He continued: "Our Consul in Cuba, William L. Sharkley, had been authorized by a special act of Congress to administer the Vice President elect his oath of office in Cuba. When Mr. Sharkley suggested Senator King remain seated for the swearing, Senator King would have none of it.
"He pitifully roused himself with his magnificent frock suit hanging from his frame and took the oath. I held his back and left arm assisting his dignity. After he whispered, 'I will, so help me God,' Thomas Rodney, Consul Sharkley's assistant, and I helped him sit, fearing he would collapse. He was able to return to his beloved home, Chestnut Hill at King's Bend on the Alabama River near Cahaba, but not to Washington. He arrived at Chestnut Hill April 17 and left your world the next day, on April 18, 1853." Mr. Jones stopped his haunted remembrance and looked down at his hands, clasped on the table. He tightened his left hand over his right.
I kept quiet for a bit and then said, "You were his friend, Mr. Jones."
"Yes, I was," Jones said firmly. "Secretary Buchanan charged me with a letter to the Vice President elect and I delivered it to him at Matanzas. I returned to Washington with a letter from Vice President King for Secretary Buchanan. Friends, sir, stand by friends, regardless of circumstances. Regardless." He grimaced and blinked to clear his eyes.
"I a sodomite? No sir!" He paused, looked up above my head, then looked at me eye to eye. "But does not your suspicion reveal your prejudice an narrowness, not your self-promoting, self-righteous humanism?" He looked at me with pity-pity, not scorn, and my soul ached from the difference.
My only response was to purse my mouth as I diverted my gaze to the window and the darkness it framed. Dared I protest? Could I object? Enlightened liberalism and humanism can be a contrived, politically correct posture that disguises and obscures our 'inappropriate' feelings and sentiments. Primal patterns are there, no matter our covering them over with layers of civilization and sophistication. Mental health and right thinking are goals seldom achieved. The third of my imagination's distorted conjectures was thus destroyed, with prejudice, and my hidden, unacknowledged hypocrisy exposed.
After his hurtful expression of sympathy he continued, "Friend Mansfield, in your dream, my dance partner was Rebecca, Josie and Cyrus' daughter." He paused, his pale blue eyes warm and soft. "She was an accomplished seamstress. Her skills were hired by the local tailors and her work was highly regarded. She had Cyrus' big hands, but was able to make them do magic with needle, thread, and cloth. In our home she served Miss Patc and the household. She was my maid."