We arrived home just at dusk. As Pieter and I were watering our horses and putting away the saddles and tack, a Trusted Courier, mounted on a lathered stallion, arrived at our gate and shouted, “Halloo!”

Pieter grabbed one of the two lit lanterns and hastened to the portal. I heard the rider inquire, “Is this the residence of James Newman, the architect?”

“Ya,” Pieter replied, “why do you ask?”

“I have a message for his son, Nathanael. Is he here?”

I tethered my horse over the water trough so she could ­continue to drink and rushed to the gate. “I am Nathanael Newman, sir.”

The rider reached into the pouch slung over his shoulder, drew out an envelope, and handed it to me. “A relay rider from Richmond brought this to our station on the north side of the Rappahannock in Falmouth this morning. He said it was from Williamsburg and it was for urgent delivery to you.”

It occurred to me how strange it was to be sending and receiving correspondence by such means. When he was a Crown Postmaster, Mr. Benjamin Franklin visited Winchester and promised to build a post office. Unfortunately, it was not yet constructed when the authorities in London dismissed Mr. Franklin for seditious activities.

I took the letter. By the lantern’s dim light, I could see it was my father’s hand on the envelope and a red wax seal with the imprint of his wedding ring; an ichthys.

Our mother had an identical ring and they told us their rings were a reminder to one another they were both Christians. She told us a bedtime story about how the symbol was used as a secret signal by ancient followers of Jesus to mark safe meeting places and discern friend from foe when Christians were being hunted and killed by Roman soldiers.

More than once, Father showed us how a Christian, encountering a stranger on the road, would draw the top arc in the dust with a stick. If the stranger drew the bottom arc, intersecting at the mouth and crossing at the tail, in the shape of a fish, they both could be certain they were in safe company.

Before rushing into the house to read it, I said, “Thank you, kind sir. Will you come in? It is nearly dark. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet but thank you. I have one more message to deliver before I rest tonight. May I water my horse?”

“Of course,” I replied as Pieter opened the gate.

The dispatch rider dismounted and as I handed him a ladle of cold well water, Pieter led the horse to the trough. After man and beast drank their fill, I held the reins while Pieter gave the rider a leg-up to remount.