During the transit I introduced myself and asked the messenger from whence he had come, but he only replied, “This is my ninth horse and fourth day and night of hard riding.”

When we arrived on the western shore, he handed David a shilling for the toll, and asked, “Where are your fathers, lads?”

David replied, “They are meeting at Glen Owen1 with Pastor John Peter Gabriel Muhlenberg, the chairman of Shenandoah County Secret Committee, and Rev. Charles Mynn Thruston, chairman of our local committee.”

As he re-mounted his steed, the weary rider shook his head and said sternly, “You should not mention the committees to those you do not know for certain. There are Tory spies everywhere.”

I interjected, “We understand, sir, but I recognized you as a committee courier.”

He nodded and said, “Best not mention that to others, either. These are dangerous times.”

Then turning to David, he asked, “Glen Owen is the place your family bought from Colonel and Mrs. Washington, right?”

“Yes, sir, just go west on the turnpike. It’s on your right, about three miles. May I inquire, why are you seeking our fathers?”

“I’m sorry lads, but I cannot speak to others about this matter. Only to them.”

While David and I used the horse team to drag the ferries out of the water onto the west bank of the river, my curiosity gnawed at me like a hunting dog chewing on a knucklebone.

We arrived at Glen Owen just after dark. Our fathers were alone, seated before the fire when we entered the home. David’s father immediately said, “Come with me, son,” and they departed the room together with a male slave named Jonathan, leaving my very somber father and me alone.

My father, at forty-seven, was a much-respected architect and well known from Williamsburg to the Shenandoah Valley. By the standards of the day we were wealthy—with a comfortable home and stable on a cobbled street in Winchester.

Though he never spoke of it, others told me and my two older brothers, Joshua and Paul, of our father’s courage, tenacity, and skill as a Virginia militiaman on Lord Braddock’s ill-fated campaign to capture Fort Duquesne in the summer of 1755. Perhaps it was that experience that caused him to spend so much time teaching the three of us how to ride, shoot, hunt, and live in the wilderness.

Our father was known to be a wise and generous man, but his cheerful demeanor diminished considerably following our ­mother’s death from Ague2 in 1771 after returning to Winchester from visiting her sister’s home in North Carolina. Father was in Charlottesville at the time, working with Mr. Jefferson at Monticello. It fell to Joshua to make the mournful ride to deliver the news to Father while Paul and I buried our mother.

Now, as he motioned me into the chair vacated by Mr. Casselman, I perceived our father was once again greatly saddened.