KEY West, December 26, 1896.
[DEAR FAMILY:]
I got your letters late last night and they made me
pretty solemn. It is an awfully solemn thing to
have people care for you like that and to care for them as I
do. I can't tell you how much I love you. You don't know how
much the pain of worrying you for a month has meant to me, but
I have talked it all out with myself, and left it to God and I
am sure I am doing right. As Mrs. Crown said, "There's a
whole churchful up here praying for you," and I guess that
will pull me through. Of course, dear, dear Mother thought
she was cross with me. She could not be cross with me, and
her letter told me how much she cared, that was all, and made
me be extra careful. But I need not promise you to be
careful. You have an idea I am a wild, filibustering,
hot-headed young man. I am not. I gave the guides to
understand their duty was to keep us out of danger if we had
to walk miles to avoid it. We are men of peace, going in, as
real estate agents and coffee-planters and drummers are going
in on every steamer, to attend to our especial work and get
out again quick. I have just as strong a prejudice against
killing a man as I have against his killing me.
Lots and lots of love. Don't get scared if you don't
hear for a month, although we will try to get our stories back
once a week, but you know we are at the convenience of the
Cubans who will pocket our despatches and money and not take
the long trip back. Thank dear Dad for his letter full of
good advice. It was excellent. Remington and Michelson are
good men and I like them immensely. Already we are firm
friends.
Love, DICK.
