The Relic Hunter

Volume 37 September 2003

While fragments were recovered in the plowed field, the rocky summits surrendered a number of intact relics such as a Colonial clasp knife, flint striker, and shoe buckle.

"Okay, boy-o, it's up to the top with you!" ordered the grizzled veteran of innumerable campaigns.

"But Sergeant, I spent last night on watch... me an' the owls. HOOO HOOO HOOO, and..."

"Hooo Hooo Hooo, is it, Private William? 'Tis far better than the sounds you left behind in Birmingham, and the air far cleaner, to boot. Aye, smell the freshness of it, lad... these lofty pines... 'tis perfume, a bouquet to y'nose!" Grizzled and hardened by war, though he was, there were times when even the Sergeant could wax poetic.

The trail to the French & Indian War camp began on the freshly plowed soil of a cornfield. Musketballs, pottery shards, pipe stems and bowl fragments, and a few broken shoe buckle pieces were found, but the site had obviously been searched before.

"'T'was not the smell aloft last evening, Sergeant! T'were none of those striped creatures lurking in the mews, last I seen home!"

"Home? Now there's a word for you. Had one... once..." There was a pause in the sergeant's words, and a sound, unnatural, as though something caught in his throat, issued from between his lips as he continued, "...a long time ago. There was a little cottage near the banks of the Shannon... a river so clear y'could watch the trout a-eyin' y'worm. Me ol' Mum would set the pan a-sizzlin' and it'd be trout an' biscuits on a summer's night..." Again the sergeant paused, his memories picking up where his words left off.

"Something in your eye, Sergeant?"

"No more than a small cinder from the fire, lad. An' belay that order, Private William. I'll stand the watch this evening."

"Are y'sure, Sergeant? 'Don't want to be thought a shirker."

The heavy fertilization of the cornfield would have long ago destroyed these delicate pewter buttons from the French & Indian War, but the shallow native soil of the overlook preserved them.

"I'm sure, lad, an' shirker y'not. 'Tis a warmish kind o'night, and I'll beggar sleep with me thoughts of the evenin' anyway. 'Tis too many years... an' too many miles of wanderin' an' soldierin'."

It must have been a chill wind that rose from somewhere to cause the sergeant's shoulders to quiver so, and as another unseen cinder was caught in his eye, he turned on his heels and headed for the slope.

"Too many years of what, Sergeant? I'm sorry, Sergeant, I didn't hear what y'said!" called the young private, in the growing darkness, to the quickly receding shape of his sergeant.

And the only answer came on the night breeze, "HOOO HOOO HOOO..."

* * *



Sometimes we are defeated by the obvious.

For many years I had searched that plowed river bottom with a steadily diminishing number of good recoveries. Newer equipment... bigger coils... all aided to give the site a couple of final "curtain calls," but I knew the days of finding my boots planted in that loamy soil along with the seeds were quickly coming to an end. I had tried a good number of different search strategies, some with success, others meeting with dismal failure, but my bag of tricks for making additional recoveries was now empty.

Several British coppers were found on the site of the overlook camp, a good indication of the origin of the troops who guarded the passage.

There was a certain affinity that had grown between myself and this particular site over the years. I don't think it was just the close proximity of the river, or the wall of pine-clad slopes to the west... nor was it the solemn silence, only occasionally broken by the hoot of an owl, on those days when I would arrive just before dawn. I think it might have been a growing sense that I had been there... a different time... a different now.

To some, that thought, that feeling, might appear to be a little strange. Not every site generates the same sense experience, or aberration, but there's a kindredness to some sites that relic hunters feel. You can ask them about it... they might tell you. It's serious stuff. We don't shout such tales of eerie sensations from rooftops... and we're not "half a bubble off plumb." It's just the way it is, sometimes, and we know we can't change it.

I guess it had something to do with the feeling that I had once known this site that gave me the very clear message that I was missing something. (No, other people hear the voices- I don't.)

The layout of the site was pretty simple: small garrison... minor post... small, shallow ford in the river for bringing supplies to bigger garrisons at major posts... kind of a small footnote in history. The fields where the stockaded fort had once stood had been heavily searched over the years, revealing everything from British, French & Indian War era pewter buttons, to buckle fragments... musketballs and the occasional piece of grape shot... rum bottle and pottery fragments of European origin to arrowheads and spearpoints from earlier Native American occupations. It had been a cornucopia of relics at one time, but that time had long passed.

Standing mid-field, on what I suspected would be my last day of searching the site, I glanced up at the steep rock wall to the west. There was a very prominent ledge near the top, and while well out of musket or rifle range from the fort, it would surely offer a wonderful view of the river and surrounding flatlands. My mere musings produced a thought that ran through my head as if I'd been shot with a crystal bullet. It was the ideal place to post sentries. I had been too busy looking at the ground... searching the ground, to have ever looked at the cliff face with other than a casual eye. I had been defeated by the obvious!

To remedy the situation, I broke down my detector, as I would need both hands to make the ascent, and stowed it, along with my digging tool, in my backpack.

Slowed by some thick brush and brambles at the edge of the field, and some very awkward footing, it was better than a half hour before I found myself standing on the ledge and looking down on the field where the ford had once stood. Behind me I could see that the ground rose about another 30', but this area was more heavily wooded and offered a very limited view of the valley below. If a sentry had been posted on this height at some time in the past, I was standing where his boots had once stood. Dropping my pack beside a tall pine, I began assembling my detector, ready to turn my assumption into fact.

I don't think I'd swung my Shadow X-5 more than three times before I had a solid target signal, and my digging tool struck something with the first thrust. From the effects of the wind on the ledge, the soil was very thin, little more than a covering of very heavy moss. Digging beneath the surface at an acute angle, I literally lifted a section of the moss from the layer of rock beneath the surface. As I flipped the mossy flap over, like a bad hairpiece, I could see the bottom of a large caliber musketball protruding from the underside! Seven more large caliber, dropped balls, along with two pewter buttons, were recovered in the same fashion on the ledge. From the surface of the exposed rock I was able to recover the fragments of a clay pipe which must have been dropped and broken on the ledge those centuries ago.

The area of the ledge was limited and didn't take a great deal of time to cover. I decided to search the elevated areas behind the ledge. Assuming that perhaps a squad of soldiers would be sent to the summit instead of one lone sentinel, I searched for a convenient area that could harbor a small campfire and offer some comfort to those not standing the watch. I followed a short section of deer trail toward the rise.

Had I been born with the gifts of a Rembrandt, I could not have painted a picture of a better setting for a campfire than the one I stumbled upon. Imagine a small, rock-walled amphitheater, perhaps 20' in diameter. The rough, lichened, gray walls provided protection from the wind, but stood no more than 5' high. The interior floor was thick with humus, small bushes, and the remains of an ancient pine that had fallen across it many years ago. I would have bet a week's pay that I could find at least one relic within the confines of those rocky walls...

And I would have won that bet! The first relic to reach the light from that spongy matrix of humus was a perfect Colonial shoe buckle... soon to be followed by a clasp knife, a flint striker, a small handful of dropped musketballs, and over a half dozen more hollow, pewter buttons, all in near-perfect condition. Pewter buttons of the type I recovered were identical to those I had found on two other French & Indian War era British sites, so it came as no great surprise when several British coppers were found just outside the rocky enclosure. What was really unique about this undisturbed site was the fact that in several areas I could easily notice the remains of charred wood, even after all those years!

It was near dusk when I started making the descent from the ledge overlooking the fort site. I didn't dare wait any longer, having already suffered one broken arm in the recent past. As always, the descent was quite a bit faster than the climb, and as I once again reached mid-field I looked back to that lofty perch and wondered about the men who had been stationed at this desolate outpost... so far from family... so far from friends... so far from home.

My wondering questions were echoed from those limestone walls, returning on a breeze from the past... across time... from a different then... a different now...

"HOOO... HOOO... HOOO..."

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