TAMPA, May 3rd, 1898.
[DEAR NORA:]
We are still here and probably will be. It is a merry
war, if there were only some girls here the place would be
perfect. I don't know what's the matter with the American
girl — here am I — and Stenie and Willie Chanler and Frederick
Remington and all the boy officers of the army and not one
solitary, ugly, plain, pretty, or beautiful girl. I bought a
fine pony to-day, her name was Ellaline but I thought that was
too much glory for Ellaline so I diffused it over the whole
company by re-christening her Gaiety Girl, because she is so
quiet, all the Gaiety Girls I know are quiet.
She never does what I tell her anyway, so it doesn't matter
what I call her. But when this cruel war is over ($6 a day
with bath room adjoining) I am going to have an oil painting
of her labelled "Gaiety Girl the Kentucky Mare that carried
the news of the fall of Havana to Matanzas, fifty miles under
fire and Richard Harding Davis." To-morrow I am going to buy
a saddle and a servant. War is a cruel thing especially to
army officers. They have to wear uniforms and are not allowed
to take off their trousers to keep cool — They take off
everything else except their hats and sit in the dining room
without their coats or collars — That's because it is war
time. They are terrible brave — you can see it by the way they
wear bouquets on their tunics and cigarette badges and Cuban
flags and by not saluting their officers. One General counted
today and forty enlisted men passed him without saluting. The
army will have to do a lot of fighting to make itself solid
with me. They are mounted police. We have a sentry here, he
sits in a rocking chair. Imagine one of Sampson's or Dewey's
bluejackets sitting down even on a gun carriage. Wait till I
write my book. I wouldn't say a word now but when I write
that book I'll give them large space rates. I am writing it
now, the first batch comes out in Scribner's in July.
Love to you all.
DICK.
During the early days of the war, Richard received the
appointment of a captaincy, but on the advice of his friends
that his services were more valuable as a correspondent, he
refused the commission. The following letter shows that at
least at the time my
brother regretted the decision, but as events turned out he
succeeded in rendering splendid service not only as a
correspondent but in the field.
