counterintuitively, he dismissed the use of screens, believing that only when an archaeologist is aware of an artifact’s precise location, can that artifact be of interpretive value. Once the artifacts were collected, and their locations carefully noted, manufacture and use dates made it possible to assign dates to soil layers, and to determine the range of activities undertaken by the site’s occupants. The lab became an important space for archaeological discovery during Noël Hume’s tenure. Supported in this effort by his wife Audrey as chief curator, he employed his knowledge of eighteenth-century artifacts not only for the accurate restoration of building interiors, but to probe the lives of their original users: When was this item bought? How much did it cost? What was the owner trying to convey with this purchase? Ivor Noël Hume oversaw excavation of dozens of sites during his quarter century as Colonial Williamsburg’s Director of Archaeology. Among his best-known projects are excavations of trades sites, including James Anderson’s blacksmith shop, Anthony Hay’s cabinetmaking shop, and the Geddy foundry. This work was foundational in developing Colonial Williamsburg’s Historic Trades program, recovering examples of the unique products of eighteenth-century trades shops, as well as evidence

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Figure 3.2. Aerial view of 1981 excavation of the Public Hospital, the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

of manufacturing practices. Excavation of the 1773 “Public Hospital for Persons of Insane and Disordered Minds” was initiated during his tenure, alongside the examination of more ordinary domestic sites. Williamsburg’s full social and economic spectrum received archaeological attention, from the property of wealthy planter Carter Burwell at Carter’s Grove Plantation to the quarters in which Burwell’s enslaved people lived.

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Two excavations stand out among archaeological accomplishments during this period. One of Noël Hume’s earliest projects, the 1965 excavation of Wetherburn’s Tavern, showcased the advantages of careful, stratigraphic excavation. Challenged to define a sequence of construction for this surviving eighteenth-century tavern, Noël Hume returned detailed plans of the site’s evolution, including phases of outbuilding and well construction. More than 200,000 artifacts recovered from the tavern yard expanded the story considerably. Few fragments were independently noteworthy, but when married to such documentation as Henry Wetherburn’s estate inventory they yielded nuanced interior reconstructions and rich interpretations. The Wetherburn project took excavators where few had gone before. From the depths of a thirty-eight-foot well came fragments of a twill blanket that was faithfully reproduced in material, weave, and color for use on the tavern beds. Branches and cuttings recovered from the same well informed the landscape reconstruction, while pits and seeds suggested the contents of Henry Wetherburn’s garden. And the site had a hook: the discovery of forty-seven intact wine bottles, filled with Morello cherries and an unidentified liquid, added a touch of mystery to the Wetherburn story. Occurring over the course of two field seasons, this single project saw archaeology adjusting its sights from recovering brick foundations to making substantial contributions to environmental reconstruction. Less than a decade later, excavation at a plantation eight miles southeast of Williamsburg would put Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeological program on an international map. Martin’s Hundred, with its administrative center, Wolstenholme Towne, was a seventeenth-century settlement brought to an abrupt end by the outbreak of the 1622 Anglo-Powhatan War. Extensive coverage of this project by National Geographic magazine (Noël Hume 1979, 1982a) contributed to the general public’s archaeological education and brought notoriety to Colonial Williamsburg and its archaeologists. One iconic image taken in Colonial Williamsburg’s Archaeology Lab in 1981 captures former U.S. president Richard Nixon examining artifacts from the Martin’s Hundred excavation. Sometimes called “The Father of Historical Archaeology,” Noël Hume set standards for its practice both in the field and the lab. He shared that information in two books that can be found on the shelves of almost every practicing historical archaeologist. Historical Archaeology (1968) details procedures for excavating, recording, and analyzing sites, while his Guide to Artifacts of Colonial America (1969) explores the full range of artifacts typically found on British colonial sites, and provides information

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Figure 3.3. President Richard Nixon examining artifacts from Martin’s Hundred, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

on identification and dating. These volumes draw heavily on more than a decade of excavation at Colonial Williamsburg. While historical archaeology as a profession owes a great debt to Ivor Noël Hume, it is with wider public audiences that his work may have been the most revolutionary. A gifted communicator in print, exhibit design, and presentation, Noël Hume courted, and delivered the excitement of archaeology to, a public audience. A series of pamphlets, most of them fewer than sixty pages and heavily illustrated, encapsulated the key finds and conclusions of important excavations for Williamsburg visitors. Illustrations, he insisted, were to run to the edges of the page so that potential buyers, thumbing the corners of the paperback, would feel the expenditure of a dollar to be justified (Noël Hume and Miller 2011:26). Full-length books commanded an even greater following. His engagingly written Martin’s Hundred (Noël Hume 1982a) is arguably responsible for creating a generation of armchair archaeologists. In addressing museum visitors, Noël Hume retired artifact displays at the Courthouse Museum, replacing them with exhibits that explained the archaeological process. Ostensibly intended to instruct Williamsburg’s visitors, these exhibits were equally useful in educating Colonial Williamsburg’s administrators. A cross-section view through a simulated archaeological

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site at the new “Information Center” was his “first attempt to show the architects and the public the relationship of artifacts to stratigraphy” (Noël Hume and Miller 2011:18). A more ambitious exhibit installed in 1975 in the reconstructed James Anderson House coincided with the excavation of Anderson’s blacksmith shop in the yard behind. The Anderson House Archaeological Exhibit featured, among other displays, the “Traveler’s Room,” the recreated bedroom of a “fictitious male tenant,” which appeared recently vacated. The unmade bed, emptied wine glass, abandoned tobacco pipe, and dozens of other objects scattered about the room were mirrored by artifacts in cases in the exhibit’s foreground. Linking life and its material residue, the idea of bringing the public into the archaeological process was new at the time and met a receptive audience in Williamsburg (Miller 2013:152). Between 1975 and the exhibit closure in 1983, the Anderson House Archaeology museum attracted as many as 211,000 annual visitors (data pulled from Monthly Reports on Archaeological Activities 1975–1983). Only the Martin’s Hundred Museum (officially the Winthrop Rockefeller Archaeological Museum), which opened in 1991, attracted more attention. Housed underground on the grounds of Carter’s Grove plantation, eight miles from Williamsburg, the Martin’s Hundred exhibit used 200 artifacts to tell the story of that seventeenth-century settlement’s dramatic demise and discovery. Noël Hume’s quarter century of work with the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation embraced a wide range of sites both within the Historic Area and in its surrounding environs. In contrast to preceding periods of excavation, 1957–1982 saw the production of technical reports on fieldwork, and detailed artifact analyses. This work provided information necessary to “animate” an eighteenth-century architectural museum, and expanded the historical scope of Colonial Williamsburg’s research to include the seventeenth century. Grounded in a theatrical background, Noël Hume’s engaging, narrative style resonated deeply with Colonial Williamsburg’s museum audience. Professional archaeology, however, was trending in a different direction. As the discipline moved toward hypothesis testing and scientific conclusions about the past, quantitative methods and statistical analysis gained favor over what were perceived as particularistic interpretations. As Noël Hume stepped back to complete his important work at Martin’s Hundred, archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg launched in a new direction.

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Refining the Program: 1982–2008

In 1982, Dr. Marley R. Brown III assumed leadership of Colonial Williamsburg’s Department of Archaeological Research (initially the Office of Excavation and Conservation). This transition resulted in only minor changes to the solid field practices instated in the 1960s. Ten-foot excavation units were supplanted by open-area excavations, and the use of balks was discontinued. As archaeological questions expanded into areas of landscape and environmental change, materials collected in the field for further analysis expanded to include oyster shells, faunal remains, and soil samples. It is fair to say that in the last thirty years, an increasing quantity of each site has been brought into the lab for further analysis. The most fundamental shift since 1982 in Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeological research program has been a more anthropological, or comparative, approach to archaeological evidence. How did the clientele of Shields Tavern compare to that of Henry Wetherburn or to Richard Charlton’s Coffeehouse? How did the use of space differ between Williamsburg’s commercial neighborhoods and its urban plantations? Where did a gunsmith fit in the social pecking order of early eighteenth-century Williamsburg? How did the diet of an elite, seventeenth-century urbanite compare to that of an eighteenth-century rural plantation owner, or that of the enslaved? These questions and their expressed views can be attributed, in part, to the fact that historical archaeologists are now likely to be academically trained in anthropology. But they also reflect a background of more than fifty years of solid archaeological research at Colonial Williamsburg. The accumulated number of sites carefully excavated since 1960 has allowed Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeologists to broaden their focus beyond individual sites to a consideration of Williamsburg’s distinctive eighteenthcentury neighborhoods, and to the town as a whole. This period of archaeological research at Colonial Williamsburg has been characterized by one colleague as a time of looking outward (King 2015). Research spiraled out from the town’s eighteenth-century core into the physical spaces, and the chronological framework, that supported it. There was recognition that the artificial bounds of the twentieth-century Historic Area excluded elements of town that were vital and familiar to eighteenth-century residents: ports providing water access to the landlocked capital, rural plantations that provisioned it, and “subdivisions” into which the burgeoning population expanded by the middle of the eighteenth century.

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During the late 1980s, excavation at College Landing—one of two ports providing access to the city—and at rural, outlying plantations helped ground Historic Area research in broader patterns. A desire to understand the growth and development of Williamsburg as Virginia’s colonial capital led to a focus on Middle Plantation, the seventeenth-century town from which it sprang, and Jamestown, which preceded it as the capital. Excavations at the outlying Rich Neck Plantation, the John Page House, the Nassau Street Ordinary, and in Jamestown’s “New Town” provided windows on seventeenth-century Virginia. How these developments were mirrored in other places prompted studies in comparative colonialism in Bermuda and Barbados. Much of the archaeological work outside the Historic Area during this phase was prompted by commercial and residential development, and the specter that historically significant resources were at risk with the growth of Williamsburg and its environs. Working with local governments to plan for the protection of known resources became a priority. The Resource Protection Planning Process report, issued first in 1986 and revised in 1991 and 2009, identified overarching historical themes, and mapped the locations of corresponding archaeological and architectural resources (Brown and Bragdon 1986; Metz 1993; Moodey 1991). This document was used by local city and county planners to develop comprehensive plans, and in the creation of the City of Williamsburg’s archaeological protection district. Internally, Colonial Williamsburg began a similar assessment of archaeological resources lying within the Foundation’s 3,500-acre land holdings. The Foundation Survey (1986) has proven to be a useful reference and preparation document as Colonial Williamsburg considered sale of property holdings in the corridors approaching the Historic Area. This scope of work would not have been possible without a robust staff. Indeed, the Department of Archaeological Research has never been larger than it was during the 1980s and early 1990s. The number of full-time, permanent staff archaeologists swelled to six during this period, with a support team consisting of eight field technicians, two curators, an archaeological conservator, an artist, a photographer, a full-time draftsperson, and a full field crew. Archaeological specialists joined the team beginning in the early 1980s, either on permanent or rotating bases. A full-time zooarchaeologist was the most enduring of these positions, but archaeobotanists, a ceramic expert, and an oral historian, along with a wide range of visiting archaeological

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scholars, were hired. Each of these disciplines opened new opportunities for exploration: colonial foodways (including procurement, preparation, and consumption) emerged as an important research topic during this period, as did the archaeology of gardens, both formal (St. George Tucker’s pleasure garden) and the more common kitchen gardens, such as those identified behind James Shields’s Tavern and the Peyton Randolph house. The story of enslavement in Williamsburg rose to the top of archaeology’s research priorities in the mid-1980s. During the 1770s, just over half of Williamsburg’s population consisted of enslaved people of African descent. Finding ways to tell the story of a group so poorly represented in documentary sources had frustrated Williamsburg’s researchers. Then, in 1987, the AT&T Corporation sponsored a Black History program at Colonial Williamsburg, one component of which included excavation of the Thomas Everard property. Clerk of the York County Courts, Everard’s Williamsburg household included between seventeen and twenty enslaved people. Three seasons of field work on the Everard property revealed the inherent challenges of archaeological exploration of slavery in urban settings. While five outbuildings surrounded Everard’s house, none appeared purposely built to accommodate enslaved household members. Domestic trash was combined in a deep ravine at the north end of the property, where it was virtually impossible to distinguish ownership or origin. What belonged to whom was an impossible question to answer in any meaningful way. As archaeologists have come to realize, identifying evidence of the enslaved in the “noise” created on crowded urban lots is extremely difficult. Nonetheless, some good came from this exercise. Complications in “reading” enslaved lives on the Everard site focused attention more acutely on the problem at hand. Archaeologists began to explore rural sites where the enslaved lived in physically separate quarters to understand the connection between material remains and the people who produced them. The Rich Neck Slave Quarters, the Palace Lands Quarter, and the Quarterpath sites all represent parts of this initiative (see Borough, chapter 8 in this volume; Franklin 2004, 2017). Interestingly, archaeologists did encounter one “slave quarter” during the Everard project, but the date of its use lay beyond Colonial Williamsburg’s Revolutionary War period interpretive focus. The 1840s home of Polly Valentine and her husband, Jim Valentine, enslaved by the Nathaniel Beverley Tucker family, lay within the site boundaries of the Everard project. Although the site was fully excavated in the late 1980s and was made

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the subject of a College of William & Mary Master’s thesis shortly after, “Mammy Polly’s” story is not part of the interpretive landscape (Edwards 1990; Edwards-Ingram 2019). Advances in technology opened new avenues of research during the 1980s and 1990s, particularly in environmental studies. Botanical remains, from seeds and pollen to phytoliths, factored into explorations of kitchen gardens behind the Peyton Randolph house and at Shields Tavern. A privy belonging to early eighteenth-century gunsmith John Brush yielded information about his diet, and the parasites with which he was afflicted. In the mid-1990s, Colonial Williamsburg established a phytolith lab, and began building a study collection of these silica casts of plant cells to better decipher Williamsburg’s changing landscape. Exploration of St. George Tucker’s one-and-a-half-acre formal garden was focused and facilitated through the application of several geophysical survey techniques. Education and interpretation were important products of archaeological research during this period. An annual summer field school in historical archaeology, held in conjunction with the College of William & Mary’s Department of Anthropology, got its start in 1984. Since that time, hundreds of graduate and undergraduate students have learned to excavate on stratigraphically complex sites within the Historic Area and on its borders; some of these students are now widely recognized professionals in the archaeology world. Building New Audiences: Archaeology since 2008

In 2008, as leadership changed once more, the laboratory and field functions for the Department of Archaeological Research were separated. The archaeological lab came to be housed within Colonial Williamsburg Museums “Collections Division.” Fieldwork was combined with Architectural Research to create a joint “Department of Architectural and Archaeological Research” headed by Edward Chappell, known for his long and illustrious career in architectural analysis, renovation, reconstruction, and preservation at Colonial Williamsburg. Chappell continued overseeing and initiating efforts to elaborate on the interdisciplinary and collaborative nature of historical archaeology. While challenging the internal work of the Archaeology Department, this separation fostered new collaborations beyond departmental boundaries. A significant increase in excavation has characterized Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeological history since 2008. Occasioned by three back-to-back

Figure 3.4. Guests watching excavations at the Public Armoury, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

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property reconstructions (Richard Charlton’s Coffeehouse from 2008 to 2009, the Public Armoury from 2010 to 2013, and the Market House from 2013 to 2015), this uptick in fieldwork seems vaguely reminiscent of the pace and architectural focus of Colonial Williamsburg’s early years. The results, however, have been quite different. Careful excavation continues to precede Colonial Williamsburg’s brickand-mortar reconstructions, but architects, carpenters, and brick masons are no longer the end consumers of archaeological data. New technology, in a variety of forms, is shaping the product of archaeological research, and placing it in the hands of a wider audience. Among the most innovative of these projects has been collaboration between archaeologists and computer modelers in Colonial Williamsburg’s Digital History Center. Beginning in 2009 in the context of the NEHfunded Virtual Williamsburg initiative, modelers began drawing on a half century of stratigraphic excavation data to construct phased, 3D-computer models interpreting changes to Williamsburg’s built and natural landscapes (see Inker, chapter 12 in this volume). While carpenters reconstructed the congested 1779 Public Armoury complex on Duke of Gloucester Street, for example, modelers rendered the same landscape as it appeared five years earlier, as an uncluttered tavern yard. The ability to visualize change through time holds great research potential, and expands interpretation to sites beyond Williamsburg’s eighteenth-century focus: features associated with the seventeenth-century Middle Plantation come to mind, as do the nineteenth-century home of Polly Valentine, and the Stith Tin Shop, discussed by Edwards in chapter 7 of this volume. Archaeological evidence that is unsavory, impossible, or unfit for physical replication within a living history museum also finds a home in the computer model. Steep trashfilled ravines bordering the Coffeehouse and Armoury lots, and the baked, near-treeless streets revealed by archaeobotanical research can now be experienced virtually by researchers and visitors alike. Web 2.0 technologies flourished during this period. Webcams and blogs, launched as components of three multiyear excavation and reconstruction projects, introduced new and sometimes unsuspecting audiences to the archaeological process, and to its role in research. Capturing excavation in real time, these tools have facilitated lively exchanges between remote viewers and Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeologists. Blog discussions became a forum to clarify misinformation, share updates, and make connections between readers and museum experts who may not be accessible to visitors on the street. Through these exchanges, and through other social media

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platforms such as Facebook, a group of geographically scattered enthusiasts has coalesced into a sustained “local audience” for Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeology program. Perhaps most significantly, recent excavations have opened important opportunities for engaging with, and being accountable to, Native American and African descendant communities. In 2011 and 2012, excavations at the Brafferton Indian School on the historic campus of the College of William & Mary were carried out in consultation with the Brafferton Legacy Group, an advisory body of William & Mary Native American alumni. The fieldwork began with a commemorative ceremony honoring the Brafferton’s history as an Indian School, and Legacy Group members assisted with the site’s interpretation to visitors and guests. Likewise, at the Bray School site, where Ann Wager taught catechism, reading, domestic arts, and possibly writing to enslaved and free Black children between 1760 and 1774, excavation was carried out with the support of William & Mary’s Lemon Project—a program designed to encourage scholarship on the 300-year relationship between African Americans and the college, and to build bridges between the college and the community. The Bray School project’s archaeological fieldwork built on archival research carried out by Lemon Project staff, and the results were presented directly to Williamsburg’s descendant African American community after each season of excavation. See chapter 2 of this volume for detailed information on these projects. Conclusion

Over the last ninety years, Colonial Williamsburg’s “fortunes” have ebbed and flowed. As the museum has evolved from architectural reconstruction, to living history site, to educational institution, new demands have been placed on those supporting its work—archaeologists included. Some of the best archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg was overseen by two directors with radically different approaches and perspectives. Ivor Noël Hume brought professional standards, public recognition—and even a former president—to the program, while Marley Brown delivered academic rigor, a respected staff, and a broad-ranging vision for archaeology’s capabilities and contributions. Despite their differences, these programs are connected. The size and quality of the staff assembled in the 1980s and 1990s reflects, in part, an appreciation of the work accomplished a generation prior. Today, Colonial Williamsburg’s Archaeological program sits at the edge of a new chapter. The appointment of the next Director of Archaeology,

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Jack Gary, in 2018, renewed the museum’s commitment to integrity and continued research, and acknowledged archaeology’s unique abilities to spark visitor interest, and to serve as a vehicle for community and stakeholder engagement. This new phase of archaeological work at Colonial Williamsburg opens with the five-year excavation of John Custis IV’s fouracre Custis Square property, one of the last major sites in Williamsburg left to explore. Research topics guiding this project include landscape structure, the built environment, enslavement, eighteenth-century horticulture and garden design, early scientific inquiry, Custis Square in the context of Tidewater Virginia, and Custis Square after John Custis. Each of these topics draws upon excavation and research conducted in Williamsburg over the last sixty years. Opportunities abound for future collections research. By the early twenty-first century, archaeological collections at Colonial Williamsburg numbered in excess of sixty million fragments. This number reflects not only a lengthy tenure, but an expansion in the range of materials of archaeological interest, and a commitment to ongoing research. One project presently unfolding is an assessment and study of colonoware in the Archaeological Collection, but the possibilities are endless. As a research collection, Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeological holdings are available for study by other institutions, archaeologists, and researchers. What we, what they, and what our successors can learn is limited only by the questions that we ask, and by the artifacts and samples that we decide to collect. As we close in on a century of work, we would do well to acknowledge what has gone right. Archaeology began its efforts with the inelegant probing for iconic buildings like the Governor’s Palace and the Capitol, and continues today with explorations of two schools that served Williamsburg’s African American and Native American residents. Through it all, the ebbs and flows, has been a sustained commitment to understanding the evolution of a colonial town through its rich and varied resources. Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeologists continue to discover what counts in historical archaeology. Much remains to be done.

II ENVIRONMENTAL, BIOLOGICAL, AND ECONOMIC STUDIES

4 Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape Joanne Bowen

British colonists arriving in the Chesapeake encountered a world they believed to be wild and untamed—a foreign horticultural landscape where native peoples fished, hunted, foraged, and grew corn and other crops using the ancient agricultural method known as slash-and-burn. The London Company of Virginia’s singular goal to produce profitable commodities—and virtually nothing else—resulted in a catastrophe where colonists starved during the terrible winter of 1609. Only later, after colonists began to raise the commodity tobacco and produce their own food, did the colony succeed. Soon, settlements spread out from the island and tobacco production came to define the plantation economy. Over the next few decades, the sustained and intensive nature of this effort, combined with growing corn and raising herds of livestock, brought about soil degradation, forcing colonists to diversify from single commodity production to growing wheat and producing livestock for export and producing food to feed urban residents. This chapter attempts to unravel the complex chain of causation, to show how the English colonists’ goal to produce both a commodity for trade and food to eat set in motion the transformation of the landscape from one based on horticulture to one more akin to the mixed husbandry system the English had known in the Old World (Scharf 2014). Zooarchaeological and documentary evidence, combined with ethology studies and other environmental data, reveal the interplay of the short- and long-term ecological, economic, social, and cultural processes that contributed to how the colonists, their livestock, and their plants jointly domesticated the land they settled. I prioritize zooarchaeological data in a robust review of evidence, concentrating on the evolution of a provisioning system that eventually produced food for a town’s residents, and argue that it was the natural outcome of events set in motion during the first decade after the arrival of English colonists to Virginia. This study proposes that faunal data have

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the potential to help reveal how the combined chain of events produced significant change in the landscape. Historical evidence for the Chesapeake has long been considered the benchmark for determining when change occurred. References to the widespread and deleterious effect of colonists’ agricultural techniques on the soil date to the late eighteenth century (Craven 1926:11–19, 25–39; Curtain et al. 2001:xxi; Walsh 1989, 2001). At least one historian has described livestock that, left to their own devices, were scrawny, poorly fed, and often as not went hungry (Anderson 2004:117–119). Archaeological evidence, however, provides an independent and contemporary source of information on herd increases, the age of slaughter, and the general health and wellbeing of free-ranging livestock. This element is essential, as since historical evidence can be primarily anecdotal, reliance on such evidence does little more than reinforce preconceived assumptions. However, systematic documentary research can greatly inform archaeological interpretations and, if integrated with archaeological data, another view on the past can emerge (Biddick 1989; Bowen 1975, 1984, 1990, 1999; Carson et al. 2008; Hamilton and Thomas 2012; Head 1993; Maltby 1979; Thomas 2002; Walsh et al. 1997). This approach will assist in expanding our understanding of when and how the colony’s second capital, Williamsburg, emerged. When tobacco was the primary commodity, commercial distribution activities had been decentralized, with processing and trading with merchants tending to occur primarily on planters’ docks. The modest volume of tobacco production did little to encourage centralization, and planters resisted attempts to establish trading centers (Earle 1975; O’Mara 1979:166– 192; Thomas 1994). But as the single-minded concentration on tobacco gave way to the production of new commodities requiring additional processing, transportation, and storage facilities, towns emerged to facilitate and expand on these activities (Bradburn and Coombs 2006; Earle 1992:88–152; Earle and Hoffman 1977:48–51). In 1676, the old settlement at Jamestown, then capital of the colony, burned to the ground. Through political negotiations, colonists chose to move the capital to a nearby settlement at Middle Plantation and rename it Williamsburg (Horning 2000:53–68). As the colony’s new seat of government, politicians and nonresidents gathered there four times a year to tend to legal affairs during “Public Times.” In addition, Williamsburg served as the colony’s commercial center, where planters and merchants convened to exchange information about the status of crops and prevailing market conditions in England and to establish prices for tobacco and other goods throughout the colony (O’Mara 1979:281; Soltow

Figure 4.1. Chesapeake and archaeological sites. Based on map created by Heather Harvey as part of Provisioning Early American Towns, The Chesapeake: A Multidisciplinary Case Study (Walsh et al. 1997). The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

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1958:467–475). As towns emerged, so too did urban populations of nonproducers, who depended on foods produced in the nearby countryside. Zooarchaeological evidence, corroborated by documents, will show how the colonists’ agricultural pursuits, combined with the feeding practices of introduced livestock, enabled this new colony to emerge from the brink of total collapse to become a thriving colony capable of producing both commodities and food to eat within a very short period of time (Walsh 1999a, 2000; Walsh et al. 1997). While the zooarchaeological data could be strengthened by analyzing more faunal assemblages, when integrated with historical documentation, this study has enabled the reconstruction of the herd system as it evolved to accommodate expanding settlements, ensuing soil degradation and emergence. Landscape archaeology has the capacity to reveal the complex relationships that exist between the land and all living things. Over decades, many approaches (including cultural ecology, human ecology, evolutionary ecology, historical ecology, and niche construction) have investigated complex long-term relationships to discover how humans, their plants, and their animals have adapted to and modified the environment (Allen and Sykes 2011; Balée 2006; Bar-Yosef 2019; Bennett 1996; Bourdieu 1977; Crumley 1994; Dell 2014; Fitzhugh et al. 2018; Hood 1996; Joseph 1997; Lennartsson et al. 2016; Lezama-Nunez et al. 2018; McClure 2015; McGovern et al. 2007; Stine et al. 1997; Sutton and Anderson 2004; Yamin and Metheny 1996; Young 2000). One approach that has proven useful for understanding the transformation of the Chesapeake is referred to as landscape domestication. Introduced in 1989 by Douglas Yen as a conceptual framework to investigate a human-mediated landscape transformation, John Terrell and others (Terrell et al. 2003; Terrell and Hart 2008:328–332) broadened this approach to embrace domestication as a form of mutualism. From their perspective, humans, like all other life forms, construct niches, where they live and where they migrate, interacting with all life forms in order to harvest food, creating in the process a landscape capable of sustaining their species. When humans, or any other species, know “how to make their living there,” the land is said to have been domesticated (Terrell et al. 2003:334). This study is based on the belief that landscapes are the physical manifestations, the co-creations resulting from the ecodynamic interactions of humans, their domesticated plants and animals, the soil, climate, and all lifeforms. Colonists and the animals and plants on which they depended for a livelihood are regarded as “fellow participants in the same world”

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(Ingold 1996:22). As Lesley Head (1993) accomplished in her marvelous synthesis of extant physical and cultural geographies, archaeological data, and oral histories in Australia, this analysis synthesizes systematically collected historical and zooarchaeological data to reconstruct how individually and collectively colonists and their livestock co-created a landscape capable of sustaining the Virginia colony. Like a growing number of zooarchaeological syntheses, this integration reveals the complex relationships surrounding landscape formation (Albarella 2005; Allen 2017; Carlson Deitmeier 2017; Crabtree 2014; Grau-Sologestoa and Albarella 2019; Hamilton and Thomas 2012; Holmes 2013; McGovern et al. 2007; Thomas 2002; Zeder 1991). .

Data Sources

Since 1983, my colleagues, students from the College of William & Mary, and I have studied faunal remains from numerous archaeological sites, most located in the James–York peninsula, dating from 1607 to the early nineteenth century. To identify broad regional patterns, analysts aggregated the largest and most tightly dated assemblages and grouped them into periods representing significant economic changes in the region (Bowen 1996; Miller 1984, 1988; Walsh et al. 1997). The groups are c.1607–1611, 1620–1660, 1660–1700, 1700–1725, 1725–1750, 1750–1775, and 1775–1800. To use the archaeological data to identify animals raised for commercial purposes, as opposed to those raised for the exclusive use of the plantation community, age data for the eighteenth century were broken into rural and urban assemblages dating 1700–1750, 1750–1775, and 1775–1800. Relative dietary estimates based on biomass estimates are used to measure the extent to which colonists depended on local wildlife and livestock they brought with them (Bowen 1996; Bowen and Andrews 2000; Reitz and Wing 2008:233–242; Walsh et al. 1997:307–328). While NISP data are often used to measure relative frequencies, analyses of these faunal assemblages have shown that biomass estimates, which are based on bone weight and not fragmentation, provide an excellent measure of dietary contributions, particularly in assemblages with substantial numbers of fish remains. The age of slaughter estimates is used to assess husbandry strategies. Since urban sites in Virginia often lack mandibles, slaughter ages presented here are based on counts derived from the epiphyseal fusion of long bones, and not teeth, which provide better evidence for the youngest age group. Taking into consideration taphonomic factors and variables related to health,

Table 4.1. List of archaeological sites from lower Chesapeake Occupant(s)

MNI

NISP

87

3,970

Jamestown Settlement James Fort Pit 1, ca. 1610 (44JC1)

James Fort

Jamestown 1620–1640 (44JC1)

Combined features

—

4,577

Rural Sites 1620–1660 Hampton University (44HT55)

Probable middling planters

128

13,885

Jordan’s Journey (44PG302)

Planters, tenants, and unknowns

170

11,742

Jordan’s Journey (44PG300)

Planters, tenants, and unknowns

38

3,036

Jordan’s Journey (44PG307)

Planters, tenants, and unknowns

Bennett Farm (44YO68)

Middling planter

Kingsmill Tenement (44JC39)

Probable middling tenants

48

1,997

112

1,190

77

2,958

Rural Sites 1600–1700 Rich Neck Plantation (44WB52)

Wealthy planter

Jenkins Neck (44GL320)

Probable planter

56

—

4,174 1,694

Clifts Plantation (44WN33)

Middling tenants

37

6,332

Utopia (44JC32)

Middling tenants

70

1,003

Pettus (44JC33)

Wealthy planter

146

5,420

Bennett Farm (44YO68)

Low-middling planter

97

1,687

Drummond Site (44JC43)

Wealthy planter

234

5,169

Hornsby Site (44JC500)

Wealthy planter

36

2,044

Hampton Carousel (44HT39)

Tenants

58

3,453

Jordan’s Journey (44PG151)

Planter

90

5,181

Clifts Plantation (44WN33)

Middling tenants

85

14,559

Public Hospital (Block 4, Area C)

Governor

35

697

Firehouse (Block 15, Area C)

Butcher and glazier

93

4,586

Peyton Randolph (Block 28, Area C)

Wealthy resident and planter

Grissell Hay (Block 29, Area C)

Wealthy physician, planter

48

1,547

Brush-Everard (Block 29, Area F)

Gunsmith

31

1,555

Brush-Everard (Block 29, Area G)

Gunsmith

53

2,337

Shields Tavern (Block 9, Area L)

Middling tavernkeeper

76

766

Brush-Everard (Block 29, Area B)

Apothecary

56

1,818

Rural Sites 1700–1750

Williamsburg Sites 1700–1750

—

1,845

Williamsburg Sites 1735–1757

Rural Sites 1750–1775 Rich Neck Slave Quarter (44WB52)

Enslaved African Americans

—

24,959

Curles Neck Plantation (44HE388)

Wealthy planter

56

2,244

Kingsmill Plantation (44JC37)

Wealthy planters

94

1,447

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 73

Occupant(s)

MNI

NISP

Williamsburg Sites 1750–1775 Custis Site (Block 4, Area B)

Wealthy planter, tradesmen

63

3,091

Geddy Kitchen (Block 19, Area B)

Silversmith

52

2,040

Anthony Hay (Block 28, Area D)

Cabinetmaker

73

2,052

Brush-Everard (Block 29, Area F)

Wealthy planter and mayor

163

8,260

Ferry Farm (44WB138)

Planters

112

7,062

Kingsmill Slave Quarter (44JC39)

Enslaved African Americans

164

14,324

Custis Site (Block 4, Area B)

Tenants

120

3,092

Shields Tavern (Block 9, Area L)

Blacksmith

73

6,171

Geddy Kitchen (Block 19, Area B)

Silversmith

91

4,500

Anthony Hay (Block 28, Area D)

Cabinetmaker

59

1,391

Rural Sites 1775–1800

Williamsburg Sites 1775–1800

breed, and diets affecting fusion, eruption, and wear, we opted to group fusion data into broadly defined age groups using numerical designations provided by Reitz and Wing (Chaplin 1971:131; Reitz and Wing 2008:193– 198; Silver 1990:283–302; Walsh et al. 1997:316–328; Watson 1987:97–102). Morphometric analyses of fully fused and measurable long bones are used to track changes in livestock sizes to assess how cattle adapted to and were affected by changing husbandry practices and environmental conditions (Arbuckle and Bowen 2004:20–27; Carson et al. 2008:31–49; Meadows 1999:285–300; von den Driesch 1976; Walsh et al. 1997:34–60). While two significant studies of North American sites have indicated breeding to have been a significant factor in determining size, this study has the benefit of in-depth knowledge of the Chesapeake to document size changes as a response to an evolving ecosystem (Cossette and Horard-Herbin 2013; Reitz and Ruff 1994). Drawing on documentation that identifies cattle importation ceased in the 1620s and the fact that supplemental feed was provided only to fatten stock before slaughter, this study shows how over a 200-year period cattle depended on local forage, growing to larger and smaller sizes as they fed on local forage. Biologists recognize that growth in the mammalian skeleton is affected by many factors, but they generally agree that an inadequate diet will inhibit growth when young animals are growing. In the most straightforward construction possible, large animals are associated with a productive environment, whereas a decrease in size is associated with nutritional stress caused by a reduction in forage quality

74 · Joanne Bowen

or high competition for food (Malina and Bouchard 1991:405–411). When zooarchaeological and documentary evidence are integrated, data indicates herds proliferated largely through natural reproduction. Domestication and ethology studies of feral herds are used to provide evidence for the instinctual behaviors that provided the foundation for herd systems (Clutton-Brock 1999; Ingold 1980, 1994; O'Connor 1997; Zeder 2012, 2015). Pollen evidence is used to reconstruct broad environmental changes, and a broad survey of secondary and original texts provides critical information on how English settlers and their livestock established a plantation economy, and how their actions impacted the soil, altering the native landscape into one resembling what they had left behind in England (Craven 1926:11–19, 25–39; Curtain et al. 2001:xxi; Walsh 1989, 2001). Each source provides independent data needed to unravel events and relationships and, when integrated, a picture of colonists and livestock coevolving a herd system emerges. It shows how they—both separately and in tandem—harnessed the land. And in less than a century, both human and animal colonizers domesticated the native landscape into a commercially driven horticultural system. First Years at Jamestown

The native landscape was a coastal plain, with undulating hills, numerous rivers, tidal marshes, and dense hardwood forests. Here the Powhatan foraged and practiced swidden agriculture, using slash-and-burn techniques to clear patches of land, girdle trees, burn what was left, and then plant maize and other crops together in mounds. When soil fertility declined, the Powhatan abandoned the field and cleared another, in the process creating a patchwork of dispersed settlements set in among groves of trees and fields in various states of use (Horn 2005:11–22; Rountree 1989:17–78; Rountree and Davidson 1998:1–46). When the English arrived in 1607, the Powhatan had formed a chiefdom with about thirty-two political districts and dozens of settlements, with a total population of about 15,000 (Gallivan 2007:87; Rountree 1989:148; Rountree and Turner 2002:37). The English colonists had been sent by the London Company of Virginia and its stockholders primarily to make a profit, as well as to hopefully discover gold, silver, or a passage to the Orient (Horn 2005:54–98; McCartney 1997:29–61; McCartney 2000a:33–34, 46–56). The Company sent only men, who were expected to subsist off provisions sent from England and to trade with the Powhatan, and whatever they could fish or hunt. Laws prevented

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 75

the first colonists from slaughtering the livestock they had brought to become the foundation of herds that would ultimately support the colony, and colonists were not allowed to own land. Few of these men had agricultural skills, most were unwilling to plant corn, and relations with the Powhatan were tentative and frequently hostile. To make matters worse, the entire mid-Atlantic seaboard had been locked in the grip of a severe, decadelong drought, and large numbers died during the “Starving Time,” a winter when the Powhatan lay siege to their fort, trapping about 300 settlers inside (Stahle et al. 1998:564–567). By springtime, nearly three-quarters of the individuals in the fort, some 160 souls, had either perished through disease and starvation, or had run away to join the Powhatan (Horn 2005:176). Come springtime, the remaining sixty survivors were famished and near death (Haile 1998:339–340, 895–896). A study of relative dietary contribution in faunal assemblages dating to c. 1610 demonstrates the extent to which colonists did not produce their own food.

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76 · Joanne Bowen

Arriving with only stores of food and livestock meant to become the foundation for future herds, settlers fished and hunted a tremendous variety of wildlife that contributed approximately one half of their meat diet, based on biomass estimates (Bowen 1996; Bowen and Andrews 2000; Carson et al. 2008:40; Reitz and Wing 2008:233–242). Deer bones may be the remains of venison settlers obtained from the Powhatan. The sheep and goats (caprines), swine, and domestic fowl remains (totaling 5.2% of the biomass estimates) represent animals intended to become herds and flocks. Cattle bones (totaling 14% of the biomass estimates) include only meaty body parts and no head or foot parts, a sign that these bones represent the remains of provisions brought from England. Horse bones (totaling 14.4% of the biomass estimates) are all butchered, no doubt the result of having been consumed during the Starving Time. Emergence of Tobacco Plantations and Herd System

The turnaround came when new leadership and new laws set the colony on a path to become self-sustaining (McCartney 1997:29–46; 2000a:46–56). In 1611, Sir Thomas Dale established a common garden where the London Company employed servants to grow food for the colony. In 1614, he allocated three acres of cleared land to every man, and by 1616 he had allocated twelve acres to every new immigrant. To encourage settlement off the island, the London Company encouraged wealthy individuals to establish settlement outposts along the James River. In 1618, the Company instituted the headright system to provide a way for investors and residents to acquire land and labor. By now, the colonists realized there was no gold or silver, but there was abundant land that would enable them to produce the sweet-scented tobacco John Rolfe had introduced from the Caribbean. This system, which shifted land ownership to individuals, established the foundation for reproducing the agricultural system they had known in England. Soon settlers spread out, first along easily navigable waterways, and later inland. By 1620, more than twenty-three independently owned settlements had been established (Gleach 1997:184–205; Rountree and Turner 2002:149–176, 159–161). Two needs set in motion the first transformation of the landscape: producing the commodity tobacco and their own food to eat. As early as 1614, settlers began to clear forests using native techniques, girdling and burning trees and then using hoes to plant tobacco and other crops. No fertilizer was used, and within two to three years soil fertility had declined to the

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 77

point that planters had to plant corn instead of tobacco (Craven 1926:11–19, 25–39; Walsh 1989, 2001). Soon fertility declined even further, and planters let these fields fallow for as long as twenty years. Over time, this practice created a mixed yet natural-looking landscape composed of hardwood and pine forests, interspersed with an ever-increasing patchwork of plantations with fields under cultivation and older abandoned ones. Introduction of Livestock

Initially, colonists brought swine, goats, sheep, horses, and fowl to Jamestown with the goal of establishing herds that could sustain the colony. By 1609, the colony had stocks of five or six hundred swine (Anderson 2004:98; Tyler 1907:179–186), and that same year John Smith remarked that in one year three sows had multiplied to sixty swine (Tyler 1907:179–186). In 1611, the first shipment of cattle arrived. Over the next decade, these herds grew, but they remained unstable until the colony itself stabilized. During the winter of 1609–1610, any living animal near the fort was consumed, but subsequent importations renewed herd populations. Later in 1611, Governor Dale arrived with “100 Kine and two hundred Swine” (Brown and Sorrells 2004:20–21; Neill 1885:11), and in 1619, the Company treasurer calculated future shipments of cattle should include twenty younger heifers for every hundred men (Anderson 2004:98). The need for food, combined with wolves and Powhatan ready to kill, continued to place pressure on these emergent herds. To protect them, in 1612, the governor declared the killing of any livestock to be a capital offense (Anderson 2004:102; Brown and Sorrells 2004:21). Colonists also protected their livestock by placing them on islands, building block houses, penning them near homes, and even keeping them in their houses. In addition, they created a twentysquare-mile area for “cattle and hogs to circuit in” by constructing a palisade that stretched across the peninsula (Beverley 1947:37; Tyler 1907:306). These steps, combined with continued imports and natural reproduction, led to herd growth, and by 1616 cattle had multiplied to hundreds and hogs to a thousand (Brown 1890:II, 776). That same year, John Rolfe reported hogs both wild and tame were too numerous to be counted (Neill 1869:112). Pressures on herds continued. In 1622, a raid by the Powhatan killed huge numbers of livestock, and the following winter disease brought more disease and death. Wrote one settler, “ . . . Our people as our Cattle have dyed, that we are all undone.” Another wrote, “As you know this land hath felt the affliction of Warr, sense of sickness and death to a great number of

78 · Joanne Bowen

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men, likewise among the Cattle for dogs have eaten in this winter more flesh than the men . . . and for tame Cattle there have so many died and ben killd otherways that there is no more to be had” (Brown and Sorrells 2004:22). Following this event, laws attempted to prevent colonists from killing livestock by fear of execution. Even so, hungry settlers shot calves, an offense they paid for by serving the colony for seven years (Brown and Sorrells 2004:24). In 1624, a census counted only 365 cattle, 518 swine, 215 goats, and one horse (Anderson 2004:103). With the dissolution of the Virginia Company in 1624, livestock imports decreased dramatically, and natural increase became the singular driving factor in herd growth. The House of Burgesses continued to support herd growth by prohibiting the slaughter of breeding animals. Even with an additional raid in 1644 that killed 400 English, herds continued to grow, and by 1649 Virginians owned about 20,000 head of cattle (Anderson 2004:103; Brown and Sorrells 2004:28). Faunal data supports documentary records, showing how in only a decade

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 79

or so, domesticates contributed 70 percent and more to the colony’s meat diet. How did herds grow so quickly? By co-creating a herd system, where colonists opted to protect their agricultural crops with fences and permitting livestock to roam freely, with relatively few constraints. Some have suggested that this solution amounted to no system at all, but biologists have shown differently. With the exception of the cat, domesticated mammals are social by nature; they live in hierarchical groups and do not defend a territory, so can accept humans as leaders within their social structure (Clutton-Brock 1999). Through long association with humans as leaders, planters and their livestock co-evolved an extensive herding system, where they acted instinctively within the loose constraints colonists placed on their free-ranging behavior. In the woods, cattle and swine found vines, broad-leafed trees, mast, tender roots, and the young shoots of hardwood trees, and along streams and shorelines they found salt marsh grasses, roots, and oysters (John Clayton, in Force 1836–1846:3, 25–26; Beverley 1947:125; Hugh Jones, in Morton 1956:781; Silver 1990:171–177, 2001:149–166). Lastly, in abandoned fields in various stages of regrowth, cattle and pigs found native grasses, herbaceous plants, vines, and young trees. As these fields increased in number, they had created for their livestock near-perfect foraging conditions, whether or not the farmers themselves recognized the benefits of the horticultural cycle (Heady and Child 1999:208–226; Van Soest 1994:36–38, 93–99, 188). In 1629, Captain John Smith remarked how most of the woods around Jamestown, Virginia, had been cut down and “all converted into pasture and gardens; wherein doth grow all manner of herbs and roots we have in England in abundance and as good grass as can be. . . .” (Crosby 2004:157). Swine (Sus scrofa)

Studies of the wild progenitor and its domesticated form (Sus scrofa) provide the basis for reconstructing swine husbandry (Bratton 1975; Challies 1975; Sweeney 1970). These animals are social omnivorous generalists, with a wide diet including leaves, nuts, fruits, grasses, fungi, roots and tubers, tree seedlings, and melons, as well as small mammals, crustaceans, and carrion (Grandin 1998). Classed as diurnal feeders, feral and wild hogs prefer feeding in the evening, staying within their home ranges as long as resources are available. Herds composed of two to four sows and their recent and juvenile offspring will remain within a home range of 247–1235 acres

80 · Joanne Bowen

(Fradrich 1974:135–140; Gonyou 2001:149; Grigson 1982:297–312). At seven to eight months of age juvenile boars are forced out and remain solitary except to join a herd during mating season. The hierarchical structure of this herd is strong, and the composition rigid, sufficiently that nonmembers are not welcomed. As generalist feeders and prolific breeders, wherever there is abundant food, feral and wild populations can farrow twice a year, producing litters of five to six piglets in just four months (Gonyou 2001:163; Grigson 1982; Sweeney 1970). In England, in areas where woodlands remained, farmers practiced an old form of husbandry known as pannage husbandry. In these locations, swine were born at home, weaned at three months, and then sent to the woods to feed alongside their elders. There they remained until the end of the mast season, when farmers herded them home to be butchered (Grigson 1982:297–312; Hamilton and Thomas 2012; Trow-Smith 1957:50–55; White 2011). Even when left in the woodlands, they were constrained in pens where they were kept by night. So successful was this herding system that it was not until the late eighteenth century, when woodlands had decreased in many parts of Britain and the commercial production of pigs had increased, that pig-keeping diverged from pannage husbandry to a more controlled system based on penning (Grigson 1982:297–312; TrowSmith 1957:51). Pannage husbandry was perfect for the heavily wooded Chesapeake, and not surprisingly, more than any other species, colonists allowed swine to run free in the woods, where they reportedly swarmed, “like Vermine upon the Earth . . . [They] run where they list, and find their own Support in the Woods, without any Care of the Owner . . .” (Beverley 1947:318). Even so, colonists understood their instinct to live in hierarchical herds, as evidenced by Robert Beverley, who wrote, “If a Proprietor could find and catch the Pigs, or any part of a Farrow,” then they could claim ownership of all that ran together, since “as they are bred in Company, so they continue to the End” (Beverley 1947:318). Remaining in their home range as long as desirable food sources were available, swine fed in salt marshes on oysters and roots, in forests on tender roots, carrion, seedlings, acorns, on fields after harvest, and in orchards on their favorite—peaches (Bowen 1999:360). Cattle (Bos taurus)

Cattle are social mammals (Albright and Arave 1997:45–66; Phillips 1993:33–74; Reinhardt 1983:251–264; Reinhardt and Reinhardt 1981:121–151).

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 81

Unlike sheep, who are true grazers, cattle can digest acorns and leaves of trees, tree shoots, and bushes in addition to grasses, an attribute that gives them great flexibility. Feeding in small and well-defined home ranges, they can take advantage of open areas, woodlands, scrubland, and marshy wetlands (Hall 2002:134; Jordan 1993:22). In semi-wild or wild cattle herds, social organization takes the form of matriarchal groups consisting of females and their young and bachelor groups of bulls. Organizing around natural resources, these herds move in large groups when resources are plentiful, and when scarce they break into smaller kin groups. When necessary, feral herds will range over large areas in search of food (Bouissou et al. 2001). In England there was precedent for free-ranging cattle. In areas where woodlands were common, farmers permitted cattle to graze alongside swine (Thirsk 1987, 2000; Trow-Smith 1957:23–24). In the Chesapeake, colonists followed suit (Anderson 2004; Bowen 1994, 1999; Brown and Sorrells 2004; Carson et al. 2008; Dyer 2000:97–211; Gray 1933; Laing 1954; Miller 1984; Short 2000:122–149; Walsh et al. 1997). Knowing their cattle would stay together in herds, colonists placed them on islands and in an area defined by a palisade (Capt. John Smith in Tyler 1907:330; Sr. Thomas Gates in Kingsbury 1935:18). While some livestock escaped to form feral herds, colonists did exert some oversight, as evidenced by this statute requiring that “Catle [should] be kept in heards waited and attended on by some small watch or so enclosed by them selues that they destroy not yor corne and other seed provisions . . .” (Kingsbury 1935:18). Nonetheless, documents show cattle did range with relative freedom, as a traveler in 1687 observed cattle grazing “in the woods or on the untilled portions of their plantations, where they shelter nightly rather by instinct than from any care given them” (Durand de Dauphine 1934:122). Historian Anderson (2004:110) drove this point home when she remarked, “For all the thousands of farm animals reportedly in the Chesapeake by midcentury, few appeared to live on anyone’s farm.” To establish ownership and distinguish them from the feral stock they referred to as “wild gangs” that lured tame cows to join their harems, owners protected their mobile property by marking them with an earmark and registering them at the county court (Anderson 2004:126–132). Both feral and tame cattle served as colonizers, grazing freely and dropping manure, inadvertently depositing Old World grass seeds that clung to their hooves or were in their stomachs. These grasses, which had coevolved with herbivores for thousands of years, contained certain essential proteins that New World grasses lacked. Little by little, these herbivores

82 · Joanne Bowen

and the Old World grasses restarted the process of co-evolving in the New World (Crosby 1994:37–41, 66–69; Van Soest 1994:78). In the Chesapeake, each cow required twenty to thirty acres to stay healthy, but land was plentiful, and cattle flourished with some supplemental feed provided shortly before slaughter. Faunal remains corroborate documentary sources with relative dietary estimates that show the colonists’ beef consumption rose from 14 percent in the first half of the century to as much as 58 percent by the third quarter of the century (see figure 4.3). Landscape Ecology, Specialized Herding, and Livestock as Commodities

Starting in 1618, Jamestown colonists moved upriver to begin clearing forests to make way for fields. Within only fifty to seventy-five years this practice had reduced available undeveloped land, and land-starved planters had begun to crop scrub fields and shorten fallow periods (Craven 1926:25–72; Gill 1978:380–393; Walsh 1999b:59–91; Walsh 2001:220–248). At first, planters expanded tobacco production, but this effort produced an inferior grade of tobacco, reducing tobacco prices even further. Many responded by planting wheat and expanding corn production, as well as producing wheat, pork, and beef to export for the emerging European and West Indian markets, and ultimately to feed an emergent urban population. These developments set in motion a form of intensified husbandry, a hybrid that retained tobacco and corn and open woodland pasturage, while integrating plowed fields and introducing specialized feeding practices that would enable planters to produce meat more efficiently. On worn-out fields, plows dug into the soil, loosening and pulverizing it to produce a new fluorescence of fertility. They also incorporated mixed grazing, a practice in Europe for hundreds of years (Hillel 1991:69–75; Thirsk 1990:15–49; Tivy 1990:63–89; Trow-Smith 1957, 1959). Sheep played an integral role. Colonists had introduced sheep early on, but they did not do well in the region’s dense forest brush, which pulled off their wool. They also needed open meadows to graze in, and their instinct to bunch together when threatened left them defenseless against wolves. In their place, colonists relied on goats, which are browsers and will spread out when threatened. However, by midcentury, when sufficient land had been cleared, colonists began offering bounties to kill off wolves, and they re-introduced sheep into the region (Elswick 2003).

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 83

As early as the late seventeenth century, colonists began penning cattle and sheep (Walsh 2001:237). In 1688 Clayton wrote: after they have cleared a fresh piece of Ground out of the Woodes, it will not bear Tobacco past two or three years, unless Cow-pen’d; for the Manure their Ground by keeping their Cattle, as in the South you do your Sheep, every Night confining them within Hurdles which the remove when they have sufficiently dung’ one spot of Ground; but alas! They cannot Improve much thus, besides it produces a strong sort of Tobacco, in which the Smoakers say they can plainly taste the fulsomness of the Dung. Therefore every three or four Years they much be for clearing a new piece of Ground out of Woods. (in Geleta et al. 2014:4, 630) With this step, manure became integral to field husbandry. In 1793, George Washington wrote specifically about the close herding relationship between wheat agriculture and sheep and cattle: “Arable land can yield wheat only by means of Cattle and sheep. . . . It is only by increasing Cattle that you can increase wheat permanently . . .” (Catanzariti 1995:28). Lorena Walsh’s analysis of local account books shows that planters in the area raised livestock for the West Indian market and the local Williamsburg market (Walsh et al. 1997:13–23; Walsh 1999a, 2000). As early as the 1730s, James Bray and Carter Burwell, who owned plantations just outside of Williamsburg, raised sufficient numbers of cattle to feed their plantations plus a surplus to sell to Williamsburg’s residents. By the 1730s James Bray was supplying Williamsburg with meat, including staff fed beef and mutton, and some grains (Walsh et al. 1997:14). The second plantation was purchased in 1720 by Robert “King” Carter, who gifted it to his daughter, who was married to Nathaniel Burwell, whose son Carter Burwell took over management. His accounts dating from 1738 to 1756 show he took advantage of his plantation’s close proximity to Williamsburg. Each year, he sold excess cattle for butcher’s meat, and marketed as much as 10,000 pounds of pork yearly for the growing West Indian plantations, ship provisions, and supplying Williamsburg’s residents. Accounts show he stall-fed beef and mutton. When Carter Burwell’s son Nathaniel took over management in 1771, he ceased producing tobacco altogether, instead producing even more beef, pork, wool, cider, and butter for market. Throughout the eighteenth century, Williamsburg remained closely tied to nearby plantations that produced and supplied food to urban residents.

84 · Joanne Bowen

Williamsburg remained quite small, with as few as 885 residents in 1747, and only 1,880 at its peak in 1775 (Walsh et al. 1997:13–23; Walsh 2000). Goods found their way to the marketplace through multiple channels, including small farmers, the enslaved, and small entrepreneurs. Planters sold directly to the more affluent residents, institutions like the College of William & Mary, taverns, and merchants, who sold imported foods such as coffee, tea, spices, sugar, and rum. By 1770, some merchants accepted a surprising amount of local foods on credit, including fruit, vegetables, butchered meat, fish, livestock, poultry, and processed agricultural products. Documentary support for Walsh’s analysis is found in the work of Carr, Menard, and Walsh (1992), where they quantified seventeenth-century commodity shipments from Maryland to Barbados (republished in Bradburn and Coombs 2006:141). These data show that from 1681 until 1698 pork outdistanced beef by 90 percent or more virtually every year. Swine-Specialized Husbandry

Throughout the colonial period, swine continued to free roam, becoming sufficient nuisance that laws required fences to be built up to seven or eight feet high (Anburey 1923:187; Hening 1823:332). As towns emerged, many residents kept animals that they allowed to run freely, but these omnivorous feeders proved too much, and as early as 1714 laws were enacted restricting urban dwellers from keeping their animals in town (Winfree 1971:357). Zooarchaeological data, specifically age estimations based on epiphyseal fusion, have much to contribute to this subject. By analyzing patterns from various sites of differing time periods, and from the sites occupied by rural plantation owners who raised these animals and urban consumers dependent on rural produce, it is possible to see how husbandry practices changed through time. In the case of swine husbandry, this is best seen by grouping the data into various “age groups” representing approximate age at death. Age groups include (I), representing 0–12 months of age; (II), representing 12–24 months of age; (III), representing 24–36 months of age; (IV), representing 36–42 months of age; and (V), representing greater than 42 months of age (Chaplin 1971:131; Reitz and Wing 2008:193–198; Silver 1990:283–302; Walsh et al. 1997:316–328; Watson 1987:97–102). A close examination of these data reveals the persistence of subsistenceoriented husbandry and the gradual addition of a more specialized husbandry (Walsh et al. 1997:43–44).

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86 · Joanne Bowen

The earliest period, 1620–1660, reveals a marked predominance of the youngest group; almost half of all swine slaughtered were less than a year old. Distinguished British agricultural historian Robert Trow-Smith (1957:250–251) has identified this age as typical for swine intended for consumption, when they would have matured to a weight sufficient for a family. However, this assemblage probably includes swine that the Powhatan and colonists had slaughtered indiscriminately during the 1622 massacre and subsequent unstable period. At the same time, this assemblage includes the 1630s and 1640s, when settlers were actively establishing plantations. As preeminent colonizers able to forage on rich resources, swine probably reached their biological potential and grew to a good slaughter weight early in life. What emerges is a pattern established at the outset and continued until commercial production took root; swine were killed at almost any age. Comparing rural and urban assemblages, it becomes apparent that by the mid-eighteenth century the dominant age group shifts to the one- to twoyear-olds, increasingly so during the second half of the eighteenth century. Comparing the rural and urban assemblages, more one- to two-year-olds are found in the urban assemblage during the first half of the eighteenth century. By midcentury, the distribution of these age groups jumps up to 38 percent rural and 57 percent urban, a pattern that holds during the last quarter of the century (31% rural and 56% urban). This pattern is clearly representative of some form of specialized feeding, a fact Trow-Smith identified when he remarked how swine have a growth spurt that ebbs when they reach approximately eighteen to twenty-four months of age. Farmers knew there was little advantage to allowing swine to range much longer, and those raised for market were slaughtered when they reached this stage in their maturation (Trow-Smith 1957:51–53, 250–251). Evaluating this information in light of contemporary diaries and other documentation showing pork was exported in the seventeenth century, several salient facts emerge. Until the early eighteenth century, planters relied on pannage husbandry practices sufficient to feed their plantations and produce a surplus to export and to sell to nearby Williamsburg. Gradually, large plantation owners fattened additional pigs by increasing corn production and feeding swine inferior corn, as well as bran, a byproduct of milling (Walsh 1999a, 274). At some point, progressive farmers, such as George Washington and Robert Carter, fed swine a specialized diet of potatoes, hominy, and meal (Ball 1744–1759:8; Bordley 1801; Carter 1776– 1777:72; Hugh Jones, in Morton 1956:78, 79, 138). Our faunal assemblages

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 87

pinpoint additional feeding to have occurred sometime in the first half of the eighteenth century. What is striking is that the trajectory of the scale of intensive swine production for sale appears to have outpaced that of large-scale cattle production. Williamsburg’s urban population never reached 2,000 individuals, many of whom had their own farms. Its demand for pork could easily have been met with planters continuing to free-range their livestock with little or no supplemental feed and selling surplus stock in town (Walsh et al. 1997:24–65). But the combination of the West Indian market and the local market incentivized the adoption of specialized methods. Whatever the demand, or combination of demands, the archaeological data pinpoint when this shift toward intensive swine husbandry took root. Specialized Cattle Husbandry

Throughout the colonial years, the cattle-herding system remained subsistence oriented (Walsh 1999a:273–274). Within a few years of settlement, an open woodland system emerged and remained intact as it evolved and adapted to expanding settlements, diminished resources, soil decline, and responses to emerging markets. Zooarchaeological analysis of age data chronicle the development of this system. Cattle age groups (i.e., the approximate age of slaughter based on the bone evidence) include (I), representing 0–12 months of age; (II), representing 12–24 months of age; (III), representing 24–36 months of age; (IV), representing 36–48 months of age; and (V), representing over 48 months of age (Chaplin 1971:131; Reitz and Wing 2008:193–198; Silver 1990:283–302; Walsh et al. 1997:316–328; Watson 1987:97–102). The 1620–1660 assemblage spans the 1622 massacre and time of instability and subsequent expansion into former native lands (Rountree and Turner 2002:151–159). What is striking is the significant proportion of calves and juveniles in Group I (19%), more than any other assemblage during the colonial era. At present one can make an educated guess that these remains include young cattle that had been indiscriminately slaughtered. The strong presence of the two older age groups (IV and V) in the 1620–1660 assemblages reveals the emergence of a herd system. In addition, these data show 24 percent of the ageable long bones were approximately three years of age, and 51 percent were four years and older when slaughtered. By the last quarter of the century, the proportion of three-year-olds decreased to 19 percent, and the older animals increased to 68 percent, a change that could

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Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 89

represent at least in part the introduction of the plow and oxen needed to pull them (Miller 1984). British historian Robert Trow-Smith (1957:3, 234–241; 1959:37) provides a clue as to why it took three to four years for cattle in the colonial Chesapeake to mature. Observing how bullocks fattened “intolerably slowly” in open woodland pasturage systems, much like prehistoric ranching, TrowSmith drew on an example from post-medieval Scottish Highlands. In this hilly environment, cattle raised primarily for subsistence ranged freely throughout the year, taking four to five years to reach a mature weight. In the Chesapeake, with its ample resources and temperate climate, however, cattle raised primarily for subsistence with little or no supplemental feed took less time (approximately three and often four years) to reach a good slaughter rate. Trow-Smith provides additional evidence on cattle bound for market. In Scotland, it took four years for cattle to acquire the size and strength needed to endure the long trek south over English border, where drovers sold them to local farmers for fattening before being sold to urban consumers. However, by the mid-eighteenth century some farmers in the lowlands began rearing calves for three years on summer pastures and on field stubble after harvest. Before selling them to drovers, farmers fattened their cattle with hay, peas, oats, and turnips, sometimes in stalls (TrowSmith 1959:3–18). Integrating Trow-Smith’s information with cattle age data, and comparing rural and urban assemblages, it appears the pattern established during the first half of the seventeenth century persisted through the eighteenth century. Looking broadly, it is clear both older age groups continue to dominate in both rural and urban assemblages, a sign that planters did not introduce specialized feeding methods on a large scale. Taken as a whole, in all its diversity, the age data for cattle show—in comparison to age data for swine—that cattle production for sale remained small scale, even while selling beef to Williamsburg residents. At this point it is important to note that local townspeople had multiple sources of meat (Walsh et al. 1997). Those with sufficient wealth could maintain their own nearby plantations, from which they provisioned themselves. Those urban households with nearby kin could also secure provisions. Immigrants, tradesmen, and professionals lacking outside ties tended to purchase meat from the marketplace or from merchants. To varying degrees, it appears that even those who had their own source purchased meat from merchants and the marketplace. Given this complexity, and multiple

90 · Joanne Bowen

sources of beef, what can be said about the herd system as it evolved during the eighteenth century? Supporting evidence is found in Walsh’s account analysis (1999a:274), showing that the number of cattle a planation could support depended on and was limited by available pasturage. Over time, pastures and woodlands became stressed by an ever-increasing number of cattle, swine, and horses, and consequently plantations near Williamsburg could not produce sufficient amounts to supply residents. In town, merchants drew on more distant sources of beef from the other side of the James River and from farms thirty miles away. Another merchant purchased cattle from 200 miles to the west. These facts reinforce this complexity—nothing is simple! A careful reading of diaries, laws, and other sources, however, indicates that (as the century progressed) some major planters did adopt specialized techniques that would bring a good slaughter rate to their livestock faster than free-ranging them (Blakely and Blade 1990:114–122, 163–172). Methods included feeding cattle the blades and tops from Indian corn, building pens large enough to hold as many as sixty, and roofing cow stalls so cattle and their feed would stay dry and warm and cows could give birth to calves (Walsh et al. 1997:31, 47–54). As early as 1724, some planters introduced good clover and oats and planted the imported perennial herb sainfoin (Jones 1865:78), and by the 1760s some had begun to feed cattle meal, hominy, potatoes, and turnips, and to plant burnet and lucerne in pastures (Walsh et al. 1997:47–54). To a certain extent, age data supports the documents that show some planters had begun to intensify husbandry practices for the purpose of raising cattle for sale (Walsh et al. 1997). Livestock Ecology and the Complicated Relationship between Livestock and the Landscape

Historians and geologists have documented how anthropogenic factors have impacted the upper Chesapeake landscape from as early as 2300 years BP (before present) (Craven 1926:11–19, 25–39; Curtain et al. 2001; Geleta et al. 2014; Hilgartner and Brush 2006; Silver 1990; Walsh 1989, 2001; Willard et al. 2003). Native Americans cleared forests to make way for horticultural fields, a step that led to increased sedimentation rates in the Delaware River Valley (Geleta et al. 2014:629; Stinchcomb et al. 2011:364–365). Several studies of the Upper Chesapeake in the historic period have identified several phases of deforestation, where ragweed, grasses, and pine increased at the expense of oak and hickory (Willard et al. 2003:208). The earliest

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 91

deforestation dates to 1658, a second to 1730, a third to 1800, a fourth to 1850, and the last to 1900 (Hilgartner and Brush 2006:482). Most notably, each peak represents a new phase of agriculture starting with the earliest settlement in the upper Chesapeake when colonists first began clearing forests to grow tobacco, followed by changes in the late eighteenth century when colonists began to plow open fields to grow grain crops, and followed again by the introduction of deep ploughing in the mid-1800s. Data from these studies in the upper Chesapeake mirror data seen in the faunal and documentary data from the lower Chesapeake, with the only difference being they are significantly later. There is a reason for this distinction. In the lower Chesapeake, the process of domesticating the land using horticultural practices, where fields were initially cleared and left in fallow, began at least three decades before the upper Chesapeake was settled. Despite the time discrepancies, these pollen and faunal data are powerful reminders of how anthropogenic activities have altered the landscape. Pollen data show the breadth and depth, and the faunal data, when combined with documentary records, reveal the fine-grained process that occurred as both human and livestock worked in concert to domesticate the land. This study reveals how tightly dated faunal assemblages, supported by ethological and historical evidence, can help unravel the impact of complex interaction of settlers and their livestock had on the land. It becomes clear how the colonists and their livestock collectively altered the landscape, participating separately and in tandem to colonize and ultimately diminish the region’s carrying capacity, including the amount of forage available for grazing animals (Heady and Child 1999:158). Historical evidence describes how cattle thrived in their ever-expanding habitat, growing to greater sizes than at any other time during the colonial years. In 1619, John Pory astutely observed this growth by remarking how cattle “do mightily increase here, much greater in stature, than the race of them first brought out of England” (Kingsbury 1935:III, 220). Zooarchaeological evidence in the form of cattle long bone measurements, informed by rangeland ecology and management practices, show this development was ephemeral. Measurements taken from mammal long bones show that in these conditions, cattle grew in size, but the fertility produced by slash-and-burn agriculture did not last long. By the early 1700s the combined effects of agricultural practices and growing herds resulted in degraded soils and land less able to support the livestock that lived there. The change in the soil and resources can be seen

92 · Joanne Bowen

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in the decreased size of the cattle (Arbuckle and Bowen 2004; Carson et al. 2008). The relationship between agriculture, livestock grazing, and the land’s carrying capacity is described by Heady and Child (1999:163–164), where light grazing increases the productivity of pastures. Cattle, hogs, sheep, and goats feed on many of the same resources, but each focus on different plants according to taste preferences and nutritional needs. Cattle do best on grasses, legumes, and herbaceous plants, but in forests they also feed on vines, broad-leaved trees, and the young shoots of hardwood trees. Livestock thrive, reproduce, and grow to their biological potential. However, the presence of too many animals, or overgrazing by a few, reduces the hardiness of plants and can lead eventually to their disappearance, and ultimately the health and well-being of the livestock suffers. Such was the case when livestock first arrived and fed freely in the region. Initially, mixed-species grazing benefited both the pastures and livestock, but the introduction of sheep, coming on top of growing populations of other grazing animals, hastened the wear and tear on pasturage

Domesticating the Chesapeake Landscape · 93

in the lower Chesapeake. Mixed-species grazing intensified the damage to woodlands and marshland no less than it did to fallow fields. In large numbers, cattle effectively defoliated hardwood forests during the summer months. In winter, it was observed that they “delight much to feed” in the luxuriant salt marshes (Silver 1990:180). Swine did their part, too. A single animal could consume 1,300 pounds of acorns in just six months. Feeding like rototillers, swine destroyed tree roots, seedlings, and underground tubers. Hungry swine stripped bark from trees in search of insects (Schwartz 1988:14–17). Measurements of cattle long bones show how the reduced carrying capacity of the Chesapeake resulted in the decline in the health, weight gain, and growth of livestock. Documents support this interpretation that overgrazing impacted the livestock themselves. Early seventeenth-century references tend to extol the size, health, and general fecundity of the livestock. But Robert Beverley wrote at the turn of the eighteenth century that his own countrymen were ill-treating their cattle by not feeding them in winter, “by which means they starve their young cattle, or at least stunt their growth, so that they seldome or never grow as large as they would do, if they were well manag’d” (Beverly 1947:291, 318). Landon Carter made the same connection between poorly managed rangeland and undernourished animals after inspecting his land and livestock in 1770, “I ha[ve] seen every patch but the meadow. . . . But nothing grows and creatures are yet poor. The lambs not filled, the Ewes very spindly, and the Cows with young calves [are pitifully] thin” (Greene 1965:I, 401). Domesticated landscape and historical ecology studies open the door to taking a broader perspective on the relationship between rural producers and urban consumers. By placing the provisioning system into the landscape and taking an ecological approach, it is possible to identify factors that transformed the tobacco-focused horticultural system into a more diversified system, of which Williamsburg was a part. By the early eighteenth century, colonists had gone a long way toward transforming the landscape. Old native horticultural techniques remained the dominant tool, but increasingly plows pulled by oxen created a more regular appearance to the fields. Livestock still ran free, but more and more cattle, sheep, and horses grazed together on plowed fields. Visually, these developments created a landscape of open vistas with protected and well-defined spaces surrounded by ditches, shrubs, or fences. As Terrell and others state, individually and in concert with each other, planters, their economic goals, and their livestock had yet again domesticated the Chesapeake landscape into a

94 · Joanne Bowen

diversified system that produced the same commodities—grains and meat for two markets. They had become inextricably interlaced. Acknowledgments

This chapter is the result of many years of work with institutions and many individuals. I want to express thanks to outside readers whose reviews substantially improved this paper. I also extend my appreciation and thanks to Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeologists and historians, the Zooarchaeology Laboratory, the College of William & Mary students, and the numerous organizations that allowed us to analyze faunal assemblages from throughout the region. In particular, Jamestown Rediscovery provided us the opportunity analyze faunal remains from features dating to the initial settlement, and a grant from the National Endowment of the Humanities to support the multidisciplinary study of provisioning colonial towns in the Chesapeake enabled us to analyze and synthesize zooarchaeological and historical data from throughout the region. Zooarchaeologists Stephen C. Atkins, Susan T. Andrews, and Gwyneth Duncan analyzed many assemblages; Susie Arter worked with age data and offered her wisdom that the town of Williamsburg could be a site; Gregory Brown masterfully managed an overwhelming amount of data; and Benjamin Arbuckle analyzed measurement data. Historians Lorena Walsh, Ann Smart Martin, and Jennifer Jones provided historical context. Lisa Kealhofer encouraged an even broader ecological perspective that opened this study to integrate what could be learned from historical ecology and ethology. This project proved nodal in that the synthesis of contemporary historical and zooarchaeological data produced results neither could achieve on their own. Lastly, Marley Brown supported, questioned, and nurtured this work every step of the way; Fraser Neiman and Jillian Galle allowed us to expand our work with enslaved sites; and Cary Carson and Ronald Hurst supported and encouraged the integration of archaeological data with the historical record. The results are my own, for which I take full responsibility.

5 “To be SOLD, for ready money” Reconstructing Patterns of Human Predation, Marketing, and Oyster Exploitation Dessa E. Lightfoot, Stephen C. Atkins, and Irvy R. Quitmyer

A multiyear program of oyster research to explore the contributions archaeologically recovered Eastern oyster (Crassostrea virginica) shells can make toward building an understanding of human use and the growing market economy in the Chesapeake was conducted between 2011 and 2016 at the former Environmental Archaeology Laboratory at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Oyster shells are recovered in great numbers during archaeological excavations throughout the Chesapeake region, and Colonial Williamsburg’s dedication to the excavation and curation of archaeological materials has allowed for a unique chance to work with several large, well-preserved, and well-dated assemblages of oyster shell from sites throughout the historical boundaries of Colonial Williamsburg and its hinterland. The sites included in the study cover more than 200 years of continuous occupation within a relatively narrow geographical region, which allowed for a diachronic investigation of how oyster harvesting, oyster use, and environment changed in one particular location throughout the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. This research resulted in the analysis of over 15,000 shells recovered from excavations. Shells from four sites will be discussed here: Charlton’s Coffeehouse (1750–1935), Public Armoury (1730–1780), Rich Neck Plantation (1660–1700), and a late eighteenth- through late nineteenth-century occupation of the Brafferton Indian School property affiliated with the College of William & Mary. These sites are also discussed in this volume; see chapter 7 for the Public Armoury, chapter 1 for Rich Neck Plantation, and chapter 2 for the Brafferton Indian School.

96 · Dessa E. Lightfoot, Stephen C. Atkins, and Irvy R. Quitmyer

Figure 5.1. Williamsburg and its Hinterland with sites sampled for Colonial Williamsburg oyster study.

We took a multidisciplinary approach in this research, including an intensive program of physical, documentary, and geochemical (δ18O, δ13C) analyses of zooarchaeological oyster shells. This chapter draws the various threads of that research into a single interpretation of oyster utilization throughout the seventeenth through the nineteenth century. Here we demonstrate the potential for zooarchaeological oyster research where it can contribute to investigations of historic sites and the natural history of the region (e.g., Andrus 2011; Andrus and Thompson 2012; Harding et al. 2010; Hesterburg et al. 2020; Rick et al. 2015, 2016). Historical Background

The temperate, lower-saline waters and many protected places for oyster spats to establish themselves make the small bays, creeks, and rivers of the Chesapeake region an ideal habitat for oysters (Harding et al. 2010; Lippson and Lippson 1984; Perry and Atkinson 2009; Wennersten 1981).

Reconstructing Patterns of Human Predation, Marketing, and Oyster Exploitation · 97

Oyster populations in these shallow water areas were historically abundant and easy to harvest using low technology methods (Harding et al. 2010; Lippson and Lippson 1984). Before European contact, the local native population had a long history of extensive oyster exploitation in the Chesapeake (Harding et al. 2010; MacKenzie 1996; Rick et al. 2016; Wennersten 1981). This long history of harvesting has left visible and archaeological traces on the landscape in the form of large oyster middens found throughout the region (Wennersten 1981). The English taste for oysters long predates their colonial occupation of the Chesapeake. Oysters were a common ingredient in English cuisine in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, served broiled, pickled, fried, in pies, as a stuffing for game animals, and as an ingredient in many sauces (Glasse 1747; Markham 1683; Smith 1742). Even though Chesapeake oysters were in plentiful supply and quickly became an essential part of the diet of the first English colonists in Virginia, they were not an immediate success among the earliest colonists. Although enjoyed widely in the homeland, American oysters gained an early reputation as a hardship food to resort to only in times of scarcity (Harding et al. 2010; Pearson 1944). This negative association was short-lived, and their abundance and ease of harvest quickly made them a popular and dependable food source. Throughout the seventeenth century, oyster stocks were so ample that colonists could easily hand-pick or hand-rake enough oysters from the shore and shallow water riverbeds to meet their household needs (MacKenzie 1996). By the early eighteenth century, almost a hundred years of colonial oyster harvesting had depleted oyster resources from the shoreline; colonists began harvesting oysters from deeper waters using locally made log canoes and wooden scissors tongs tipped with iron (Chowing 1990; MacKenzie 1996; Wennersten 1981). Some plantation owners used the labor of enslaved individuals to harvest and pack fish and oysters, which were then shipped throughout the Chesapeake, the Caribbean, and England (Atkins 1994). Oyster accessibility made them a popular and affordable food in households of all classes and dining establishments throughout Colonial America. Oysters were commonly included ingredients in printed cookbooks in the eighteenth century, made up a notable portion of elite planter Landon Carter’s household meals, and regularly found their way onto the dining table at the College of William & Mary (Carter 1901; Pearson 1944; Smith 1742). In addition to food uses, oyster shells had other applications, such as agricultural fertilizer, pathway material, medical preparations, and

98 · Dessa E. Lightfoot, Stephen C. Atkins, and Irvy R. Quitmyer

chicken feed; burnt oyster shell was a source of lime for industrial applications (MacKenzie 1996; Virginia Gazette 1738; Wennersten 1981). The Revolutionary War significantly disrupted fishing, oystering, and the burgeoning long-distance oyster trade in the Chesapeake, but oyster harvesting resumed quickly after the war (McCartney 1997; Wennersten 1981). By the close of the eighteenth century, overharvesting and oyster habitats destruction in New York and New England had significantly depleted Northeastern oyster beds (Kurlansky 2007). As oysters became increasingly difficult to obtain in the Northeast, they became a luxury good; oyster restaurants, cellars, and bars became popular meeting places all along the east coast (Chowing 1990; Kurlansky 2007; Pearson 1944). Early in the nineteenth century, northern oystermen came to the Chesapeake to buy seed stock to replenish their diminished oyster beds, but this quickly gave way to harvesting ready to sell with dredging ships. By 1825, oystermen from the Northeast were transporting huge quantities of oysters to meet demand, moving several million bushels annually (Chowing 1990; Kurlansky 2007). Local oystermen from Virginia and Maryland adopted these more intensive methods, and by 1840, Chesapeake oysters packed in tin-plated cans were being shipped by railroads throughout the Northeast and Midwest. By the mid-nineteenth century, high-volume harvesting and long-distance shipping enlarged the market and increased the demand for oysters exponentially (MacKenzie 1996). Dredgers were capable of quickly harvesting great numbers of oysters at a time. The sharp increase in harvesting productivity negatively affected the sustainability of the Chesapeake oyster population. Breaking up existing oyster beds and reefs with dredgers removed the hard substrate needed to support the oyster population, which in turn lowered the long-term productivity and cleanliness of the waters in which they were harvested (Chowing 1990; Kurlansky 2007). The Civil War briefly interrupted oyster harvesting in the Chesapeake, but after the war, the demand for oysters in the North was still high. Oystermen redoubled their harvest efforts (Chowing 1990; Wennersten 1981). In the mid-to-late nineteenth century, oyster production in the Chesapeake blossomed into a full-scale industrial undertaking and, by the 1870s, many oyster dealers were running their own harvesting vessels and delivering their loads directly to the packing house where oysters were sorted, shucked, and packed directly on property (MacKenzie 1996). Commercial shipping, in conjunction with the rapid transportation of large shipments of oysters to towns and cities throughout the country by rail, firmly established the Chesapeake as the center of oyster production for the United

Reconstructing Patterns of Human Predation, Marketing, and Oyster Exploitation · 99

States in the later nineteenth century and first half of the twentieth (MacKenzie 1996). Methods

Oyster Shell Morphometrics Over 9,000 oyster shells recovered from components of the Charlton’s Coffeehouse, Public Armoury, Brafferton Indian School, and Rich Neck Plantation sites were analyzed as part of the program of archaeological oyster research at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Oyster shell morphology, the physical characteristics of the shell, is influenced by various environmental factors such as water salinity, turbidity, and depth (Hesterburg et al. 2020; Kent 1992; Rick et al. 2015). These and other factors define the ecological character of oyster habitats where shell size, shape, and condition of the shell is determined (Kent 1992; Rick et al. 2015, 2016). This study used the methods laid out in Kent (1992) to assess each shell for size, growing environment, water salinity, and human modification. Because there is natural variation from shell to shell even within the same growing environment, analyses focused on shell assemblages that provided large samples in order to best capture population-wide trends. Historical Records Historical documentary research focused on oyster resources in eighteenth-century Virginia. The entire 1738 to 1780 print run of the Virginia Gazette was consulted for all references to oysters. This research, particular property listings, allowed for the investigating of patterns of regional eighteenth-century oyster harvest, shifts in property ownership, and the contribution of oysters and their shells to the local and regional economy. Geochemical Oxygen and Carbon Isotopes Like most bivalve mollusk shells, oysters grow by mantel-mediated precipitation of calcium carbonate where they incorporate the concentration of oxygen (18O/16O) and carbon (13C/12C) isotopes found in the ambient water. The concentration of these isotopes predictably changes through an annual cycle and represents a proxy for yearly shell growth (Andrus 2011). Geochemical analysis of the stable isotopes of oxygen (δ18O) carbon 13 (δ C) was performed on three archaeological oyster shells excavated from the Brafferton Indian School (late nineteenth century), Public Armoury (late eighteenth century), and Rich Neck Plantation (late seventeenth

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century) sites. This research was intended to test the efficacy of such geochemical analysis to determine if alternating light- and dark-growth increments found in the radial cross-sectioned hinge plates of the left valve can be associated with annual changes in the water surface temperatures. The hinge plate of each of the specimens was cross-sectioned along the growth axis with the aid of a low-speed Buehler Isomet saw equipped with a low concentration diamond blade. This cut exposed an alternating pattern of light and dark shell growth in ontogenetic order. The cross-sectioned hinge was affixed to a petrographic slide and prepared as a thin section. An esi MicroMill outfitted with a .3 mm drill burr was used to mill samples from the shell cross-sections. Between one and three samples (.28 micrograms) were taken from the light- and dark-growth increments in ontogenetic order representing ever-increasing age (YRS). The isotopic analyses were conducted at the Light Stable Isotope Mass Spectrometry Laboratory, Department of Geological Sciences, University of Florida. The powdered shell samples were analyzed according to standard techniques, which involved an initial reaction in vacuo with 100 percent orthophosphoric acid at 70oC for 10 minutes. An on-line, automated, carbonate-preparation system (Kiel III) facilitated the production and purification of the evolved CO2 gas. The isotopic differences between the derived CO2 gas and the VPDB standard were determined with a FinniganMAT 252 isotope ratio mass spectrometer equipped with a Kiel III carbonate preparation system. All values are reported in standard notation where: δ18O = [(18O/16O)sample /(18O/16O)standard-1] x 103 per mil The variation among standards run before and after sample strings was less than ± 0.085 parts per mil (0/00). Results

Oyster Shell Morphometrics Oysters are sessile; once they attach to a hard substrate they must adapt to the requirements of their growing environment. Shell morphology, coloration, and the epibionts on oyster shells are a physical record of their living environment and can serve as a proxy for harvesting location. Harvesting strategies in turn can serve as a window into the human behaviors that transported live oysters into archaeological contexts. Shell shape provides evidence about water depth. The presence of ribbing and coloration on the exterior of a shell is an indicator of proximity to shore. The presence and the evidence of the various species of epibionts that lived on, and

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sometimes preyed on, the oysters can indicate water salinity, which can in turn pinpoint harvesting locations (Kent 1992). Shell height-to-length ratio (HLR) correlates with the amount of consumable soft tissue within the shell (Carreon 1973). Animal size (e.g., shell height) is often used in population management studies and in zooarchaeological research that addresses the impact of changing environments and anthropogenic influences such as overharvesting or naturally occurring environmental pressures on an oyster population. Oyster shells are a data-rich resource that requires no specialized equipment to investigate (Kent 1992). However, sample sizes must be robust to accurately characterize oyster populations. For this study, only those assemblages having greater than 200 intact left shells were included in the investigation. Oyster Shell Forms and Shell Height to Length Ratio Oyster shell shape is, in part, influenced by its growing environment. Different shapes are associated with varying oyster habitats. Kent (1992) identifies four general shell forms based on their HLR: (1) rounder sand oysters (HLR = 2.0), which occupy soft mud in deep channels; and (4) smaller elongated reef oysters (HLR = >2.0), which live in larger tightly packed oyster reefs intertidal beds (Kent 1992). This analysis found a great deal of consistency in the oyster shell form for all sites and periods in the study population; out of a maximum HLR of 4, the HLR varies from 1.38 to 1.59 across all sites and periods. The majority of oysters recovered from all sites in the study were bed oysters. In contrast, rounder sand oysters make up the second-most-frequent shell type represented across all sites and all periods, while reef and channel oysters were rarely encountered (less than 3% of all shells) during analysis. Although bed oysters followed by sand oysters are the most frequently encountered oyster shape across all sites and all periods, shell proportions vary over time. Oysters analyzed from seventeenth- and eighteenth-century contexts show that bed oysters outstrip all other oyster forms, comprising between 30 to 58 percent of all shells. Sand oysters come in a distant second, comprising between 4 to 15 percent of the total. This difference in representation between sand and bed oysters narrows sharply in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, when sand oysters make up 30 percent, and bed oysters make up 48 percent of

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the total. The proportion of sand to bed oysters remains high throughout the nineteenth century, although the percentage of sand oysters declines slightly in the later nineteenth century. Other Indicators of Growing Environment Along with shell form, shell clustering, ribbing, and coloration on the exterior shell are indicators of an oyster’s growing environment. Shell clustering is one indication that oysters are growing closer with other oysters in beds or reefs (Kent 1992). Ribbing is a response to turbidity, caused by suspended sediments in intertidal waters; ribs on the surface of the shell channel sediments away from the oyster (Kent 1992). Coloring is pigmentation created on the shell surface due to sun exposure, either through shallow waters or frequent exposure to the sun via tides (Kent 1992). Examination of clustering, ribbing, and coloration reveals clear differences in the growing environments of oysters from the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries. Oysters from the late seventeenth century exhibit a high degree of clustering and a low degree of ribbing and coloration. These oysters were harvested from oyster reefs or beds from areas with low water turbidity and low sun exposure. This is a growing environment consistent with the widespread oyster reefs and beds prevalent in the nearby James and York rivers. Oysters from the eighteenth century show a low degree of clustering, a high degree of ribbing, and a high degree of coloration. This indicates that oysters were being harvested from small oyster beds and sand bars in shallow, intertidal waters along the shoreline. Starting in the late eighteenth century and continuing into the first quarter of the nineteenth century, shells exhibit a moderate to high degree of clustering, a high degree of ribbing, and a high degree of coloration. This suggests that oyster harvesting was from a diversity of growing environments; the clustering suggests tightly packed oyster beds from deeper water, while ribbing and coloration is compatible with oysters harvested from shallow, intertidal, or silty waters. In the late nineteenth century, oyster shells picked up with the trend seen in the first part of the eighteenth century, with low degrees of clustering and high degrees of ribbing and coloring, indicating a move back to harvesting oysters from shallow, intertidal regions. Salinity Regime Salt levels, referred to as salinity regimes, vary throughout the Chesapeake estuary (Kent 1992; Lippson and Lippson 1984). The James and York rivers have low salinities at their headwaters (salinity regime I) and become

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increasingly saline as they approach their mouths at the Chesapeake Bay (salinity regime IV) (Lippson and Lippson 1984). Oysters can tolerate a wide range of water salinities and are found throughout the lengths of the rivers and creeks in the Chesapeake region. The salinity regime of an oyster’s growing environment is determined by examining the presence and traces of epibionts, commensal organisms that live on mollusk shells. Different epibionts thrive at different salinities, so examining types and frequency of these epibionts can estimate water salinity (Kent 1992). By evaluating salinity regimes, it is possible to identify general regions from which these oysters were harvested and the conditions under which they grew. Oyster shells from the seventeenth century were harvested from salinity regimes I, II, and III, from mostly fresh to moderately brackish waters. This wide range of salinities suggests that harvesting took place from various locations along areas like the James and York rivers from upstream down toward the mouth. In the eighteenth century, oysters from salinity regimes II and III dominate the assemblages for all sites and all eighteenth-century periods, with small contributions (less than 30%) from salinities I and IV. This marks a more focused harvesting pattern concentrated in moderate salinity regions closer to Williamsburg. Toward the end of the eighteenth century, there is a significant increase in oysters from salinity regimes I (more than 30%) and a slight reduction in oysters from salinity regime III, indicating a return to a less-focused multiple-location harvesting pattern. In the late nineteenth century, salinity regimes II and III remain the most popular, with a small contribution of less than 30 percent from salinities I and IV. This signals a return to a more geographically focused harvesting pattern. Oyster Height and Population Shell height is the maximum dimension along the dorsal/ventral axis of the shell (Kent 1992). The average shell height among all sites and periods is very consistent, varying only 2.5 cm between the smallest and largest average shell height. Shells between 74.2 mm and 100 mm made up the greatest numbers of shells recovered from all sites and periods. The average shell height does fluctuate slightly across time. When plotted against Williamsburg’s human population data, a correlation between average oyster height and population fluctuations becomes visible. Williamsburg’s population rose, peaked, and declined in the eighteenth century as the population followed the capital from Jamestown to Williamsburg in 1699, and then moved with it to Richmond in 1780 (see McCartney,

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Figure 5.2. Oyster shell height and human population of Williamsburg (1747–ca.1800).

chapter 1 in this volume). Eighteenth-century Williamsburg population information is difficult to obtain because many public records were destroyed during the Civil War; it was thus sometimes necessary to estimate general populations of the city from observed population trends. In 1747, the population of Williamsburg was only 885 individuals; by 1775, the population had risen to a high point of over 1880 individuals, many involved in the running of the colonial government (U.S. Dept. of Commerce 1998; Walsh et al. 1997). Williamsburg’s prominence declined sharply after the Revolutionary War, and the movement of the capital upstream to Richmond; the population fell to 1344 by 1790 and continued to decline into the nineteenth century (McCartney, chapter 1 in this volume; U.S. Dept. of Commerce 1998; Walsh et al. 1997). The average height of oyster shells from the research appears to vary inversely with human populations in eighteenth-century Williamsburg. Average shell height can be skewed differences in the prevalence of shell types. Elongated shell types will be taller than rounded shells of similar shell volumes. Changes in average shell height might also be due to the

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previously noted changes in harvesting locations as observed through the analysis of other characteristics. Documentary Analysis The Virginia Gazette The entire 1738 to 1780 print run of the Virginia Gazette was searched for all references to oysters. Over 400 references to oysters were made in the Gazette between 1738 and 1780; many of these were reprints from previous editions, leaving 117 unique references. The greatest number of oyster references in the Virginia Gazette, over 75 percent, are advertising properties for sale or lease. All property listings advertised access to desirable oystering resources. There is a clear temporal pattern of the properties for sale throughout the period during which the Gazette was in publication. With the exception of a single property for sale in Mecklenburg County Virginia, all the properties are located near the Chesapeake Bay or one of its tributaries, including the Eastern Shore (Virginia Gazette, July 19, 1776). Property listings specifying oyster resources are sparse until the period of 1765–1769, when the number of properties for sale increases dramatically. Nineteen properties are listed for sale or lease, and they are scattered throughout the colony, with only one to three listings per county for these five years. Between 1770 and 1774, both the number of properties and the number of counties with listed properties for sale or lease increased, with thirty-one properties tightly focused along the Chesapeake coast and counties adjacent to the mouths of the James, York, Rappahannock, and Potomac rivers. Seven unique properties are listed for sale in Gloucester County and eight in York County between 1770 and 1774. The number of properties for sale decreases only slightly between 1775 and 1779, to twenty-seven in total. Fewer properties are listed in each county; while primarily distributed around the Chesapeake and the mouths of its major tributaries, the counties are more widely distributed across the Commonwealth. Six properties are listed for sale or lease in Gloucester during this period, while most other counties vary between one and three (including two in Williamsburg and one in James City County). See figure 5.1 for some of the places named in this discussion of the oyster resources in the Virginia Gazette. Access to oyster resources was clearly a desirable trait for properties in Virginia throughout the eighteenth century. The changing locations of the

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listed eighteenth-century properties hint at changing settlement patterns in the build-up to the political strife of the last third of the eighteenth century. The Sclerochronology of Eastern Oysters Shells Sclerochronology represents the study of incremental shell growth in aquatic organisms (Hudson et al. 1976). Most bivalves grow by accretion and form an alternating pattern of light and dark shell growth that may be associated with the seasons of the year (Jones and Quitmyer 1996). In many cases, shell growth increments may be seen on the shells’ outer surface or, in the case of oysters, on the hinge plate of the left valve (Kent 1992). However, it is well established that bivalve growth structures do not always appear externally or represent annual periodic shell growth (Jones 1983; Jones and Quitmyer 1996; Quitmyer et al. 1985; Quitmyer et al. 1997; Surge et al. 2001; Cannarozzi 2012). Sclerochronologists can better define internal growth structure with longitudinal studies accompanied by isotopic analysis. Such an approach represents a powerful tool used to correlate shell growth increments with seasons of the year. Such an approach can help establish better knowledge of past climate, historic water salinity, and temperature of the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries (Harding et al. 2010; Rick et al. 2016). This study examines the relationship of incremental growth breaks and season of the year using oxygen isotopes from several oysters from the Williamsburg assemblages where we compare the occurrence of growth breaks against the concentration of oxygen isotopes in the shell calcium carbonate. Eastern oyster shells have been shown to record seasonal variability in the oxygen isotope (18O/16O) record found in ambient seawater and represent a method of validating the annual periodicity of incremental shell growth (Harding et al. 2010). Bivalves generally produce shell (CaCO3) at or very near oxygen isotopic (18O/16O) equilibrium with the ambient seawater (Wefer and Berger 1991). The exchange reaction is temperature dependent; thus, the isotopic composition of ambient seawater remains relatively uniform. Warm seawater temperatures are indicated when the oxygen isotopic composition (δ18O) is depleted, while cooler temperatures are predicted as the oxygen isotopic composition becomes enriched (Epstein and Lowenstam 1953; Grossman and Ku 1986). It is for this reason that we plot the isotopic values in an inverted fashion, negative (warm, up) to positive (cool, down) (Epstein et al. 1953).

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Brafferton Indian School Eighteen samples were milled from the Brafferton shell. δ18O values ranged between -1.94 and 4.77. With a few exceptions, the light shell growth increments are depleted in the heavier isotope of oxygen (18O), while the dark increments tend to be enriched. These data indicate that light shell growth occurred during the warm season, and the dark increment formed when sea surface temperature (SST) was cooler. A count of peak periods of oxygen isotope enrichment indicates that the Brafferton shell was collected during its seventh year of life. We note that the last two samples in the profile (17 and 18) show a decline from a warm SST to slightly cooler conditions. This pattern is interpreted as an early autumn period of harvest before the winter’s very coldest time. Public Armoury A total of twenty isotopic samples were milled from the Public Armoury shell. The oxygen isotope concentration ranged between -5.52 and 0.48. This profile does not show a correlation between SST and either of the two shell growth increments (light or dark incremental shell growth). However, a distinct isotopic cycle shows regular periods of enrichment and depletion of the heavy isotope of oxygen (18O). A count of the peaks in the profile indicated three years of life. Samples 19 and 20 show a decline in the SST, indicating an early autumn harvest. Rich Neck Plantation Nineteen samples were milled from the Rich Neck Plantation shell. The oxygen isotope values range between -6.21 and -1.76. No correlation between light or dark shell growth and the concentration of the stable isotopes of oxygen is observed. Counts of the isotopic profile peaks indicate that the oyster was approximately seven years old at the time of harvest. As we have observed, the previous two shell samples (18 and 19) indicate an early autumn harvest period. The isotopic data from this study does not indicate a distinct pattern of either light or dark shell growth correlating with seasonal changes in the ambient SST. This negative correlation suggests that a count of the external features in the hinge plate may not provide an accurate estimate of ontogenetic age (YRS). Nonetheless, the concentration of the oxygen isotopes records the annual changes in SST, and therefore a more accurate assessment of ontogenetic age can be obtained. The isotopic data also have utility in

Figure 5.3. Variation in the concentration of oxygen (18O/16C) and carbon (13C/12C) isotopes in the dark (D) and light (L) shell growth increments of archaeological Eastern oysters from the Colonial Williamsburg shell assemblages. Isotopic values are plotted in an inverted fashion with negative (warm, up) to positive (cool, down) (Epstein et al. 1953).

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determining when in the annual cycle oysters were harvested. The isotopic profiles of all samples are indicative of an early autumn period of harvest. Discussion

Shell Morphology and Harvesting Activities There is a great deal of uniformity in the average height and oyster shell form across almost all sites and periods, except for the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Average shell height between oyster shells varies only 2.5 cm across all data sets. There is also similarity in the distribution of oyster shell forms: bed followed by sand oysters represent the greatest percentage of shells for all periods except for the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. This consistency is a good indicator of market demand for a standard product. This overall uniformity across sites and periods allows us to pinpoint what was considered a desirable oyster in Williamsburg in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries; slightly elongated bed oysters between 75 mm and 100 mm in height were harvested preferentially when possible. Reef and channel oysters were conspicuously absent from virtually all assemblages. In modern practice, long thin oysters are culled from the oyster harvest because they are difficult to shuck (Chowing 1990). The lack of reef and channel oysters may have been the result of targeted harvesting of the most saleable oysters by Virginia oystermen. The high degree of uniformity for sites ranging from the mid-seventeenth century through the late nineteenth century is suggestive of an early and strong regional market for oysters in the Williamsburg region, one that predates the intensive commercial oyster harvesting enterprises that arose in the mid-to-late nineteenth century. Although sites and periods show a high degree of uniformity, fluctuations in average shell height and shell form occur across time. Average oyster heights hit their lowest point in the eighteenth century in the third quarter, at the same time that Williamsburg’s population reached its colonial peak. Following the move of the capital to Richmond in 1780, oyster heights increased as Williamsburg’s human population declined. An intensive prey exploitation model may provide one possible explanation for the observed correlation between shell height and the human population before 1790. In an intensive prey exploitation model, prey size decreases with intensive predation (Miller 1984; Stiner et al. 2000). If oyster populations in the region were not sustainably harvested and allowed to replenish, the most

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desirable oyster would be taken first. As these populations were depleted, harvesters would turn to taking smaller and less desirable shells (Miller 1984; Stiner et al. 2000). As the human population expanded throughout the first three quarters of the eighteenth century, the demand for oysters likely grew and may have put pressure on local oyster resources (Chowing 1990; Wennersten 1981). As the population began to decline following the Revolutionary War, oyster heights in turn may have rebounded. Although there is an observed positive correlation between the human population of Williamsburg and fluctuations in average oyster shell height, the size, shape, and abundance of oysters are ultimately the result of their growing environment and the interplay between environment and human harvesting activities (Rick et al. 2016). The question of the impact of environmental change or the exploitation of microhabitats containing oysters of differing shapes and sizes is beyond the scope of this research; it remains a worthy question for future research. Harvest Location Unlike the overall high degree of uniformity in measured shells with regards to shell morphology, harvesting locations show a greater amount of variability over time. Oysters harvested in the last third of the seventeenth century came from growing environments consistent with the oyster reefs and beds in the deeper waters of the James and York rivers in a wide range of low and moderate salinity waters. This diversity of harvesting environments suggests a widespread collection area. These findings are consistent with historical information about the goals and technology of seventeenthcentury oyster harvesting; oysters were harvested on the household level from a variety of nearby environments and not purchased from a market or from a specialist harvester. The results of this study suggest that a more focused harvesting pattern in the vicinity of Williamsburg emerges in the first three quarters of the eighteenth century. Oysters from bed and sand bar habitats, in relatively shallow, moderate saline, intertidal waters, dominate the assemblages. This marks a more focused harvesting pattern in the general vicinity of Williamsburg. The concentration on mostly bed oysters may indicate a shift from less focused harvesting to the targeting of a specific and plentiful oyster type. The harvest of bed oysters requires access to both oystering tongs and a canoe or boat, an investment in both technology and trained labor. Starting in the late eighteenth century and continuing into the first quarter of the nineteenth century, the oyster shells indicate a shift in growing

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environments. They demonstrate two different harvesting environments, with oysters coming from both lower-salinity, deeper-water oyster beds and reefs and from discrete clusters of oysters in lower-salinity, shallow, intertidal waters. This lack of a well-defined harvesting location may indicate a return to a less focused multiple-location harvesting pattern due to some sort of disruption in usual harvesting patterns or access to previously exploited oyster resources. In the late nineteenth century, we see a pattern similar to that found in the first three quarters of the eighteenth century. This signals a return to a very geographically focused harvesting pattern. Civic Unrest and the Market Economy There is significant deviation in an overall uniform harvesting pattern at the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century. Harvesting efforts shifted upriver into lower-salinity regions, and oysters were being harvested from more diverse habitats. During this period, harvest occurred in both shallow-water sandbars in moderately saline waters and deeper-water resources upstream. This speaks to a change in oyster harvesting patterns in response to a disruption in regular harvesting activities during the last quarter of the eighteenth century. Political tensions between colonists and the colonial government started boiling to the surface in Virginia as early as 1765, the year in which the House of Burgesses passed and then later retracted the Virginia Stamp Act Resolutions. The colonial governor Lord Dunmore declared martial law in Virginia in 1775. That same year, Lord Dunmore sent raiding parties by boat to harass rebel-owned plantations along the James, York, and Potomac rivers. Norfolk was burned in 1776, and the hostilities and uncertainty of the Revolutionary War continued in Virginia until 1781 with the surrender of General Charles Cornwallis following the Siege of Yorktown (see McCartney, chapter 1 in this volume). The Chesapeake Bay and the mouths of the major tributaries were often strictly controlled, and passage and activities limited. The pressures of political unrest likely made property ownership in the contested regions undesirable. By the last third of the eighteenth century, it is clear that many individuals were seeking to sell or lease their lands close to the Chesapeake Bay and the mouths of the major tributaries. At least one individual in 1776 even tried to capitalize on the fear of living in the increasingly strife-torn Tidewater by advertising a property known as Black’s Ferry for sale or exchange in Mecklenburg County in south central Virginia with a plentiful supply of fish and oysters to serve as “a safe retreat for any family, during present troubles” (Virginia Gazette, July 19, 1776).

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Figure 5.4. Population chart of Virginia 1630–1860.

When the oyster data, the documentary data, and the history of the region are considered in concert, the change in oyster harvesting and use in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries appear to be related to the turbulent political situation in the region at the same time. Limited access to traditional oyster harvesting areas and a growing local population created a strong demand for new harvesting to get around these restrictions. The increase in population in the region may also have put more intense demands on the oyster populations in the area, resulting in a dip in size at harvest. As the population declined again following the resolution of the war, there was likely a lag in recovery as depleted oyster stocks struggled to rebuild populations to previous levels and oyster harvesters re-adjusted to changing conditions. By the end of the eighteenth century, oyster shell size began to deviate from the overall observed trend. While throughout most of the eighteenth century there appears to be an inverse correlation between oyster height and human population, starting in 1790 this correlation no longer appears to hold. Even as Williamsburg’s human population declined at the end of the eighteenth and into the nineteenth century, oyster height also continues to decline. While the human population of Williamsburg was on the decline, the overall population of the Commonwealth of Virginia was on

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the rise, as was the expanding regional and national market demand for oysters. The growing commercial demand for oysters seems a possible culprit for reduced oyster sizes, although changes in environment, or the exploitation of different microhabitats containing different shaped oysters (e.g., bed and sand oysters), cannot be ruled out. By the end of the eighteenth century, large-scale harvesting and the transportation of oyster seed, fresh oysters, and preserved oysters to the Northeast, the Caribbean, and Europe were beginning to dominate oyster harvesting activities in the Chesapeake. This national market blossomed fully in the mid-nineteenth century due to the introduction of large-scale dredging, industrial oyster harvesting and packing, and long-distance shipping. Seasonality and Consumption The geochemical (δ18O, δ13C) data add support to an interpretation of oyster harvesting as a seasonal activity. The isotope data indicate that the three oysters used in the geochemical study were all harvested in periods where water temperatures were cooling, suggesting a fall harvest. Something often overlooked in discussions of food resources is that prior to widespread refrigeration, many fresh foods were highly seasonal and limited to a narrow collection window. Fresh oysters are a seasonal resource. A longstanding Anglo-American food taboo holds that oysters are best consumed in months whose names contain the letter “R,” thereby avoiding oysters in the late spring and summer months. This prohibition has a biological basis, as oysters spawn in the late spring and summer, a stressful activity that leaves the oyster exhausted and its flesh thin and flabby (MacKenzie 1996). Oyster meat becomes fatter as water temperatures cool, meaning that climate can play a major role in the timing of harvesting activities. An exceptionally hot summer or a long warm fall could delay oyster harvesting and significantly affect the quality of the oyster meat (MacKenzie 1996). The warmer months also presented a very serious challenge to food storage and preservation; fresh oysters, along with any fresh animal products, would be at risk of spoilage before they could be consumed or preserved (MacKenzie 1996). Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the harvesting season of oysters ran from September through April; however, the majority of oyster sales were made between November and February when the meat was fattest and cooler temperatures meant they were unlikely to spoil (MacKenzie 1996; Shepard 2000). Even the intensive dredging activities of the nineteenth century followed this seasonal pattern of harvest: oysters

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gathered in the winter were transported north for immediate consumption, while in the early spring seed oysters were harvested and used to replenish depleted northern oyster beds for harvest the following fall (Kurlansky 2007; MacKenzie 1996). The geochemical (δ18O, δ13C) data from the three specimens add support to an interpretation of oyster harvesting as a seasonal activity where all three oysters were harvested in periods where water temperatures were cooling, suggesting a fall harvest of these oysters. Further research with larger sample sizes is needed to fully explore the variability in the seasonal harvest of eastern oysters. Conclusion

This research attempts to make explicit the local implications of the larger regional pattern of intensive oyster resource exploitation and depletion in the Tidewater region. This area of study has revealed the many subtle and overt ways in which the social and political change in the period surrounding the American Revolution affected food supply networks, market systems, and patterns of resource exploitation in the Williamsburg area. The work presented here lends support for the interpretation that intensive harvesting of oyster resources had already begun by the third quarter of the eighteenth century, almost a hundred years earlier than is usually discussed. This study has also provided insight for understanding harvest season while challenging expectations about the utility of visible growth breaks in the oyster shell as strong indicators of age at harvest. The study has presented new interpretative data showcasing historical archaeology’s multidisciplinary nature; however, a detailed analysis of climate data revealed in the isotope studies would add another method of addressing climate and environment topics in the seventeenth through nineteenth centuries. Acknowledgments

The authors thank the late Andrew C. Edwards, retired staff archaeologist of the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, and Dr. Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram, of the Department of Focused Inquiry at Virginia Commonwealth University, for editing this volume. The oyster shell thin sections were prepared at the Environmental Archaeology Laboratory, Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Essential material support at the University of Florida was provided by Dr. Douglas S. Jones of the Paleobiology Laboratory, Florida

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Museum of Natural History, where the isotopic samples were micro-milled and prepared for analysis. We appreciate the analytic assistance given by Dr. Jason Curtis of the Light Stable Isotope Laboratory, Department of Geological Sciences, University of Florida. We wish to acknowledge and thank our volunteer scientists in preparing, measuring, and quantifying our research specimens. Finally, we would like to thank Dr. Joanne Bowen, without whom none of this research would have been possible.

6 “Useful Ornaments to His Cabinet” Analysis of Anatomical Study and Display in Colonial Williamsburg Ellen Chapman

In 1859, a London osteologist named Mr. Flower crafted a human skeleton from sycamore wood “in the most elaborate and artistic manner.” For several weeks, the College of Surgeons displayed the fine specimen in London, and then it was shipped along with several other gifts to a sovereign of what is now Myanmar. Contemporary accounts stated that the king had requested this unusual creation through the East India Company because he wished to study human anatomy but could not touch real bones without losing caste (Allen 1859; Wakley 1859). The tension between the power of anatomical knowledge and the discomfort and taboo nature of human skeletal remains is one that has long impacted how medical providers are perceived, from Classical times to the present. This chapter describes the creation of another sort of elaborate replica: the recreation of an eighteenth-century-style articulated human skeleton through a synthesis of archaeological, historical, and bioanthropological research. The development of this replica draws on Williamsburg’s near century of archaeological investigations (see Poole and Samford, chapter 3 in this volume). While skeletons prepared for use in medical education are rare in eighteenth-century contexts, archaeological investigations at two sites in Colonial Williamsburg’s Historic Area discovered examples. The sites, an apothecary’s private residence and a coffeehouse, provide insights into how prepared human specimens were used in colonial scientific and medical communities and contain tantalizing insights for interpretation at the living-history museum. The motivations for the replica’s creation similarly reflect a tension between Colonial Williamsburg’s general drive for

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authenticity and its apparent discomfort provoked by human remains (see Edwards-Ingram, chapter 9 in this volume). Since the 1970s, an articulated human skeleton has been part of the reconstructed Pasteur & Galt Apothecary Shop, which is the major exhibition space where Colonial Williamsburg interprets the practice and consumption of medicine in colonial Virginia (Kocher 1990). The Apothecary staff previously used the human skeleton to explain to visitors that the study of anatomy was not illegal during the eighteenth century, and to describe the process of medical education for colonial Virginians (Robin Kipps, personal communication). However, several decades after the skeleton’s purchase, Colonial Williamsburg produced its “Guidelines on Human Remains,” which provided ethical procedures for the Foundation and prohibited the display of human remains on its properties or museums. In 2013, I was contacted by staff in the museum’s Collections Department with a dilemma: how could we remove the human remains from display at the Pasteur & Galt Apothecary Shop while maintaining the historical shop interpreters’ ability to discuss colonial medical education? Concerns over the curation, conservation, and disposition of human remains in museums has been the focus of substantial academic inquiry in recent decades, in which staff at the Foundation have sometimes been participants (Brooks and Weston 2007; Cassman, Odegaard, and Powell 2007; Giesen 2013; Williams 2001). Furthermore, the original skeleton had suffered some cracking due to variable humidity, its iron fixings were rusted, the hardware supporting the skeleton was not appropriate to the time period, and the skeleton itself was likely that of a Chinese or South Asian individual instead of a population more historically representative to eighteenth-century Williamsburg. The decision was thus made to create a new replica skeleton: one that would provide the information and colonial context required in a living history museum like Colonial Williamsburg, while taking into account the institution’s sentiments regarding the display of human remains, the evidence provided by the archaeological and historical record, and best practices in curation and conservation. To our knowledge, this is the only time a period-appropriate eighteenth-century skeleton has been created, and the process of designing and producing this object has tested and expanded our understanding of the manufacture of these objects during the colonial period. In many ways, the story of this skeleton’s articulation relates to many questions common to how reconstructions should be performed, what

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is significant enough to be reconstructed, and what museum institutions choose to emphasize to guests with particular ideas of the past. The decisions entailed in creating it exemplify some of the struggles in reconstruction between historicity, object longevity, best conservation practices, and the skeleton’s appearance and impact on guests. Colonial Williamsburg has been critiqued in the past for its “tidy if over sanitary and frequently suspect kind of stage-set charm” (Huxtable 1963). The past that Colonial Williamsburg presents is a carefully curated one, selected to appeal, educate, and entertain, and ultimately it is the product of the combined desires of the public and the priorities of the institution and its scholars. As one of these scholars, Edward Chappell, has noted, some reconstructions have more potential than others to influence visitors to revisit their understanding of class and history and to engage with a more unsettling, less valorizing past (Chappell 1989:256). These include reconstructions at Williamsburg’s Public Hospital, the nation’s first dedicated mental hospital, and the industrial setting of the Anderson Armoury. Similarly, the Foundation’s current representations of slavery at the Randolph House and the reconstruction of the tin shop to represent its occupation by the free black Gillett family (see Edwards, chapter 7 in this volume) create spaces for a more multivocal interpretation at Colonial Williamsburg. In this chapter I investigate how creating the skeleton reconstruction has contributed experientially, experimentally, and scientifically to Apothecary Shop interpretations. First, reconstructing the skeleton allows for an investigation into the eighteenth-century articulation practices and as a means of interpreting Williamsburg’s archaeological remains in one of the historic trades shops. More broadly, the skeleton also provides a platform for the discussion of the professionalization of medicine during the Enlightenment, and the occupation of skeletal articulators that existed during this period. Finally, the skeleton could be most useful to addressing Chappell’s call for socially responsible museums if it is used to explore more unsettling and unusual questions with visitors: Whose bodies were the subject of articulation in colonial Williamsburg? What are the ethics involved in using the remains of a human being as an object of decoration or study? Anatomy and the American Colonial Medical Context

Understanding the context of articulated skeletons first requires a broader review of medicine in the colonies, particularly Virginia, and how it differed from contemporary European practices. Despite the many similarities

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between British and colonial medical practices, the division of medical professions was not nearly as clear-cut in the colonies as in Britain. Furthermore, while academically trained physicians have received more emphasis in historical research, some scholarship has indicated that around 90 percent of colonial medical practitioners were educated solely through apprenticeship (Thompson 2010). Even when individuals had a European medical degree, physicians were expected in the colonies to provide a variety of medicine compounding and surgical services at which European doctors would have balked (Bell 1957; Shryock 1960:7). However, the study of anatomy was considered essential for the proper education of formally trained doctors at the time and was considered a branch of natural philosophy. Virginian gentlemen traveled overseas for their medical education in such great numbers that they founded the Virginia Club at Edinburgh in 1761, a private society of medical students who performed practical dissections for one another and gave lectures (Bell 1957:60; Campbell 1840:xvii– xix). Even those trained solely through the apprentice system received some exposure to anatomy texts and demonstrations. The diary of a mideighteenth-century Boston apprentice describes many days of reading the seminal anatomy texts, and also reveals that he witnessed several dissections during his apprenticeship (Thompson 2010). As many scholars have discussed, over the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the demand for cadavers used in medical study and instruction far outstripped the methods of legal acquisition (Hildebrandt 2008; Humphreys 1973; Richardson 2000; Sappol 2002). In mid-eighteenthcentury Virginia, the rule of law included the British Murder Act of 1751, which legalized dissection as punishment for particularly heinous crimes (Tarlow 2010:67–68). As a result, articulated remains appear to have been very highly valued and were curated as long as they were of use. In Williamsburg, Dr. Kenneth McKenzie bequeathed his “skeleton and injected child” to “my good friend Doctor James Carter having behaved in a very kind manner to me in my Sickness” (Bullock 1990a). Similarly, archaeological evidence from Scotland suggests that articulated skeletons there were repaired multiple times before being disposed of (Cross, Kilpatrick, and Will 2014). Evidence from London suggests that anatomical lecture theatres contained a minimum of one human skeleton, and that public lectures began with a study of the skeleton for which an excellent specimen was required (Guerrini 2004:229–230). While the demand for cadavers in mideighteenth-century Virginia was likely much lower than in England and Scotland, given the less formalized medical economy in the colonies and

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the absence of medical schools prior to 1765, it is clear that these objects were considered very important by medical professionals. Articulation Approaches in the Eighteenth Century

The process of articulation for preservation, anatomical study, and instruction, and the individuals responsible for it, is one subject that can be explored through skeleton reconstruction. During the Renaissance, Vesalius was among the first scientists to advocate for articulation of skeletons as a means of preserving them as an object of study, and a skeleton he articulated in 1543 survives today at the Anatomical Museum of Basel, Switzerland (Olry 1998). Vesalius was also the first to produce a detailed guide to skeletal articulation in his famous work De humani corporis fabrica, including detailed instructions for maceration and drawings that show connections of the copper wires and iron rod used to assemble the bones (Kornell 2000). By the eighteenth century, preparations of human tissue samples, of which dry bone was a small subset, were often produced by physicians and surgeons as they identified unusual conditions or particularly notable structures. Prominent eighteenth-century English preparers include Alexander Munro, William and John Hunter, Thomas Pole, and John and Charles Bell. Anatomical preparation methods became quite advanced; Dutch botanist and anatomist Frederik Ruysch was so skilled that many of his dry and wet anatomical preparations remain intact three centuries later. However, the financial value of such preparations meant that such preparations methods were closely guarded and proprietary—instead of publishing the protocol, Ruysch enjoyed a monopoly on high-quality preparations and sold the method to a Russian tsar (Margócsy 2008:20). Toward the end of the eighteenth century, scientists began to publish guides to creating these anatomical preparations. The first English articulation guide was written in 1790 by Thomas Pole, and is part of a larger document that also provides recommendations regarding the production of wax molds, producing injection molds of tissue structures, preserving organs in spirits, and preparing animal skeletons. Pole’s preface to the book provides several insights into how he (and presumably other doctors) understood the importance of these articulated skeletons (Pole 1790, v–xiii). His reasons for creating them included their uses for physicians trying to understand the structure of the body, surgeons needing anatomical expertise in order to increase the success and survivability of surgeries, and medical professionals seeking to continue their studies during their

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career. He also places the human skeleton into context alongside other vertebrates, as some sections of the book are devoted to animal preparations, and emphasizes that comparative anatomy is essential for understanding human structures. Pole stresses that the study of anatomy using articulated skeletons instead of cadavers was both more accessible and less dangerous than human dissections—many of his contemporaries were dying of disease or sepsis brought on by accidents that occurred during dissection. Finally, Pole views anatomy within a corpus of study deemed important for learned, intellectual men of the time. Both comparative and human anatomy, he argues, are “necessary to inform the accomplished character of the gentleman”—subjects that gentlemen should study like any other branch of natural philosophy (Pole 1790, vi–vii). While Pole’s guide was intended to assist those training doctors or anatomists, it is unclear how common it was for doctors to actually have or use these skills outside the major centers of medical instruction such as London, Edinburgh, Leiden, or Paris. Though medical training at most European medical colleges included anatomical preparations in their coursework, there was a vast range in how long colonial physicians spent in their medical education at these centers, what subjects they were trained in, and what sources for further education they had access to in their home regions. Due to challenges with access to cadavers in some years, students might not have observed more than a single dissection, and the practical skills of some were probably quite limited (Nunn 2005:4–9). Because of the specialized knowledge needed to successfully deflesh, degrease, and articulate a skeleton, there was a small market for individuals referred to as “articulators,” whose primary occupation was producing articulated skeletons for medical instruction and professional reference. As well as prominent anatomists and scientists already discussed, some people worked in the trade predominantly assembling skeletons for institutions or other researchers. The trade card of Nathaniel Longbottom, Articulator, advertises “Skeletons of different sizes and both Sexes, of good Colour, and Accurately Articulated.” Longbottom’s card offers articulation services for customers who might have loose sets of bones they need assembled, including nonhuman trophies. A series of disarticulated and repaired human bones recovered in an Edinburgh archaeological context has also intriguingly suggested that a family of wire manufacturers joined forces with medical trainees to assemble and repair articulated skeletons in the mid-nineteenth century (Kilpatrick, Cross, and Will 2014). However, outside of these anecdotes and

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Figure 6.1. Trade card of Nathaniel Longbottom. Courtesy of the Wellcome Collection.

examples, much of articulation as an occupation and an art form is still not well understood, particularly for the period prior to the late eighteenth century when explanations like Pole’s were published. Unfortunately, locating original American eighteenth-century articulated skeletons has not proven fruitful as an avenue for finding details on contemporary articulation techniques. By the mid-twentieth century, medicine focused much more on medications and microbiology, and anatomy departments across North America were closed or greatly reduced their collections. While many examples of American articulated skeletons from the nineteenth century continue to be curated at institutions such as the Mutter Museum, the Dittrick Museum of Medical History, the National Library of Medicine, and the Warren Anatomical Museum, efforts to locate other American eighteenth-century skeletons have been unsuccessful. In London, the Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons curates several eighteenth-century articulated specimens, most notably that of Charles Byrne, colloquially known as the Irish Giant, who was articulated against his wishes in 1783 (Fforde 1992). Critically, these archives also contain articulation hardware stripped from an eighteenth-century articulated skeleton whose remains were reburied, and photographs of these items have been invaluable to select and confirm articulation methods (this

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research was provided by Apothecary interpreters Robin Kipps and Sharon Cotner). Archaeological Evidence for Articulated Skeletons in Eighteenth-Century Williamsburg

Because of the relative paucity of direct physical evidence about articulated skeletons and the specific need to reconstruct a “Williamsburg” skeleton, archaeological remains of articulated skeletons recovered from Williamsburg were essential references during this project, and had been assessed during a reanalysis of the Foundation’s human remains collections (Chapman 2013). In one instance, a mandible showing modification for articulation was recovered from a trash pit containing other types of medical waste, located along the backlot boundary of a doctor’s residence. In the second, a phalanx demonstrating modification consistent with articulation was recovered from a midden context associated with the lot’s use as a coffeehouse. The Gilmer Mandible Human remains recovered from the 1965 excavation of the Brush-Everard House consisted of a nearly complete mandible that appears to have been modified for anatomical display (Samford 1999:77). Trash Pit E, from which the mandible was recovered, was located along the southern edge of the Brush-Everard House lot (Lot 165) and was most likely associated with activities of the household in Lot 164 (Samford 1999:66). This house lot was owned between 1735 and 1757 by George Gilmer, an apothecary who owned a shop elsewhere in Williamsburg (69). The mandible itself is mostly complete but lacks the right condyloid process, left coronoid process, and a triangular section of the anterior mandibular cortical bone. Its right coronoid process contains a perforation consistent in color with the rest of the element. The mandible also exhibits cracking, particularly on the right ramus and body, possibly due to long-term exposure prior to deposition in the ground. These factors suggest that this element was used as part of an anatomical skeleton. Previous researchers have provided conflicting demographic assessments of the age and ethnic ancestry of this individual. Based on the small mental eminence (2 out of 5) and wide angle of the mandibular ramus, I concur with previous researchers that they were

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Figure 6.2. Gilmer mandible showing wiring hole. Archaeological Collections, the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Photo by the author.

probably female. In terms of ancestry, the mandible lacks the visible prognathism that would be expected in the mandible of someone of African ancestry, and is congruent with someone of European or Native American descent (Bass 2004:83–87). However, I would be hesitant to provide an assessment of ancestry or age based on such a small fragment of the face. There are no teeth present in this mandible, and at least ten of them appear to have been lost postmortem. A very likely possibility for this absence is the removal of teeth for use in dentures, as dentures were commonly made from human and animal teeth during this period and thus quite valuable. Similar tooth removal from discarded anatomical specimens has previously been observed at Lady Tester’s Kirkyard in Edinburgh and other British contexts (Henderson, Collard, and Johnston 1996). The mandible appears to have been assembled substantially differently from the recommendations in Pole’s The Anatomical Instructor, as wires appear to have been inserted into the perforations in the coronoid processes instead of the condyloid process, as Pole suggests. It is possible that this

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illustrates the diversity of anatomical preparations present during this time, when methods were kept secret and a practitioner may not have performed many of these procedures before. Additionally, this alteration provides a potential reason why the mandible would have been deposited—the left coronoid process is broken off just at the location where the other wire hole would have been, and it is possible that the wire attachment overstressed it. The trash pit (c. 1745) from which the mandible was recovered also contained medical artifacts such as medicine phials, decorated delftware drugpots, and a glass carboy. The mandible was most likely deposited in the trash pit in the mid-eighteenth century, and its context strongly associates the mandible with a period of medical treatment being performed at the site. The Coffeehouse Phalanx Evidence for an articulated skeleton at a Williamsburg coffeehouse consists of an intermediate human hand phalanx, generally a dark brown in color with a few areas of green copper staining (see figure 6.3). The surface appears polished, particularly on the dorsal surface. On the distal end, two pieces of copper wire have been inserted through the phalanx, originating in the center of the distal articular facet and exiting the phalanx on the palmar surface just proximal to the distal articular facet. On the proximal articular surface, the phalanx exhibits a sagittal cut located between the two angled articular facets. On one side, the bone has had a copper pin (with a diameter of 1.2–1.4 mm) driven into the trabecular bone just distal to the proximal articular facets. A radiograph taken of the bone has shown that this is a straight pin, and copper patina from the pin shows that the cut continues considerably past the pin. The archaeological context of this discovery is the North Excavation block (context 17KB) of Charlton’s Coffeehouse, located adjacent to the Capitol on Duke of Gloucester Street. The bone was recovered from a midden deposit full of artifacts, faunal bone, and shell with a terminus post quem of 1760, roughly the end of the site’s Coffeehouse period ca. 1755 to 1767 (Mark Kostro, personal communication). The phalanx is not the only evidence for medical investigations at the coffeehouse; several fragments of vertebrae with modification indicative of dissection were also recovered from the midden. Analysis of archaeological and documentary research illustrates that the eighteenth-century coffeehouse context was an important location for the performance of anatomical expertise (Chapman and Kostro 2017).

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Figure 6.3. Phalanx from Charlton’s Coffeehouse and radiograph of same. Radiograph by Emily Williams, Archaeological Collections, the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Photo by the author.

Smithsonian anthropologists Douglas Owsley and David Hunt (in unpublished notes curated at the Colonial Williamsburg Faunal Lab) analyzed this context and identified the bone as a left phalanx from a young adult, possibly male. However, there is considerable uncertainty to the prospect of providing a sex or age estimate based on this element. Intermediate phalanges complete their epiphyseal fusion at around 14.5 for females and 16.5 for males, and this bone shows no signs of recent fusion, so this individual is likely over 18–20, depending on sex. Based on visible polish on the element, this bone was handled and spent a considerable amount of time out of the ground. The bone condition and the apparent differences in age suggest that this individual is a separate individual from the vertebrae associated with the dissection event. There is no archaeological context to suggest that the Coffeehouse phalanx is from the same individual as the Gilmer mandible, but skeletal data cannot firmly exclude that possibility.

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The modifications to the phalanx mostly align well with contemporary ideas of how best to articulate a human skeleton for display. Pole’s 1790 guide recommended the phalanges be articulated using tin or brass plates “firmly fixed in the upper extremity of each bone, by a pin passing laterally through the bone and tin plate, so as to admit of flexion and extention [sic]” (Pole 1790:194). Based on the position of the pin and sagittal cut to the proximal end of the element, it appears likely that this is indeed what was done in this case. The bone’s extensive patina also indicates that the skeleton was retained for study and instruction for a considerable period of time, which makes sense given the challenges of obtaining a skeleton for this use. As with the Gilmer mandible, the phalanx shows departures from the recommendations in Pole’s Anatomical Instructor. While Pole recommends tin or brass plates for all articulations of the phalanges, the copper wire and drilled holes at the distal end of this phalanx indicate that the distal and intermediate phalanges of this specimen were fixed together using wire alone. Investigating Colonial Medicine in Williamsburg through Archaeological Evidence of Articulated Skeletons

What is the meaning of these two remnants of articulated skeletons present in the colonial capital? First, the two locations in which these remains were found are interesting and allow us to build our understanding of how the medical community in Williamsburg operated during the mid-eighteenth century. The likely retrieval of teeth from the Gilmer mandible, as well as the inclusion of articulated skeletons as valuables included in wills, speaks directly to the professional and economic value ascribed to these medical specimens. There is extensive historical evidence for a demand for teeth for use in dental implants, including the extraction of teeth from soldiers’ corpses of the Battle of Waterloo, from which the term “Waterloo teeth” was coined (Woodforde 1968). In the small town of Williamsburg, this toothless mandible is an indication that the same high demand for good teeth was in operation over sixty years before that battle. These remains also increase our understanding of the uses and behaviors that characterized the locations where they were recovered. Pole described that his goal in producing The Anatomical Instructor was to assist his typical reader (an “anatomical genius,” apparently!) “by enabling him to make

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such preparations of the human body, when dissecting, as will hereafter be useful ornaments to his cabinet” (Pole 1790:v). The phrase “useful ornaments to his cabinet” reflects a combined interest in aesthetics and function that characterized many approaches to professional and medical context during the eighteenth century. Similarly, George Gilmer remarked in 1752 regarding some house modifications that, “I am wainscoting my dining room, which with a handsome marble chimney piece &c with glass over it, will make it a tolerable room for an Apothecary (Bullock 1990b; Samford 1999:78; my emphasis). The Gilmer mandible indicates the presence of an anatomical skeleton along with other medical paraphernalia in his home practice—likely for a combination of apprentice instruction, medical diagnosis, professional study, and aesthetic display. In addition, the identification of several discrepancies between articulations recommended by Pole and those recovered archaeologically shows the extent of individual variation during the mid-eighteenth century, when many anatomical skills were closely held secrets and few published texts existed. In the example of the Coffeehouse phalanx, research has revealed that the establishment was likely a site of anatomical lectures and semi-private demonstrations on at least a couple of occasions (Chapman and Kostro 2017). This provides insights into the development and reinforcement of medical skills in urban colonial America prior to the foundation of the first medical school in Philadelphia in 1765. In both cases, anatomy was not merely a venue for improving medical treatment—particularly as many of the surgical advances made possible by the Scientific Revolution had not yet been realized. Instead, the ownership and presentation of an articulated skeleton may well have been a mark of authenticity and expertise that would set some physicians above the rest, as well as providing an object for study and the instruction of apprentices. The context in which these remains were found suggests that anatomical skeletons and dissection demonstrations functioned as a performance or illustration of medical competence that played out in the elite context of the Coffeehouse and in professional medical settings such as George Gilmer’s house. Frustratingly, many questions are raised by these remains that we cannot currently answer—particularly whether these skeletons were articulated in the colonies or in Britain and whose bodies were used for their production. One possibility is that they were purchased when their owner was studying medicine overseas, and were shipped back to Virginia with them. Alternately, Nathaniel Longbottom’s trade card (see figure 6.1) also references packing skeletons “for Sea or Land Carriage,” so distant transport of these

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items appears to have been in the minds of their creators. However, these skeletons also may have been procured and articulated locally, and this possibility raises the unsavory but important question of who was most likely to have fallen victim to resurrectionist practices in colonial Williamsburg. Evidence from Britain, the American colonies, and Virginia demonstrates the vulnerability of certain populations—especially enslaved and black individuals, but also other racial minorities and disenfranchised white groups—to medical experimentation and preparation as anatomical objects (Richardson 2000; Sappol 2002; Savitt 1982; Tarlow 2010). Such practices were not due merely to their accessibility, but also had their roots in ideas of punishment and social exclusion that were then applied to bodies seen as criminal (Tarlow 2010:71). In 1733 in Boston, students dissected the body of “Julian the Indian Man, who was executed,” and saved his bones to assemble them into an articulated skeleton (Matthews 1917:279; Sappol 2002:100). Medical researchers regularly stole the bodies of the enslaved in New York City, eventually resulting in a “Doctors Riot” in 1788 (Blakey 1998:53–54). In Massachusetts, the journal of an apprentice surgeon indicates that poor individuals who lacked family attachments were vulnerable to dissection regardless of whether they had perpetrated a crime (Thompson 2010:90–92). Finally, the only known example of a Williamsburg resident being dissected is the indentured English servant Anthony Francis Dittond, who had been transported to the colonies due to a previous conviction. In 1738, he was convicted of murdering a coachman during an escape attempt and was sentenced to death. The Virginia Gazette noted of his fate, “His Corps was put into a Coffin; and we hear it is to be anatomiz’d by the Surgeons” (Dargan 1934:12–13; Parks 1738). The public nature of Dittond’s fate reflects the legality of his anatomization and how it was perceived culturally as appropriate punishment. The remains at the Coffeehouse and similar examples of American cached human remains from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries illustrate that these practices were much more common than historical sources indicate (e.g., Chapman and Kostro 2017; Koste 2012). There is also specific information from Connecticut regarding the retention of the bodies of enslaved people for anatomical study; the body of Fortune Porter was prepared after his death in 1798 and his skeleton passed down through several generations of Porter physicians—though the bones were not articulated until the early twentieth century (Hamilton 2013; Smith and Guest 2004). As Edwards-Ingram discusses in this volume (ch. 9), African American burial grounds in eighteenth-century Williamsburg

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were frequently established in commons and low-lying marginal areas that would have allowed substantial access for clandestine removal. The disproportionate use of African Americans for dissection has been extremely well documented for nineteenth-century medical schools, including archaeological collections of African-descended dissected human remains from the medical colleges of Georgia and Virginia (Blakely, Harrington, and Barnes 1997; Halperin 2007; Koste 2012; Sappol 2002). While we cannot currently know with any certainty which individuals are represented by the Williamsburg articulated skeletons, the skeleton reconstruction provides an important jumping-off point for interpreters to tell the story of Dittond’s anatomization, and generally emphasize the vulnerable populations who have disproportionately suffered this fate throughout medical and scientific investigations prior to the Uniform Anatomical Gift Act in 1968 (Garment et al. 2007). Assembling the Articulated Skeleton Reconstruction

Using the discussed archaeological evidence, comparative archaeological and museum evidence from Britain, and the Pole articulation guide, Colonial Williamsburg Toolmaker Heidi Quant and the author recreated an eighteenth-century skeleton in 2014–2015. This reconstruction has revealed some of the challenges and benefits to creating a high-quality museum object that accurately reflects colonial articulated skeletons, incorporates archaeological and archival evidence, is mechanically sound, adheres to best conservation practices, and allows for interpretation of themes associated with historical medical specimens. The most visibly distinctive aspects of a colonial articulated skeleton relate to differences in construction materials and techniques compared to the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Because there is a finite number of ways to hold a skeleton in proper anatomical position while allowing mobility of the limbs, osteological articulators have conserved many of the same general approaches over time. A metal rod (brass or iron) was drilled through the vertebral bodies and curved to maintain the spine’s characteristic S-curved appearance. The skull and pelvis were also connected to this rod, which was then curved above the skull to allow the skeleton to be hung. Brass or tin plates, held by straight pins, were inserted into the smaller joints of the ankle and arms to allow natural rotation and flexion/extension of these joints. Later methods for articulating skeletons used iron to a much greater extent than tin or brass. Both photographic

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evidence from the Royal College of Surgeons and the measurements in nineteenth-century guides suggest that larger tin plates and thicker cuts were employed in later skeletons, producing a less delicate finished object (Knox 1836:55–65). An initial challenge to the skeleton project occurred during the cast selection process. Interpreting the particular vulnerability of the Williamsburg black population for medical preparation was a priority of the project; however, articulated skeletons shipped to the colonies from Europe would most likely have been of European descent. Further, the sole historical evidence we have regarding Williamsburg sources for medical dissection was a white convicted criminal (though, since few cases of illegal dissection would have made colonial news reports, it is unclear how strongly this should be considered). In any case, the high-quality museum cast collection used for the project (the Bone Clones Maxwell Collection) did not contain a skeleton of African descent. Instead, the material selected for the elements was a complete replica cast of a European-American male (SCM192-D sold by Bone Clones). Some areas of interpolation were required in the skeleton’s construction; Pole does not appear to have provided much detail regarding particularly difficult tasks, such as obtaining the correct spinal curvature for the iron rod, or how eighteenth-century articulators would have aligned some of the more critical drill holes during assembly (such as through the sacrum and both sides of the pelvis), as described in Pole’s guide. The decision making and interpretations involved with this construction has certainly demonstrated the extent to which colonial articulated skeletons were likely to vary, due to a combination of different design of joint connections, levels of workmanship, and types of materials used. Additionally, while some of Pole’s instructions were followed to the letter, several others conflicted with our local archaeological evidence, were less feasible with plastic than the bone he would have used, or were adjusted to promote skeleton longevity or aesthetics. Recreating small scalpel cuts in the hands required the modification of several knives to maintain the narrowness of the cuts implied by archaeological evidence. Conservation goals of reversibility and material stability (as well as a desire to avoid an authentic smell) encouraged our use of Paraloid B-72 as an adhesive rather than historically appropriate hide glue. While Pole described the application of a burnt umber–tinted paste to the cork and leather replicating intervertebral discs and costal cartilage, we had previously seen examples of painted elements on skeletons looking messy, fake, or disturbing, and we had concerns

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about a painted surface on a flexible leather item deteriorating over time. As a result, conservation and aesthetic priorities led us to forgo this process and leave the materials visible in their original color. Finally, while the Williamsburg archaeological evidence led us to amend our assembly of the hand phalanges, the Gilmer mandible’s unusual articulation technique was avoided because it was less secure and more prone to breakage. These adjustments reflect that reconstruction at Colonial Williamsburg has specific pedagogical goals, longevity requirements, and aesthetic considerations. These principles guide reconstruction, making it reflect the present as well as the past. The Interpretive Power of the Reconstructed Skeleton

The completed skeleton is an evocative piece with considerable aesthetic power. As a reconstructed object, it can be used as a conversation starter to clarify the system of medical education, just as its predecessor did. However, the research underlying the piece also provides Colonial Williamsburg interpreters with the foundation to add important, challenging themes to living history at Colonial Williamsburg. Knowing the name and fate of Francis Dittond in a context that includes a physical representation of his fate creates a powerful learning opportunity to present stories about the ethics of medical science, historic uses of the criminal corpse, and changing understandings of punishment (Tarlow and Lowman 2018:239–268). Similarly, the archaeological interpretation of human remains from the coffeehouse allows for an expansion of that venue’s story as well. According to Edward Chappell (1999), the Charlton Coffeehouse is like other buildings at Colonial Williamsburg in that there is a single “reassembled scene” that focuses on the site’s relevance to refined political foment—such as the Stamp Act protests. However, as Edwards (chapter 7 in this volume) emphasizes, living history spaces can also maintain “the other narrative” through print, occasional events, or choices made in building reconstruction. The dissected and articulated human remains recovered from this context provide evidence for Colonial Williamsburg to invest more substantially in an alternate narrative for the Coffeehouse, one that allows space for the more malevolent aspects of scientific investigation occurring within colonial racial and class structures (see Chapman and Kostro 2017 for more discussion).

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Figure 6.4. Completed replica of skeleton in Colonial Williamsburg’s Apothecary Shop, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

This chapter has shown the interconnectedness of archaeological and historical research, experimental historical research through reconstruction, and the interpretive potential of the resulting objects. This process has the capacity to tailor learning environments in living history and historic house museums to reflect the multiple lines of evidence under study at these institutions. As has been clear during this process, creating an object like the replica articulated skeleton tests our historical understanding and produces experimental archaeology data about the objects we are reconstructing. Finally, reconstructed objects like this one can allow museum

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interpreters to explore scientific ambiguities, past inequalities, and ethical debates in a powerful, material fashion. Acknowledgments

The author would like to gratefully thank former Colonial Williamsburg Foundation toolmaker Heidi Quant for her expertise and many hours of work on the skeleton construction. The skeleton would not have been successful without her help. Thanks also to Joanne Bowen, James Zillius, Erik Goldstein, Jay Howlett, Amanda Keller, and the late Jay Gaynor for their support and generous contributions of expertise to the project. Emily Williams and Kelly Ladd-Kostro provided the excellent images and radiographs. Robin Kipps and Sharon Cotner provided numerous insights from their trips to eighteenth-century collections in the United Kingdom, and I appreciate their support as we undertook the replacement for their beloved “Hugo.” All errors or omissions remain my own. Finally, Ywone Edwards-Ingram and Andy Edwards shepherded this book through several obstacles with grace and perseverance, and we are all so sad not to be able to celebrate with Andy at the end of it all.

7 Architectural Reconstruction and the Importance of a Name Andrew C. Edwards One way to control the past is to create a public memory that commemorates a patriotic past. (Shackel 2001:119)

Reconstruction, the rebuilding of a structure from either archaeological evidence or the historical record, or both, is the extreme form of restoration. Reconstruction and/or restoration versus conservation of the remaining original is a question that matters because it stimulates even deeper and more complex questions about how we use archaeology to inform about the past and educate the public. When the notion of “historical preservation” through architectural reconstruction/restoration was introduced in the nineteenth century, it assumed two diametrically opposed approaches to reclaiming historic landscapes. The “creative embellishment” view was promulgated by Parisian architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, and the English “hands-off ” approach was promoted by art critic, philosopher, and painter John Ruskin (1851, 185). Viollet-le-Duc’s restorations and reconstructions created buildings and even entire villages, such as Carcassonne in southern France, that were arguably ideal but not necessarily true to the original appearance or intent. As he states in Foundations of Architecture: To restore a building is not only to preserve it, to repair it, or to rebuild, but to bring it back to a state of completion such as may never have existed at any given moment. (Viollet-le-Duc 1854, 195) Although Viollet-le-Duc was considered the founder of restoration architecture, even some contemporaries felt that his approach went beyond mere

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restoration and created buildings that, although they may have been in the spirit of the original architects and builders, were not historically accurate (Curl 2000). His approach has been largely discredited among architectural historians, but his influence in French restoration/reconstruction projects remains evident today. Two outstanding examples are the recent work on the tenth-century Forteress Royale in Chinon along Le Vienne in western France and the cleaning and restoration of Chartres Cathedral. Ruskin, on the other hand, felt that any restoration of a building is in actuality the total destruction of how it was originally conceived and executed. Reconstructions were unthinkable, conserved ruins taking precedence over recreated replicas: Restoration may possibly . . . produce good imitation of an ancient work of art, but the original is then falsified, and its restored state is no longer an example of the art of the period to which it belonged. [In fact,] the more exact the imitation, the more it is adapted to mislead posterity. No restoration should ever be attempted, otherwise than . . . in the sense of preservation from further injuries . . . Anything beyond this is untrue in art, unjustifiable in taste, destructive in practice, and wholly opposed to the judgment of the best Archaeologists. Do not let us talk then of restoration. The thing is a Lie from beginning to end. (Ruskin 1851:185) The work sponsored by the re-establishment of Williamsburg’s Public Armoury and the reconstruction of a free-black residence as the Armoury’s tin shop have given rise to a few important questions concerning history and reconstruction: What can we learn about the lives of the more than 1,500 free blacks (Nicholls 1984:61) who lived and worked in the Williamsburg area in the early nineteenth century? What about their relationship with the majority white population? Just as important, how can we tell the whole story of the tenant house while it outwardly serves to interpret the industrial response to the American Revolution? The answers lie in further research, its addition into the general interpretation of the tin shop, and its publication—made possible (ironically) by the Armoury reconstruction. Archaeology has guided restoration and reconstruction at Colonial Williamsburg for nearly ninety years (Poole and Samford, chapter 3 in this volume). Even though the Foundation’s approach to reconstruction and restoration is not as fanciful as Viollet-le-Duc’s or as dour as Ruskin’s, one may ask if the town approximates reality or instead creates an unlikely historical

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Figure 7.1. Reconstructed Tin Shop, 2012. Photo by Andrew Edwards with permission of The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

fantasyland of “authentic” but not necessarily realistic buildings (Handler and Gable 1997). Does it educate the public about past architecture and eighteenth-century construction methods, or is it a mere snapshot of the past? The overall purpose of the museum is to become an instrument for a more dynamic understanding of history, multivocal with justifiable multilevel strata of truth. Fitting this process into architectural reconstruction can become very complicated. One such complicated reconstruction is, paradoxically, a simple 16-by-24-foot presumably one-room building on colonial lot 17. This is the story of that little house and its inhabitants and how archaeology has interpreted its history. In her recent chapter in Slavery and the University: Histories and Legacies, Ywone Edwards-Ingram (2019) argues that many key structures in Williamsburg’s Historic Area that embody slavery or African American history are primarily used to “showcase” historically significant white individuals. The proud, well-maintained prominent houses of such well-known figures as George Wythe, St. George Tucker, and Robert Carter are integral parts of the iconic museum. Much of the built historic environment of Colonial Williamsburg and the College of William & Mary still does not fully recognize the contributions of people of African descent, to the detriment

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of their public interpretation (Edwards-Ingram 2019). The National Register of Historic Places adds much to the power of public perception, and both institutions have properties on the Register. African American places, especially archaeological sites, are important because, as Barbara Little has noted, through the Register they become part of the public memory (Little 1999:19). However, the recent reconstruction of Public Armourer James Anderson’s tinsmith shop illustrates that more needs to be done to explain sites in consideration of their entire life history. Historical Background

Excavations by Colonial Williamsburg archaeologists at the site of the town’s revolutionary-period Public Armoury (see reference map 4) were vital in focusing the attention of architectural historians, tradesmen, and historical interpreters on the brief but exciting eighteen-month span between 1778 and 1780. During that time, forty artisans, some enslaved and some prisoners of war, worked at blacksmithing, tinsmithing, and gunsmithing to keep the Continental Army in the field and fighting against their British counterparts. Nearly all of these activities were confined to two half-acre lots in the heart of Virginia’s capital city: lots 17 and 18. Local blacksmith and Public Armourer James Anderson purchased lot 18 in 1770 and rented the house and outbuildings to a series of tavernkeepers. The contemporary owners of adjacent lot 17 are a mystery, as property records between 1745 and 1785 have not survived. In the late 1770s, James Anderson commandeered a tenant house on lot 17 to accommodate his tinsmith during the eighteen-month operation of the Public Armoury (Powers 1989). Anderson may have been able to appropriate the building not because the owners of lot 17 were great supporters of the revolution, but perhaps because they were not. Probably, they were loyalists who fled to England at the outbreak of the war, abandoning their property. This most likely made it easy for Anderson to take it over (Powers 1989). Anderson must have planned this maneuver prior to the construction of his forge building as he situated the new 22-foot-wide building in the 24-foot space between his existing kitchen and the tenant house on lot 17. By this action, he could easily link the two buildings together, creating an entrance into the new forge shop from inside the existing tenant structure. Even one of the four forges was placed out of alignment from the others so it would not crowd the new doorway into the former tenant house.

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Figure 7.2. Lots 17 and 18 before and after Armoury construction. Copyright The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

As a site of military importance, the security of the Armoury was vital. Anderson could easily block the original west entrance to the tenant house (the new tin shop) and run a diagonal fence from it to another building on the main street to effectively restrict access to the Armoury area. Archaeology found evidence of both strategies (Edwards 2012). In 1780, the British, under the direction of Lord Charles Cornwallis, quietly invaded Williamsburg, but not before the Armoury operation moved

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to Richmond. After the war, Anderson returned to town and continued blacksmithing in the building paid for by the state. The attached tenant house became physically separated but continued to be known as “the tin shop” until the present day. Property records resumed in 1785 with the purchase of lot 17 by George Reid (Powers 1989). Apparently, the modern-day practice of “flipping” property was not uncommon two centuries ago, as Reid sold it to Mary Stith the same year. In the property transfer, there is an inexplicable note: “bou[gh]t. of Geo: Reid the public lots,” possibly referring to the lots having been previously acquired by either the College of William & Mary or some other “public” institution after the prior loyalist owners fled the country.1 Mary Stith was the unmarried daughter of William Stith, president of the College of William & Mary between 1752 and 1755, and a very remarkable woman in her own right. Personal property tax records show that she was living in Williamsburg in the 1760s, but her name does not appear in the City’s real estate files.2 Bruton Parish baptism accounts3 indicate that three children of Mary Stith’s servant, Jenny, were baptized in 1765, 1766, and 1768, respectively. The personal property archives from 1784 to 1815 also show that Ms. Stith owned six enslaved people in 1786, but only one in 1802. The reason for the reduction in number was that she manumitted five individuals before 1797: Mulatto brothers Benjamin and William White, aged twenty and twenty-two, were manumitted in 1791, and Sarah Gillett and her two children, Jane and Peter, two years later. The reason why she kept one person, whose name, gender, and age are unknown, was not found in the search of the property records. Although she freed most of her household servants by 1797, they appear to have continued to live with her in a three-room house, and in two other buildings on her small Williamsburg lot. In 1813, she drafted her will, leaving all of her property and money to her former servants, all female. A touching clause taken from her last will and testament illustrates how she felt about her former “possessions”: All the coloured people in my family being born my slaves, but now liberated, I think it my duty not to leave them destitute nor to leave them unrecompensed for past services rendered to me. As in the cause of humanity I can do but little for so many, and that little my conscience requires me to do, therefor I subject the whole of my estate to the payment of my just debts, and to the provision which I herein make for them.4

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The property included her dwelling that she left for Jenny “the mother,” the so-called Woods shop left to sisters Nelly, Eve, and Sally Bolling, and a building she describes as “my house in the yard called the tin shop” (see figure 7.2). That building she left to another pair of sisters, Jane (also known as Jenny, presumably after her mother) and Martha (known as Patty) Gillett, who were very likely related to prominent free black preacher and violinist Simon Gillett (Powers 1989; Schumann 2013). Jenny was the elder, born about 1789. From the Register of Free Negroes in 1811 and 1815, respectively, Jenny at twenty-two was described as: a bright mulatto abt. 22 or 23 years of age 5 feet 1 ½ Inches high has a scar on her left arm[,] black Eyes[,] Ear[s] perforated for Earrings[,] small regular features & good countenance[.] Emancipated by deed from Mary Stith recorded in York Court registered 19 August 1811. Born in 1794, Patty alias Martha Gillett is a short black woman abt. 21 years of age 5 feet 1 ¼ Inches high[,] long hair, which she usually wears platted before—flat nose, on the left side of wch. is a scar—& one on left side of her chin: Daughter of Sarah Gillett who was set free by deed from Mary Stith dated 2 Octr. 1793—since which period the sd. Martha was born—Registered in York Ct. 20 febry. 1815. (York County Register of Free Negroes 1798–1831) We must assume that the Gillett sisters lived in the “tin shop” until it, along with all but one of the houses on the block, was razed by fire in 1842. Land Tax Records from 1844 show that next-door neighbor Robert Anderson acquired property from Patty Gillett for $25. The house on the lot, namely, the “tin shop,” was valued at $0, having been destroyed in the conflagration (York County Records, Deeds and Bonds 5). So for eighty or so years, the “tin shop” was a residence. For about one year, it was a tin shop. Andy Warhol once said, “Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.”5 That could be said of the building that spent the vast majority of its days housing servants, enslaved and free, only to be resurrected twice (once in 1940 and again in 2012) as a war-period tinsmith’s shop. Colonial Williamsburg’s emphasis on the industrial aspect of the Revolutionary War Period took precedence over its residential predominance in order to interpret the Public Armoury operation. Another such example of the importance of naming comes from St. Mary’s City, Maryland, where archaeologist Terry Brock studied a structure built as a quarter in the 1840s that served in that capacity for only twenty-four years, but as a residence for free black families for

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more than a hundred. However, the name “slave quarter” persists to this day (Brock 2013). Archaeology

The first archaeology of the tin shop was done in the early 1930s, just as the Colonial Williamsburg Restoration was getting started. Three foundation walls and what appears to be an added fireplace and chimney platform were uncovered along with a collection of ill-provenienced artifacts. The building foundations were missing in places but measured sixteen feet wide and likely about twenty-four feet long. Although its association with the Public Armoury seems to have been lost in the years between its destruction in 1842 and its first incarnation in 1940, the “tin shop” name lingered, so the building was reconstructed nearly eighty years ago by the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation (CWF) as a shop and used for miscellaneous storage and an employee break area. And so it was, until 2010. In that year, a major realignment of Colonial Williamsburg’s interpretive goals and a generous gift from Forrest Mars Jr. precipitated a desire to re-create the Public Armoury complex—and, therefore, a reassessment of the scope of the Armoury operation. Although the Anderson property—lot 18—had been the subject of many archaeological investigations since the 1930s, the only major work done on the Stith Property was the brick-and-mortar quest carried out by the Architecture Department almost ninety years ago. In 2010 and 2011, a team of field school students and professionals excavated several areas in and around the 1940 reconstructed tin shop. A mixed layer of brown loam (unfortunately highly disturbed by twentieth-century activities) and a privy pertaining to the Gillett occupation of the building were uncovered. Artifact analysis shows that the sisters had a ceramic assemblage that seems quite broad in terms of typology, with examples of ware types as early as white salt-glazed stoneware and as late as ironstone. Interpretation

These findings suggest that the Gilletts were using wares far beyond their normal use period. Recovered ceramics date the strata to after 1820, but the Mean Ceramic Date calculates to 1759–1760, suggesting that the Gilletts were using well-worn tableware. Laurie Wilkie (2000) in her book Creating Freedom, about material culture and African American identity at Oakley

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Figure 7.3. Archaeology of the Gillett House/Tin Shop, 1932. Special Collections, John. D. Rockefeller Jr. Library, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

Plantation in rural Louisiana, discusses the ceramic assemblage of the Freeman sisters, free African American tenants on the plantation. Although the time period covered is a hundred years later than the Gilletts, the circumstances are similar. Wilkie found a forty-year lag in the Mean Ceramic Date of the Freeman sisters’ wares in comparison to the Mean Date of their utilitarian glassware. This lag suggests that the Freemans, like the Gilletts, were using second-hand ceramics. In the case of the Freemans, the ceramics were probably gifts from the white plantation owners; in the case of the Gillett sisters, the lag may represent materials given to the sisters by whites in exchange for work, or as gifts, or perhaps they were inherited from Mary Stith. The sisters may have been taking in laundry, doing domestic chores, plying a trade, or creating items for sale. Unfortunately, archaeology is not best suited to answer these questions; additional documentary research may help to bring some illumination to this area. While there is reference6 that one of Mary Stith’s former household servants was a seamstress and another a cobbler, there is a dearth of information about how the Gillett sisters made a living in Williamsburg.

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The only archaeological feature that can be directly associated with the Gillett occupation of the “tin shop” is the privy found during the 2010 William & Mary / Colonial Williamsburg field school. The privy was placed at the edge of lot 17 approximately thirty feet south of the tenant house. The single hole measured about three feet east–west by a foot and a half north– south. Most of the fill consisted of a yellow clay, likely used to cap the privy at some point. The bottom four to ten inches of dark humic soil contained a fragment of white granite ironstone that has a TPQ of 1813, confirming that the privy likely dated to the Gillett period rather than the earlier Armoury period. Samples of the suspected organic layer (10AP-00181) were sent to Justine McKnight for macrobotanical analysis and to Susan Jacobucci and Heather Trigg for parasite identification. Examination of carbonized and noncarbonized seeds from the flotation samples of the humic organic layer found nine varieties of plants represented. The overwhelming majority of the seeds were identified as raspberry/blackberry (Rubus sp.), common in privy fill because the tough outer shell of the seed is virtually indestructible and passes readily through the digestive system. Only one other seed, a grape (Vitis sp.), could have been from a food source. In addition to seeds, carbonized wood taxa were also recovered, most of which were the product of burning wood for fuel. Fireplace ash may have been dumped into the active privy as a way to equalize odor. Species of wood recovered include oak, pine, hickory, and maple (Querus, Pinus, Carya, and Acer species, respectively) (McKnight 2012). The parasitological examination of the fill of the Gillett privy recovered eggs belonging to two common human parasite species: Ascaris (roundworm) and Trichurus (whipworm). The density of the ova was not great, but sufficient that Jacobucci and Trigg concluded that the users were infected with both intestinal parasites. Most people at that time were hosts to roundworms to some degree, but were generally asymptomatic. Symptoms in people more densely infected include inflammation of the liver, spleen, or peritoneum resulting in abdominal pain and diarrhea. Whipworm infection is less common but still widespread in warm climates. Individuals infected with Trichurus sp. are also generally asymptomatic unless the infestation is substantial. Both types of parasitic worms are acquired by ingesting food contaminated with feces or septic soil. Since many hygienic practices customary today were not practiced 200 years ago, worm infestation was common. The evidence of intestinal parasite activity in the Gillett privy suggests a light, probably asymptomatic infection (Jacobucci

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and Trigg 2011). Privies are rarely uncovered in domestic contexts in Williamsburg, so any data derived from ones that are discovered do address the general health of city dwellers during the first quarter of the nineteenth century and can be used for comparative purposes with privies found at earlier industrial sites such as the Public Armoury, the Brush gunsmithing shop, and the Getty Foundry. Conclusions

In 1782, the Virginia General Assembly altered its rather restrictive manumission laws and allowed enslaved people to be freed through meritorious deeds or through last wills and testaments. Consequently, the number of free blacks increased tenfold in the Commonwealth from about 2,000 in 1782 to over 20,000 by 1800 (Morgan 1975:490). By the turn of the nineteenth century, nearly 1,500 free blacks were living in the Williamsburg area (Schumann 2013). Not only did they have a discernible alternative to being enslaved, they were enumerated with whites. Some free blacks pursued strategies to align their social and economic standing with the white population, rather than with enslaved blacks (Schumann 2013:58-59). By the time the Gillett sisters inherited the tenant house (although they likely lived there for some time before owning it), the surge in the free black population had begun to make whites increasingly concerned about their ability to control their actions as a group. Even by the first decade of the nineteenth century, the Virginia legislature made laws requiring free blacks to register with their local government. The registration records are why so much detailed information is known about the Gillett sisters. This overt racialization of blacks by white elites was an attempt to stem the perceived threat of rebellion. By the next decade, even more restrictive laws were passed that disallowed those newly freed from continuing to reside in the jurisdiction in which they were manumitted. This new racialization caused freed blacks to realign with their enslaved counterparts, effectively making the black community even more cohesive and giving rise to settlements peripheral to Williamsburg at Quarterpath, Centerville, and Uniontown (see Boroughs, chapter 8 in this volume). The story of Mary Stith and her “family” is a compelling and important part of the history of antebellum Williamsburg. It is also one of the underpublicized segments of the history of the area known as Block 10 in the Historic Area of Colonial Williamsburg. And yet, it is a story that must

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be told in some way to complement our understanding of Williamsburg, especially for the timeframe covering the transitional period from colonial capital to the Civil War. In his 1989 Winterthur Portfolio article on Social Responsibility and the American History Museum, Edward Chappell writes that “museums have a responsibility for the broad social implications of what they present as well as for the accuracy and clarity of the particular subject with which they are dealing” (1989:247). Colonial Williamsburg has addressed the accuracy of the Public Armoury buildings with a great deal of thought and research. The current forge building replaces a 1983 vernacular-style reconstruction that seemed accurate at the time. However, further research found that the original building was far less vernacular and considerably more elaborate, so the early ’80s reconstruction was razed and a new “more accurate” rendition put in its place. The same was true of the “tin shop,” but perhaps in reverse. The 1940s reconstruction depicted a rather sophisticated workshop with large, low windows ideal for tin working. This building was demolished in 2012 and replaced with a more dwelling-oriented, rather rudimentary tenant house with an unfinished interior and smaller windows. Based on historical and archaeological research done since the 1940 reconstruction, the building was designed to show visitors the less formal side of Williamsburg’s architecture that would likely be found in the rear yards of houses on that block. The Armoury Complex illustrates two far-different approaches to depicting Williamsburg’s architectural past, albeit a very specific moment in Williamsburg’s past: eighteen months during the Revolution. In their 1997 critique of Colonial Williamsburg’s presentation of the past, Richard Handler and Eric Gable describe such reconstructions: mimetic realism . . . destroys history. It erases the choices the museum makes—choices to tell one story and not another, to relate the Duke of Gloucester Street to one historical context and not another— and it erases the political and cultural values . . . that underpin those choices. (1997:224) But does it really? Only if that approach to the past is monovocal and therefore a very narrow interpretation. Perhaps the Armoury interpretation does that, but perhaps a different and more multivocal interpretation can increase the choices a museum has to make in its efforts to tell richer and more egalitarian stories of the past. The latest reconstruction of the tenant house / tin shop as a small residence or quarter not only served the goddess

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of accuracy that Colonial Williamsburg’s architects and architectural historians proselytized since its founding, it also opens the door to including the vital story of free and enslaved African Americans that is interwoven into the fabric of our country’s history and should be exclaimed at every opportunity. One effective way of interpreting the use of reconstructions through time is virtually rendered computer re-creations. The Virtual Williamsburg Project (see Inker, chapter 12 in this volume) was active in representing in pixels what cannot be represented in reality and could be extremely useful in broadening the scope and story of a less famous but perhaps equally important history. Considerable energy was directed toward virtually rendering lots 17 and 18 before and after the construction of the Public Armoury. These renderings clearly illustrate the brief incorporation of the small residence into a tin shop. Such creative interpretations are the key to bringing the whole of Williamsburg’s, and by extrapolation, the region’s cohesive history of becoming American, white, black, free, or enslaved. Most integral to this history is the inclusion of the lifeways and experiences of Native Americans. How does the reconstruction of the tin shop, in brick and wood, or in pixels, relate to the opening discussion of reconstruction–restoration theories of Viollet-le-Duc and Ruskin? Both the physical and electronic approaches would please Viollet-le-Duc and alienate Ruskin, but we must be sure to neither embellish the truth nor minimize its importance. Although no signage exists that explains the important history of the building, the fact that it served as the long-time home of enslaved and free-black Williamsburg citizens is now included in the tinsmith’s interpretation. Visitors are told that the reconstruction in 1940 depicted a workshop, while the 2012 reconstruction is of a residence. These changes in the physical appearance of the building and a deeper awareness of its story make the multivocal interpretation vital to the understanding of the continuing history of Williamsburg. Notes 1. When Reid sold the southern portion of lot 16 to Charles Lewis in 1786, it was described as bounded by land “the said George Reid purchased from the Professors and Masters of William and Mary College . . .” Perhaps it is in this sense that lot 17 had at one time been “public” (Powers 1989:16). 2. Williamsburg Personal Property Tax Books, 1783–1842 and Williamsburg Land Tax, 1785–1850, Rockefeller Library microfilms, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

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3. Bruton Parish Register, 1789–1797. Transcript by CWF Department of Research, original at BPC, Williamsburg, Virginia. 4. Robert Anderson Account Books, Williamsburg and Yorktown, 1800–1854. Rockefeller Library microfilm #M82-2. Original at the Virginia Historical Society, Richmond. 5. http://www.andywarholquotes.org 6. Eighteen thirty-seven list of free negroes and mulattos within the City of Williamsburg. James Lee, Commissioner of the Revenue. Virginia State Library, Richmond.

III COMMUNIT Y, NEIGHBORHOOD, AND IDENTIT Y

8 From Household to Neighborhood Toward a Community-Oriented Archaeological Approach in the Plantation Chesapeake Jason Boroughs

In March 1866, Margaret Newbold Thorpe, a Philadelphia school teacher volunteering her services at the recently chartered Freedmen’s school on the outskirts of Williamsburg, recorded in her journal an encounter on the nearby Warren Farm, a plantation she found “beautifully situated” on the York River. She observed that “a large number of Mr. Warren’s former slaves still remain on the farm, and some other ‘freedmen’ have moved there; they occupy cabins erected either by themselves or by the government, while the former slaves still live in the old ‘Quarters.’” She explained, “These people have all been ordered to move away by the first of May, and are in great distress as most of them have no idea where they can go. . . . We told them that Mr. Warren did not want them to live any longer on this land . . . but they declared they would not move, the land was theirs, they had toiled on it all their lives, without wages. . . . We tried to make them understand that they would not be allowed to remain, but we failed to convince them of the justice of it all, our arguments seemed as weak to them as they did to ourselves” (Thorpe and Morton 1956:194–195; my emphasis). Her journal is mute on what ultimately became of this particular community, but her observations reflect common experiences across contemporary Chesapeake plantations and throughout the Emancipated South and provide a glimpse into the intimate geographies of social relations forged under enslavement that often transcended plantation boundaries. As archaeologists we are trained to interpret the material residues of human activity through a variety of rigorous excavation techniques and analytical frameworks. On domestic sites, we often approach this goal through

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analyses of households as social units, often making reasonable contextual assumptions about the types of relationships that may have existed between residents. Yet by the Revolutionary Era in the Chesapeake, despite restrictions upon the movements of enslaved persons, enslaved men and women routinely extended the bonds of kinship and other social ties across plantation boundaries to build geographically dispersed communities characterized by divided-residence families that encompassed multiple households and quarters. Proceeding from the excavation of an antebellum quarter and postbellum tenancy near Williamsburg, this chapter supports three assertions: (1) Archaeologies of enslaved domestic spaces might benefit from broadening household approaches to incorporate neighborhood contexts. Neighborhood appears frequently as a primary context of social relations in the narratives of individuals who lived in contemporaneous plantation communities in the Chesapeake (Douglass 1845, 1882; Gray 1831; Perdue et al. 1976; Smith 1881). (2) Social ties were constructed and reiterated upon a variety of neighborhood places, and many of those places in turn became significant in and of themselves, retaining meaning because of those associations. Neighborhood residents relied on the broader community relationships those places represented in collective decision making and in negotiations that carried weight in the balance of power. As Thorpe observed, the free residents of the Warren Farm quarter asserted that the land was theirs because of the generational labors and communal experiences invested in their own plantation landscapes during the period of enslavement, ties that likely extended to kin and kith that relocated to the quarter after Emancipation. (3) These places matter, then and now, precisely because of the community ties they represent and are worthy of consideration in crafting relevant archaeological approaches. (Re)Contextualizing the Quarterpath Site (44WB124)

The Quarterpath Site (c. 1840–1905), an antebellum quarter and postbellum tenant residence, was constructed alongside a complex of agricultural fields on Kingsmill Plantation, adjacent to the city of Williamsburg. The residents of at least two archaeologically identified dwellings witnessed the turmoil of the Battle of Williamsburg in 1862 and may have participated in a neighborhood insurrection on Jamestown Island several months later. They remained on the site as tenants after Emancipation, continuing to work the same grounds to which they had been previously bound by

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Figure 8.1. Plan view of the Quarterpath domestic complex (44WB124). Created by the author.

enslavement. The site was ultimately abandoned following the incineration of one of the dwellings shortly after the turn of the twentieth century. Kingsmill was a 4,000-acre plantation containing three large agricultural field complexes, each of which was a formerly independent plantation before being integrated into a single operation shortly after the turn of the nineteenth century. The consolidated estate included multiple quartering

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sites, a brick manor home, numerous agricultural buildings and provisioning facilities, a milling operation, and a deep-water wharf. Kingsmill was one of several large holdings inherited in 1831 by William Allen, an infant at the time. When he came of age in the 1850s, Allen assumed control of a network of plantations that comprised nearly 26,000 acres of land and more than 350 enslaved persons. In James City County his holdings consisted of an 8,000-acre nearly contiguous agricultural enterprise that included Kingsmill and adjoined plantations on the Neck of Land and Jamestown Island. Each produced cereal grains as the primary commodity. The three farms were organized into a single large plantation operation, and the enslaved residents routinely worked in tandem as a single unit, particularly during harvest seasons. The Quarterpath residents were among approximately 100 enslaved persons living in multiple domestic quarters dispersed along a nine-mile stretch of James River coastline, forming one of the largest plantation neighborhoods in the region. Similar neighborhoods dotted the landscapes and waterways of the colonial and postcolonial Chesapeake. At the time of his death in 1799, George Washington’s Mount Vernon consisted of five contiguous farms stretched out across 8,000 acres along the Potomac River, tended by an enslaved labor force of over 300 persons (Papers of George Washington, Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association [MVLA]). Between 120 and 140 enslaved individuals typically resided on four adjacent farms at Thomas Jefferson’s 5,000-acre Monticello estate during his proprietorship from 1770 to 1826 (Stanton 2000). Parallel neighborhoods were scattered along the James River watershed and throughout the Tidewater region, including Shirley, Berkeley, Claremont plantations, and Allen’s home plantation at Curle’s upriver near the city of Richmond. We may never know the names of the Quarterpath residents or of those to whom they extended the most intimate of bonds. Most of the relevant plantation accounts and related documentary sources were either destroyed or displaced during the Civil War. But we can draw parallels with similar plantation neighborhoods with rich documentary records and from the recorded experiences of those who were raised within contemporary Chesapeake communities. Nearly forty independent references to neighborhood appear in Weevils in the Wheat (Perdue et al. 1976), the published compilation of the testimonies of approximately 150 formerly enslaved Virginians recorded by federal interviewers between 1936 and 1939. In many ways, the narratives are artifacts of the 1930s as much as primary accounts of life under enslavement. However, neighborhood also appears time and again as a primary context

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of social relations in the narratives of individuals who lived in contemporaneous enslaved communities in the Chesapeake region, such as Nat Turner (Gray 1831), Frederick Douglass (1845, 1882), and James L. Smith (1881). Historical references to plantation neighborhoods are common in primary sources, but they beg further inquiry and elaboration. What, for instance, might these neighborhoods actually have encompassed? What might it have meant to be a neighbor? How might we approach this archaeologically? And how might such an approach lend an insight into the lives of the Quarterpath residents that would otherwise remain elusive? Enslaved households were organized according to statutory regulations that regarded bodies as commodities, enforced matrilocal residence patterns, and promoted geographically dispersed familial ties. Residence patterns in the antebellum Chesapeake were heavily influenced by a social practice that had become common in the latter half of the eighteenth century, colloquially known as marriage “abroad,” or across plantation boundaries. Although enslaved persons were formally disenfranchised of civil and legal rights of marriage, as the eighteenth century headed to a close, marriage abroad became one of the most common forms of long-term social union in enslaved Virginia communities (Morgan 1998:504–510; Walsh 1997:83–85). A 1799 inventory of enslaved residents at Mount Vernon indicates that about two-thirds of adults living on the estate were married. Roughly one-third of married individuals cohabitated with a spouse in a common quarter of residence. The remaining majority of enslaved marriages were between spouses living either in quarters on another of the five farms that comprised greater Mount Vernon, or farther abroad—in one case over fifteen miles across the Potomac River in Georgetown (MVLA; Thompson 2001:79–81). The practice became so prevalent that 82 percent of Virginia freedpersons interviewed in the early twentieth century reported that they had been children of divided-residence families under enslavement (Stevenson 1991:108). Under Virginia law, children inherited the status of the mother and were considered the property of the mother’s owner. Freedpersons explained that fathers living across plantation borders were generally given a degree of leeway to travel abroad to visit family outside of obligatory labors, most often during nighttime hours, on Sundays, and on broadly recognized holidays such as Christmas and Easter, and occasionally at distances as great as fifteen miles by foot or on borrowed horseback (Morgan 1998:508-510; Perdue et al. 1976:26, 94; also see Smith 1969[1881]:24). Artifacts associated with the presence of children at the Quarterpath Site

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date primarily from the 1870s, implying several potential scenarios. Perhaps the decade heralded the arrival of a new generation born in freedom on the tenancy. Or in the context of marriage abroad this pattern could also prove to be a material indicator of household reconfiguration, of divided residence families uniting under a single roof after emancipation, a scene reminiscent of that observed by Thorpe at the Warren Farm. In thinking through the Quarterpath artifact assemblage, particularly in light of the prevalence of social practices such as marriage abroad, asking the deceptively simple question “Whose hands touched this object?” leads to broader queries about who may have spent time in the Quarterpath domestic space, and when. Broadening the contextual frame of reference from household to neighborhood is a productive way of addressing other significant individuals and relationships that likely contributed to the making of the Quarterpath domestic homesite. Rather than working exclusively from the physical remains of an archaeological site, physical location, or combination thereof (a landscape archaeology), a rescaled holistic approach in which archaeological sites and domestic spaces are situated within broader community contexts, broader sets of related landscapes—some of which are not archaeologically accessible but retain at least a nominal presence in documentary sources and primary accounts—might be productive. Chesapeake neighborhoods typically encompassed several common types of places, each with varying degrees of investment in communal labor and activity and varying intensities of social interaction, including (1) the Plantation Seat—great house, outbuildings, agricultural support structures; (2) agricultural fields and pasturage; (3) domestic quarters; (4) formal and informal infrastructure— roads, rights of way, and points of access, as well as informal pathways and trails; (5) liminal spaces such as forests, waterways, and bottomlands, and (6) adjacent plantation grounds and settlements. Plantation neighborhoods constituted the physical domain of daily routine, as arenas of activity and loci of social interaction. As enslaved men and women built relationships that cut across plantation boundaries, neighborhoods came to encompass the terrain of social alliances and rivalries, the grounds of contestation, of struggle, solidarity, and division—in short, the horizons of everyday life. Gathering Places

In his 1882 memoir, Frederick Douglass powerfully and eloquently articulated the circumstances under which enslaved communities became

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deeply rooted in plantation landscapes. “Free people,” he observed, “generally . . . have less attachment to the places where they are born and brought up, than had the slaves. Their freedom to come and go, to be here or there . . . prevents any extravagant attachment to any one particular place. On the other hand, the slave was a fixture . . . pegged down to one single spot, [he] must take root there or nowhere” (Douglass 2007[1882]:55). Throughout the eighteenth century, plantations in the Chesapeake were progressively engineered to reinforce the authority of planters by restricting the movements of the enslaved and by focusing the planter’s gaze onto a variety of plantation spaces, through placement of overseer’s houses within lines of sight that penetrated enslaved domestic spaces such as the home quarter at Carter’s Grove (Walsh 1997) or Utopia on Kingsmill Neck (Fesler 2004), or by the physical presence of authority figures in spaces frequented by enslaved persons. Virginia planter William Byrd II, for example, continually asserted his bodily presence at Westover, frequently recording in his diary walks “about the plantation [to look] over my people” (Wright and Tinling 1941:125–127). Yet enslaved communities often turned this dynamic on its head, circumventing the planter’s authority by making use of liminal plantation spaces like forests and bottomlands that disrupted lines of sight, by collectively appropriating others, and by seizing opportunities to construct social bonds that cut across plantation boundaries. At Mount Vernon, Washington noted, “It is no uncommon thing for them to be running from one house to another in cold windy nights with sparks of fire flying and dropping as they go along,” frequently lamenting that enslaved residents were often too exhausted to perform work tasks from what he termed “night walking.” Despite his complaints, he actively promoted marriage and routinely permitted enslaved men, women, and children to visit relatives on neighboring farms (Thompson 2001:96). Although whites may have assumed legal ownership, plantations were undeniably “black places” (Vlach 1993:16–17), and enslaved persons tirelessly contested the terms of bondage by challenging restrictions against mobility to cultivate and sustain family and community ties across domestic quarters near and distant. By the antebellum era in Virginia, observers noted that “going from one plantation to another” or “walking round a plantation, you deviate into a hundred narrow Indian-like foot, or bridle-paths . . . the bush was full of criss-crossing pathways, which easily confused those unfamiliar with the neighborhood” (Chambers 1996:370). Domestic quarters invariably became gathering places, dynamic and

A

B

Figure 8.2. The Quarterpath Neighborhood. (a) Locations of antebellum quartering sites across Allen plantation operations (archaeologically excavated and historic map projections). Sources: 2010 aerial image: Google; 1781 Desandrouins map series, 1871 land plat, James City County Land Tax Records, 1782–1832, 1833–1861. CWF; VA DHR. (b) Landscape sets in the Quarterpath Neighborhood. Composite details of JW Donn’s 1873 James River surveys: “Burwell’s Bay to College Creek” and “College Creek to the Chickahominy River”: NOAA.

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highly visible focal points of community interaction and grounds in which the ties of kinship and camaraderie overlapped at maximum density. Scholars have taken particular note of the significance of yards as key extensions of domestic space in African diasporic contexts (Edwards 1998; Gundaker and McWillie 2005; Heath and Bennett 2000; Westmacott 1992). The yard space that enclosed the dwellings at the Quarterpath Site does leave an archaeologically observable trace. Nearly 20,000 artifacts recovered from 110 one-meter test units distributed across the Quarterpath domestic complex exhibited a distinctive spatial pattern that demarcates the yard and hints at the manner of its preparation and treatment. Statistical and spatial analyses suggest that a zone of high artifact density in a circular periphery 10 to 12 meters (33–40 feet) from the dwellings effectively defined the boundary of a well-tended yard space, made so through the attentive and long-term efforts of the residents in sweeping the area up to the periphery free of debris (Boroughs 2012:193–205). The removal of selected material debris and invasive vegetation discouraged pests and promoted a healthful and aesthetically pleasing environment. It heightened the distinction between prepared earth, cultivated plants, and other material items and transformed the yard into a space that facilitated activity and promoted social interaction that extended beyond the immediate homesite, orienting the residents with others throughout the neighborhood. As Heath and Bennett assert, “Through their yards, enslaved African Americans spoke to many audiences: ancestors, family members, neighbors, overseers, planters, and outsiders” (Heath and Bennett 2000:38; also see Perdue et al. 1976:5–6, 81, 96–97). Writing of the diasporic pervasiveness of swept yards, Gundaker and McWillie paraphrase anthropologist Joseph Opala on their cosmological significance in parts of West Africa, “By keeping the yard free of vegetation, you are maintaining the distinction between an area of order, harmony, law, and ancestral rule and an area of wilderness chaos,” concluding, “Whether or not the preference for bare earth originated in Africa, it is widespread there” (Gundaker and McWillie 2005:111). Naturally pierced marine shell, likely collected from an exposed fossil outcropping along the banks of the James River a short walk to the south, was recovered among debris associated with Structure 1. The shell appears nowhere else within the bounds of excavation at the Quarterpath Site, suggesting that it was intentionally placed either underneath or directly adjacent to the dwelling, where it was left in situ even though the yard appears to have been routinely swept by the residents. It may have formed part of an

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aesthetically pleasing border that enclosed the dwelling, the shell providing a snowy contrast against the well-maintained surface of the yard and aiding drainage from storm runoff. However, the same type of shell was recovered from nearby quarters in eighteenth-century contexts at Utopia (Fesler 2004) and Rich Neck (Franklin 2004). In each case, the shell was found in association with items that implied it may have been deployed in healing or protective contexts. Edwards explains that marine shell recovered from the yard at the home quarter at Carter’s Grove may have been reminders of “the transparency and the whiteness of the watery world of the dead. . . . Surrounding themselves with certain objects linked to ancestral and other spiritual power probably served to bolster slaves’ courage, helped to keep their thoughts clear of potentially dangerous intentions, and renewed their hopes” (Edwards 1998:265). Although these examples are from earlier quarters, the association of attributes that mimic the substance and flash of water’s surface with ancestral presence and power form a common thread in Christian conversion experiences of freedpersons recorded in the 1920s (Johnson 1969; Sobel 1988) and remain prevalent in contemporary African American yard work and diasporic artforms (Gundaker and McWillie 2005; Sobel 1987; Thompson 1984, 2011). Placing the shell at the dwelling’s threshold could have been a means of summoning the wisdom and protection of ancestors, sealing the dwellings and shielding the residents within from malicious intent, ill will, and bad luck. In either case, the level of care invested in this particular homesite reflects a moral orientation held in common by the Quarterpath households. It demonstrates a reciprocal relationship among individuals, place, and community that brought generations into alignment on grounds that were kept with purpose. To tend the land, to invest one’s time and labor, to do things properly is to hold oneself accountable in the eyes of ancestors as well as neighbors, and to set an example for younger generations. To visitors and observers alike, the Quarterpath residents presented their homesite as a well-tended space, a tangible and visible indication of meaningful and well-lived lives, an ethic that, in turn, may have been intended to foster the well-being and fortitude of successive generations residing on grounds shaped by forebears. Documentary sources provide a window into the sorts of common undertakings of the Quarterpath residents, activities that extended beyond the homesite, opening a panorama into other places that held meaning as grounds defined by communal activity. Enslaved agricultural laborers were engaged in cereal grain production across each of the three farms

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that comprised the Quarterpath neighborhood. Cereal agriculture necessitated seasonal plowing as well as highly skilled laborers adept at maintaining both plows and draft animals. It also required yearly rejuvenation of depleted soils with a host of additives from organic manures to chemical supplements such as lime obtained from crushing oyster shell, easily obtained in the Chesapeake region, or marl excavated from exposed fossil deposits that paralleled the James River waterfront (Ruffin 1832). Each of these tasks also required skilled labor and the employ of draft animals as well as the maintenance of additional equipment such as carts for hauling materials. The recovery of a harness ring and multiple horseshoe nails from the Quarterpath domestic complex implies that someone among the residents may have either had access to stables and livery areas or that a skilled tradesperson or livestock handler may have lived onsite. Seasonal activities in the Quarterpath neighborhood would have been marked by varying intensities of communal activity across a variety of locales. A typical yearly schedule of various tasks associated with cereal grain production can be drawn from contemporary regional accounts (Ruffin 1855; Shirley Plantation Journal 1851–1872, CWF), as summarized in table 8.1. Although a toilsome and difficult task requiring long hours and intense physical exertion, plowing, for experienced hands, was a relatively solitary affair that could be accomplished under minimal supervision. Cereal harvesting, on the other hand, required prompt surges of activity in short precise intervals to ensure crops were picked at the peak of maturity. Midsummer harvest times, typically mid-June to mid-July, became periods of intense communal activity upon agricultural fields. As the harvest progressed, additional laborers were needed and efforts were accelerated to prevent the wheat from becoming overripe and to avoid the constant threat posed by summer thunderstorms and severe weather conditions (Ruffin 1855:161). Skilled agricultural laborers played a critical role in acquiring the greatest market return on a season’s planting. Local planters asserted that “No laborers . . . worth having can be hired here” (Ruffin 1855:162). Planters on large cereal-producing estates typically assembled teams of agricultural laborers drawn from multiple quarters that could perform harvest tasks in larger numbers and with more concerted efforts. At Shirley Plantation, some thirty miles upriver from the Quarterpath neighborhood and comparable in size, overseer James Branch noted that even with time saved by fielding two new reaping machines helmed by skilled operators, an additional fifty-three hands “little & Big” were needed to complete the

Figure 8.3. Left: Spatial bounds of sweeping activity in the Quarterpath domestic complex. Drawing by the author. Right: Examples of naturally pierced fossil shell from an assemblage recovered in association with Structure 1. Photo by the author.

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Table 8.1. Seasonal agricultural tasks by locale and intensity of communal activity on cereal production estates in the Chesapeake in the 1850s Season

Agricultural Task

Locale: Intensity of Communal Activity

October–Before frosts November–March (low season)

Plowing, sowing wheat

Fields: low, high

Tending draft animals and equipment, rejuvenating soils, processing provisions

March–April

Plowing, sowing corn

Plantation seat, pasturage: low-mid, fossil outcropping, fields: high Plantation seat: mid-high Fields: low, high

April–June

Tending crops, weeding, pest removal “Laying by” corn (replowing rows), harvesting wheat, fodder, and hay Harvesting corn, fodder, and hay; threshing wheat and processing corn

June–July (high season) September– October (high season)

Fields: mid-high Fields: high Fields: mid-high Plantation seat: high

wheat harvest in June–July 1858 (Shirley Plantation Journal 1851–1872, CWF). On his home farm in central Virginia, Bacchus White explained that “[there would] be sixty or seventy [hands just] cutting wheat,” implying that additional hands were necessary to rake, bind, and stack the wheat to air dry in the fields (Perdue et al. 1976:304). Frank Bell recalled that enslaved laborers worked primarily in kin-based groups on the plantation of his birth in northern Virginia. Bell’s former owner “had [about] 150 servants . . . Put everybody in the field . . . [Grew] mostly wheat . . . the men would [cut] while the women folks would rake and bind. Then us little boys and girls would come along and stack. Used to work in family groups . . . In that way one could help the other when they got behind” (Perdue et al. 1976:26). Harvests were the products of concerted efforts, and agricultural fields became the nearly exclusive domain of black laborers. Agricultural labor schedules made them places of gathering for much of the year (table 8.1). They were landscapes of labor, wrought by communal activity and marked by social interaction. These efforts were extended into domestic quarters, where a host of neighbors provided a means of communal support for those who departed daily for the fields. On Virginia’s Northern Neck,

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Figure 8.4. Harvesting wheat with mechanical reapers, Curle’s Neck, Henrico County, Virginia, circa 1900. Photo courtesy of the Valentine Richmond History Center, the Cook Collection.

James L. Smith, like many other enslaved Virginians, grew up in a dividedresidence home with his mother and siblings. His father lived abroad on another plantation and visited frequently. His memoir recounts many ways in which neighbors pooled resources and provided a vital network of support. He recalled that as mothers were called to the field, kin and neighbors unable to work or beyond working age tended young children in their own and in neighboring quarters, a practice that continued after Emancipation among tenants at Kingsmill (Thorpe and Morton 1956). As a child with a persistent knee injury that precluded him from engaging in physically strenuous work tasks, Smith was often sent to the provisioning fields to fend off crows and to prevent other pests from damaging the corn crop. He weighed his work task in terms of the social interaction that accompanied communal labor: “This exercise did very well during the week days,” when he was joined in the fields by others, yet “The Sabbath day was a lonesome day to me, because the field hands were away that day” (Smith 1969[1881]:21).

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Networks of People and Places: Pushing against a Stone

Enslaved men and women used the varied landscapes of their own neighborhoods to enliven everyday struggles and relied on networks of people and places for support in their endeavors, to ignore, circumvent, or deny structures of authority. Lorenzo Ivy, born on a Virginia plantation around 1850, explained to an interviewer: “Sometimes slaves just run away to the woods for a week or two to get a rest from the field . . . Never come back till they get the word, though.” When an absence was noted, plantation administrators would invariably arrive at the missing person’s quarter of residence, prompting a negotiation of sorts whereby community members collectively bargained for the safe return of the absconded: “Guess Jim [is getting] hungry out in the woods. . . . Then someone say, ‘Guess [he’s] scared to come back . . . scared you gonna whup him.’ ‘Who said I was gonna whup him? . . . But I will whup him if he doesn’t hurry back here.’ That’s the word, you see . . . and that was all Jim was waiting for” (Perdue et al. 1976:151–154). He related another episode that occurred before his birth, told to him by his mother about his grandmother, Sallie Douchard, who “stayed in the woods for three or four weeks.” Douchard was a cook who fled after a series of floggings, hiding during the daylight hours and briefly returning to the quarters to collect food from Ivy’s mother each night. Eventually her owner, frustrated at her absence from the kitchen, visited the quarter of Ivy’s mother and demanded to know where she was. She feigned ignorance and was given an ultimatum to convey to Sallie: if she returned to the kitchen by Monday, no bodily punishment would be inflicted. If she did not, she was threatened with “500 lashes.” “Mama told grandma that night, and they talked about it . . . Finally grandma decided to come on back, so on Monday morning there she was in the kitchen. . . . didn’t give her nary a lick” (Perdue et al. 1976:151–154). As a young man, Frederick Douglass, having fled to the woods after a string of brutal punishments, encountered an enslaved man traveling through the forest at night on his way to spend Sunday with his wife, a freeblack woman who lived nearby. Sandy, “a man as famous among the slaves of the neighborhood for his good nature as for his good sense,” provided sanctuary at the home of his wife, offering Douglass food and protection and counseling him to return to the plantation “as though nothing had happened” (Douglass 2007[1882]:81–84). Although the consequences for harboring fugitives could be extremely severe, some runaways found sanctuary in other quarters throughout their

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own neighborhoods. Most, however, absconded to nearby places that afforded protective cover and provided access to domestic areas and the support of neighbors and kin. Forests and bottomlands were common places that enslaved residents typically knew better than whites, liminal spaces in which enslaved persons could take brief respites, temporary escapes from the day-to-day trials of life under enslavement enabled by the extension of support from other community members that provided food and served as intermediaries with plantation managers. As a form of protest, temporary abscondence was extremely common throughout Virginia, especially on larger plantations. The Quarterpath neighborhood was dotted with forests, creeks, and marshlands directly adjacent to domestic quarters. Ralph Roberts, born around 1794 on a large plantation near Richmond, paraphrased by a journalist in 1857, asserted, “The running away of slaves, that is, their concealment on or near their master’s premises, or sometimes at a distance of several miles, is inevitable. . . . In almost every instance, the fear of the infliction of bodily punishment drives the slave to the woods [to] lurk about the neighborhood. . . . many resort to it in the hope that the master’s desire for them to return to their labor will induce him to overlook a fault which the slave persuades himself does not deserve stripes.” Roberts’s voice comes through as he related a personal narrative to the journalist: “In one instance, I knew two men to live more than a year . . . in a large wood, about a mile from their master’s house. The stock on the adjacent farms supplied them with meat, and bread was easily gotten from their fellow-slaves—for, in almost every such case, regular communication is kept up between the fugitive and his class, always in the night, and the runaway often visits the adjacent cabins” (Putnam’s Monthly 1857:54, 613–620). Although it may seem that these are instances put into motion by individual actors, temporary abscondence was a communal act that implied collective decision making. The proximity of domestic quarters to liminal spaces already frequented by residents for gathering raw materials and medicines, hunting and fishing to supplement rations, and as grounds that connected adjacent quarters via informal pathways provided the means to avoid discovery. Support from enslaved social networks emboldened these efforts and made it possible for enslaved men and women to protest maltreatment by withholding labor for a time, effectively threatening planters with permanent abscondence and prompting negotiations between plantation managers and neighbors acting on behalf of friends and relatives. For individuals such as Sallie Douchard, temporary abscondence was a

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strategic gamble in which she was able to effect changes that had immediate and significant consequences in her daily life, and it was one in which she could not have been successful without a commanding knowledge of neighborhood places and without the assistance of a host of neighbors and kin. Enslaved persons commonly relied on the networks of familiar people and places for support in times of need or distress, a notion also reflected in the perceived danger of unfamiliar neighborhoods in which those elements did not exist. As a skilled cobbler, James L. Smith was permitted regular travel. After his conversion, Smith became a well-known lay preacher and “commenced holding meetings among the people,” often traveling great distances by foot at night to distant quarters. He recalled a meeting at a cabin in a quarter ten miles distant: “We continued to sing and pray till daybreak,” after which he and two others set out to hold another meeting two miles farther. “Then I had to walk back ten miles to my home, making in all twenty-four miles that day.” Though he explained that he “knew the road pretty well,” he expressed a degree of inherent danger in passing through unfrequented places and in the absence of familiar social relations: “There used to be a great many run-aways in that section, and they would hide away in the woods and swamps, and if they found a person alone as I was, they would spring out at them and rob them.” Although he encountered no one, Smith reported that the danger he perceived kept him alert despite his fatigue, “till I had reached the neighborhood of my home” (Smith 1969[1881]:26–28). Generational Breadth and Appropriation

Enslaved persons claimed domestic quarters as their own in myriad ways, through subtle adjustments likely to be overlooked by plantation managers and in more brazen assertions of proprietorship through highly visible means. In his travels commissioned by the New York Daily Times in the 1850s, Frederick Law Olmsted recorded many details about the organization and arrangement of domestic quarters across plantations throughout the South. In Georgia, Olmsted accompanied a wealthy planter on a daily round of inspections across his plantation grounds: “After a ride of several miles through the woods, in the rear of the plantation we came to his largest negro-settlement.” He observed, “There were in them closets, with locks and keys, and a varying quantity of rude furniture . . . The people were nearly all absent at work, and had locked their outer doors, taking the keys

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with them” (Olmsted 1861:1, 237). Not wishing to disrupt the inner workings of enslaved communities as long as sufficient levels of productivity were maintained, domestic claims to ownership by enslaved individuals were often ignored or overlooked by plantation managers. The interior of Structure 1 at the Quarterpath Site likely contained a similar internal arrangement, including “closets” or similar furnishings secured under lock and key. The occupants of Structure 2 apparently salvaged much from the interior of the dwelling before it was vacated, leaving only the smallest of items behind. Structure 1, however, appears to have incinerated quickly and unexpectedly, leaving various furnishings in roughly the original locations. A copper alloy and two iron alloy escutcheon plates, each with keyhole sleeves, a copper alloy keyhole sleeve from a door lock, and a single complete steel key were recovered from test units within the interior of Structure 1. The escutcheons were likely all that remained of wooden furniture such as armoires, cabinets, or chests of drawers and could date from either the period of enslavement or tenancy. The steel key, however, was machine cut and manufactured circa 1900, just a few years before the site was ultimately abandoned. Although the Quarterpath residents had gained their freedom, as tenants they still did not have legal right to the dwellings in which they resided or to the land upon which they were constructed. Nevertheless, they laid claim to the interconnected spaces that comprised their domestic world through their actions and through the social ties they built upon its grounds. Following Emancipation, freepersons throughout the South were collectively on the move, seeking lost relatives and friends and realigning households along family networks (Williams 2012). The Quarterpath tenancy may have swelled with additional or extended family members relocating from other plantations to join the Quarterpath households. Emancipated tenants, at least in the first decades of freedom, continued to bargain collectively with landowners and sought to exploit the moral weight of unpaid labors performed under enslavement by themselves, neighbors, and ancestors as communal leverage to exert claims over homesites and to negotiate more favorable working conditions and better compensation. Agricultural fields became tangible markers of uncompensated labor that provided profit to generations of planters, and freedpersons often reminded them as such during collective negotiations. At Shirley Plantation, Hill Carter, still in possession of his pre-war agricultural estate but short in labor because many of his formerly enslaved residents had relocated, attempted to bargain with those that remained. On the back of a common receipt dated May

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8, 1869, Carter’s frustration becomes apparent in a list of arguments written in his own hand. The tone of his list suggests that he is attempting to counter the collective bargaining of a unified body of tenant laborers in continuous negotiations with himself and plantation administrators. Carter’s voice varies from confrontational, “Did the nation free the blacks to enslave the whites. No.” “Then don’t go further than the 14[th] amendment,” to threatening, “If you force us to seek for a white laboring population, what will become of your children.” “Don’t drive us to the wall, or you will be driven there yourselves,” pleading, “We had better be friends, & work together for the good of both,” and dismissive, “Forgive & forget, let bygon[e]s be bygon[e]s” (Shirley Plantation Collection, CWF). Like much of the community at Shirley, the Quarterpath residents continued to work the land at Kingsmill as tenants. Although he lost much of his fortune in the war, William Allen was forbidden by the initial terms of his inheritance from selling his lands at Kingsmill or Neck of Land. He immediately liquidated Jamestown Island, which had been purchased independently of his inheritance. Like their counterparts at Shirley plantation and at the Warren Farm, the Quarterpath tenants, along with neighbors and kin who remained, may have continued to rely on each other and on the weight of generational experiences that many local places came to represent to collectively leverage better conditions for themselves and for generations born into freedom. Conclusion

Margaret Newbold Thorpe recognized in the testimonies of her students the powerful and emotional bonds created by lifetimes of communal investment in neighborhood places: “Many of these men and women have lived right here, and toiled on this land from childhood to old age and they love it” (Thorpe and Morton 1956:205). Little more than a century later, Dorothy Redford found herself among 2,000 descendants representing twenty-one distinct African American family lines that reunited on grounds shaped by ancestors at Somerset Plantation in eastern North Carolina. “I began as a woman alone,” Redford wrote. “But now . . . I was anchored. And I had a present cluttered with relatives, with blood kin. . . . That’s what this was all about. Not just my need, but the need of our entire people, whose destiny was out of our hands for so long and who are still struggling to shape our identity, our sense of place in a society that was not our making” (Redford 2000). These places matter. They continue to hold value for many

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descendants and stakeholders precisely because of the collective bonds and the generational ties they represent. The neighborhood of the Quarterpath residents was shaped by generations, in both slavery and freedom, by men and women who defied restrictions on mobility to build families and social ties that transcended plantation boundaries. The forests, fields, and domestic spaces that characterized the neighborhood each conveyed specific meanings defined by the types of activities that happened upon them and the social relationships they represented. Pulling one contextual strand exposes the ways in which they are each interconnected. Broadening the frame of reference from household to neighborhood is a productive way of addressing significant individuals and relationships that contributed to the making of the Quarterpath domestic homesite and of others in similar historical contexts. It has the potential to add complexity, nuance, and interpretive power to the scope of archaeological inquiries and brings to light the vivid networks of people and places that figured prominently in the lived experiences of the Quarterpath residents and of others who built similar communities throughout the Chesapeake.

9 Reconstructing the Landscape of African and African American Burials and Commemorations in Williamsburg, Virginia Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram

Although human remains have been unearthed during archaeological excavations at various sites in Williamsburg, researchers have identified only a relatively small number of individuals of African ancestry from these interactions with the past (Edwards and Poole 2012; Edwards-Ingram et al. 2011; Fesler 1996; Hudgins 1977; Kelso 1984; Meyers 1998, 2000). The low number of burial sites for this group is puzzling because of the significance of this population in the area, even before the town was established in 1699 (see McCartney, chapter 1 in this volume; McCartney 1997; EdwardsIngram 2016, 2019). This population increased in colonial times, mainly because of slavery. In the third quarter of the eighteenth century, Colonial Williamsburg’s period of public history and reconstruction priority, this population counted as nearly half of the almost 2,000 individuals of the city (Colonial Williamsburg 1999:586; Tate 1965). In the nineteenth century, African American settlements, some with churches and graveyards, developed on the town’s periphery (McCartney 1997:489–506, 551–563). More evidence survived for this and later periods. This chapter attempts to reconstruct a cumulative burial and commemorative landscape of blacks in Williamsburg through archaeological data, documentary evidence, and materials about cultural remembrance. The aim is to deal with the known and speculate about the unknown through the lenses of historical archaeology (Deagan 1991). This approach allows for considerations about how areas became burial sites and commemorative grounds, and how some sites became lost to history and memory. The study

Figure 9.1. Map of Williamsburg and environs, 1782. This map shows the historic core, landings, and other peripheral areas of the town. Armée de Rochambeau, Carte des environs de Williamsburg en Virginie où les armées françoise et américaine ont campés en Septembre 1781. [1782] Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division.

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does not purport to cover all known information about burials of Africandescendant people in historical times in Williamsburg, but to focus on the ones known through archaeology. While centering the historic core of the town, now mainly confined in Colonial Williamsburg, this study travels through the centuries and connects information from this area to nearby historic ports, plantations, and residential settlements. The onus, however, is on the historical periods before the first half of the twentieth century (see maps 1, 2, and 3 in this volume’s Introduction). The Landscape Emphasis

In “Archaeology, Memory, and Landscapes of Conflict,” Paul Shackel describes how the landscape is important in the array of practices surrounding the recovery, treatment, and reception about burial remains of historically under-represented groups (Shackel 2003:9). He points out that Landscapes are artifacts with meaning that help create a past and express and reinforce cultural ideals. These ideals are never totally agreed upon by everyone in any one society. Therefore, the process of accepting, rejecting, or even ignoring their meanings becomes an important part of the social construction of meaning. (9) Landscapes, therefore, can be contested places and, even when viewed collectively as reflecting key ideas and values of a society, various groups within their delineations experience and remember them in different ways. Lynn Rainville found that it is possible to compare a community “deathscape” to its living cultural landscape. Rainsville studied burial practices of Hanover, New Hampshire, in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and found that mortuary behaviors like creating cemeteries and adding gravestones not only “met the practical need for the disposal of the corpse,” but also served as “memorials to past beliefs about community and individual identity. The arrangement of this material world of the dead produced and reproduced ideas about the living community” (Rainville 1999:542). While political, economic, and religious beliefs, including class and physical location, are important for understanding the “deathscape” of a town, other factors like racial and discriminatory practices against various groups influenced burial practices in predictable and unpredictable ways. This invites an exploration into how the remains of individuals of the same race received dissimilar treatments. Both during and after slavery, blacks

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experienced a variety of living and working conditions that, undoubtedly, helped to determine their burial locations in either the core or the periphery of Williamsburg for different historical periods. The Burial Landscape of Blacks in the Seventeenth Century

The Plantation Periphery Cash crop cultivation, animal husbandry, enterprises for supplying wood to the city, and other economic land ventures (mainly using servile labor) supported the growth of plantations near Williamsburg’s historic core (see chapters 1, 4, and 8 in this volume). Whites as well as blacks were buried on plantations near Williamsburg, but in separate areas, making these grounds segregated spaces immersed in practices of inclusion and exclusion (BonHarper et al. 2003; Epperson 1992, 2004; Fesler 1996). Segregated burial grounds for enslaved people in marginal areas of plantations like some areas of later urban landscapes were products of racial practices. Eric L. Larsen suggests that segregation in the urban landscape was ultimately about representation and a strategy whites used to show themselves as “belonging” and blacks as “the other” (Larsen 2003:120). Both past and present practices of inequalities are measurable on the landscape. Burial sites of enslaved individuals on plantations, uncovered through archaeology, survived because of their links to illustrious whites and their locations on lands connected to such individuals (Bon-Harper et al. 2003; Fesler 1996; Muraca 2003). The Rich Neck Plantation, owned by individuals of Virginia’s early and colonial elites, on the southwestern edge of the historic core is a part of the early landscape of black burials and commemorations before this area became known as Williamsburg, in 1699 (see chapter 1). In the 1990s, Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeologists uncovered evidence suggesting that the plantation’s seventeenth-century occupants buried the dead in the yard. A girl of African descent, about ten to twelve years old, was buried in an unquiet place that was open to foot traffic and other activities. The domestic structures, of post-in-ground construction, were in a domestic compound for workers, namely enslaved individuals and indentured servants (Muraca et al. 2003:75–77) (see map 3; see figure 9.1, the southeastern end near areas marked “College Landing”). The burial presumably occurred between 1665 and 1690. The recovered teeth, location of the grave, and burial of the body without a coffin or shroud supports an interpretation that the individual was of African

Figure 9.2. Map showing the location of the seventeenth-century burial at the Rich Neck Plantation, Williamsburg, Virginia. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

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descent (Muraca et al. 2003:75, 77; Owsley and Hunt 1999). The presumably marginal treatment of the body may have followed from the individual’s status in life. Other occupants not among the elites probably would have received similar treatment, as early Virginians did not bury common everyday people with great ceremony, but rather in unmarked places and even among trash (Noël Hume 2005a). However, some enslaved Virginians did not accept their burial landscape in a conforming way, but transformed it into a site of resistance and solidarity, even by their very act of gathering at one place “to hold or make any Solemnity or Funeralls [sic]” for their deceased members of the community. In 1687, the Virginia Council believed that these occasions were being used to plan insurrections and issued a proclamation to prevent the gatherings of these individuals (McIlwaine 1925:I, 85–87). The early landscape exhibited both the marginalization and solidarity of the residents of the compound at Rich Neck. The location of the single burial at this plantation hints at an amicable relationship or collaboration of workers in early Virginia (Deetz 1993; Edwards-Ingram 2005). This appears to contrast with the evidence of group burials of enslaved people in the eighteenth century that suggests a more racialized use of the burial landscapes of Williamsburg (Fesler 1996; Hudgins 1977), a change that reflected the social structure of the enslaved society of Virginia. More enslaved people lived and worked in this colony under an increasingly codified racial slavery during that time (Colonial Williamsburg 1999). The Eighteenth-Century Historic Core

A few eighteenth-century burials found in the early twenty-first century in the historic core raised questions as to whether yard burials resulted from the directive of whites or the preference of blacks at that time (see figure 9.6). Like the grave of the African girl at Rich Neck, three eighteenth-century burials, presumably individuals of African ancestry, were found near living and working areas. In 2001, an African individual was found in a section of the square behind the Capitol building (see maps 3 and 4; the Capitol is the large, H-shaped building enclosed in a square on the west end of map 4). The archaeological and bioarchaeological evidence point to this burial to be of an eighteenth-century woman, eighteen to twenty years old at the time of death. The body was interred without a coffin, probably in the 1760s, at the edge and back of a colonial lot. This made the site, although in the core, a

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peripheral location. An analysis of the filed teeth of the skull suggests the individual was born in Africa (Edwards 2001; Owsley et al. 2009). Jerome Handler (1994) found that advertisements for runaway slaves from Virginia and other areas of colonial North America and the Caribbean mentioned individuals with culturally modified teeth, and these individuals were likely African born (Goodman et al. 2009:105–118; Handler 1994). In January 1774, an advertisement in Williamsburg’s Virginia Gazette described a runaway enslaved man named Tom as “outlandish” and that he “talks but indifferent English.” Along with the “Country Marks” on his body, Tom “ha[d] filed Teeth” (Windley 1983:143). The filed teeth of the individual found in Williamsburg was probably seen as “outlandish,” too, by whites in the town. An “othering” during the individual’s living year may have also been transferred to the burial landscape of the urban core of town. Bioarchaeological studies of human remains from the New York African Burial Ground found evidence that individuals with filed teeth were probably African born (Goodman et al. 2009:105–118). Yet, for this burial at the Capitol in Williamsburg, we should not rule out that the enslaved and other members of this marginal population may have requested for these individuals to be buried close by. These practices are known in the African diaspora even today; a prevalence of backyard burials in Jamaica, for example, is causing alarm about health and environment problems (Ferguson 2019). House-yard burials are not new to the island. Archaeologists have found evidence indicating that eighteenth-century enslaved people, at the Seville Plantation on the north coast of the island, buried their dead within house-yard compounds. Four individuals were interred in separate house-yard areas (Armstrong and Fleischman 2003). Two eighteenth-century graves found at the Revolutionary War–era Public Armoury site (see map 4 and figure 9.6) in 2010 provide more evidence of the use of yards for burying laborers, most likely of the enslaved population (Blakey and Crain 2011; Edwards and Poole 2012). For example, two graves found in another section of the Armoury site, in 1977, were determined of European ancestry and likely interred in the nineteenth century (Winter 1977). The remains of white individuals of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries uncovered during excavation on Colonial Williamsburg’s properties were usually found in coffins or with signs of such treatment (Chapman 2013; Edwards and Poole 2012; Edwards-Ingram et al. 2011; Noël Hume 2005a). The graves uncovered in 2010 were interred close to the property’s

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eighteenth-century fence line and below a 1770s structure placed atop the graves (Edwards and Poole 2012). One grave housed the remains of a female individual, at least fifty years old, interred in a shallow grave with no evidence of a coffin or shroud (Blakey and Crain 2011:7; Edwards and Poole 2012). The second grave, with a headboard marker, had the remains of a man between the ages of thirty and fifty-nine years at the time of death (Blakey and Crain 2011:20). The cumulative evidence relating to hard work that the bones exhibited, the location of the graves so close to the property’s fence line, and the interments without coffins suggest that the individuals were socially marginalized, perhaps oppressed, enslaved people (Blakey and Crain 2011; Edwards and Poole 2012). In re-interring the remains of the two individuals found at the Public Armoury, Colonial Williamsburg participated in the historical practice to make the town’s historic core count in the burial and commemorative landscape of Africans and African Americans. This activity was part of the museum’s respectful treatment of the findings, with the help of the twentyfirst-century African American community, including members of a group called the Society of Friends of African American History, and especially biological anthropologist Michael Blakey, a professor at William & Mary. Blakey, a central scholar in the New York African Burial Ground project, led the bioarchaeological studies of the human remains from the Armoury and other sites in Colonial Williamsburg (Blakey 1998; Blakey and RankinHill 2009; Edwards and Poole 2012; LaRoche and Blakey 1997; Williams 2004). It is sometimes hard to identify meanings in landscape practices. However, the foregoing examples show how people may have connected to the gravesites of their loved ones or community members. The single-grave sites in living spaces probably tell more about how peoples of the African Diaspora in the Americas, both in the past and today, have viewed these connections of identity and belonging, compared with the group burials in distant cemeteries. The Eighteenth-Century Peripheries

Plantations Some early burial sites for blacks in Williamsburg were on marginal lands in peripheral areas, and near waterways. It is likely that many of these sites became inundated over the centuries (see map 3 and figure 9.1). Plantation owners, who lived in the core of the town, probably buried their deceased

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enslaved people at sites in the periphery. While enslaved people might not have had much say in the decision of where they would be buried, they probably preferred to be placed where family and community members were already interred. Some enslaved individuals may have considered the plantation “home” and wanted to be buried there. They might have used funerals as opportunities to engage in African-derived practices, including placing usable items in graves and enacting medicinal rites at burial sites (Fesler 1996; Kelso 1984). Items found buried with the deceased, called “grave goods,” have been found more often amidst burial remains of African-related populations (Fesler 1996; Kelso 1984; Noël Hume 2005a). At the Kingsmill Plantation on the southern periphery of the historic core of Williamsburg (see map 3; the plantation is a few miles east of College Landing), archaeologists found an eighteenth-century grave of a woman of African ancestry buried in a coffin (Kelso 1984:108–109). Another site on the plantation, called Utopia, had a slave cemetery close to the James River (see map 1). This cemetery held the remains of twenty-five individuals: twelve infants or children and thirteen adults. Only one of the lot was buried without a coffin (Fesler 1996). While this cemetery appeared to have been in a marginal area of the plantation and near the water, its location may have meshed well with the beliefs and rituals of enslaved people, and probably afforded a level of privacy for the community, too. Both the Kingsmill and the Utopia graves had clay tobacco pipes and beads buried with the remains. The Utopia site has been part of annual commemorative activities of the Society for the Friends of African American History; a stone memorial, with inscriptions remembering the enslaved people, was erected near the site (Bakari 2016). Peripheral Ports Enslaved and free people entered and departed from Williamsburg through its main ports (also called landings) and had their final resting places in these locations in the eighteenth century (see map 3 and figure 9.1; McCartney 1976 and chapter 1 in this volume). The Capitol Landing area on the northern side of Williamsburg probably had marginal lands, and these may have been used as burial areas for blacks. Enslaved workers lived and worked at the port in agriculture, on wharves, in warehouses, taverns, and other structures for businesses, or in residential areas (Scott 2013). There are known gravesites in this periphery because of African American settlements there in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In the

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Figure 9.3. Cartouche of the Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson map of 1768 showing a wharf scene in Virginia with people of African ancestry and other individuals. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Museum Purchase.

second half of the twentieth century, some of these grounds were acquired for United States naval use. African American burial sites remain today at Camp Peary, a United States Intelligence Facility, on the northern edge of town (Brown and Bragdon 1986:353–354; McDonald et al. 1992; Palmer 2013). Whites may have treated an area in another colonial port, called College Landing, on the southern side of the town as a “common” place for the burials of blacks. Twenty burials were unearthed at the Landing in 1976 (Hudgins 1977). Based on the spatial layout of the burials, the interments appeared to have been successive single rites between the years 1790 and 1820. The individuals (including adult males and females as well as children) were buried in shrouds and placed in coffins, the top and bottom of each of which were a single piece of lumber (Hudgins 1977:63–73). With College Landing so close to a main creek and the James River (see map 3 and figure 9.1), some burials in this location may have followed

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an eighteenth-century law about the treatment of dead bodies on board ships coming into Williamsburg’s ports. An Act of January 1787 sought “to prohibit and prevent the casting of ballast or dead bodies into rivers or creeks.” It required that “the master of such ship or vessel should cause the dead body to be brought on shore and there buried above high water mark, four feet deep at the least,” or pay a penalty “fifty pounds for every such offence” (Hening 1809–1823:12, 8, 180–181). The date of 1787, when the law was enacted, would have been close to the early year of the site dating for the College Landing burials of 1790. Some individuals were interred in the cemeteries in everyday clothing (Hudgins 1977, 73), probably marking transient individuals. With white enslavers owning residences and businesses at the port, some of the burials may have been enslaved individuals of these landowners. Undoubtedly, Williamsburg colonial ports were work areas for enslaved people, and likely also their burial sites. Terrence Epperson wrote about the sociopolitics of burial practices of people of African ancestry, centering his work on contested grounds, the Commons, especially one later known as the African Burial Ground in New York City. Historic populations used a little over six acres of the Commons to bury their dead, with many thousands of interments made there in the eighteenth century. It was rediscovered during construction activities in the early 1990s (Blakey and Rankin-Hill 2009; Epperson 1999; LaRoche and Blakey 1997). North American cities during the era of slavery and after had marginal lands that served as burial and commemorative grounds for people of African ancestry. Today’s descendant communities have actively worked for the protection and care of these grounds, the proper study and interments of displaced human remains, and for more efforts to create and share knowledge about the lifeways of both enslaved and free African Americans of America’s past (Blakey and Rankin-Hill 2009; Chapman 2018). A More Puzzling Past: Cemeteries, Family Plots, and Historic Tombstones in the Historic Core

An Undated Cemetery Gravesites can be like puzzles with missing pieces. A cemetery at the Bassett Hall site (see map 4; figure 9.6) at the southeastern section of today’s Colonial Williamsburg exposed more the challenges of dealing with landscapes and deciphering the activities of people of the past. A group of about eighteen graves was uncovered in 1980 in advance of the construction of

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a parking lot at Bassett Hall. The graveyard probably had a post-and-rail fence around it. The graves were not excavated but, based on their outlines in the ground, they were determined to be the burials of adults, adolescents, and infants. While the site is believed to date before 1860 to 1865, no documentary evidence has been found to date or identify the buried population (Bruno 1980; Monthly Reports on Archaeological Activities 1980). The site likely contained the remains of individuals of African ancestry because of its relatively undocumented status and an indication that in the nineteenth century, an African American community was close by that area (Brown and Bragdon 1986:353). A Highly Visible Monument in a Historic Cemetery The history of Bruton Parish Church (see map 5) and its connections with people of African ancestry is still largely unknown. Areas in around this church that was established in the seventeenth-century Bruton Parish church, now in Colonial Williamsburg, probably served as a burial ground for more Native Americans or for their mortuary practices (Meyers 2000; see McCartney, this volume; for information on the area before it became Williamsburg). Blacks were probably buried in the areas, too, in the seventeenth century, probably near the church earlier structures (Lounsbury 2011). The church was the prescribed place of burial for colonists, who lived in its parish of about ten to twelve square miles, and it appears that colonial laws did not rule against the burial of people of African ancestry there (Rowe 2015, personal communication). However racial prejudices, in different forms and manifestations, probably worked to prevent such burials on a large scale and also, may have operated to minimize, obscure, and overall complicate the evidence of such interments. The development of Virginia as a slave society from the seventeenth century and its acceleration into the eighteenth century (Colonial Williamsburg 1999) may have contributed to these practices. Between 1746 and 1797, about 1,100 enslaved individuals of its parishioners were baptized at the church (Lounsbury 2011, 36). Enslaved people were among its congregants even if they were not allowed proper seating and standing room. By 1852, they were even more marginalized and given a separate gallery accessible from the outside (Lounsbury 2011:64). Yet, today it is a prominent site in the landscape of African American burials. One very visible monument in the churchyard is puzzling. The monument displays sentiments about Mammy Sarah characterizing this indi-

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Figure 9.4. Memorial honoring Mammy Sarah at the Bruton Parish Churchyard cemetery in Colonial Williamsburg. Brian Palmer/brianpalmer.photos.

vidual as a “devoted servant of the family who died aged 60 years old” on its west side. Its east side honors Letitia Tyler Semple (May 11, 1821–December 28, 1907) who was the daughter of the tenth President of the United States, John Tyler. The other sides of the monument have descriptions of the Semple family, including James Semple, Letitia Tyler’s husband, who attended William & Mary (The College of William & Mary). It is not clear that Mammy Sarah was buried at the site, but Mrs. Semple was apparently re-interred there. In May 1908, Williamsburg’s newspaper announced that the Vestry had granted permission “for the reinterment in Bruton Parish Churchyard of the remains of Mrs. Letitia Tyler Semple”(Virginia Gazette, May 16, 1908). In August of the same year, a memorial was placed in the churchyard near the entrance to the east gate. A news article in the Washington Herald, August 7, 1908, noted that: “The monument was selected by Mrs Semple about eight years before her death. The inscriptions were also made at Mrs. Semple’s direction, leaving blank the date of her death, which occurred on December 28, 1907.” The obelisk-shaped monument that “was cut out of Petersburg granite, and upon

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completion, was placed in storage,” was made by Michael J. Falvey of Washington, D.C. (Washington Herald, 1908, page 1). Mrs. Semple’s wish was for the monument not to be placed in the Bruton Parish Church graveyard until after her death. If Mammy Sarah was buried or reburied at the site, this interment, most likely, would have been before the death of Mrs. Semple in 1907. One speculation about her relationship to the Semple Family suggested that she was a mammy to the children of James Semple and Letitia Tyler Semple but apparently the couple did not have children. It is possible that Mammy Sarah was the enslaved nursemaid of James Semple who became an orphan at an early age (Millett and White 2007; Perdue 1994). While the monument may have concealed information, it also has visualized the intentions of its promoter because the memorial registered Mammy Sarah’s association to white illustrious families; there is no information on the memorial about her ties to a black family or community. The reasons behind Letitia Semple’s decision to include Mammy Sarah to such a display on the burial landscape of Williamsburg might never be known, but it is not hard to speculate about them. The creation and the placement of monuments are deliberate acts that connect people with the present and the past; these memorials convey meanings about their locations and messages of their intentions. The idea of the memorial that included Mammy Sarah and the instructions to place it in a white landscape of death were probably influenced by beliefs that glorified master/mistress-slave relations, slavery itself, and its legacy as beneficial to ruling and socially powerful white families. Archaeologists have found that, like the buried human remains, the above-ground evidence for burials and commemorations of the dead counts in understanding the past and its landscape of death (Baugher and Veit 2014). Michael M. Bell (1997) wrote about “ghosts of place” and described a burial landscape as a place filled with ghosts for it has “the sense of the presence of those who are not physically there” (Bell 1997). The naming of Mammy Sarah on the tombstone gave her an identity, asking that she should be remembered, but for her service to whites. We may never know whether Mammy Sarah had asked for such memorialization. Yet, this act placed the Bruton Parish Churchyard as a visible site within an African American landscape of death and commemoration in Williamsburg. Today, the site of the monument serves as a place for both reflections and speculations about past practices and meanings in the landscape.

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Centering Family and Community in the Core and Periphery

The likelihood that African Americans controlled funerals and dictated burials in places of choice increased in the nineteenth century. They had more assurance that their dead would be interred in places within their own community and church cemeteries or family-owned plots. Many of these churches were established after the American Civil War, such as Shiloh Baptist (1866) and New Zion Baptist Church (1871) on the far northern periphery of the town, and today have substantial cemeteries (McCartney 1997:551–563). Historic churches like the First Baptist (established from the eighteenth century), Union Baptist (early twentieth century), and Mount Ararat Baptist (organized in 1882) with early structures in the historic core before the creation of Colonial Williamsburg, appeared not to have had cemeteries on their grounds. Yet, it cannot be ruled out that they may have had some single burials on their ground. The problem of space, given small town lots and the density of land use in the core (see map 2), may have prevented these churches from having cemeteries. Only Mount Ararat still meets at a church structure built in 1932 in the landscape of the museum. The other churches were relocated to places outside Colonial Williamsburg (Edwards-Ingram 2009). Members of these historic churches in the town were buried at the town’s Cedar Grove Cemetery (see map 3) established in 1859. Some African Americans of modest economic means, listed in an 1898 directory of the town’s residents, were buried in the Cedar Grove cemetery (DAR 1992; Williamsburg Directory 1898). Others may have been interred on family lands away from the historic core of the town. African Americans with property in the area that became Colonial Williamsburg used their land holdings to develop community and for burials. The Ashby family’s burial ground, likely used from the nineteenth century and into the first half of the twentieth century, was within a neighborhood of residential, business, and civic structures in the area that became Colonial Williamsburg (Edwards-Ingram 2009; Goodwin 1972). The unexcavated Ashby family plot, without grave markers, is shown on a historical survey map of the museum. John Ashby acquired land on Nicholson Street in 1849 and paid taxes on his holdings, at least up to 1873 (Goodwin 1972). A property document of 1929 shows a section the north-side of Nicholson Street as belonging to the Ashby family (Goodwin 1972).

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Today’s descendants of the Ashby family traced their genealogies to an eighteenth-century free black man called Matthew Ashby, who was probably John Ashby’s brother, interpreted in the museum’s living history program. While the Ashby family’s burials have no visible markers, the same cannot be said of another African American family plot in the historic area. The Debress family cemetery, with tombstones, is near the Colonial Williamsburg Spa (Meyers 2000). Commemorating Family and Displaying Tombstones The uncovering of graves and interments provided opportunities for commemorations and the making of the landscape more representative of the African American history of the town. In 2003, two tombstones and co-mingled human bones that had been reburied were found in an ovalshaped hole in Merchants Square, near William & Mary at the western end of Colonial Williamsburg. This landscape once included a family burying ground associated with a Hill and Dunlop family. In 1965, archaeologists found and documented the tombstones and reburied them under a parking lot (Vinciguerra 2003; Williams 2004). This reburial of the tombstones moved them into a second wave of obscurity and invisibility on the landscape. In 2003, in advance of utility work, Colonial Williamsburg excavated the tombstones and found re-interred human bones. This led to the identification of the remains of two individuals, a male and female, both over the age of forty-five. This correlated well with the inscriptions of Lucy Ann Dunlop (1839–1866) and Richard Hill (1776–1851) found on the tombstones (Williams 2004, 2020). The tombstones had served as markers for the graves of a father and his daughter. The daughter likely married Alexander Dunlop, an African American blacksmith. Dunlop owned property on a lot near where the tombstones and the bones were found (Vinciguerra 2003). The graves may have been vandalized in the years following the Civil War, when Alexander Dunlop was subjected to racial discrimination and harassment (Vinciguerra 2003). Historic burials and monuments count in acts of remembrance and commemoration, and the findings relating to Dunlop and Hill received high marks in such treatments. In the 1860s, Alexander Dunlop was a deacon and a trustee at the Historic First Baptist Church, started by enslaved people on the periphery of Williamsburg, in the second half of the eighteenth century. The Church’s present-day congregation celebrates its founding pastor, called Gowan Pamphlet, interpreted by present-day theologian,

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Figure 9.5. Tombstones of Robert F. Hill and Lucy Ann Dunlop on display at First Baptist Church, Williamsburg, Virginia, 2016. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

James Ingram Jr., as a historical character in Colonial Williamsburg’s eighteenth-century interpretation (Edwards-Ingram 2016; Rowe 2012). The church members became engaged in the interment of the bones and in the commemoration of the tombstones (Williams 2004). Dunlop and Hill were re-interred in the Cedar Grove cemetery (see map 3 for the location of the current First Baptist Church, near the western end of the historic area, and the southern location of the Cedar Grove cemetery) in 2004, with members of the church and other individuals from the African descendant community as participants in the activities (Williams 2004). The restored tombstones of Robert F. Hill and his daughter Lucy Ann Dunlop were not placed to rest in the cemetery, but were given an honorary space inside the hall of the church at its Scotland Street location, close to the western periphery of Colonial Williamsburg’s main historic core (see map 3; Hammond 2016). After conservation treatment and study, the tombstones became part of commemorative placemaking for the African American community (Williams 2020). They were converted into objects of display and a site of remembrance at the Historic First Baptist Church at Scotland Street. The exhibited tombstones are now more like works of art subjected to high visibility and wonder, if not reverence. They became part

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of a tradition wherein black families and communities in Williamsburg have created sites of memorials for the dead. Discussion and Conclusion

The cumulative-historic landscape of African and African American burials and commemorations survived today with gaps and silences. This landscape includes marginal areas of the town and places with unmarked and isolated graves in living areas both at the core and the periphery. Archaeological evidence suggests that, for most of the eighteenth century, the residential and commercial lots were infrequently used as burial spaces (see maps 2, 4, 5 and figure 9.6). Family plots in the historic core appear to date from the last quarter of the eighteenth century (DAR 1992, 1995; Edwards and Poole 2012). Isolated single graves without coffins may have been quick, unplanned burials for people who died suddenly and were treated marginally in death. There are more grouped burials than isolated single ones, perhaps showing Table 9.1. The cumulative historic landscape of African and African American burials in Williamsburg Date

Name

Type

Gender

Age

17th C

Rich Neck

Single

F

Youth

S

18th C

Public Two Armoury College Cemetery Landing The Capitol Single Utopia Cemetery

Male & Female Group

Adults

S

Periphery/ Planation Historic Core

Various

S

Periphery/Port

Female Group

Adult Various

E S

Historic Core Periphery/ Plantation Historic Core Historic Core

18th C 18th C 18th C 18/19thC 19th C 19th C & after 19/20th C 19/20th C 19/20th C

Area Location

Bassett Hall Cemetery Group Unknown Merchant Two Male and Adults Square Female Cedar Grove Cemetery Group Various

SE W

Debress Cemetery Family Ashby Family Cemetery Bruton Parish Memorial Church

S

Group

Adults

Group Female

Unknown Adult

S

Periphery/town cemetery Historic Core

N Historic Core NW Historic Core

Figure 9.6. Bird’s-eye-view map of Market Square area showing locations of burials in Colonial Williamsburg’s Historic Area. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

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more planned funerals. The foregoing discussion indicates that the south side of the town was used more for the burials of blacks than other areas. These sites include the Public Armoury, the College Landing, the Kingsmill plantations, and the Cedar Grove Cemetery. The African American community in Williamsburg is involved in the recovering, recounting, and remembering of its own history, especially through connections with its churches and inspiring trailblazers. This is evident in the practices of members of the Society of the Friends of African American History in Williamsburg to engage in commemorations of the enslaved people of Utopia site at Kingsmill plantations and in working with the archaeological team at the Public Armoury site (Bakari 2016; Edwards and Poole 2012). Members of the Historic Baptist Church, where the tombstones are on display, are involved in renewed efforts to understand the church’s former site in Colonial Williamsburg and the history of the early congregations, through historical archaeology (Edwards and Poole 2012; Edwards-Ingram 2016, 2019; Schultz 2020; see the Foreword to this volume). In their ongoing quest to stay useful in connecting people with meaningful practices in the landscapes of both the past and today, archaeologists and other researchers should find the engagement of descendant communities encouraging and motivating. Also, through historical archaeology there is now more association of the past Williamsburg’s landscape with a twenty-first-century African American community. Historical archaeology and reconstruction continue to count as viable ways to collaborate, produce, and share knowledge. There is still room to grow in the twenty-first century, and beyond, to make the discipline more inclusive and relevant to the societies of its practice. Undoubtedly, inclusion and collaboration will continue to inspire, and even dictate, how we learn and care about the past so that the future can benefit from it.

IV STANDARDS, PRAC TICES, AND GOALS IN CONSERVATION AND RECONSTRUC TION

10 Framing the Questions That Matter The Relationship between Archaeology and Conservation Emily Williams

Archaeology and conservation are inextricably linked; archaeological investigation frequently provides the materials on which conservators work, while conservators often work to elucidate and stabilize the materials that archaeologists find, ensuring they can be accessed and re-interrogated in the future. However, despite the interwoven nature of the two fields and the integral roles they both play in the creation, management and explication of heritage, practitioners frequently call for increased integration to better serve the archaeological record. Established ninety years ago, Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeological conservation program is arguably one of the longest-running conservation programs focused on archaeological materials in the world. Examining the history of the program and its evolution over time highlights some of the questions that continue to vex conservators and archaeologists as they work together, but it also suggests some new areas for exploration and cross-disciplinary cooperation. The story of conservation at Colonial Williamsburg begins, curiously enough, in Egypt. In 1922, Howard Carter’s discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb created a worldwide sensation. Reporters filed countless stories about the discovery, the finds, the legendary curse, and the excavators. Alfred Lucas, the scientist hired to conserve the materials, proved to be a strong advocate for preservation. He popularized conservation, a discipline that at the time was barely thirty years old, in numerous behind-the-scenes interviews. He related anecdotes from the make-shift lab he had established in the tomb of Seti II, spoke about the fragility of the objects in his charge, and highlighted the need to understand their composition and manufacturing techniques as well as the exact nature of their decomposition before taking any action to preserve them (Gilberg 1997). In 1924, he published

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Antiquities: Their Restoration and Preservation, one of the first English language conservation textbooks. It codified his approach and made a strong case for pairing a scientific approach with the care of artifacts. In response to this popularization of conservation, the late 1920s and early 1930s saw the creation of a number of conservation laboratories in major museums worldwide. It is against this backdrop that in 1931 Rutherfoord Goodwin, an employee in Colonial Williamsburg’s education department, established a conservation lab to treat artifacts from excavations around the town. He believed these materials could play a key role in communicating eighteenth-century lifestyles and in persuading visitors of the degree of care being taken to ensure that the restoration was as accurate as possible. He cited the fact “that men have dug in the ground for minute evidence pertaining to colonial buildings and their contents seems to convince the visitor that the search for true data has been carried out to the final extreme” (Goodwin 1932). This early recognition of the key role that both archaeology and conservation play in substantiating historical interpretation led not only to the establishment of the laboratory but also to the creation of a museum in the Old Courthouse building in 1933 and of traveling displays to exhibit the conserved items. Goodwin hired chemistry students from the College of William & Mary to work in the lab during their breaks. He presented them with Lucas’s book and asked them to modify the treatments to suit the Virginia climate. Additionally, the students carried out analyses on objects. Chemical analysis of the contents of a bottle found in a well near Bassett Hall suggested that it contained wine. After the chemical analysis, a more empirical test was carried out and the wine was tasted—an experiment that all concerned vowed never to do again (Robb 1932)! In 1937, Goodwin hired Minor Wine Thomas, another chemist, as his assistant. Thomas worked to further optimize the techniques outlined by Lucas, particularly the electrochemical treatment of iron. Thomas’s method was mimeographed, and he estimated that by 1956 over 5,000 copies of the treatment had been sent out to other museums and sites conducting excavations. The Smithsonian, National Park Service, Philipse Castle in New York, and Saugus in Massachusetts were recipients and said to have used the method (Thomas 1956:18). Rather than simply trying to adapt techniques used elsewhere to the materials encountered in Williamsburg, Thomas characterized the materials found and developed treatments accordingly. His first such project focused on printer’s type from the site of the Virginia Gazette, the local newspaper. Through chemical

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Figure 10.1. Early display of artifacts recovered at Colonial Williamsburg. Archaeological Collections, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

tests, he determined the components of the metal (lead and antimony) and their ratios to each other (9:1), related them to documented formulas for type alloys, and devised a treatment for the removal of surface corrosion that was obscuring detail (Thomas 1938). His characterization work led to further experimentation with a number of manufacturing techniques, and in 1948, Thomas was asked to supervise the Foundation’s fledgling historic trades program. While Goodwin and Thomas were among the first to identify conservation’s unique role vis-à-vis authenticity, their analytical efforts were somewhat thwarted by a lack of contextual information. Because the early excavations were not stratigraphic, answers were limited by their understanding of the relationships between objects, the lack of context, and the questions asked. The information potential of material characterization is considerably amplified when the results are considered within a broad framework, which may include comparison with other similar artifacts or considerations of material interactions within the burial environment

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among other things. Without such a broad sampling and/or interpretive framework, it can be difficult to determine whether one is looking at an anomaly or a trend. This continues to be a weakness in the way that the conservation and technical analysis of artifacts from modern sites are often approached. Due to budgetary concerns, conservators are often brought in simply to analyze or conserve the one (or two) singular artifacts from a site, and little attention is paid to what the piece might say about the broader whole. For example, while the one-off treatment of a window lead may produce an interesting date or inscription (Noël Hume 1982a:324), it is the systematic ongoing treatment of leads from across Colonial Williamsburg’s historic area that has led researchers to greater insights about the location of seventeenth-century structures in the town and the use and reuse of glazier’s wheels (Ladd-Kostro, chapter 11 in this volume.) Ivor Noël Hume’s arrival in 1956 brought a number of changes to the approach. Stratigraphic excavation techniques were introduced. To support the stratigraphic understanding of sites, typologies were necessary and, in order to build them, the morphology of the object had to be clearly visible. Treatments aimed at stripping off surface accretions were introduced. Noël Hume had been introduced to elements of conservation both by his wife, Audrey, whose coursework at University College London’s Institute of Archaeology had covered an introduction to the field, and by his connections at the British Museum and the Guildhall Museum. Hume felt that conservators needed a passing familiarity with science but that if they had more it was apt to slow the process down unacceptably (Noël Hume 1969). As a result, he tended to hire craftsmen or field archaeologists and train them in basic treatment approaches, many of which are recorded in his 1969 publication, Historical Archaeology. Conservation decisions were often guided by aesthetics, rather than by the long-term effects of the treatment. Certainly, the conservation of finds from Williamsburg undertaken during this period has resulted in the survival and publication of many items and the establishment of typologies that continue to be used and refined. However, the strong emphasis on morphology also led to a somewhat unbalanced approach to the treatment of the materials being conserved. Chris Caple (2000), an archaeologist and conservator, has written that every treatment is a delicate balance between three poles: Revelation (cleaning or exposing the object to reveal its original form); Preservation (the act of seeking to maintain the object in its present form without further deterioration); and Investigation (all forms of analysis that uncover information

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about an object). At their extremes, each excludes the others. For example, cleaning an object too thoroughly can remove information and interfere with future investigation, but so too can steps taken to preserve a piece (such as the addition of consolidants). Focusing on form and/or function alone negates an awareness of the materiality of the objects we are interested in, and it is within this area that objects have much to teach us. The way in which metals corrode can provide us with information about the environment in which they are found, which can be useful both to site interpretation and site management (Macleod 2014). An awareness of materiality does have consequences, however, as it forces us to consider both the physical vulnerability of artifacts and their irreplaceability (a concept that can at times seem foreign in historical archaeology, particularly that of later periods, where much that is excavated is mass produced). In 1987, Colonial Williamsburg moved the archaeological conservation operations to the newly created department of conservation. The lab was one of an initial five (now ten) labs. Although the relationship between the lab and the archaeology department has been very collaborative, this move highlights a familiar tendency within North American archaeology to separate conservation from fieldwork. In part this separation results from the way conservators are trained. Unlike their European counterparts, few North American conservators train with archaeologists. In fact, many conservators train with other museum professionals—curators, collections managers, art historians—leading to a perception among the archaeological community that the evolution and interests of conservation (and even its language) are separate from those of archaeology.1 Conservation is at times viewed as a practically based, theory-free undertaking that has little to offer archaeology. Dishearteningly, this perception remains deeply rooted in the archaeological community at a time when conservators have increasingly begun to grapple with theoretical issues and to concern themselves with the message and values inherent in each object and in each assemblage of objects. Marie Berducou, a conservation theorist, has pointed out that cultural property often becomes most easily recognizable at the moment when we become concerned with its preservation. Conservators, therefore, while no more or less authoritative than other social actors, are frequently centrally involved in the choices that go into conferring the status of cultural property on objects. They provide technical assistance to a global project: the formation of a useful heritage that can be studied, displayed, archivally preserved, or shared with others (Berducou 1996:249).

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Acceptance of this responsibility has led to change within the conservation field. In the words of Marcelle Scott, a conservation educator whose past work has focused on rock art, site management, and conservation and on collaborations with indigenous Australians, “conservation research platforms are increasingly applying new forms of interdisciplinary enquiry, providing new answers to old questions and posing new questions to established discourse and to broader enquiries about the social benefits of conservation as an act of civic engagement” (Scott 2014). Historian David Lowenthal has argued that rather than providing social benefits, material preservation “exacts costs and engenders problems” (Lowenthal 1989:67). He has contended that it prompts us to identify things most for their form or maker and not what the piece is really made of or how that material ages and is meant to age. Additionally, he felt that preservation costs and benefits are hard to quantify because they are expressed primarily as feelings or attachments, which are not amenable to a cost-benefit analysis, and that there is the danger of the past becoming segregated (no longer a living antiquity but rather a dead, separate, saleable past) (Lowenthal 1989:68–70). While his first two arguments echo some of the tensions I believe are visible in the history of conservation at Colonial Williamsburg—particularly the notion that one may value form over materiality and that it can be hard to quantify the cost benefits of preservation, especially when new sites and new avenues of exploration are constantly around the corner—I find myself troubled by his other premise. Throughout Lowenthal’s writing there is a perception that material culture is tied to the creation of heritage and therefore somehow lessened, and that history—despite its reliance on material culture in the form of letters and manuscripts—is somehow purer. This notion has been picked up and echoed in the archaeological literature (Dawdy 2009). In historical archaeology, where so many of the finds from CRM end up in state-run repositories, it is easy to divorce the “historically oriented” fieldwork from the “heritage-based” collections management. This notion is particular dangerous for the long-term future of historical archaeology. Instead of carrying site interpretation through to its logical conclusions and incorporating the finds, it risks creating pockets of information that are poorly integrated and that blind us to the patterns we hope to find. Instead of seeing history and heritage as opposing concepts, however, it may be better, particularly in an archaeological context, to conceive of heritage as the way in which we, as individuals and societies, turn history into a usable and living past (Harrison 2013). Through the process of

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Figure 10.2. A bone fan guard (left) with copper staples as mends and a porcelain fragment (right) showing evidence of an adhesive, which was applied prior to deposition. Archaeological Collections, The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

designating, preserving, and interpreting heritage, we make and remake our collective identities, and both archaeology and conservation have an important role to play in this activity. Although the scale on which materials and sites are conserved has escalated since the nineteenth century (in part because of greater pressures on the archaeological record from population growth and development), the act of preserving, repairing, and curating artifacts or objects is one rooted much more deeply in human history. Examples of historic repairs are plentiful in the archaeological record. They include mends to 13,000-year-old spear throwers (Ward et al 2009), Neolithic Syrian ceramics (Dooijes and Nieuwenhuyse 2009; Nieuwenhuyse and Dooijes 2008), and ceramics and bone items from eighteenth-century Williamsburg. They are important expressions of identity and of the values that individuals and societies have held over time. Like the artifacts they are associated with, historic repairs can be viewed as documents with stories to tell and histories to read. The concept of an object as a document that should be preserved and can be researched and consulted by multiple people with diverse questions is one that resonates for conservators and that fits well with the archaeological desire to tell multivocal stories (Hodder 1997). Contemporary conservation has much to offer archaeology. It is “a postcolonial, post-modern discipline that has at its core cross-cultural engagement; an engagement that requires conservators to communicate across a range of communities and cultures that may be disciplinary, professional and social” (Sloggett 2009:171). As such, the field is no longer merely concerned with maintaining morphology or mending fractured artifacts but, more fundamentally, it is also about exploring and illuminating the links

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Figure 10.3. Watering can from Mathews Manor. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

between “people, places and things” (Scott 2014)—a pursuit also at the heart of archaeological practice. As conservators and archaeologists work together to define the questions that matter for each object, each site, each collection, and each locality, they must bear in mind the framework within which these questions matter. Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeological sites and objects have much to say about inequality, gender, globalization, colonialism, consumerism, and modernity (Orser 1996), as well as the relationship between archaeology and conservation, but one of the additional lessons that Colonial Williamsburg offers us is that heritage and history are integrally (and viscerally) connected through the process of creating identity, and it is this connection that gives each meaning. One of my favorite objects in Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeological collections illustrates this concept well, and I frequently reference it in public programming. The piece is a seventeenthcentury watering can.

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The watering can was discarded by 1650 and excavated by Noël Hume at Mathews Manor in 1964. Although Mathews Manor, a site located in Denbigh, Virginia, was settled by an Englishman, Samuel Mathews, the watering can’s closest parallels appear to lie in Flemish milk jugs. The assemblage of which this object was a part and the distances it has traveled easily speak to the theme of globalization, a perennial favorite in historical archaeology. The watering can was heavily corroded, and after a lengthy exchange with conservators at the British Museum about treatment options shortly after its discovery, Noël Hume decided not to treat it. The object was stable, and the treatment options offered were ones he had not found successful in the past, so he decided to wait until improved treatments were developed (Noël Hume 1966). This decision presents an interesting insight into the evolution of the conservation field and provides an understanding into how conservation decisions are made and how differences in opinions over the efficacy of treatments are (or are not) resolved. However, the watering can has additional stories to share. In the late 1990s, it was selected for inclusion in an exhibit focusing on the archaeology of seventeenth-century Williamsburg and its surroundings. X-rayed prior to treatment, the watering can proved to have an elaborate and previously unguessed-at decorative scheme consisting of a series of grape clusters hanging over and under a central vine. The ornate surface decoration emphasizes the watering can’s role as a high-status item rather than a utilitarian piece. Its size further emphasizes this. This was an object made to water a few individual plants rather than tend crops or large plantings. Its manufacture was probably linked to the growing interest in gardening and the propagation of unusual and/ or decorative varietals that was becoming a fashionable pastime in seventeenth-century Europe. The decision to bring the watering can to the New World thus may have represented a powerful statement about the hope of finding a good life in the colonies. Its owner may have been declaring that he envisioned a life ahead in which he would have significant time for leisure activities. Equally, the watering can may have been purchased and imported as a celebration of the status its owner enjoyed in Virginia. Samuel Mathews, the original owner of the watering can, found considerable wealth in Virginia. He arrived in 1618, and by his death in the late 1650s had established a highly successful agricultural operation that allowed him to sell surplus foodstuffs to other colonies and to support many craftsmen on his property. He was active in local governance and hosted meetings of

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Figure 10.4. X-ray of watering can from Mathews Manor. Photo X-ray by the author.

the Warwick County court (McCartney 2012). Clearly a busy and industrious man, whether Mathews ever had time to indulge in the type of leisure activities for which the watering can was designed is something that historical records do not share with us, and it is interesting to note that the watering can had been discarded before his death. Whatever the circumstances of its use and deposition, the watering can serves as an interesting springboard for discussion with visitors. Does the value of the piece lie in its age, its unique nature, or its ability to connect us with the past, to humanize it and to illuminate our own histories? Many of us with recent immigrants in our family tree have similar items that are treasured for the fact that someone chose them to accompany their journey. Exploring this angle with our guests, I find that visitors are usually quick to tell me about items that similarly capture the hopes and/or sorrows of their families. Some of these stories are harrowing and speak to broad themes of migration, loss, and economic hardship; others are more

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triumphant—but all revolve around the ways in which personal history and identity are fused and become meaningful. Reflecting on their own identities and those of their seventeenth-century counterparts moves the dialogue beyond the object and illustrates to our visitors that cultural heritage is present in everyday life and that our involvement with it is in part what gives history a voice. Note 1. For example, the term “materiality” is often employed in archaeology to denote the ways in which objects and people mutually constitute their environments, whereas in conservation the term may, equally validly, be used to refer to the material nature of an object, its constituent materials and the ways in which they deteriorate or change through time.

11 A Diachronic Study of Window Leads from Williamsburg Kelly Ladd-Kostro

Artifact collection within what was once a vibrant colonial capital such as Williamsburg never fails to yield an abundance of “pretty” material culture, readily identifiable and often helpful to the dating and interpretation of sites. With this material also comes more pedestrian artifactual clues, not necessarily as quick to reveal their information nor as likely to capture the title of attractive artifact. Focusing on the latter category, this chapter introduces turned window leads used in the creation and maintenance of casement windows as a vehicle for discussion of changes through time in Williamsburg, including architectural alterations of Middle Plantation and its successor, the city of Williamsburg. When faced with unexpected discoveries of stylistic or behavioral changes, the chapter attempts to illustrate how a living history museum and archaeologists can adjust, reconstruct, and interpret this material for the public. Beginning in 1927, the early years of restoration at Colonial Williamsburg brought with them an understanding and recreation of the town viewed through a Georgian architectural lens. General consensus held that casement windows were confined primarily to the seventeenth century and sash windows (as evident in the historic area) to the eighteenth century (Carson and Lounsbury 2013). With evidence such as the improvement of glass manufacturing techniques at the end of the seventeenth century, no surviving eighteenth-century buildings in Williamsburg with casement windows, and documents like the Act of 1699, which specified sash windows for the Capitol (Davies 1973), it seemed both a reasonable and logical conclusion that sash windows had replaced casement windows in existing buildings, and newly built structures were outfitted with the latest style of sash windows around the turn of the eighteenth century. While most

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architectural and material culture changes do not occur with any kind of obvious immediacy, there had never been a formal study using the Colonial Williamsburg archaeological collections to determine if this early restoration assumption was true. In her 1973 window glass study, Isabel Davies lamented, “How many buildings in Williamsburg had casement windows cannot be known, nor how late the form lasted.” Documentary evidence suggests that window leads were not confined to the seventeenth century within the area we now define as Colonial Williamsburg. Examples of this documentation includes the work of Williamsburg carpenter and glazier James Wray Sr. cutting new panes and completing window repairs in town from the 1730s to 1750 (Edwards, Harwood, Richter, and Goyens 2013; Noёl Hume 1997). Former director of archaeology at Colonial Williamsburg Foundation Ivor Noёl Hume notes the May 22, 1746, issue of the Virginia Gazette continues to advertise “Window Glass and Lead” for sale in Yorktown (Noёl Hume 1997). Even as late as 1769, James Bates’s inventory of York County lists “a parcel of window glass with leads” (Davies 1973:xxx). And lastly, a 1779 sketch of the John Crump House in Williamsburg shows what appears to be a large sixty-three quarrel (diamond-, square-, or rectangle-shaped glass pieces set in lead) casement window on the front of the house next to large sash windows (Carson and Lounsbury 2013). While over the years numerous leads and glass quarrels have been discovered at various sites within Williamsburg, it was not until the late 1970s, while cleaning leads from the seventeenth-century Martin’s Hundred site, that former Colonial Williamsburg conservator Peter Barlow, under the direction of Ivor Noёl Hume, discovered the existence of markings on archaeologically recovered window leads (Noёl Hume 1982a:324). Although the lead markings were not fully understood, the value of dating and the existence of the leads in the artifactual landscape were not lost on Noёl Hume. When subsequent Foundation excavations uncovered window lead fragments, most leads were conserved, but materials from past excavations were never retrieved from the collections for conservation and analysis. In September 1997, a formal study on the use of turned window leads in casement windows was begun by the departments engaged in archaeological research, archaeological conservation, and the Governor’s School of Virginia (Ladd 1998). The objective was to test if our historic area interpretations were correct and what might be learned by returning to analyze the unprocessed window leads held in the sixty million–fragment collection of Colonial Williamsburg. The new research would build on the significant

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work completed by early window and window lead investigators Ivor Noёl Hume (1969, 1970, 1982a, 1997, 2005b), Isabel Davies (1973), Geoff Egan (Egan et al. 1986, in Hanna et al. 1992, 2012), Barry Knight (1983, 1986, in Egan et al. 1986, in Hanna et al. 1992), and Susan Hanna (1986, 1992). Historical and Manufacturing Background

Even as early as the Romans, archaeological excavations have shown that the wealthy employed glass in their windows (Salzman 1952), and from the middle to late Saxon period, glass was being incorporated into the architecture (Hanna, Knight, and Egan 1992). In 1238, Westminister Palace had glass set into a previously open window protected only by iron bars (Salzman 1952). While glass windows were being used in limited quantities throughout earlier centuries, it is not until the end of the sixteenth century that we see an increase in documentary references of glass windows being placed into the common English home, rather than simply churches, royal buildings, and homes of the wealthy (Cummings 1979). Beginning in the sixteenth century, glass windows were inserted into small structural frames referred to as casement windows. Casements consisted of a panel, most often of smallish square-, rectangle-, or diamondshaped panes or quarrels retained by lead strips and inlaid into a supporting frame of iron or wood. This construction created a lattice-like appearance. Due to the combined weight of the glass and lead, the windows were often wired to one or two iron bars, referred to as saddle bars, and placed horizontally across the surface. These windows were hung both fixed as well as hinged, opening outward like a door. The manufacturing of large, regular pieces of window glass of any substantial size was limited by the technologies of that time as well as the prohibitive cost. It would not be until the close of the seventeenth century that techniques for the manufacturing of window glass would advance enough to allow for a change in the construction and size of windows (Noёl Hume 2005b). Prior to the sixteenth century, windows made with lead pieces joining the quarrels of glass were made of cast lead and appeared in rather rough, thick shapes. This method required large amounts of raw materials, weighing the windows down, and not allowing for much manipulation in the configuration or style of the windows. This technology changed in the sixteenth century when a sophisticated tool known as a glazier’s vise was introduced for the production of very thin, long channels of lead. This device was comprised of side plates, interior wheels, a crank handle, and

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Figure 11.1. Glazier’s vice. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Museum Purchase.

a “Gutter” used for feeding lead cames into the vise (Diderot 1959[1763]). It is unclear who first designed this new manufacturing process, but after the vise was introduced into England in 1546, the technology was quickly adopted by London glaziers (Hanna et al. 1992). The leads in the casement windows from the sixteenth into the early twentieth centuries are referred to as turned or drawn window leads as a result of the leads being manufactured in a hand-mill or glazier’s vise (Noёl Hume 1970:233). The turned leads were created by feeding a strip of cast lead, or came (cast in what is referred to as a clasp-mold), through the vise forming a rough H-sectioned length. The wheels of the vise bore transverse grooves that facilitated in gripping and guiding the lead through the vise. The grooves left reeding or milling marks on the interior bar, or heart, of the leads. Aside from these markings, the same wheels were also at times marked with the year the leads (or the vises) were manufactured and often the

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Figure 11.2. Turned lead. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Archaeological Collections.

initials of the glazier (or vise maker and possibly both), and at times, the city of origin. Even their occupations might be noted, as seen on leads recovered from Martins Hundred bearing “John : Byshopp of Exceter Gonner 1625,” with “Gonner” being attributed to his main trade as a gunsmith (Noёl Hume 1982a:324). A vise would have been made by a skilled toolmaker or metalworker, and the likelihood that the glazier both made the vise and built windows is very unlikely; conversely, the vise makers would not have been the glaziers. Glaziers were known at times to have manufactured extremely thin turned leads in an attempt to extend their supply of raw materials, and the archaeological fragments seem to confirm this (Egan, Hanna, and Knight 1986). If leads were required to bear the glazier’s or vise maker’s initials and date of manufacture, this may have provided some indicator or assurance of quality control. In the Minute Book of the London Glaziers’ Company, a February 5, 1697, entry notes that “seuerall [sic] persons hereunder named shall have the Recorders Warrant served upon them for making light leads” (Ashdown 1918). This small but notable notation may help make the case for what has remained the most widely accepted theory as to why the leads were imprinted with such information and the attempts made by the London Glazier’s Guild to enforce rules and regulations (Egan 2012). Barry Knight suggests an alternative reasoning of marks for taxation purposes, but at this time there is no clear and directly documented association for this (Egan 2012). Whether the initials within the vises belonged to the creator of the tool, were inscribed into the interior wheels at the request of the glazier purchasing the vise, were enforced by tax law, or were just part of an elaborate glaziers’ guild remains unknown. The marks may very well be a combination of many, or all, of the aforementioned scenarios, but their

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mere existence and the information they hold has the potential to greatly inform both the dating and interpretation of archaeological sites. Window Lead Study

In the 1997 study of turned window leads, ten previously excavated sites known to have potential seventeenth- and/or eighteenth-century components were chosen for analysis. Since the inception of this study, the number of locations with analyzed window leads has risen to over ninety, coming from sites in and around the colonial boundaries of Williamsburg. While the primary intention of the original study was to determine if there were occurrences of eighteenth-century casement windows within the capital city of Williamsburg, the study quickly evolved a secondary research endeavor: using the leads to study Middle Plantation (1633–1699), the area that would become Williamsburg in the eighteenth century (see Middle Plantation map, figure 1.2 in chapter 1) and maps 4 and 5 in the Introduction (Greater Williamsburg Area). Archaeological Evidence for Casement Windows in SeventeenthCentury Middle Plantation

For the first quarter of the seventeenth century the English colonists populated areas primarily along Virginia’s navigable rivers, but by the 1630s there was a growing interest in moving further inland to expand land holdings, agriculture, and financial gain. Helping to make this expansion a viable endeavor was the passing of the 1632 “Act for Seatinge of the Middle Plantation” with lands to be located between the James and York rivers (Hening 1809–1823:I, 208–209). Additionally, a palisade (1633/34) was erected that ran for six miles between College and Queens creeks offering protection against Native American threat and helping to make the new lands and their development more of a certainty. Discovering the exact layout and nature of Middle Plantation remains a challenge for those involved in its study. Numerous factors contribute to the difficult nature of identifying seventeenth-century archaeological remains: demographics, the organic development of the community, lack of artifacts associated with the sites, and difficulties in identifying ephemeral architectural elements are but a few. However, one of the largest contributing factors is the overlying eighteenth-century town and its twentiethcentury restoration (Muraca and Ladd 1998). The historical record suggests that Middle Plantation consisted of a handful of gentry estates and

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an unknown number of smaller land holdings (Muraca and Ladd 1998). So how do we begin to identify these areas? While Middle Plantation features have remained elusive, excavations have turned up evidence of these early occupations repeatedly in the form of two types of artifacts. Originally unrecognized as Middle Plantation period markers when they were excavated, these artifacts have been used to identify or predict the location of seventeenth-century sites (Muraca and Ladd 1998). The first marker identified is English imported or locally manufactured ceramic roofing tile that appears to have been used almost exclusively in Middle Plantation, and particularly in public buildings and brick homes built by local elites (Carson and Lounsbury 2013). Evidence of a brick and tile kiln complex was discovered during excavations of the John Page (1628–1692) lands directly south of the 1633/34 constructed palisade (Metz et al. 1998). Page’s substantial properties included 330 acres of Middle Plantation land encompassing much of what would become Williamsburg (Metz et al. 1998). Subsequent xero-radiographic analysis of tile fragments from sixteen regional sites found similarities between Page’s tiles and those in Middle Plantation as well as seventeenth-century sites further afield at Jamestown Islands’ New Towne (Metz et al. 1998). When excavating known eighteenth-century features, it is a rare occurrence in Williamsburg to find fragments of roofing tiles. Earlier features such as those found at the Wren Building on the campus of William & Mary, the Nassau Street Tavern (also known as the Robert Weeks Ordinary), Rich Neck Plantation, and the Jones/Nicholson Cellars on the property of the old Public Hospital, all known seventeenth-century sites, bear fragments of ceramic roofing tiles (see Middle Plantation map, figure 1.2 in chapter 1) and maps 4 and 5 in the Introduction (Greater Williamsburg Area). The second potential Middle Plantation site artifact identifier is turned window leads. While some structures both in England and the colonies continued to feature unglazed windows with wooden bars, or shutters, casement windows were becoming increasingly common in the construction of seventeenth-century dwellings (Carson and Lounsbury 2013). If we assume this is true, Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeologists could anticipate finding window leads on most seventeenth-century sites. When encountering a site with no known eighteenth-century components but with excavated turned window leads, even if these leads are not dated but rather simply milled leads, the location could be considered as a potential Middle Plantation dwelling. When archaeologists in Williamsburg find roofing tiles, remnants of a brick structure, and window leads combined,

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there is an even higher probability that the particular site in question is of the Middle Plantation period. From the window lead study, the dated window leads discovered for Middle Plantation ranged from 1669 and 1674 to 1693. By tracking the combined occurrences of roofing tiles and window leads, there are now approximately two dozen known and predicted Middle Plantation sites. Of additional note, historical documentation and dates discovered on various local leads suggest that some windows found in Middle Plantation may have been imported fully assembled, either made in advance or removed from standing structures in England. However, given the seventeenth-century colonial occupation dates found on leads at Jamestown, Martin’s Hundred, and Middle Plantation sites, it is evident that the glazier’s trade quickly found a place in the colonies. Archaeological Evidence for Casement Windows in EighteenthCentury Williamsburg

In the last twenty-five years, two sites with remarkably large caches of turned window leads have been discovered through archaeological study. They, along with newly discovered dates found during the 1997 window lead study, have helped to redefine our understanding of the use of casement windows in eighteenth-century Williamsburg. In 2002, Colonial Williamsburg began an excavation of the James Wray Carpentry Yard located northwest of Duke of Gloucester Street (see map 5 in the Introduction). The project was undertaken as a joint Colonial Williamsburg Foundation and City of Williamsburg parking garage development, which allowed access to a large swath of previously unexcavated land. James Wray Sr. is Williamsburg’s first documented glazier, and appears in records around 1731 (Edwards et al. 2013), but before archaeological excavations little was known of his work complex or operations that occurred from 1736 to 1750. In 1736, brickmaker David Menetree sold Wray the land that ultimately would house his varied trade activities. An impressive assortment of structures and features were uncovered during the almost year-long excavations, including a workshop with cellar, saw house, saw pit, work shelter, barn, fence lines, pathways, drains, garden features, and a small post structure. During excavations it became clear that Wray’s operation was large scale, and historical documentation records Wray as having thirty workers, both journeymen and enslaved individuals of African descent (Edwards et al. 2013). While Wray’s primary occupation was listed

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as a carpenter and joiner, he diversified, adding coffin-making, cobbling, and window-glazing to his offerings (Edwards et al. 2013). This was not an uncommon phenomenon within Williamsburg, as other of Wray’s contemporaries, saddler Alexander Craig and cabinetmaker Benjamin Bucktrout, advertised additional skills such as the repair of chairs and musical instruments (Edwards et al. 2013). Within the cellar of Wray’s workshop approximately 900 window leads were recovered, and across the entire site, over 1,000. Along with the turned window leads were found bits of lead scrap and waste of the type most often associated with the casting of cames, and the repair and building of casement windows. Of the dated window leads excavated at the site, the latest fully dated fragment was from 1737. Given the large amount of leads and lead scrap found on the Wray site, his additional trade of glazing, while possibly second or third in ranking to his daily carpentry business, appears to have been flourishing and in demand within eighteenth-century Williamsburg. Upon James Wray Sr.’s death, his property, business, and household were managed by his wife Mary Wray. Evidence of continued glazier work appears in 1770 when the bursar of the College of William & Mary paid for “work done by Mrs Wray’s Glaziers” at the Brafferton School. Upon Mary Wray’s death in 1771, James Wray Jr. took possession of her property and continued to manage the operation as well as the oversight of the skilled enslaved until sale of the property in 1796 (Edwards et al. 2013). A second archaeological site that yielded large amounts of window leads is the eighteenth-century Richard Charlton Coffeehouse (see map 4 in the Introduction). The reconstructed building in Colonial Williamsburg is now known as the R. Charlton Coffeehouse (see Inker, chapter 12 in this volume). In preparation for its reconstruction, Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeologists carried out an extensive investigation of the site between 1996 and 1998 and again between 2008 and 2011. The excavations, in addition to revealing evidence regarding the building’s architecture and the nature of the surrounding landscape, resulted in the recovery of over half a million varied artifacts, approximately 300,000 of which were related to Charlton’s Coffeehouse. Aside from nails and brick, other archaeological architectural elements included over 500 turned lead fragments, 200 of these being found in a midden dating to circa 1760. The coffeehouse opened sometime between 1755 and 1760 in a building originally built as a storehouse in 1749 on the eastern-most lot on the northside of Duke of Gloucester Street. The building measured thirty-five-feet

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square in addition to an eight-foot-deep front porch. A photo of the building shortly before its demolition in the late nineteenth century shows it as a story-and-a-half structure, with a gable roof and large nine-over-nine first-floor windows. Below the first floor, a full-height cellar was used during the Coffeehouse period as a cook room. Charlton’s Coffeehouse catered to an elite clientele of merchants, politicians, and other officials on public business, benefitting from an advantageous location just beyond the front gates of the Capitol and the Exchange. These individuals would have been aware of the latest trends both in foods, drink, décor, and architecture. The building continued as a coffeehouse for several more years, although by 1767 it was advertised as a tavern, and by 1772 it had returned to its original design as a store and dwelling. By the late nineteenth century, the building had fallen into obscurity and disrepair. In 1880 the building was dismantled, and was replaced by a new, two-story Victorian house in 1891. Colonial Williamsburg acquired the Coffeehouse property in 1995 and lifted the Victorian-era house off its foundations in order to relocate the structure to just outside of the Historic Area. Subsequent study identified that the Coffeehouse’s colonial-era foundations were incorporated into the basement walls of the Victorian house that had been left in place following the relocation of the 1891 structure (Kostro and Ladd-Kostro 2010). In studying the surviving Coffeehouse foundations, Colonial Williamsburg architectural historians and mason Raymond Cannetti found evidence within the brickwork of a cellar window jamb having “heavier than normal” sockets for its frame, indicating that a casement window may have been in place in the original Coffeehouse structure (Chappell 2009). Coupled with the large amount of recovered window lead fragments, and one very significant turned window lead bearing the surprising and latest known date for a possible casement window in Williamsburg of 1766, archaeologists had tangible proof of casement windows existing in Williamsburg late into the eighteenth century. Casement windows were an architectural feature of the Coffeehouse site, either being added or repaired sometime on or after 1766. Conclusions of 1997 Window Lead Study

Archaeological evidence in the form of dated turned window leads has provided some of the most compelling material confirmation that casement windows were more common in the eighteenth-century capital city

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Figure 11.3. Drawing of 1766 turned lead from Charlton’s Coffeehouse. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Archaeological Collections.

of Williamsburg than originally thought. While old-fashioned in style and technology, the casement windows likely were not used alone but rather in combination with sash windows (Chappell 2009; Noёl Hume 1997). This may have been a function of economy rather than style. Archaeologically recovered eighteenth-century window leads from Williamsburg range in date from 1737 and 1748 to 1756 and 1766. While Williamsburg provenienced window leads are not always dated, we find the presence of window leads on most archaeological sites within the colonial capital. This quantitative study of turned window leads (see the appendix) contributes to a new perspective of the architecture of eighteenth-century Williamsburg as well as that of seventeenth-century Middle Plantation. Seemingly unyielding pieces of lead illustrate the value of returning to an archaeological collection and reanalyzing earlier excavated materials. Interpretation of Findings within Colonial Williamsburg

With over eighty-eight original structures from the eighteenth century and 400+ buildings built or rebuilt to the style or period of the colonial capital, Colonial Williamsburg’s commitment to the choice of one time period to interpret is fairly clear. With this come decades of evolving research, early decisions, best decisions, best guesses, budgets, interpretations, precision and imprecision. Having the flexibility to create changes to any of the

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decades-old (and even recent) decisions is obviously complicated and falls into the most idealistic category of reinterpretation for researchers and archaeologists at the Foundation. However, as reality presses to the forefront with necessary consideration as to what it takes to interpret and run such a vast operation with many moving parts, each having its own needs and plans, it can be very difficult to align the ideal and the “real” of any given research topic conclusion. Window leads are no exception to this—simple and seemingly insignificant, yet important, if Colonial Williamsburg wishes to present the restored town of eighteenth-century Williamsburg as we believe the archaeological evidence shows it to have existed. Visitors are confronted with the reconstructed historic town that for many is perplexing as it sits within what is otherwise a mostly modern setting. It is not uncommon to be asked what existed before, is the town “real,” as well as “what happened to the town and its occupants?” To pick but one period to interpret always carries with it the risk of and to a degree the acceptance of the flattened temporal context. In the case of Williamsburg, how do visitors understand the significance of the architecture, layout of the town on a formal city grid, how it came to survive the centuries, who lives there now, and what Colonial Williamsburg is as a “living history museum”? Even as early as 1932, Colonial Williamsburg restoration archaeologists and architects were debating what should appear on the reconstructed landscape. Having found window leads at Bassett Hall, the home (when in Williamsburg) of restoration financier John D. Rockefeller Jr., and an additional “leaded” site located in the southwest end of town, the leads were assumed to come from “early houses” and raised one of the first conundrums as to reconstruction (CWF Archives, 1932)—to reconstruct the seventeenth century or not and its potentially differing architectural appearance and place within the historic story. In the case of the Coffeehouse, where there is tightly dated archaeological contexts providing association of the 1766 turned window lead with the Coffeehouse period, the museum had a rare opportunity to reintroduce this architectural element to the eighteenth-century landscape, primarily because once archaeology was completed, the building was slated for reconstruction. Based on the 1880 photo of the old structure showing a large sash window on the front of the Coffeehouse not long before its demolition, the 1766 marked lead and window jamb evidence revealed in the surviving Coffeehouse foundations, architectural historians concluded that casement windows were most likely in place in the lower level of the building and

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thusly should be rebuilt the same (Carson and Lounsbury 2013; Chappell 2009). While the Coffeehouse reconstruction afforded a relatively painless insertion of the conclusions of the window lead study, the task of how to expand the recreation of latticed windows on second stories of structures, other cellars, and possibly even storefront windows remains difficult at best and would necessitate careful individual casement window evidence reports for dozens of structures in Williamsburg. Additionally, the cost would be challenging and possibly prohibitive. But it could also be asked why a window choice and interpretation should matter in the larger Foundation initiative. For the purist approach, Colonial Williamsburg Foundation outlines the mission in its Code of Ethics dated April 2017: The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, a not-for-profit corporation, is steward of the places, objects, artifacts, and works of the founding generation of America. The Foundation preserves and interprets the tools and skills that built a new nation, as well as the stories of the diverse peoples, conflicting interests, and historical, political, economic, social, religious, and cultural forces that forged a new idea of the worth of an individual—transforming human subjects into sovereign citizens. The Foundation’s staff is dedicated to understanding and teaching the beginning of the American Experiment and its relevance to citizenship today. Our purpose is reflected in our Mission Statement: “To Feed the Human Spirit by Sharing America’s Enduring Story.” (colonialwilliamsburg.org) Or in the words of Colonial Williamsburg founder John D. Rockefeller Jr., “ . . . that the future may learn from the past.” While it would be easy to cast all this in the light of the unrealistic “ideal,” there are examples of similar large-scale changes made by Colonial Williamsburg after archaeological excavations revealed new and differing information. Results from archaeological excavations at the Peyton Randolph site prompted the almost immediate resituating of a smokehouse door on what was, at that time, a newly completed reconstructed structure. Archaeological excavations at the Raleigh Tavern in 2016 have changed not only the face of the building by discovering previously elusive evidence supporting the addition of a front porch, but also the way in which visitors interact with the building and how the Foundation interpreters interpret the structure and its eighteenth-century place in history. Research and interpretation at Colonial Williamsburg is very much a dynamic process, and

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these examples speak to the standards of both archaeological and architectural preciseness as well as the general level of exactness that in the best of times is practiced at the Foundation (Brown and Edwards 2006; Erickson 2017; Kostro 2004). The struggle of how to balance interpretation and Mr. Rockefeller’s mandate “that the future may learn from the past” with the realities of the history and presentation of the Foundation restoration presents archaeologists and the Foundation with an opportunity to rethink and create new ways to interpret what is new within a framework of the old. Colonial Williamsburg cannot, as has been suggested by some visitors, create a new part of town depicting the seventeenth century, followed by a slice of the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries. Colonial Williamsburg cannot easily remove windows within the historic area and replace them with casements or show the outlying industrial and trade complexes such as the Wray Carpentry Yard, which were so vital to the life of Williamsburg. In a place like Williamsburg with a storied and rich past, it is necessary to choose a point in time for interpretation. And even more relevant in this case, it is a necessity to sometimes live with earlier decisions as to the appearance of the town in order to create a unified scene rather than a disjointed historical experience. However this does not mean that reconstruction scenarios similar to those of the window lead study cannot be interpreted to the public, but rather that they can be approached with a tandem solution of physically limited examples within the historic area and access to digital reconstruction. Digital applications—such as the former Colonial Williamsburg Digital History Center’s Virtual Williamsburg project, where archaeologists, historians, and architects worked to design a digital colonial cityscape of Williamsburg on the eve of the American Revolution so that a visitor might move through time, structures, and events—would be a logical place to embed difficult to re-create archeological findings (see Inker, chapter 12 in this volume). Although the Virtual Williamsburg project has been furloughed, it points the Foundation in the direction of other content vehicles such as ArcGIS StoryMaps, to showcase change over time as well as modify, add, or correct the Colonial Williamsburg landscape more readily than physical reconstructions. Future digital research sources could be expanded to include the Middle Plantation, artifact studies, landscape, and other educational topics that are problematic to fully, or in some cases even partially, reconstruct within Colonial Williamsburg’s historic area. While it would be most gratifying to answer affirmatively when a visitor asks, “Is it all accurate and real?,” the reality is no, it is not. The historical

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changes encountered and their subsequent interpretations created by archaeologists, historians, interpreters, and the greater administration at Colonial Williamsburg since the Foundation Reconstruction are laced with layered nuances, institutional histories and complexities, changing focuses, new documents and sources of information, as well as holes within history itself. For a living history museum to nimbly adjust, reconstruct, and successfully interpret newly discovered and at times altered history for its patrons, there needs to be an embrace of the intellectual framework and evolution that coexists with a place like Colonial Williamsburg. Success is achieved when the visitor appreciates and can see and accept the sometimes decades-long research process of reinterpretations, and can then revel in the moment of discovery that, yes, at this time, Colonial Williamsburg believes it to be accurate and “real.”

12 A Virtual Williamsburg Contextualizing Archaeological Data within a Virtual Environment Peter A. Inker

This chapter focuses on the immersive digital environment called Virtual Williamsburg, a digital initiative undertaken by Colonial Williamsburg. Virtual Williamsburg was a virtual environment that captured Williamsburg’s rich and extensive archaeological datasets in a series of highly dynamic pedagogical research models. Through realistic digital reconstructions, Virtual Williamsburg offered the audience the potential for understanding varying levels of archaeological data in an accessible and queryable environment. The project integrated numerous sources of archaeological research providing new insights into the town’s history, appearance, and development. While the digital reconstruction is no longer fully accessible to the public, it is still used internally by Colonial Williamsburg to access the wide range of Colonial Williamsburg’s digital media associated with the town during the eighteenth century. Elements of the project continue to enhance the visitor’s experience online, and in the future it is planned they will enhance the experience onsite. This chapter will initially discuss and illustrate the thinking and methodologies used to integrate and contextualize diverse sets of archaeological data in a virtual environment. This will be followed by a brief overview of the application of data and how we can create authenticity and openness in digital archaeological reconstructions. The initial work of the 3D Visualization project focused mainly on creating a digital re-creation of the colonial cityscape of Williamsburg on the eve of the American Revolution—specifically 2 o’clock p.m. on May 15, 1776 (Virtual Williamsburg 2015). An important date in American history, this was when the Virginian Burgesses discussed whether to break their ties with Britain and declare independence. It is no coincidence this vote was in

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Williamsburg, as the city was Virginia’s capital and Virginia was the largest and wealthiest colony in the New World. While there have been a number of digital reconstructions of the homes of the Founding Fathers of Colonial America, such as Mount Vernon, Montpelier, and Monticello (Mount Vernon 2016; Thomas Jefferson Foundation 2005; University of Virginia 2014), few have attempted to create an entire city of the period. As can be imagined, modeling a city is no small challenge, but doing so presents us with the opportunity to represent a wide range of human experience. At the time Williamsburg was laid out it conformed to a grid plan set on a milelong axis running from the Capitol in the east to the College of William & Mary in the west. The archaeological evidence indicates that by 1776 the city included over 500 buildings. Taking these facts into account, the model worked through the archaeology block by block, beginning in the east with the area around the Capitol. During the modeling process, each component was researched, reassessed, and reinterpreted. By choosing a specific date and time, we can provide the viewer with a consistent rendition of the past, one that does not confuse the viewer with differing years, times, of day or cultural behavior. The models were subsequently connected to digitized versions of the archaeological and historical sources. The result provided a new visual interpretation of the city, but more than that it was an interpretation integrated with its source material—in effect, contextualizing the data in an eighteenth-century environment, albeit a virtual one. Virtual Williamsburg’s goal was not just to reconstruct the city of Williamsburg, but also to make it accessible as online pedagogical 3D models. Research conducted with Colonial Williamsburg’s guests has shown that they are looking for new and meaningful ways of interacting with history and prefer programs engaging them with a sense of being transported into the past (Carson 2008). In recent years virtual modeling has begun to provide this sense of transportation, developed principally through the gaming industry but now expanding into many other virtual experiences. One such was Birdly, a real-time immersion in which the user can experience what it is like to fly like a bird by combining virtual and physical simulation (Somniacs 2015). Virtual Williamsburg developed a similar phenomenological approach: reimagining the already existing physical city in a framework for the contextualization of archaeological evidence revitalized the interpretation and illustration of archaeological data. Integrating data into virtual heritage is becoming more common, and has recently been undertaken at Mount Vernon using a Historic Building Information model (HBIM) (Mount Vernon 2016). For Virtual Williamsburg we wanted to have a more

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dynamic approach to the user interface than a plain HBIM. A sense of transportation was developed in Virtual Williamsburg by recreating a 3D environment, one that also provided a contextualized point of entry for the user to the model’s data. Virtual Williamsburg’s immersive quality allowed a user to move in real time using a videogame engine (Unity) and to explore space in the moment as it were. The learning environment was investigative and included spatial and object tags that provided information and context on the immediate material culture, as well as the built and natural environments. An opportunity was also provided to read further on aspects of individual subjects by connecting to Colonial Williamsburg’s extensive digital library and collected websites. This allowed a user to connect to a wide and diverse range of subject matter associated with even the smallest object through a visual medium. This form of integration of historical data into real-world environments made headlines when the Museum of London realized its Streetmuseum app (de Peyer 2014). It is an approach that is rapidly taking hold throughout the heritage sector. Future work at Colonial Williamsburg will go further and examine interactive user interfaces that permit browsing of archaeological and historical data onsite at the historic location of the data. Experimentation is currently under way using image projection and augmented reality to introduce the digital world into the real world. It is not always initially obvious to the observer why we would build a virtual model of a city that is already reconstructed in the physical world. On closer inspection, though, it becomes clear that the virtual model is an entirely different kind of reconstruction. In the physical world reconstructions can be quite static, and making even the smallest of changes can be expensive. Virtually, however, we can create a world that can be altered and iterated to show transformation over time or differences of interpretation. Models can be produced that illustrate the relative phases developed from archaeological research. Topography can be morphed to show erosion and deposition based on stratigraphic phasing. All of these models can be quickly enhanced to show alternate versions and updated when new data become available. By modeling the city to a specific date and time of day we can be very specific about the context of objects, and retain continuity when moving from exteriors to interiors of models to keep the observer in the moment. When a new model is created at a different date or time of day we should be explicit so that the viewer knows they have changed their temporal or spatial setting. Select properties can be digitally recreated to multiple periods, allowing chronological changes to be

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Figure 12.1. Virtual Garden with guides. Author created. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

juxtaposed—almost an impossibility in the real world. A similar approach has been used at Montpelier and Monticello, allowing the user to see multiple digital iterations of a single site, enhancing our understanding of site change and formation (Thomas Jefferson Foundation 2005; University of Virginia 2014). Similarly, these virtual reconstructions can also provide an opportunity for archaeologists to examine evidence of Williamsburg’s past that is unavailable or inaccessible today. Some of the archaeological remains of Williamsburg are buried under reconstructions, and others have not been physically reconstructed. Likewise, onsite reconstructions have limitations, such as accessibility being curtailed by modern-day intrusions. Although a digital model can never replace an onsite examination, it can allow three-dimensional access to spaces that might not be possible in the real world or even in the two-dimensional plane of a photo. As a repository of the current state of knowledge of archaeology in Williamsburg, Virtual Williamsburg also became a tool for those planning excavation or physical reconstruction. It provided an opportunity for current conclusions to be presented through the application and presentation of varying levels of archaeological data within a virtual environment. Alternate versions of the same reconstructions were explored, and explicit questions posed and pursued. Further, by pre-testing a theory virtually, archaeology can be better informed prior to ground proofing. A recent

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example of this approach was seen at the Raleigh Tavern, where the virtual reconstruction of the porch of the tavern led to renewed interest in the porch being excavated and reconstructed (Sullivan 2016). The visual contextualization of these data provided an easy way to query and test conclusions and hypotheses, before moving to geophysical or ground testing theories and committing to excavation. It also meant we could easily review previous interpretations and revisit old assumptions in the light of new research and data. Methodology

As well as the presentation of data, Virtual Williamsburg applied the conclusions of archaeology to reconstruct an authentic virtual experience. Before we began modeling, we first made a comprehensive analysis of the research undertaken on the site. We created a chronology and phasing for the structures and topography of the area, developing on existing hypotheses and producing new ones. Initially we modeled existing buildings on the site, using computer-aided drafting software (AutoCAD). This model was then used to critique the existing reconstructions based on the new analysis of the site we had developed. The result of this evaluation was the revision and development of the model with our updated conclusions—all the time recording the revisions we made for posterity. We revisited archaeological and historical evidence for the site’s chronological development and topographical evolution to capture how it looked in the spring of 1776. Once we were happy with the general form and function of the site, we went on to model it in great detail, including individual bricks and shingles. By modeling to this level of detail we could ensure that individual elements, such as how windows and doorways articulated with the structure of the building, were precise. As a result of this methodology, the models are so accurate and detailed that they could be used to reconstruct an actual physical structure. Once we had established the digital geometry of the model, we went on to apply appropriate textures, colors, and lighting to the various surfaces of the model; this included buildings, objects and topography. To do this, the model was imported into a software program (3D Studio Max) designed for creative, rather than technical, uses. Based on the complexity of the geometry and the surface of the object to be modeled, some textures were generated procedurally (algorithmically in the computer’s software), while others were taken from digital photography of actual surfaces. This

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was not a simple decision and often was made on a case-by-case basis. For instance, initially we decided to use photographs of original brickwork in the construction of the buildings, taken from the actual buildings themselves. The results were unsatisfactory and difficult to use to produce accurate renditions of brick patterns, especially at the articulation point of bricks near the corners and openings of buildings. As a result of using this procedure we discovered what counts in the planning and modeling process. We found that by modeling each brick individually, we were able to create a more accurate reconstruction of the original structure. By digitally reenacting the process of construction, we also developed a more complete understanding of the formation processes of the structure, which helps in our understanding of the archaeology. This in turn led to a better appreciation of the archaeological record, particularly when it was only partial. Ultimately, by understanding the evidence of formation process we were better able to produce improved archaeological verisimilitude, resulting in authentic-looking sites that can be used to generate photorealistic images. As mentioned previously, one of the objectives of the Virtual Williamsburg project was to allow users to explore these environments in real time. Currently, the highly detailed photorealistic models use a significant amount of the computer’s resources. At the present time, there is no openly available computer software that can run photorealistic models in real time. This is one of the reasons the Virtual Williamsburg project is no longer online. Until software becomes commonly available, we have to make simpler models that run faster. To do this we assessed the model’s component elements. There is a subtle balance to be made in simplifying the detailed photorealistic images and the extremely detailed digital geometry. We reduced the complexity of the geometry of the model by rendering some of the simpler details two-dimensionally. In reducing the level of detail in the models, they can successfully mimic the high-resolution models they were derived from. Allied to this, more generic textures were applied to surfaces where possible, such as wood and brick. This process was applied across the model, from small items to large buildings and topography. Types of Data

Archaeologists collect many diverse sets of data, often at differing levels of informational resolution. These datasets are not always immediately compatible, or easily accessible within a museum setting. There also seems to be an inherent dichotomy between our ability to contend with incomplete and

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diverse sets of data, while at the same time reproducing a full and authentic reconstruction of the past. As it is now common to find virtual reconstructions embedded in cultural heritage settings, we must develop new ways to examine and present the diversity of these data. In recent years the examination of varying levels of archaeological data through digital reconstruction has become feasible, and this has been the particular approach of the Virtual Williamsburg project. The dynamic quality of the model allowed us opportunities to explore, to test hypotheses and conclusions, and to understand the current state of archaeological thinking through an alternative medium to the more traditional black ink on white paper. In order to reconstruct the three-dimensional world of the past, these data had to be brought together as a seamless whole. In a virtual reconstruction there was no room for gaps in the model; we could not omit data because it was incomplete. This forced us to make decisions and develop conclusions that in print might be left unaddressed. As the other chapters in this volume describe, a significant quantity of archaeological excavation, as well as historical and architectural research, has taken place in Williamsburg during the past eighty years. The results of these investigations have provided us with a complex and wide-ranging collection of datasets. These data are varied, and so must be applied in different ways. Objects and artifact fragments are often applied at the micro-scale, to a specific localized environment; whereas microscopic environmental evidence can be allied with topographic evidence and applied on the macro-scale. As part of the project, these assorted sets of data were collated into a wide framework, allowing an exploration of the data through contextualized reconstruction. These differing resolutions of data were used to determine the differing scales of the reconstruction. Scales of Data

The diverse qualities of the eighty years of archaeological evidence can be amplified by the varying levels of research and qualities of those data. Even with this caveat, the data can be divided into three broad groups, although these are by no means exclusive. The first are small-scale data with a high resolution of evidence, focusing on site-specific information and the micro environment. The second group is slightly more broad, focusing on the medium scale of information and a more localized environment. This approach allows limited analysis of an area slightly larger than a single site, providing a wider context to local site-based datasets. A recent example

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of this approach can be seen in Mount Vernon’s model: the main house was set within its grounds (Mount Vernon 2016). In a similar model, Dassault Systems’ Gaza 3D model used this approach to combine 3D-modeled reconstructions with photogrammetry and excavation reconstructions to provide a comprehensive study to the Giza plateau (Dassault Systems 2013). The last group consists of wide-scale data, with low resolution but on a grand citywide or even regional scale. This approach was initially applied to large cities, such as Rome; the Rome Reborn project used procedural techniques to reconstruct city data lost from the archaeological record and showing the entire city as it could have looked in AD 320 (Frischer 2013). The first set of data is representative of the small-scale high-resolution evidence, focusing on site-specific data and the micro environment. Using the recent reconstruction of Williamsburg’s coffeehouse as an example, we can clarify this approach. Research undertaken by the archaeological research department was combined with work developed by the architectural design department. The building known today as R. Charlton’s 1765 Coffeehouse was initially built as a store in 1750 by Robert Crichton. That building remained standing until the late 1880s when the old frame building was replaced by a new Victorian structure built on top of the previous building’s brick foundations. This new building, known as the Armistead House, stood for more than 100 years, and was removed in 1995, exposing the eighteenth-century foundations once again. Preliminary excavation began in earnest shortly afterward, continuing through 1998, and focusing on areas behind the building (Kostro et al. 2009:1). Subsequent work was undertaken inside the building cellar and adjoining areas in 2008. Ultimately, the results of this work culminated in the reconstruction of the original building, which to today is known as R. Charlton’s Coffeehouse. For Virtual Williamsburg the initial phases of the modeling process focused on the archaeological evidence gathered from the vicinity of a building, as well as understanding the traces of material culture and topographic features recovered from the excavations. To provide as complete a reconstruction as possible, these were then placed within the wider historical and architectural narratives developed for the property from the salvaged parts reused in the Victorian structure (Chappell 2009:11). One example of the use of small-scale data with a high resolution comes from the large number of delft tile sherds discovered during excavations of the interior of the 1750s period of the Coffeehouse. The diagnostic barred ox-head pattern on the lower left corner of the tile indicates it was manufactured in London England, possibly Lambeth, in the 1740s. This date confirmed its

Contextualizing Archaeological Data within a Virtual Environment · 229

Figure 12.2. Virtual reconstruction of Crichton Store (Charlton Coffeehouse) parlor. Author created. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

contemporary use during the earliest, storehouse period of this building, prior to its conversion to a coffeehouse in 1765. Tiles of this type were typically used around domestic fireplaces, an identification confirmed by gouge marks on the fireplace bricks made during their removal. The fragmentary character and deposition of the tiles confirmed they had been broken during removal as part of a renovation phase during the 1760s, probably as part of a wider change of the building’s use from a store to a coffeehouse. Similarly, analysis of paint and wallpaper from reused original woodwork discovered throughout the Victorian building gave us new insights into the wall and woodwork treatment (Buck 1997; Loeblich 2008). Paint analysis on one of the surviving doors from the house showed a sequence of fourteen generations of paint, allowing us to confirm appropriate periods for colors, the pre-1760s red-brown color scheme being typical for the period (Loeblich 2008:123–124). These brief examples show how with even the small resolution of data, some very detailed conclusions can be drawn, allowing the smallest material culture to be replicated and contextualized at a very limited level. Moving on to a slightly different set of data, we can focus on the medium-scale and the localized environment. Reconstruction of environment and topography has always played an important part of the reconstruction strategy of Virtual Williamsburg. Examples from Virtual Williamsburg include the Coffeehouse again, and at a slightly larger scale, the Sir

230 · Peter A. Inker

Christopher Wren Building (the Wren Building) of the historic campus at the College of William & Mary. Archaeology has demonstrated that in places the topography of Williamsburg is substantially different today from the way it was in the eighteenth century (Brinkley 1991). Uniquely, prior to the restoration of Williamsburg, in 1929 the town was surveyed at onefoot contours. This gave us a good understanding of the pre-restoration topography, but one that still preserved changes from the intervening 250 years since the 1770s. These topographic maps were used to develop an initial digital elevation map (DEM) for the entire city. While this topography is of modern rather than eighteenth-century Williamsburg, with the aid of localized archaeological stratigraphic data from across the city we have begun to roll back the topographic changes of the intervening centuries to begin to understand the wider eighteenth-century topography. The first site where a topographic reconstruction was applied was at the Coffeehouse to replicate its complex original topography. The 1929 topographic data was revised with more modern data from recent archaeological excavation. A decade’s worth of interdisciplinary research in the yard of the Coffeehouse culminated in the structure’s foundations being excavated in 2008, and the whole building being reconstructed the following year (Chappell 2009; Ladd-Kastro, chapter 11 in this volume). Excavations at the rear of the Coffeehouse revealed a large midden behind the building and a long history of deposition. Archaeological phasing of the northwest corner of the yard allowed us to develop a three-phase narrative for the topography of the site, defined by localized environmental events. The depth of the stratigraphy, particularly near the ravine to the west, showed the significant amount of erosion that had taken place since the middle of the eighteenth century. Using these dated archaeological surface elevations, the 1929 topographic lines in Virtual Williamsburg were altered back to their eighteenth-century locations. The resultant sweep of the contours indicated significant deposition had taken place in the nineteenth century extending toward the northeast, away from the building into the neighboring ravine (Kostro 2009:4). The excavation also had evidence of the original surface features associated with the building. At the front of the building a halo of ash was revealed and indicated that the front porch protruded into the street, evidence carefully replicated in the model. The model also captured the topography of middens on the sides and rear of the building, adding not only to our understanding of the deposition of material culture on the site, but also to the site’s changing topography. Experimentation was undertaken

Contextualizing Archaeological Data within a Virtual Environment · 231

using photographs of the stratigraphic layers of the rear midden to create textures for the model. The newly cleaned archaeological layers were imported into photo manipulation software (Photoshop) and overlain with images of weeds and dirt to mimic the surface as it would have looked with the dirt and erosion deposits laid down over time (Poole 2013). This was then applied to the surface of the model to replicate for the first time the look of the original eighteenth-century surface. These deposits, along with the results of the wider archaeological excavation, allowed us to develop a narrative for the site. Land management appears to have taken place from the beginning of the occupation in the 1750s. This is confirmed in historical sources where the Coffeehouse lot was the last in the area to be built upon. This was due in part to the location’s challenging slope, and was a feature also reflected in archaeobotanical evidence of verdant growth in the area (Kostro 2009:4) There was little in the way of drainage on the site other than the slope of the land into the ravine, so when the building was constructed this altered the natural drainage patterns, quickly resulting in the creation of an erosion gully. Similar erosion was created by a drip line at the rear of the property demarcating the runoff from the eaves of the building. Running from the east corner of the building, a shallow drainage ditch also demarcated the extent of expansion of the lot. Later, in the 1760s, the east boundary was more clearly demarcated, this time by a fence line. The fence divided accessible land on this side of the lot from the public land on the other. Based on the collation of results of macro-botanical analysis from this period, it is evident that there was significant growth of opportunistic plants such as grasses, nettles, and sedges in this area. All of these topographic and environmental changes were modeled and added to the different periods of the model providing the first real insight into the effect of these changes overtime. At a slightly lower resolution but on a wider scale, topographic and environmental archaeology has been used to initiate an assessment of the gardens and topography of the Wren Building on the far west side of eighteenth-century Williamsburg. Recent small-scale excavations in the yard of the Wren Building uncovered a series of planting holes identifiable as the remnants of trees and hedges from the once grand formal gardens of the College of William & Mary (Archer 2014). The college received its charter in 1693, and the first part of the building was complete by 1700, just as the city of Williamsburg was established. A new building was constructed after a fire in 1705, and it is this building that is famously recorded along with its formal gardens on the Bodleian plate of 1740. There are many references

232 · Peter A. Inker

Figure 12.3. Reconstruction of the Charlton Coffeehouse topography. Author created. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

to Williamsburg and the College of William & Mary (Carson 1965). One visitor was Ebenezer Hazard, who notes when he visited Williamsburg in 1777 that the gardens continued to have been well maintained into the later part of the century: At this Front of this College is a Court Yard, ornamented with Gravel Walks, Trees cut into different Forms, & Grass. (Shelley 1954:405) Similarly formal gardens are graphically represented in later works, such as Simcoe’s and Desandrouins’s maps of Williamsburg (Desandrouins 1782; Simcoe 1781). Archer’s 2004–2007 archaeological excavations in the formal gardens established the validity of these sources and defined the actual locations of planting holes for shrubs and trees (Archer 2014, 50). By associating this partial data with contemporary drawings and quotes, Virtual Williamsburg has reconstructed for the first time a more complete rendition of the gardens of the second college building dating to the 1770s. While this reconstruction is still in the preliminary phases of research, we are beginning to see how we can develop, from what is still a quite limited quality of archaeological evidence, the first new wide-scale interpretations of the site. Ultimately, this should prompt discussion and help develop further strategies for excavation and interpretation of subsequent areas of the site. The last group of archaeological data considered here consists of widescale data, with low resolution of detail but representative of grander citywide or even regional scales. A broader scale of data resolution can again be

Contextualizing Archaeological Data within a Virtual Environment · 233

Figure 12.4. Reconstruction of William & Mary’s Wren Yard, author created. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

derived from the 1929 one-foot topographic survey, mentioned above, applied to produce a digital elevation map of the entire city. Using modern archaeological research where available, the topography was adjusted in these areas to show a more accurate rendition of the eighteenth-century topography. Recent research for the eWilliamsburg project established the location of the known archaeological footprints of structures in Williamsburg, throughout the eighteenth century (Muse 2009). These 500+ buildings and outbuildings were added to the digital elevation map, along with known fence lines and roads. A textured environmental plan was added based on archaeological and historical sources, as well as environmental study. Pollen analysis and environmental data recovered from archaeological excavations of the past few decades enabled the inclusion of natural features, water courses, farmland, and woods to the topographic evidence. Maps and illustrations from the late eighteenth century confirm the regional biological environment when correlated with the environmental evidence. It can be seen, therefore, that by combining these various less detailed sources of evidence we are able to develop an authentic representation of the actual topography and environment of the eighteenth century on a citywide scale. The next phase of Virtual Williamsburg will be the expansion of this reconstruction methodology to the broader environs of Williamsburg. This wider-scale topography is developed in conjunction with the United States Geological Survey (USGS) 1.5-meter Lidar contour maps again creating a digital elevation map, this time drawn at a lower resolution but on a much

Figure 12.5. Reconstruction of Williamsburg’s environs. Author created. Historical Research and Digital History. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation.

Contextualizing Archaeological Data within a Virtual Environment · 235

wider scale. Maps from the Rochambeau collection, drawn in the 1780s, give us further environmental data on the wider environs of the region from the James River to the south to the York River in the north (D’Abouville 1781; Desandrouins 1782). Maps such as these can provide wide-scale coverage of the city based on generalized archaeological evidence, and provide preliminary data for ongoing site prospection and research strategies. Comparison of the eighteenth-century map with the modern digital elevation map helped to gauge the accuracy of the eighteenth-century cartographers. At its widest extent, Virtual Williamsburg examined the city in the perspective of the whole region, via a map of the whole of the middle peninsula and showing the main communication routes—the James and York rivers, and other cities such as Yorktown and Jamestown. This final image shows Williamsburg dwarfed within the landscape, and while this image has a low level of site-specific data, it presents a wide-scale representation of Williamsburg in its rich geographic and regional eighteenth-century setting. Considerations

In discussing the development of the digital archaeological reconstruction undertaken for Virtual Williamsburg, we must consider one final aspect. Digital reconstruction has the obvious benefit of providing a clear and accessible way to understand diverse sets of data. As has been shown, we can use the relative resolutions of the retrieved data to reconstruct the physical environment at differing levels. However, the very believable quality of these reconstructions must be tempered somewhat by the fact that these are only one possible interpretation of the evidence. The visual credibility of these reconstructions is also something of a drawback. It is all too easy to believe that these lifelike reconstructions are more than what they are—interpretations of sets of data within the current understanding of the specialists involved. It is therefore important to apply approaches already established in the physical reconstruction of archaeology to digital reconstructions. In 1964, archaeological consensus established the Venice charter as a guide to physically reconstructing archaeological remains. Article 12 is probably the most important for us, as it notes that Replacements of missing parts must integrate harmoniously with the whole, but at the same time must be distinguishable from the original so that restoration does not falsify the artistic or historic evidence. (ICOMOS 1965)

236 · Peter A. Inker

More recently, the Venice Charter has been developed and adopted for digital reconstruction in documents such as the London charter, which was subsequently codified by the Seville Charter (Denard 2012; LópezMenchero Benicho 2013). Taking this work into account, the Virtual Williamsburg project therefore aligned itself with these already established practices. While the models function on many levels, it was important that we were clear that they principally reproduce only the current state of knowledge of the city of Williamsburg, and are thus open to be questioned, amended, or replaced as further conclusions are made. During the construction of the models, we were, therefore, conscious of the need to be explicit about visualizing uncertainty within these data. This is an ongoing aspect of the project, which has evolved from earlier work defining uncertainty undertaken for the eWilliamsburg project (Muse 2009). The eWilliamsburg project looked at the archaeological and historical evidence for buildings, lots, and occupants of eighteenth-century Williamsburg. Using GIS we were able to generate 2D maps of the entire city for each year of the century, using color to show the data with five levels of chronological and spatial uncertainty. How we visualize uncertainty in 3D models is far more complex and has been an ongoing debate within the wider field of digital Heritage (Zuk 2005). Some aspects of this approach are likely to include rendering uncertainty about the data using color saturation, transparency, crispness, or vector lines (MacEachen et al. 2005). As we have seen, Virtual Williamsburg modeled the city of Williamsburg at varying levels of resolution, ranging from the wide-scale topographic and environmental level, right down to the level of the individual artifact and its localized environment. The digital reconstruction contextualizes Colonial Williamsburg Foundation’s rich and wide-ranging archaeological datasets in accessible and engaging research models. While Virtual Williamsburg recognized that these reconstructions are only one potential version of the past, and are not final, unique, or static, they allow us multiple opportunities to explore and to test hypotheses and conclusions within a phenomenological perspective. Ultimately, this approach provides a dynamic virtual interface to understand the current state of archaeological research in Williamsburg.

Contextualizing Archaeological Data within a Virtual Environment · 237

Acknowledgments

The Virtual Williamsburg project began in 2006 with a one-year planning study, funded by the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, and undertaken in collaboration with the University of Virginia’s Institute for Advanced Technology in the Humanities (IATH). The project demonstrated the effectiveness of 3D modeling for visualizing an historical site. Consequently, in 2008 the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, again in partnership with IATH, received a National Leadership Grant from the Institute of Museum and Library Services to model the Revolutionary City neighborhood of Williamsburg’s east end. Duke of Gloucester Street, from Botetourt to Waller Street, was reconstructed virtually to provide a fresh interpretation of that part of Williamsburg that served as the backdrop for critical events leading up to the American Revolution. Subsequent funding came from the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) under a Digital Humanities Initiative Challenge Grant, the estate of Mark Hicks, the Grainger Foundation, as well as support from the estate of John O’Donnell, the estate of Joan J. Woods, and many others.

Afterword Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards

Contributors to this volume answered the call to address and present the significant questions and challenges of their research, providing details about results and lessons that are applicable to approaching other historical places and uses of archaeology and historical reconstruction. In each chapter, we have seen reflective assessments of each scholar’s intellectual journey on a range of individual and collaborative projects, highlighting achievements as well as directions for future research. All of the authors share a common dedication to finding answers to compelling questions about the past environment, the entanglement of humans and animals, the diversity of cultural expressions and practices in Williamsburg and beyond, and, in particular, why these questions about the past are so important in the present. In doing so, they showcase the achievements and central importance of an interdisciplinary approach to addressing Williamsburg as a subject of research, as an educational space, and as a living place. Yet for all the significant insights presented in this innovative compilation of recent historical archaeological research and ongoing studies on Williamsburg, Virginia, and its vicinity, there remain many stories to tell, narratives to be challenged, and evidence to be explored. We are acutely aware of one critical lacuna in existing archaeological research on Williamsburg, and that is the Native imprint. Native Americans were a constant and daily presence in the colonial town and interacted with newcomers with diverse and even drastic consequences for these first nation people (see chapters 1 and 4 in this volume), yet are underrepresented in the scholarly literature. In this volume, we have taken some steps toward overcoming this significant gap in understanding of the colonial town, particularly in the consideration of the Brafferton Indian School project discussed by Mark Kostro. Archaeologists have also long noted the nearly ubiquitous presence of locally produced “colonoware” ceramics in eighteenth-century

240 · Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram and Andrew C. Edwards

Williamsburg contexts, many of which can be attributed to Native potters producing wares in a tradition still practiced by Powhatan-descended Virginia Indian Nations such as the Pamunkey and Mattaponi. But such material markers need not be present for us to begin to re-people eighteenth-century Williamsburg with its Native inhabitants and visitors. Documentary evidence makes it clear that Native people journeyed from near and far to the colonial capital to engage in diplomacy as well as commerce, to provide labor, or, as in the case of the Brafferton School, to attain a colonial education. In truth, all Williamsburg spaces were, at times, also Native places. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation’s focus on presenting the historical interpretation of the African American experience began early in the museum, and became concerted in 1979. So too has the Foundation begun the long overdue process of researching and representing Native lives. At time of this writing, the Foundation has six positions for Native American interpreters who lead programs, including the “Native American Life Series,” a daily program that explores how Native Americans lived and worked in the Tidewater, Virginia, area. Other programs, such as “Crossing Paths” and “FAQs with Native American Interpreters” address the experiences of contemporary Native people in the United States. It is our hope and expectation that not only will these programs expand, but that research in the historical archaeology of the Native experience in Williamsburg and its environs will make a significant contribution to this expansion as a central part of the continued effort to address the legacies of early modern colonialism. The research process never finishes, and so this present volume represents not the final word on any topic, but a valuable overview and synthesis of topics and questions and approaches that will continue to evolve and to incorporate new perspectives. Williamsburg archaeology, and especially as it is coupled with reconstruction at Colonial Williamsburg, has never been static, and so we, and all the contributors to this volume, look forward to new directions, new discoveries, and new understandings of an old place.

Appendix Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Block and Area

Context Number

No. of leads

Bassett Hall Bassett Hall Bassett Hall Bassett Hall Bassett Hall Bassett Hall Bassett Hall

01AC 01AC 01AC 01AC 01AC 01AC 01AC

165 68 71 354 285 322 323

1 1 3 3 9 1 1

Bassett Hall Bassett Hall

01AC 01AC

330 383

1 1

Bassett Hall Benjamin Waller House Chiswell-Bucktrout House Chiswell-Bucktrout House Chiswell-Bucktrout House Chiswell-Bucktrout House Chiswell-Bucktrout House Bracken House Bracken House

01AC 01BB 2H 02HB 02HB 02HB 02HB 02KC 02KC

350 157 ER1615C

3 2 1 18 1 2 7 1

Bracken House Hubard Lot Robert Carter Nicolas House Robert Carter Nicolas House Robert Carter Nicolas House Robert Carter Nicolas House

02KC 02PB 04A 04A 04A 04A

270 ER1225A ER1195 ER1195E ER1225A

2 6 2 10 2 2

04B 04B 04B 04B

773B 801D 802C 809B

2 1 1 1

Site Name

Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen

1638 1636 258 269

Inscription None None None None None “EW” None obvious—very small fragment of lead None None—window lead ribbon None None None “EW” None None None None None—window lead ribbon None “BW” “EW 17” “H I” None “IW1” (W has a roulette through it.) None None “GD 1” “-A. A” (Tops of both A’s are missing so that letter resembles an H with slanting sides.)

242 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen

Block and Area 04B 04B 04B

Context Number ER 806C ER 807F ER 809D

No. of leads 3 4 2

Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen

04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B 04B

ER 809E ER 809H ER 809J ER 811D ER 854 ER 856K ER 862B ER 863A ER 864A ER 872A ER 872B ER 926A ER 930E ER 931C ER 931D ER 992B ER791 ER791B ER794K

1 1 3 1 2 1 1 2 1 8 4 4 2 1 2 2 1 1 4

Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen

04B 04B 04B 04BA 04BA 04BA

ER810B 801K ER 808D 797D 791

1 3 3 1 1 7

Custis Garden/Kitchen Custis Garden/Kitchen Public Hospital Public Hospital Public Hospital

04BA 04BA 4C 4C 4C

850 850 ER2588M ER3044 ER2967S

1 1 1 2 1

Public Hospital

04C

ER1786L

1

Inscription “EW 17” None “-A. A” (Tops of both A’s are missing so that letter resembles an H with slanting sides.) None None “G D I” None none None “E W” “ V I V” None “G D I” “7” “WC 1717” “EW 1717” “E” None None “O V” None None “A.” (Point of A is missing. “? 1717” First letter is illegible.) None None None None None “VIV,” “VIV,” “/,” “V,” “VIV,” “VIV” “EW 1717” “ . . . 17” None None Possible inscription but very faint “EW 1708 IC”

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 243

Context Number ER2531G

No. of leads 1

04C 04C 04C 04C 04C 04C

ER2584L ER3039 ER2650E ER2650D ER2561S ER2587P

2 1 3

Public Hospital Public Hospital Douglass Theater Douglass Theater Douglass Theater Douglass Theater

04CA 04CA 08GE 08GE 08GE 08GE

1704 1791E 101 1199 2531 2919

1 1 2 1 2 2

Douglass Theater Kings Arms Tavern

08GE 09BC

2843 60

1 2

Kings Arms Tavern Kings Arms Tavern Kings Arms Tavern Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary)

09CC 09CC 09CC 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L 09L

29 130 131 1200 473 745 945 954 1043 1043 1131 1170 1199 1221 1221 1230 1252 1182 798

1 1 2 1 1 1 1 1 2 2 1 1 1 2 1 2 1 1 1

Site Name Public Hospital Public Hospital Public Hospital Public Hospital Public Hospital Public Hospital Public Hospital

Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary)

Block and Area 04C

1 1

Inscription “4.SR” (Inscription is very faint, nearly illegible.) “E.W. 1717” None None None None “W 1674”? (Doublestruck and difficult to read) None None None None None None—window lead ribbon None None—window lead ribbon None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None

244 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Shields Tavern (Marots Ordinary) Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Wetherburn’s Tavern Charlton Charlton Charlton Anderson Forge Anderson Forge Anderson Forge

Block and Area 09L 9L 9L 9L 9L 9L 9L 9L 9L 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09N 09NA 09NA 09NA 09NA 09PB 09PC 09PC 10A 10A 10A

Context Number 559 373 563 781 175 850 983 1221 522 1033 1002N 1005C 1007G 1007J 1026D 1029D 1030R 1035D 1040G 1043A 1043Q 1045C 1047M 1054Q 1116B 1116C 725A

1134 138 130 133 5 8 1910W

No. of leads 1 1 2 1 1 2 3 1 1 1 1 3 2 2 2 1 2 1 2 1 4 1 1 1 2 2 2 3 1 2 1 1 6 1 3 1 1 1

Inscription None None None None None None None None Could not be opened None None None None None None None None None None “EW * 1693 * RA *” None None None None None None None None “BW 1717” None None None None None None None “D 1 (?) 7 0 D” “GGI4” (Second G is upside down and backward, and 4 is backward.)

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 245

Site Name Anderson Forge Anderson Forge Anderson Forge

Block and Area 10A 10A 10A

Context Number ER1909F ER1945B ER1925

No. of leads 1 3 1

Anderson Forge Anderson Forge Anderson Forge Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury

10AP 10AP 10AP 10AR 10AR 10AR 10AR

15 58 135 165 468 807 478

1 2 1 1 4 1 1

Armoury Armoury Armoury

10AR 10AR 10AR

537 601 601

1 1 1

Armoury Armoury

10AR 10AR

641 537

2 12

Armoury

10AR

429

2

James Anderson Tin Shop James Anderson Tin Shop James Anderson Tin Shop James Anderson Tin Shop James Anderson Tin Shop Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury

10AS 10AS 10AS 10AS 10AS 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT

3 25 32 39 43 165 46 165 16 95 97 98 142 273 228 253

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 3 2 1 2 1 2 1

Inscription “EW 1717” None “GD 1750” (Both the 7 and the 5 are facing backward.) None None “EW 1717” None None None Ribbon fragment from window lead None None “(?) G D I” (The D has only half its back post— may be a backward C.) None One is inscribed “EW.” No others were inscribed. “GD 1” “46” (The 4 and 6 are facing backward.) None None None None None None None None None None None “GD” None None None None

246 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Block and Area 10AT 10AT 10AT

Context Number 318 91 128

No. of leads 1 4 1

Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury Armoury James Anderson Tin Shop

10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AT 10AW 10AW 10AW 10AW 10AW 10GE

144 1140 1240 2204 165 94 18 76 79 85 169 8

2 10 2 1 6 1 1 2 3 1 2 2

James Anderson Tin Shop James Anderson Tin Shop George Reid House Market House Nassau Street

10GE 10GE 11E 12AE 14BC

48 64 ER668B 189 241

2 2 1 2 18

Nassau Street Nassau Street

14BC 14BC

242 242

1

Nassau Street Nassau Street

14BC 14BC

266 314

1

Nassau Street

14BC

313

Site Name Armoury Armoury Armoury

Inscription None None Ribbon fragment from window lead None None None None None None None None None None None None—window lead ribbon None None “1679” None “W.M.1674.W,” “93*W*M*” “*M*1693*?*” None *?*B*1693*W*B*” “W 674.W.C,” “*W*M* 168[*G*P” “W 1674 W.C,” WM 1670.W.C “W” , “*B*W,” “1695*,” “WM 1674” “WM 1674” “M 1674” 1674.W” “W.M. 1674.W.C.” “W.M.1674.W.C.” (appears 5 times) “W*B*,” “W*B*,” “W.M.1674,” “*1693*W*B*,” “74.W.C,” “W.M.1674.W.C” (appears twice on same lead), “W.M.167” and “74.W.C” (both inscriptions appear on same lead).

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 247

Site Name Nassau Street Nassau Street

Block and Area 14BC 14BC

Context Number 313 382

No. of leads 1 9

Nassau Street Nassau Street Nassau Street

14BC 14BC 14BC

7

Nassau Street Nassau Street

14BC 14BC

395 314

1 34

Nassau Street Nassau Street Nassau Street Nassau Street

14BC 14BC 14BC 14BC

302 128

4 1 1 1

Nassau Street

14BC

242

Travis House Brafferton Indian School Brafferton Indian School

14G 16CB 16CB

598A 56 90

MULTIPLE 1 1 1

Brafferton Indian School Brafferton Indian School Brafferton Indian School

16CB 16CB 16CB

92 125 151

1 1 1

Brafferton Indian School Brafferton Indian School

16CB 16CB

297 248

1 1

Brafferton Indian School Brafferton Indian School Brafferton Indian School Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Building Wren Yard

16CB 16CB 16CB 16JA 16JA 16JA 16GA 16JA

259 261 261 211 52 388 309 20

2 1 2 1 1 4 2 2

34

156

Inscription “1674 W.C” “W.M. 1674,” “* *” (inscription illegible—only flowers visible) “W.M.1674.W.C.,” “W.C.” “1693*W*B*” “W.M. 1674 W.C.” (appears twice on same lead), ”W.M.1674.W.C.,” “*?*?*”(very chewed up—only flowers visible) “*B*G*,” “*P*,” “1674.W.C.,” “A 16?3*W*P (?)*” None “B*G* 1693,” “WM 1674,” “1693,” “4.W.C.” “*,” “1674” None None Ribbon fragment from window lead “.7 4 W” “? W ?” “6 7 4 . ? . C .” “ * “ “1719 AN” None None—window lead ribbon None “XI” None—window lead ribbon None “1. .57” (Both the 5 and the 7 are backward.) None None None None None None None None

248 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard

Block and Area 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA

Context Number 251 175 254 291 290 339 320 320

No. of leads 1 2 5 10 1 3 6 1

Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard

16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA 16JA

351 349 368

2 5 4 1 1 1 1 3 10 1 2 1 2 1 1 1 1 2 2 4 1

Wren Yard Wren Yard Wren Yard Raleigh Tavern Raleigh Tavern Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

16JA 16JA 16JA 17BC 17BC 17KB 17KB

32 173 0 7 154

371 385 385 390 388 74 393 269 291 53 53 54 94 113 117 119 164

1 3 1 1 2 8 2

Inscription None None None None None None None None—intersection of 3 leads None None “EW 1717” “V” None None None None None None None None None None “WM 1747” “H 1747” None None None None None “GI 75C” (The 7, 5, and C are all facing backward.) None None None None None “1756” “H 1766” None—no rouletting present

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 249

Site Name Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

Block and Area 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KB 17KC 17KC 17KC

Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC

Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC

Context Number 134 403 430 430 434

913 918

No. of leads 2 1 1 2 2 1 2 1 1 1 1 3 2 1 3

76

1

98

1 1 1 1

11 12 122 272 296 495

3 1

203 840 851 854 866 912 910 840

3 3 3 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 10 2

Inscription None None None None “VI” None None None None None None None None None “1766” “1756” None None Not a turned lead—no rouletting None None None Not a turned lead—no rouletting “EW” None None None None None None None None “IM 1753” None “65” “.1717” None None None

250 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

Block and Area 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KC 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD

Context Number 750 847

No. of leads 1 1

866 872

1 1 1 1 1 1 3 2

103 103

1 1 2 1 1 2 1 8 2 3 1 1 2 5 4

Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD

116 128 164 129 131 130 138 139 140 137 144

2 4 14 1 4 2 1 1 1 5 2

925 676 676 678 325 765 140 2 88 22 23 23 23

Inscription None None None None None None None None None None None None “1714” None None None None None “M 1750” None None None None Cruciform lead join None “6” “. 7” (The 7 is backward; no other numbers are legible.) “V” None None None “766” and “766” None None “1766” None None “1737”

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 251

Site Name Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

Block and Area 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KD 17KE

Context Number 145 148 152 159 160 162 164 168 170 178 169 171 178 198 201 202 203 205 211 213 214

222 223 225 224 230 229 259 270 277 320 322 217 22 285

No. of leads 2 1 1 1 2 1 1 12 2 41 3 2 5 1 2 1 2 2 1 3 1 2 6 1 5 2 53 8 2 9 1 2 2 1 3 1 1 1 1

Inscription None None None None None “EW” “1760” None “EW.17” None “1756” None None “U” None None None “IH 173” None None None None None None None None None None None None None None Not a window lead None None None None None “C.1756” (The numbers are reversed.)

252 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

Block and Area 17KE 17KE 17KG 17KG 17KG 17KG 17KG 17KG 17KG 17KG 17KJ 17KJ 17KJ 17KJ 17KJ 17KJ 17KJ 17KJ

Context Number

11 85 109 112 115 151 179 295 43 44 56 66 76 81 91 108

No. of leads 1 2 1 2 4 1 1 2 1 2 1 1 1 1 1 6 1 1

Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

17KK 17KK 17KL 17KL 17KL 17KM 17KM

91 69 60 123 61 199 6

4 1 1 1 1 3 5

Coffeehouse Coffeehouse

17KM 17KM

36 74

3 1

Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Coffeehouse Prentis Store

17KM 17KM 17KM 17KM 18C

65 87 123 123 1422

1 5 5 5

Inscription None None None None None None “EW 1717” “G” None None “GD” None None None None None None Ribbon fragment from window lead None None “1717” None None None 2 inscribed “GD 1746” (4 and 6 are backward). One inscribed just with letter “G”; 2 are ribbon fragments. “G” “. . . . 17” (appears to be last two digits of date rather than first 2) None “D I 1 (?) 9” None None “WM.” (M is slightly questionable as it is located on a break.)

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 253

Site Name Prentis Store Prentis Store Prentis Store Prentis Store Virginia Gazette Printing Office Virginia Gazette Printing Office James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy

Block and Area 18C

Context Number 1425J

No. of leads 9

18C 18C 18CB 18H 18H 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B

ER21A1 1321M 1321X 1322Z 1323M 1326N 1328R 1330h 1331S 1334K

1 1 2 1 5 1 9 2 2 1 1 1 2 1

James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy

19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B

1334R 1334S 1337N 1337S 1339H 1343C 1344C

1 2 1 1 2 2 1

James Geddy

19B

1378A

1

James Geddy James Geddy

19B 19B

987B 992D

1 2

James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy James Geddy

19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B 19B

ER1320K ER1343B ER1344A ER1346T ER1351G ER1351H ER1359M ER1380G

1 3 2 1 5 1 1 1

1427

Inscription One lead has illegible marks including what looks like a flower. None None None None None None None “GOI” “H I 1736” “1736” None None None None None—plus piece of lead scrap None None None None None None “1740” (Numbers are backward.) None—window lead ribbon None “0” “GOIT + 6 GOIT+” (The six is backward and the distance between the first and second G is 118.5mm.) None None None None “EW” “EW 1717” None None

254 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name James Geddy James Geddy Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Kendall-Gardner Diggs House / Bray School Diggs House / Bray School Diggs House / Bray School Diggs House / Bray School Diggs House / Bray School Diggs House / Bray School Diggs House / Bray School Bray School / Diggs House Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School Bray School

Block and Area 19BB 19BB 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 21AC 23BD 23BD 23BD 23BD 23BD 23BD 23BD 23BE 23BF 23BF 23BF

Context Number 1340Q 20 160 160 61 162 200 380 380 380 469 469 497 497 135 136 277 231 233 351 230 53 52 59 60

No. of leads 2 3 1 4 1 1 2 8 1 1 1 1 1 2 1 1 3 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 2

23BF 23BF 23BG 23BG 23BG 23BG 23BG 23BG 23BG 23BG 23BG 23BG 23BG

69 156 32 25 183 162 196 27 29 40 41 45 70

1 1 2 1 2 8 3 1 4 2 2 2 2

Inscription None “EW 1717” None None None None None None “EW 1717” None None None None “EW 1717” None None None None None None None None None None None “749” (all backward facing) None Window lead ribbon None None None None None None None None None None “1708 IC”

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 255

Site Name Bray School Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House

Block and Area 23BG 27A 27A

Context Number 57 ER 150C ER 167B

No. of leads 1 1 3

ER132 ER137 ER140 ER157A ER 140

Coke-Garrett House

27A 27A 27A 27A 27AB 27AB 27AB 27AB 27AB 27AB 27AB 27AB 27AB 27AB 27AD 27AD

ER 173B 7 32

27 6 4 1 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 2 1 1 2 3

Coke-Garrett House

27AD

23

1

Coke-Garrett House Ravenscroft Ravenscroft Ravenscroft Willie Baker Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop

27AD 27CC 27CC 27CC 27E 28B 28B 28BG 28BG 28D

6 355 444 ER2159H 118 9L 75

3 1 1 2 7 1 2 1 2 4

28D

230C

3

Inscription None None Not inscribed but mill marks are irregularly spaced throughout lead. None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None One turned lead—not inscribed—and two lead ribbons None—window lead ribbon None None None None None None None None None “GD 1745” (Last two numbers are backward.) None

28D

230F

1

None

Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House Coke-Garrett House

157B

256 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop

Block and Area 28D

Context Number 231D

No. of leads 5

Inscription None

28D

243C

2

None

28D

ER 191

8

“E” “1726”

28D

ER 191A

1

Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop

28D

ER 192

6

“7” (The rest of the inscription has been overstruck and is not legible.) None

28D

ER 195

4

“.“

28D

ER 200

10

28D

ER 202A

3

“W * W” “EW 1717” “I H” None

28D

ER 208

11

None

28D

ER 209

9

None

28D

ER 228

46

Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop

28D

ER 229A

1

Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop

28D

ER 230B

1

Four leads inscribed “G D 1740” (The 7 and the 4 are inscribed backward. One lead is inscribed “GD 17” (7 is backward.) “? V W” (Illegible mark before V. V is somewhat questionable. W is very clear.) None

28D

ER 231C

3

28D

ER 233

12

28D

ER 237K

1

Taylor House/Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop

28D

ER 237M

1

“7” “1743” (The 3 is reversed.) “EW 1717” “G D I740” (The 7 and the 4 are inscribed backward.) None

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 257

Site Name Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Taylor House / Anthony Hay House and Cabinet Shop Anthony Hay House and Cabinetmakers Shop Peyton Randolph Ravenscroft/Jackson Lot

Block and Area 28D

Context Number ER 243K

No. of leads 18

28D

ER 243L

3

28D

ER 243N

1

“GD 1742” “GD 1742” (The 7 and the 4 are backward in each case.) None

28D

ER 247G

5

“EW 1717”

28D

ER 254E

28D

ER 279

3

None

28D

ER 283

1

None

28D

ER 337A

4

None

28D

ER 339F

7

None

28D

ER 348A

5

None

28D

ER 369C

1

None

28D

ER247C

9

“EW” “1717” “GD1”

28D

243c

2

None

28D

ER 247D

5

None

1

None

44 20

2 1

None “EW 17?7” (The third number is illegible.) None None “EW17” “EA” “EW17” “EW1717” “EW1717” None None “.FM.17 .” (The third and fourth letters are illegible.)

28DB 28EB 28FD

Inscription “1717”

None

Ravenscroft/Jackson Lot Ravenscroft/Jackson Lot Ravenscroft/Jackson Lot

28FD 28FD 28FD

28

1 1 10

Ravenscroft/Jackson Lot Ravenscroft/Jackson Lot Ravenscroft/Jackson Lot

28FD 28FD 28FD

32 36 37

1 4 3

258 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Ravenscroft Lot Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph

Block and Area 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28FH 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G

Context Number 101 119 141 66 205CB 212AI 476 334 334 334

211 212 213 214 713 647 663 838 899 842 608 779 780 833 862 713 780 827 1155 1171 1334 1363 1395 1770

No. of leads 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 3 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 2 1 1 1 16 4 23 3 1 1 1 1 1 1 4 1 4 1

Inscription None None “A” None None None None “EW.1717” None None None None None None None None Window lead ribbon None “1717” None “7 1 7” None None “EW” None None None “EW 1717” “EW1717” None None Window lead ribbon None None None None None None None None

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 259

Site Name Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph

Block and Area 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G 28G

Context Number 1773 1797 2032 2174 1026S 1060D 1499J 1500F 1564H 1624E 1781R 1783B 1783D 1783F 1849A 1884K 1884M 1970G 197R 315N 72B 79K 79N 83R 926C 93N 943E 953E ER2174H 1750N ER2173A ER2179A 108M 1849E 1968 ER2170E 1787 111C ER2179C

No. of leads 1 2 1 1 3 1 2 1 3 1 1 6 2 4 3 2 2 2 1 1 3 1 2 2 2 3 3 2 1 2 1 2 13 7 2 2 2 6 4

Inscription None None None “O” (remainder illegible) None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None “1756” None None None none None None None None None None None None None None None “IP 177” None “W” None

260 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Peyton Randolph Outbuildings Peyton Randolph Outbuildings Peyton Randolph Outbuildings Peyton Randolph Outbuildings Peyton Randolph Outbuildings Peyton Randolph Outbuildings Peyton Randolph Outbuildings Peyton Randolph Dairy Peyton Randolph Dairy Peyton Randolph Dairy Peyton Randolph Dairy Peyton Randolph Dairy Peyton Randolph Dairy Peyton Randolph Dairy Peyton Randolph Dairy Brush-Everard House Brush-Everard House Brush-Everard House Dr. Gilmer Robert Carter House Robert Carter House Wray

Block and Area 28G 28G 28G 28G 28H 28H 28H 28H 28H 28H 28H 28HB 28HB 28HB 28HB 28HB 28HB 28HB 28HB 29E 29E 29E 29GB 30AJ 30AJ 31A

Context Number 422 1884G 1849F 2171E 96 405 429 643 753 299D 300C 96 73 74 79 58 85 79 79 1255Y 1256D 1256M 1268 73 53 1213A

No. of leads 3 2 1 1 1 4 1 1 3 2 1 1 1 1 1 2 3 1 1 1 1 2 1 1 1

Wray Wray

31A 31A

2 1

Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray

31A 31AA 31AA 31AA 31AA 31AA

1223 1212 1213 1214 1220

1 1 2 1 2 2

Wray Wray

31AA 31AA

1220A 1220

2 2

Inscription None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None None EW 1717 None Block with three cames protruding from it None Window came not turned lead None None None None None “ . . . 14” overstruck by rouletting None “DI” “G 1737” (Illegible letter between the G and the 1)

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 261

Wray Wray

31AD 31AD

8 8

No. of leads 1 1 3 3 3 2 1 MULTIPLE 3 4

Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray

31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD

8 8 10 24 25 24 83 44 63 66 78 78

2 44 3 1 1 1 1 1 2 15 24 2

Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray

31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD

56 8 302 85 105

1 38 2 3 5

Wray

31AD

105

1

Wray

31AD

133

2

Wray

31AD

302

4

Site Name Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray

Block and Area 31AA 31AA 31AA 31AA 31AA 31AA 31AA 31AD

Context Number 1220 1209 1215 1215 1215 1215 1216 8

Inscription None None None None None None None None None None—two of the fragments have been deliberately wrapped around each other. Only partially opened. Crosspiece only None None None None None None None “. ? . M .1720 .” None None Ribbon fragment from window lead None None None None “17.” Lead is Doublestruck. Ribbon fragment from window lead “W. 74.W” (The first W and 7 are difficult to make out but 4 is very clear.) None

262 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Block and Area 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD

Context Number 80 176 195 199 199

No. of leads 3 5 2 11 8

Wray

31AD

302

78

Wray

31AD

85

16

Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray

31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD

302 310 132 161 176 189 302 313 318 319

5 1 1 1 4 2 18 1 1 32

Wray Wray Wray Wray

31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD

453 542 535 578

2 4 1 370

Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray

31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD

578 578 578 578 578

1 5 1 1 76

Wray

31AD

578

89

Site Name Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray

Inscription None “1717” None “M.17” Window came not turned lead “EW 1717” “GT” “716 IG” Fourth lead is inscribed “G” at one end and “EW” at the other, approximately 82mm between the two inscribed ends. Ribbon fragment from window lead None None None None None None “.EM 1720.” 720” None “.EW.1705.WT.” “1716.IG” “I.WG” I.WG” (The G in the last two inscriptions is difficult to read and could possibly be a C.) “EC” None None “H” “IH 1726” “IH 1726” “1717” “IH” “17” “EW 1717” “EW 17” “EW 17” None None Crosspiece only “17” None—window lead ribbon None

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 263

Site Name Wray Wray

Block and Area 31AD 31AD

Context Number 584 603

No. of leads 2 119

Wray Wray

31AD 31AD

603 603

2 3

Wray

31AD

613

1

Wray Wray

31AD 31AD

623 625

8 3

Wray Wray Wray Wray

31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD

625 625 186 186

2 2 2 1

Wray Wray Wray Wray Wray Sacalis Project Sacalis Project Sacalis Project Wray-SunTrust Property

31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AD 31AE 31AE 31AE 31AF

319 5 578 618 576 83 133 75 68

1 1 1 1

Bruton Heights Bruton Heights Bruton Heights Bruton Heights

33AI 33AI 33AI 33AI

42 57 83 43

3 3 6 4

Bruton Heights Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln

33AI 33AJ 33AJ 33AJ 33AJ 33AJ

41 1093 1093 1093 1093 1093

4 1 of 19 2 of 19 3 of 19 4 of 19 5 of 19

1 1 1 5

Inscription None “EW” “EW” “.WC.” “EW 1716” None None—window lead ribbon None—window lead ribbon “.FM.172” “.FM” “.” “.W {C} .” (Second letter is very questionable.) None None None Window came not turned lead None None None None None None None “G 1720” (The 2 looks like a back-to-front 5 and the 7 is back to front.) “G Ψ 1727” (The symbol after G looks like two interlocked U’s.) “1669. EC” None None “MF” “3—two uninscribed None “.EC.WM.” “16” “.1669.” “.69.EC.WM.” “WM”

264 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Block and Area 33AJ 33AJ

Context Number 1093 1093

No. of leads 6 of 19 7 0f 19

Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House

33AJ 33AJ 33AJ 33AJ 33AJ 33AJ 33AJ 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN

1093 1093 1093 1093 1093 1093 1095 357 295 292 290 194

8 0f 19 9 of 19 10 of 19 11 of 19 12 of 19 7 1 1 7 2 1 9

Bruton Heights, Page House

33AN

530

3

Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page House Bruton Heights, Page Kitchen Bruton Heights, Page Kitchen Bruton Heights, Page Kitchen Palace Lands Quarter Palace Lands Quarter Palace Lands Quarter Golf Course Golf Course Golf Course Golf Course Golf Course Golf Course

33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AN 33AO 33AO 33AO 33AS 33AS 33AS 40AA 40CA 40CA 40CA 40CA 40CA

529 530 537

2 4 1 3 5 1 1 1 2 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 2 1 1 4 1 1

Site Name Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln Bruton Heights, Tile Kiln

299 333 335 439 194 14 56 30 129 129 53 189 727AY 696 682 00759AM 00738AR

Inscription “.WM.” “WC” (C is questionable.) “.166” “.WM.” “.WM.” “.WM.” “.1” None “1669.EC” “16” None None “.1669” “4” “WM 1674” 7 uninscribed “W.C. 1” “W.” 1 uninscribed None None None None None None None None None None “.ECWM.” None None “176. . . .” “1766” None “GD 1737” None None “O” None None

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 265

Site Name Golf Course Carter’s Grove—Atkinson Carter’s Grove—Atkinson Carter’s Grove—Atkinson Carter’s Grove—Atkinson CG-11

Block and Area 40CA 50AP 50AP 50AP 50AP 50BU

Context Number 712 881 946 1117 1039BJ 500

No. of leads 3 1 1 1 1 2

Route 60 Site 44JC1040 Site 44JC1040 Site 44JC1040 Site 44JC1040 Site 44JC1040 Challis Site College Landing College Landing Rich Neck Plantation

51AD 51AF 51AF 51AF 51AF 51AF 57A 58AA 58AA 68AC

135 364 391 364 380 384 cs21c 48 57 44

1 16 2 3 5 3 2 12 2 1

Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation

68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC

1077 1024 59 26 1059 107 1074

1 3 1 1 20 1 1

1001 301 395 436 388 199 598 571 1083 598 457 488 733 760

1 3 2 1 1 1 1 2 1 1 1 1 1 1

Inscription None None None none None “Byshopp of Exc” and “IO” Crosspiece only None None None None None None None None Glass in situ—no inscription obvious None None None None None None None None None None None None None “.W” None “A” None None None None None “.WM.”

266 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Slave Quarter Rich Neck Slave Quarter Rich Neck Slave Quarter Rich Neck Slave Quarter

Block and Area 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AC 68AK 68AK 68AK 68AK 68AK 68AK 68AL 68AL 68AL 68AL

Rich Neck Slave Quarter Rich Neck Small Cellar

68AL 68AP

Context Number 768 77 774 783 788 843 814 860 894 789 845 821 858 895 833 827 879 878 919 857 892 856 914 854 840 147 277 505 365 505 505 380 322

No. of leads 1 1 1 1 1 1 2 1 1 1 1 2 2 1 1 1 3 2 1 1 1 1 2 3 1 2 1 1 13 1 1 1 1 1 1 2 2 1

Inscription None None None None None None None None “W” None None None None None None None None None None None None None None “W.M.A” None None None None “R” 12 uninscribed None None None None None None “W.17[77]” (Lead is chewed up—last 2 numbers difficult to read.) None None

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 267

Site Name Rich Neck Small Cellar Rich Neck Small Cellar Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation, Kitchen Complex Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation

Block and Area 68AP 68AP 68AQ

Context Number 43 77

No. of leads 1 1 2

68AQ

27

2

Inscription None None “688” On both leads. (Numbers are half stamped and difficult to read.) None

68AQ

287

1

None

68AQ

339

2

None

68AQ

416

1

None

68AQ

432

4

None

68AQ

380

1

None

68AQ

478

1

None

68AQ

372

3

None

68AQ

381

1

None

68AQ

387

1

None

68AQ

470

2

None

68AQ

493

1

“M. 1635”

68AQ

432

3

None

68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS

293 332 341 355 355 359 311 369 342

1 1 2 1 2 1 1 1 3

None “6.3.2” None None None None None “1.6.3.2.” None

268 · Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019

Site Name Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation

Block and Area 68AS 68AS

Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation

68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS 68AS 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AT 68AW 68AW 68AW 68AW

Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation Rich Neck Plantation

Context Number 350

No. of leads 1 3

128 467 472

3 3 3 1 1 1 1 1 4 2 2 1 1 3 4 1 1 1 4 2 1 2 3

68AW 68AW 68AW 68AW

487 198 481 483

2 1 1 1

68AW 68AW 68AW 68AW 68AW 68AW 68AW

329 349 451 334 451 481 481

1 1 6 1 1 1 1

382

382 10 248 73 120 420 93 236 296 418 547 548 552 430

Inscription None “.W.M.168,” “.W.M.1683,” None None None “.W.M” on one lead None None None None None “W.M.1680” None None None None None None None None None “686.” None None None Ribbon fragment from window lead None None None Ribbon fragment from window lead None None None None None None None

Appendix: Colonial Williamsburg Conserved Window Leads, 1997–2019 · 269

Site Name Rich Neck Plantation

Block and Area 68AW

Context Number 481

No. of leads 1

Inscription None—window lead ribbon 3 None Multiple None

Rich Neck Plantation Jamestown Island Shoreline Erosion Jamestown Island Shoreline Erosion Jamestown Island Shoreline Erosion Jamestown Island Shoreline Erosion Jamestown Island Shoreline Erosion Jamestown Island Shoreline Erosion Mathews Manor Mathews Manor Mathews Manor

68AW 88AO

350 458

88AO

460

2

None

88AO

523

2

None

88AO

478

2

Not a window lead

88AO

543

1

None

88AO

521

1

None

90WS 90WS 90WS

230

2 1 1

Mathews Manor Mathews Manor Mathews Manor Mathews Manor Mathews Manor Mathews Manor Mathews Manor

90WS 90WS 90WS 90WS 90WS 90WS 90WS

40

None None Window came not turned lead None None None None None None None

4

22 13 203 25

2 2 4 2 9 1 1

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Contributors Stephen C. Atkins is a retired associate curator of environmental archaeology in the Collections, Conservation, and Museums Division of the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. He earned his MA in anthropology and historical archaeology in 1994 from the College of William & Mary, in Williamsburg, Virginia, and a BA in anthropology from the University of Florida, Gainesville. His research includes the identification and quantification of faunal remains from the colonial era to determine dietary consumption and adaptive environments, African American slave diet of the mid-Atlantic and Piedmont regions during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and oyster shell analysis from archaeological sites of the Virginia Tidewater region during the seventeenth through nineteenth centuries. Jason Boroughs (RPA) is the research archaeologist at George Washington’s Mount Vernon. He has over two decades of field experience excavating colonial and postcolonial sites in the Chesapeake region, the Caribbean, and New England. Formerly a project archaeologist for the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, he served as a visiting assistant professor in anthropology and history at Salisbury University before resuming a role in research and public education in a museum setting at Mount Vernon. His primary research interests include Chesapeake and Atlantic plantation societies, landscapes and emplacement, sociocultural transformations within the African-Atlantic Diaspora, and memory and the politics of heritage. He earned a BA in anthropology and archaeology at the University of Virginia, and an MA and PhD in anthropology at the College of William & Mary. Joanne Bowen served as zooarchaeologist and senior curator of environmental archaeology with the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation and research professor in anthropology with the College of William & Mary. She holds an MA and PhD in anthropology from Brown University and a BA in anthropology from Beloit College. She has conducted research and taught zooarchaeology, provisioning, butchery, English and African American foodways, colonial subsistence systems, human–animal relationships, and landscape ecology, focusing on New England and the Chesapeake from the initial settlement at Jamestown through the colonial period.

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Ellen Chapman received her PhD in anthropology from the College of William & Mary in 2018 and earned an MA in palaeopathology from Durham University. She is a cultural resources specialist at Cultural Heritage Partners, where she assists clients with legal and advocacy matters related to historic preservation legislation. In 2013, she completed a re-analysis of the Colonial Williamsburg human skeletal remains as an Andrew W. Mellon curatorial intern. Andrew C. Edwards (RPA) served as a staff archaeologist with the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation for over thirty years. Before that, he served as an archaeologist for the College of William & Mary for seven years. Edwards conducted archaeological excavations at Yorktown, Flowerdew Hundred, George Washington’s Birthplace, Hampton, Jamestown, Martin’s Hundred, St. George’s, Bermuda, and Williamsburg. His work has appeared in The Quarterly Bulletin of the Archaeological Society of Virginia, Archaeology of Seventeenth-Century Virginia, Historical Archaeology, and Post-Medieval Archaeology, and he presented over thirty papers at professional conferences. After retiring from Colonial Williamsburg in 2016, Edwards was employed by the James River Institute for Archaeology. Ywone D. Edwards-Ingram is assistant professor in the Department of Focused Inquiry at the Virginia Commonwealth University. She has a history of interdisciplinary teaching at the College of William & Mary and many years of experience working as a staff archaeologist focusing on African American archaeology and public education at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Edwards-Ingram has presented many lectures and conference papers and her publications cover studies in historical archaeology, material culture, and public history. Her recent works include a chapter in Slavery and the University: Histories and Legacies and her book, The Art and Soul of African American Interpretation. She holds a BA in history and social sciences from the University of the West Indies in Jamaica and an MA in anthropology and PhD in American studies from the College of William & Mary. Peter A. Inker is digital architectural historian in the Digital History Center at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. He has excavated a range of archaeological periods in Wales and England, including Caerwent Roman Town and Nottingham Castle. His illustrations have appeared in many books, and he is the author of Alesia 52 BC: Caesar’s Gallic Triumph. Currently, his work focuses on Virtual Williamsburg and interactive virtual reconstruction of eighteenthcentury Williamsburg, Virginia.

Contributors · 315

Mark Kostro (RPA) was a staff archaeologist with the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation and director of the annual Colonial Williamsburg / College of William & Mary field school in historical archaeology. Kostro earned a BA in history and anthropology from Rutgers University in 1996, and an MA and PhD in anthropology from the College of William & Mary. He has over twenty-three years of experience specializing in Chesapeake and Caribbean historical archaeology and has authored or co-authored more than thirty archaeological reports, magazine articles, book reviews, encyclopedia entries, and book chapters. He is currently assistant professor of anthropology at Longwood University. Kelly Ladd-Kostro is curator at the James River Institute for Archaeology in Williamsburg, Virginia, and is a Research Fellow with the Institute of Archaeology at Longwood University in Farmville, Virginia. Ladd-Kostro previously served as the associate curator of archaeological collections at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation where she oversaw the management, documentation, research, analysis, storage, and preservation of over sixty million artifacts in the Colonial Williamsburg Archaeological Collection. She has over thirty years of experience in Chesapeake archaeology and the material culture of the British Atlantic World. Additionally, Ladd-Kostro has consulted on projects for the National Park Service as well as excavations and museums throughout the Chesapeake, Bermuda, Barbados, and the British Virgin Islands. Dessa E. Lightfoot is a project archaeologist at the William & Mary Center for Archaeological Research and an independent zooarchaeological consultant. Lightfoot earned her BA in English and textual studies from Syracuse University, her MA in anthropology from the University of New Mexico, and her PhD in anthropology from the College of William & Mary in 2018. Her research focuses on animal usage, animal butchery and foodways reconstruction, and colonial provisioning in Native-, Anglo-, and African American populations in Eastern North America. She has over a decade of experience specializing in the environmental archaeology of the Chesapeake region, and has authored dozens of archaeological reports, conference papers, and public archaeology presentations. Martha W. McCartney is an independent historian and the author of fourteen books and more than 200 published articles. She has written extensively about the history and culture of Virginia. She is a graduate of the College of William & Mary and was employed for thirteen years at the Virginia Research Center for Archaeology as a historian and program coordinator. Since 1986, she has worked as an independent historian providing research support to Virginia’s archaeological community. McCartney has served as a consultant for the Colonial

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Williamsburg Foundation and was project historian for the National Park Service’s Jamestown Archaeological Assessment. Her books include Jamestown People to 1800: Landowners, Public Officials, Minorities, and Native Leaders; Virginia Immigrants and Adventurers, 1607–1635: A Biographical Dictionary; and Jordan’s Point, Virginia: Archaeology in Perspective, Prehistoric to Modern Times. Meredith M. Poole is the senior staff archaeologist with the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. Poole is involved in Historic Area excavations, most recently at the Market House site, James Anderson’s Blacksmith Shop and Public Armoury, and R. Charlton’s Coffeehouse. In addition to field work, she provides archaeological training for interpreters, and is responsible for presenting Colonial Williamsburg’s archaeology to a variety of public audiences, both onsite and electronically. Poole holds a BA from Hamilton College, and an MA in anthropology from the College of William & Mary. Irvy R. Quitmyer is a senior biological scientist at the Florida Museum of Natural History, University of Florida, where he specializes in the zooarchaeology of maritime people of Southeastern North America, the Caribbean, and Central America. His research is multidisciplinary in scope, reflecting his extensive use of museum collections to ask and answer enduring questions regarding human–environmental interactions. In particular, his research topics include the exploitation of vertebrate and invertebrate resources, season of resource procurement, impact of humans on the environment, population dynamics of mollusks, and changes in localized climate patterns. He has authored and coauthored forty-three peer-reviewed articles, thirteen book chapters, and thirtyone governmental technical reports. Patricia M. Samford is the director of the Maryland Archaeological Conservation Laboratory at Jefferson Patterson Park and Museum. Prior to receiving her doctorate in anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, she was an archaeologist at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation for thirteen years. Samford is the author of Subfloor Pits and the Archaeology of Slavery in Colonial Virginia. Emily Williams has an MA in conservation from the University of Durham and a PhD in historic archaeology from the University of Leicester. Williams has delivered many conference papers and lectures. She is the author of Stories in Stone: Memorialization, the Creation of History and the Role of Preservation. Williams served as the archaeological conservator at Colonial Williamsburg beginning in 1995. She is currently on faculty at Durham University where she directs the MA in Conservation of Archaeological and Museum Objects.

Index

Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations. Africa, 19, 160, 178 African: ancestry, iv, 15, 19, 59, 124, 172, 180, 183; born, 178; burial practices, 180, 182, 189; captives, 11; child burial at Rich Neck, 175, 177; diaspora, 160, 178–179; female burial at Capitol, 177–178 African American: burial grounds, 129, 179, 181, 183; burials, 172–174, 177–179, 181, 189; community, 183; descendant community, 63, 179, 188, 191; education, 37, 151 (see also Bray School); families, 22, 170; free tenants, 143; historic places, 138; identity, 142; interpretation of in Colonial Williamsburg, 137, 187, 240; landscape, 185; settlements, 172, 180; Williamsburg residents, 27, 64, 186; yards, 160–161. See also Enslaved people; Free blacks Africans, 11; as captives, 11; as enslaved laborers, 31–32, 38, 41 Agriculture, 91–92, 180, 211; cereal, 162–163; plantation-based, 37; swidden (slash and burn) 74, 91; tobacco, 29, 67–68, 76–77, 82–83, 91, 93; wheat, 83 Allen, William, 154, 170 American Revolution, 22, 34–36, 42, 45, 98, 104, 110–111, 146; cemetery from, 47; era of, 152, 178; era as focus of interpretation, 44, 59, 136–138, 141, 219, 221; maps of, 22 Anatomy, 128; departments of, 122; study of, 116–117, 119, 121 Angelo, 11 Anglo-Powhatan War, 54 Animal husbandry, 80, 175. See also Agriculture

Apothecary, 72, 116, 123, 128; Pasteur & Galt Shop, 117–118, 133 Archaeology, 143, 205; environmental, 95, 231; experimental, 133; historical, 1–3, 55, 60, 114, 172, 191, 200, 239; landscape, 70, 156, 174, 231. See also Burials; Conservation, archaeological —at Colonial Williamsburg xiii, xiv, 49, 53; development of, 44–49, 50–52, 54–57, 59, 63–64; Director of Archaeology, xiii, 51–52, 63–64, 207; and education, 1; exhibits, 50, 55–56, 117, 188, 196, 197, 203; at Public Armoury, 139, 142–145; and reconstruction, 1–3, 135–137, 217, 235, 239; techniques, 44, 52, 59, 199, 222–225 Architecture, 2, 208, 215; eighteenthcentury, 44, 137, 146, 216; restoration, 135; and urban design, 29, 217 Articulation (skeletal), 117–118, 120–123, 127–128, 130–132 Artifacts: chipped stone and glass, 36, 37; identification, 50; medical, 125; from Palace excavation, 47; Quarterpath, 156, 160; repairs, 201; slate pencils, 41; systematic retrieval, 52; table glass, 36; tobacco pipe, 56; underappreciated, 50; Watering can, 202–203, 204; Wetherburn’s Tavern, 54; wine bottles, 36, 51. See also Ceramics; Conservation, archaeological; Window; Window leads Ashby, Matthew, 187 Augmented Reality, 223 Authenticity, 117, 128, 197, 221 Baker, Eliza, 24 Berkeley, William, 17

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Bioarchaeology, 2, 178–179 Blakey, Michael, 179 Bland, Theodorick, 18, 19, 30 Bone: animal, 71, 87, 91; human, 120, 123, 125–127. See also Artifacts; Burials; Faunal analysis; Skeleton (human); Skeleton (mammalian) Brafferton building, 25, 32, 35, 95, 214; archaeology at, 35–37, 41, 63, 99, 239–240; as Indian School, 20, 33–34, 38, 63; oyster shell from, 107 Bray, James, 83; James Bray I, 17 Bray, Dr. Thomas, 38; Associates of Dr. Bray, 38 Bray School, 22, 37–38; archaeology at, 39, 39–41, 63 Brown, Marley, III, 57, 63 Burials, 16, 174, 177, 182, 187, 190; of colonists, 183; of Native Americans, 183. See also African American: burial grounds; African American: burials; African burial practices; Enslaved people: burial grounds of Cannetti, Raymond, 215 Capitol, 20, 22–27, 30–31, 45, 125, 215, 222; burials at, 177–178; excavation of, 46, 48, 64; sash windows at, 206 Capitol Landing, 20, 180 Cemetery, 47; Bassett Hall, 182–183; Bruton Parish, 183–185; Cedar Grove, 186, 188, 191; Debress family, 187; Utopia, 180. See also Burials Ceramics: black basalt, 36; classification system, 50; colonoware, 239; in Gillett household, 142; ironstone, 142; Oakley Plantation, 143; porcelain, 201; refined earthenware, 36; repairs to, 201; roofing tile, 201; Westerwald, 36; white-salt glazed stoneware, 142 Chappell, Edward, 60, 118, 132, 146 Chesapeake, 4, 28–30, 33, 44, 95, 151–152; estuary, 102; landscape and ecology, 67–68, 70, 73, 80–82, 89–93; neighborhoods, 156–157, 171; oyster trade, 98, 113; waterways, 154

Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, 26 Chesapeake Bay, 103, 105–106, 111 Chickahominy, 34 Church, Anglican, 33–34 Churches, 27, 172, 186, 191, 208; Bruton Parish, 17, 24, 43, 183–185; First Baptist, xiv, 39, 186–188, 191; as military hospitals, 25; Mount Ararat, 186; New Zion Baptist, 186; Shiloh Baptist, 186; Union Baptist, 186 Civil War, 24–25, 42–43, 98, 104, 146, 154, 186–187 Coffeehouse (R. Charlton), 57, 62, 95; human phalanx from, 116, 119, 125–129, 132; oyster shell from, 99; reconstruction of, 228; virtual reconstruction, 228–229, 230–232; window leads from, 214–218 Coffin, 129, 175, 177–181, 189, 214 Collections: archaeological, xiv, 64, 202, 207, 216; management, 2, 199–200; phytolith study, 60; Rochambeau, 235. See also Conservation, archaeological: and human remains College Landing, 19–20, 58, 180–182, 191 College of William & Mary. See William & Mary Colonialism, 3, 58, 202, 240 Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, xiii, 2, 19, 43, 46, 49–50, 56–58; architects, 27, 43, 45–50, 56, 62, 147, 217–219; architectural historians, 138, 147, 215, 217; Architecture Department, 142; Black History Program, 59, 240; Collections Department/Division, 60, 117; environmental archaeology laboratory at, 95; establishment, 26–27, 42–43, 45–51; Historic Area, 6, 42–44, 48–50, 56–60, 116, 137, 145, 215; living history interpretation at, 27, 51, 132–133, 187; living history museum, 1, 42–44, 62–63, 117, 206, 217, 220; Native interpretative programs, 240. See also Williamsburg Restoration Commemoration, 175, 185, 187–189, 191 Commercial: activity, 20, 68, 71, 74, 80, 86; development, 26, 58; neighborhoods, 57, 189; oyster industry, 98, 109, 113;

Index · 319

relationships, 21; Williamsburg as center, 68 Conservation, archaeological, 2, 50, 195, 202, 205; development at Colonial Williamsburg, 195–199, 203; goals, 131; and human remains, 117; practices, 118, 130; research approaches, 200–201; of tombstones, 188 Conservation, building, 135 Consumerism, 202 Cotter, John, 19 Digital reconstruction, 219, 221, 227, 235–236 Dissection, 119, 121, 125–126, 128–131 Doctors/physicians/surgeons. See Medical: practitioners/providers Douglass, Frederick, 155–156, 166 Duell, Prentice, 46–48 Dunlop, Alexander, 187–188 Dunlop, Lucy Ann, 187–188 Economy, 216; agricultural, 25; market, 95, 111; medical, 119; plantation, 67, 74; regional, 99; of Williamsburg, 26 Edwards, Andrew, 19, 62, 132 Edwards-Ingram, Ywone, 129, 137 Egypt, 46, 48, 195 Emancipation, 152, 156, 165, 169–170 Enslaved people, 57, 84, 97, 147, 160–161; abscondence of/runaway, 166–167, 178; burial grounds of, 175–180, 182–185, 187– 189 ; at Carter’s Grove, 53; Chesapeake households of, 154–157, 164, 166–168; First Baptist community of xiv; marriages, 155–157; at Quarterpath, 153–154, 169–171; at Rich Neck, 16–17; at Utopia, 191; vulnerable to medical experimentation, 129; at Warren Farm, 151–152 —in Williamsburg, 20–25, 31–32, 37–39, 41, 57–59; artisans, 138–141, 180, 213–214; manumitted, 145 Environment, xiv, 2, 70, 73, 205; built, 137; digital/ virtual, 221, 224; Highland, 89; learning, 118; and oysters, 100–103, 110–113

Environmental: analysis, 2, 60, 114, 144; change, 44, 57, 74, 95; conditions, 73, 99; data, 3, 67; reconstruction, 54 Environmental Archaeology Laboratory, 95 Ewell, Col. Benjamin S., 25 Faunal analysis, 21, 67, 70–71, 75, 78, 82, 86–94. See also Bone; Zooarchaeology Fort Magruder, 25 Free blacks, xiv, 20–21, 166, 187; families, 118, 141; students, 38, 63; Williamsburg residents, 136, 141, 145, 147 Frenchman’s Map, 5 Geochemical analysis, 96, 99–100, 113–114 Gillett, Jane, 140 Gillett, Martha (Patty) 141 Gillett, Peter, 140 Gillett, Sarah, 140 Gillett, Simon, 136, 141 Gillett family, 118, 142–144, 145 Gilmer, George, 123, 128 Givens, David, 11 Globalization, 202–203 Hanson, Benjamin, 21 Hill, Richard, 187–188 Historical preservation, 135 Horning, Audrey, 19 Jamestown, 1, 16, 103, 235; as colonial capital, 28–29, 42, 58; colonists clear forest, 82; court at, 20; fire at, 17; initial colonial settlement, 74–76; Jamestown Island, 11, 17, 152, 154, 170; Jamestown Rediscovery, 11; livestock, 77–79; Opechancanough at, 12; tiles from, 212; urban planning at, 19, 29; window leads from, 213 Kelso, William, 11 Kemp, Richard, 14, 16 Knight, James (Jimmy), 48–49 Landscape ecology, 82 Living history, 132

320 · Index

London Charter, 236 Ludwell, Philip, I, 16 Macrobotanical, 144 Magruder, Col. John B., 25 Mammy Sarah, 183–184, 185 Market House/Market Square, 21–22, 62 Material culture, xiii, xiv, 2, 142, 200, 206–207, 223, 228–230. See also Artifacts Mathews’ Manor, 202–204 Mattaponi, 34 Medical: artifacts, 125, 128; dissection, 119, 121, 125–126, 128–131; education, 116–117, 119–121, 130–132; practitioners/providers, 116, 119–120, 127, 129; preparations, 97, 116; waste, 123 Medicine, 97, 118–119, 122, 167; interpretation of colonial, 117. See also Medical: artifacts Meherrin, 34 Memorial, 174, 180, 189; Semple, 184–185 Middle Plantation, 15–17, 28–29, 62, 206, 211–213, 219; development of, 12, 19; transition to Williamsburg, 30, 42, 58, 68; Treaty of, 17 Morphometrics, 73, 99–100 Multidisciplinary research, 96, 114 Multivocality, 118, 137, 146–147, 201 Museums: Anatomical Museum of Basel, 120; British, 198; Dittrick, 122; Guildhall, 198; Hunterian, 122; Martin’s Hundred (Winthrop Rockefeller), 56; Metropolitan, 50; Museum of London, 223; Mutter, 122; National Library of Medicine, 122; Philipse Castle, 196; Saugus Historic Site, 196; Smithsonian, 196; Warren Anatomical, 122. See also Colonial Williamsburg Foundation Native people: burial ground, 183; descendant communities, 63; in eighteenthcentury Williamsburg, 20, 37, 64, 147, 239; landscape, 74; lifeways, 67, 90, 93, 97; perseverance, 15, 33; students, 34–35 (see also Brafferton building); territory, 11–12; tribes (see individual names);

underrepresented in research, 239–240. See also Powhatan Neck of Land, 154, 170 New England, 34, 98 New York, 29, 38, 98, 129, 196 New York African Burial Ground, 178–179, 182 Nixon, Richard, 54–55 Noël Hume, Ivor, 51–52, 54–56, 63, 198, 203, 207 Noël Hume, Audrey, 52, 198 Nottaway, 34 Olmsted, Frederick Law, 168 Oysters, 11, 79–80; colonial harvesting, 98–99; in colonial diet, 97; morphology and harvesting, 109–113; morphometrics, 99–105; nineteenth-century exploitation, 98–99; references in Virginia Gazette, 105; sclerochronology, 106; seasonality, 113–114; shell, 57, 95; shell from Brafferton site, 107, 108; shell from Public Armoury, 107, 108; shell from Rich Neck, 107, 108; study, 95–96; Page, Alice, 15–17 Page, Colonel John, 19, 30 Page, John, 15–17 Page site, 15, 17, 30, 58, 212 Pamunkey, 34, 240 Parasites, 144 Peirce, Captain William, 11, 12 Phytoliths, 60 Plantation: communities, 152, 154–156; economy, 67, 74; landscapes, 156, 171; managers, 167–169; owners, 57, 84, 86, 97, 143, 179; society, 21, 44, 71. See also Slavery Plantations, 12, 21, 57–58, 74, 77, 83, 86, 174; near Middle Plantation, 15; provisioning, 89–90; rebel-owned, 11; rural, 84; tobacco, 28; urban, 57; West Indian, 83. See also Agriculture; Middle Plantation —individual plantations: Berkeley, 154; Carter’s Grove, 53, 56, 157, 161; Claremont, 154; Curles, 154, 165; Kingsmill,

Index · 321

152–154, 157, 165, 170, 180, 191; Oakley, 142–143; Rich Neck, 16–17, 95, 99, 107, 175, 176, 177, 212; Seville, 178; Shirley, 154, 162, 169–170; Southall, 21; Warren Farm, 151–152, 156, 170 Pole, Thomas, 120–122, 124, 127–128, 130–131 Powhatan: chiefdom, 11–12, 15; descendants, 240; lifeways, 11, 74; relations with English, 74–77; warfare, 54, 86 Privy, 145; Brush, 60; Gillett, 142, 144 Public Armoury, 22, 32, 61, 61–62, 118, 139; burials at, 178–179, 191; excavations at, 136, 138–142, 144–147; oyster shell from, 99, 107 Public Hospital, 21, 26, 42, 53, 118, 212 Race, 37, 174 Rainville, Lynn, 174 Reconstruction, 1–3, 172, 191, 220; architectural, 43–45, 47–51, 54, 60–63, 214; of Coffeehouse, 217–218; digital, 219, 221–230, 232–233, 235–236 (See also Virtual Williamsburg); of herd system, 70; period, 25; and restoration, 135–136; of tin shop, 137–138, 146–147. See also Skeleton (human): replica/ reconstruction Redford, Dorothy, 170 Revolutionary War. See American Revolution Richmond, 24, 154, 167; as capital, 42, 103–104, 109 Rockefeller, John D., 27, 42, 217–219 Ruskin, John, 135–136, 147 Saponi, 34 School, 27; Bruton Heights, 15; Governor’s, 207; grammar at William & Mary, 17; Harvard University Film, 43; Philadelphia medical, 128; summer field, 60, 142, 144; Williamsburg Freedmen’s, 151. See also Brafferton building; Bray School Scientific Revolution, 128 Sclerochronology, 106 Semple, James, 184–185

Semple, Letitia Tyler, 184–185 Seville Charter, 236 Shackel, Paul, 174 Shurcliff, Arthur A., 49 Skeleton (human): on display Apothecary shop, 117; Gilmer mandible, 124; phalanx, 126; replica/reconstruction, 116–118, 120, 130, 132–133 Skeleton (mammalian), 73 Slave Quarters: Quarterpath Site, 59, 145, 152–153, 154–159, 160–162, 163, 167–171; at Rich Neck, 40, 59; at Southall, 21; at Utopia, 167, 171, 180, 191 Slavery, 2, 37, 59, 118, 137, 171–177, 182–185 Slaves. See Enslaved people Society for Historical Archaeology, 2 Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in New England, 34 Society of Friends of African American History, 179–180, 191 Somerset Plantation, 170 Stith, Mary, 140–141, 143, 145 Stith, William, 140 Stith Tin Shop, 22, 62, 118, 136–137, 138–143; privy at, 144, 146–147 Taverns, 17, 46, 62, 84, 180; Blue Bell, 22; at R. Charlton’s Coffeehouse, 215; Nassau Street (Robert Weeks Ordinary) 212; Raleigh, 21, 27, 30, 45–46, 218, 225; Shields, 57, 59–60; Wetherburn’s, 54 Teeth: animal, 71; human, 124, 127, 175, 178 Tenancy, 152, 154, 169 Tenant house, 136, 138–140, 144–146, 152 Tenants, 56, 30, 143, 152, 165, 169–170 Theaters, 22 Thomas, Minor Wine, 50 Thorpe, Margaret Newbold, 151–152, 156, 170 Thorpe, Otho (Captain), 17 Tidewater Virginia, xiii, 1, 24, 64, 111, 114, 154, 240 Tobacco. See Agriculture Tombstones, 182, 187–188, 191 Tuscarora, 34 Tutelo, 34

322 · Index

Uncertainty (visualization of), 236 Urban planning/urbanization, 19, 21, 26, 29–33, 40, 44 Valentine, Jim, 59–60, 62 Valentine, Polly, 59–60, 62 Venice Charter, 235–236 Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène, 135, 147 Virginia Club (Edinburgh) 119 Virtual Williamsburg, 62, 147, 219, 221–223; creation of, 225–226, 228–230; and digital elevation model, 233–235; garden, 224; interpretation, 235–236; as a tool, 224– 225; use of archaeological data, 226–228. See also Coffeehouse (R. Charlton) Visualization (3D), 221 Vobe, Jane, 39 Whites, xiv, 147, 170, 178; children, 37; College housekeeper, 32; criminal, 131; disenfranchised, 129; elite, 137, 145, 185; plantation owners/enslavers, 143, 182; population, 136, 145 Wilkie, Laurie, 142 William & Mary (College of), 2, 21, 24–26, 137, 140, 222; Benjamin Franklin degree, 38; chemistry students, 196; during Civil War, 42; Department of Anthropology, 60; establishment of, 17–19, 28–37, 40–41; excavations conducted by, 21; formal gardens at, 231–232; Lemon Project, 63;

masters’ thesis on Polly Valentine, 60; Native alumni, 35, 63; receives charter, 17, 231; Wren Building at, 25, 35, 47, 230, 233. See also Brafferton building; School: summer field Williamsburg, as colonial capital, 22–24, 37, 40–41, 103, 222; Battle of (1862), 152; Civil War in, 25, 152; decline of, 42–43; establishment of, 19–20, 42, 68, 212; invasion of, 139; market, 83, 86; population, 104, 110, 112; ports, 19–20, 57, 174, 180–182; role in historical archaeology, 1; urban planning, 21, 29–33 Williamsburg Restoration, 29, 142, 217 Window: archaeological evidence for, 211–213; casement, 206–207; at R. Charlton Coffeehouse, 215, 217; in eighteenthcentury Williamsburg, 215–216; at the John Crump house, 207; manufacture of, 208–209; sash, 206–207, 216–217; at the Wray site, 213–214 Window leads, 198, 206–207, 210, 216, 219; from R. Charlton Coffeehouse, 214–218; common in eighteenth-century Williamsburg, 207, 215; manufacture, 208–209, 210–211; from Middle Plantation, 211, 213, 216; from Wray site, 213–214 Yorktown, 1, 25, 44, 207, 235; Siege of, 111 Zooarchaeology, 2, 67, 70–74, 84–91, 96, 101