272 Black slaves sold to save Georgetown University
This is a little history all Black people should know. It's history but it's relevant history.
272 Slaves Were Sold to Save Georgetown. What Does It Owe Their Descendants?
In 1838, the Jesuit priests who ran the country’s top Catholic university needed money to keep it alive. Now comes the task of making amends.
WASHINGTON
— The human cargo was loaded on ships at a bustling wharf in the
nation’s capital, destined for the plantations of the Deep South. Some
slaves pleaded for rosaries as they were rounded up, praying for
deliverance.
But
on this day, in the fall of 1838, no one was spared: not the
2-month-old baby and her mother, not the field hands, not the shoemaker
and not Cornelius Hawkins, who was about 13 years old when he was forced
onboard.
Their
panic and desperation would be mostly forgotten for more than a
century. But this was no ordinary slave sale. The enslaved
African-Americans had belonged to the nation’s most prominent Jesuit
priests. And they were sold, along with scores of others, to help secure
the future of the premier Catholic institution of higher learning at
the time, known today as Georgetown University.
Now, with racial protests roiling college campuses, an unusual collection of Georgetown professors, students, alumni and genealogists is trying to find out what happened
to those 272 men, women and children. And they are confronting a
particularly wrenching question: What, if anything, is owed to the
descendants of slaves who were sold to help ensure the college’s
survival?
More than a dozen universities — including Brown, Columbia, Harvard and the University of Virginia
— have publicly recognized their ties to slavery and the slave trade.
But the 1838 slave sale organized by the Jesuits, who founded and ran
Georgetown, stands out for its sheer size, historians say.
At
Georgetown, slavery and scholarship were inextricably linked. The
college relied on Jesuit plantations in Maryland to help finance its
operations, university officials say. (Slaves were often donated by
prosperous parishioners.) And the 1838 sale — worth about $3.3 million in today’s dollars — was organized by two of Georgetown’s early presidents, both Jesuit priests.
Some of that money helped to pay off the debts of the struggling college.
Photo
Georgetown University in
Washington, seen from across the Potomac River. The institution came
under fire last fall, with students demanding justice for the slaves in
the 1838 sale.Credit
Gabriella Demczuk for The New York Times
“The university itself owes its existence to this history,” said Adam Rothman, a historian at Georgetown and a member of a university working group that is studying ways for the institution to acknowledge and try to make amends for its tangled roots in slavery.
Although
the working group was established in August, it was student
demonstrations at Georgetown in the fall that helped to galvanize alumni
and gave new urgency to the administration’s efforts.
The
students organized a protest and a sit-in, using the hashtag #GU272 for
the slaves who were sold. In November, the university agreed to remove the names of the Rev. Thomas F. Mulledy and the Rev. William McSherry, the college presidents involved in the sale, from two campus buildings.
An alumnus, following the protest from afar, wondered if more needed to be done.
That
alumnus, Richard J. Cellini, the chief executive of a technology
company and a practicing Catholic, was troubled that neither the Jesuits
nor university officials had tried to trace the lives of the enslaved
African-Americans or compensate their progeny.
Mr.
Cellini is an unlikely racial crusader. A white man, he admitted that
he had never spent much time thinking about slavery or African-American
history.
But he said he could not stop thinking about the slaves, whose names had been in Georgetown’s archives for decades.
Photo
Richard Cellini, the chief
executive of a technology company and a Georgetown alumnus, hired eight
genealogists to track down the slaves and their descendants.Credit
Gabriella Demczuk for The New York Times
“This is not a disembodied group of people, who are nameless and faceless,” said Mr. Cellini, 52, whose company, Briefcase Analytics, is based in Cambridge, Mass. “These are real people with real names and real descendants.”
Within two weeks, Mr. Cellini had set up a nonprofit, the Georgetown Memory Project, hired eight genealogists and raised more than $10,000 from fellow alumni to finance their research.
Dr.
Rothman, the Georgetown historian, heard about Mr. Cellini’s efforts
and let him know that he and several of his students were also tracing
the slaves. Soon, the two men and their teams were working on parallel
tracks.
What
has emerged from their research, and that of other scholars, is a
glimpse of an insular world dominated by priests who required their
slaves to attend Mass for the sake of their salvation, but also whipped
and sold some of them. The records describe runaways, harsh plantation
conditions and the anguish voiced by some Jesuits over their
participation in a system of forced servitude.
“A microcosm of the whole history of American slavery,” Dr. Rothman said.
The
enslaved were grandmothers and grandfathers, carpenters and
blacksmiths, pregnant women and anxious fathers, children and infants,
who were fearful, bewildered and despairing as they saw their families
and communities ripped apart by the sale of 1838.
The
researchers have used archival records to follow their footsteps, from
the Jesuit plantations in Maryland, to the docks of New Orleans, to
three plantations west and south of Baton Rouge, La.
The
hope was to eventually identify the slaves’ descendants. By the end of
December, one of Mr. Cellini’s genealogists felt confident that she had
found a strong test case: the family of the boy, Cornelius Hawkins.
Broken Promises
There
are no surviving images of Cornelius, no letters or journals that offer
a look into his last hours on a Jesuit plantation in Maryland.
He
was not yet five feet tall when he sailed onboard the Katharine
Jackson, one of several vessels that carried the slaves to the port of
New Orleans.
Photo
The ship manifest of the Katharine Jackson, available in full at the Georgetown Slavery archive,
listed the name, sex, age and height of each slave transported to New
Orleans in the fall of 1838. It showed that the cargo included dozens of
children, among them infants as young as 2 months old.Credit
Ancestry
An inspector scrutinized the cargo on Dec. 6, 1838. “Examined and found correct,” he wrote of Cornelius and the 129 other people he found on the ship.
The
notation betrayed no hint of the turmoil on board. But priests at the
Jesuit plantations recounted the panic and fear they witnessed when the
slaves departed.
Some
children were sold without their parents, records show, and slaves were
“dragged off by force to the ship,” the Rev. Thomas Lilly reported.
Others, including two of Cornelius’s uncles, ran away before they could
be captured.
But
few were lucky enough to escape. The Rev. Peter Havermans wrote of an
elderly woman who fell to her knees, begging to know what she had done
to deserve such a fate, according to Robert Emmett Curran, a retired
Georgetown historian who described eyewitness accounts of the sale in
his research. Cornelius’s extended family was split, with his aunt Nelly
and her daughters shipped to one plantation, and his uncle James and
his wife and children sent to another, records show.
At the time, the Catholic Church did not view slaveholding as immoral, said the Rev. Thomas R. Murphy, a historian at Seattle University who has written a book about the Jesuits and slavery.
Photo
The Rev. Thomas F. Mulledy, president of Georgetown from 1829 to 1838, and again from 1845 to 1848, arranged the sale.Credit
Georgetown University Archives
The Jesuits had sold off individual slaves before. As early as the 1780s, Dr. Rothman found, they openly discussed the need to cull their stock of human beings.
But the decision to sell virtually all of their enslaved African-Americans in the 1830s left some priests deeply troubled.
They
worried that new owners might not allow the slaves to practice their
Catholic faith. They also knew that life on plantations in the Deep
South was notoriously brutal, and feared that families might end up
being separated and resold.
“It
would be better to suffer financial disaster than suffer the loss of
our souls with the sale of the slaves,” wrote the Rev. Jan Roothaan, who
headed the Jesuits’ international organization from Rome and was
initially reluctant to authorize the sale.
But
he was persuaded to reconsider by several prominent Jesuits, including
Father Mulledy, then the influential president of Georgetown who had
overseen its expansion, and Father McSherry, who was in charge of the
Jesuits’ Maryland mission. (The two men would swap positions by 1838.)
Mismanaged
and inefficient, the Maryland plantations no longer offered a reliable
source of income for Georgetown College, which had been founded in 1789.
It would not survive, Father Mulledy feared, without an influx of cash.
So in June 1838, he negotiated a deal with Henry Johnson, a member of the House of Representatives, and Jesse Batey, a landowner in Louisiana, to sell Cornelius and the others.
Photo
The bill of sale
was dated June 19, 1838, and stated: “Thomas F. Mulledy sells to Jesse
Beatty and Henry Johnson two hundred and seventy two negroes, to wit.”
It outlined a payment plan, with discounts if the slaves turned out to
be more infirm than described.Credit
Maryland Province Archives at Lauinger Library at Georgetown University
Father
Mulledy promised his superiors that the slaves would continue to
practice their religion. Families would not be separated. And the money
raised by the sale would not be used to pay off debt or for operating
expenses.
None of those conditions were met, university officials said.
Father
Mulledy took most of the down payment he received from the sale — about
$500,000 in today’s dollars — and used it to help pay off the debts
that Georgetown had incurred under his leadership.
In the uproar that followed, he was called to Rome and reassigned.
The
next year, Pope Gregory XVI explicitly barred Catholics from engaging
in “this traffic in Blacks … no matter what pretext or excuse.”
But
the pope’s order, which did not explicitly address slave ownership or
private sales like the one organized by the Jesuits, offered scant
comfort to Cornelius and the other slaves.
By
the 1840s, word was trickling back to Washington that the slaves’ new
owners had broken their promises. Some slaves suffered at the hands of a
cruel overseer.
Roughly
two-thirds of the Jesuits’ former slaves — including Cornelius and his
family — had been shipped to two plantations so distant from churches
that “they never see a Catholic priest,” the Rev. James Van de Velde, a Jesuit who visited Louisiana, wrote in a letter in 1848.
Father
Van de Velde begged Jesuit leaders to send money for the construction
of a church that would “provide for the salvation of those poor people,
who are now utterly neglected.”
Photo
A passage from the Rev. James Van de Velde’s letter
reads: “They are all very good people, industrious, faithful, moral,
&c. — the character given to them by their owners & their
neighbors. But they have scarcely any chance to attend to their
religious duties, & the children, several of them not yet baptized,
grew up without any religious instruction whatever.”Credit
Maryland Province Archives at Lauinger Library at Georgetown University
He addressed his concerns to Father Mulledy, who three years earlier had returned to his post as president of Georgetown.
There is no indication that he received any response.
A Familiar Name
African-Americans
are often a fleeting presence in the documents of the 1800s. Enslaved,
marginalized and forced into illiteracy by laws that prohibited them
from learning to read and write, many seem like ghosts who pass through
this world without leaving a trace.
After
the sale, Cornelius vanishes from the public record until 1851 when his
trail finally picks back up on a cotton plantation near Maringouin, La.
His
owner, Mr. Batey, had died, and Cornelius appeared on the plantation’s
inventory, which included 27 mules and horses, 32 hogs, two ox carts and
scores of other slaves. He was valued at $900. (“Valuable Plantation
and Negroes for Sale,” read one newspaper advertisement in 1852.)
The
plantation would be sold again and again and again, records show, but
Cornelius’s family remained intact. In 1870, he appeared in the census
for the first time. He was about 48 then, a father, a husband, a farm
laborer and, finally, a free man.
He
might have disappeared from view again for a time, save for something
few could have counted on: his deep, abiding faith. It was his
Catholicism, born on the Jesuit plantations of his childhood, that would
provide researchers with a road map to his descendants.
Cornelius
had originally been shipped to a plantation so far from a church that
he had married in a civil ceremony. But six years after he appeared in
the census, and about three decades after the birth of his first child,
he renewed his wedding vows with the blessing of a priest.
His children and grandchildren also embraced the Catholic church. So Judy Riffel,
one of the genealogists hired by Mr. Cellini, began following a chain
of weddings and births, baptisms and burials. The church records helped
lead to a 69-year-old woman in Baton Rouge named Maxine Crump.
Photo
Maxine Crump, 69, a
descendant of one of the slaves sold by the Jesuits, in a Louisiana
sugar cane field where researchers believe her ancestor once worked.Credit
William Widmer for The New York Times
Ms.
Crump, a retired television news anchor, was driving to Maringouin, her
hometown, in early February when her cellphone rang. Mr. Cellini was on
the line.
She
listened, stunned, as he told her about her great-great-grandfather,
Cornelius Hawkins, who had labored on a plantation just a few miles from
where she grew up.
She
found out about the Jesuits and Georgetown and the sea voyage to
Louisiana. And she learned that Cornelius had worked the soil of a
2,800-acre estate that straddled the Bayou Maringouin.
All of this was new to Ms. Crump, except for the name Cornelius — or Neely, as Cornelius was known.
The
name had been passed down from generation to generation in her family.
Her great-uncle had the name, as did one of her cousins. Now, for the
first time, Ms. Crump understood its origins.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”
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Ms. Crump is a familiar figure in Baton Rouge. She was the city’s first black woman television anchor. She runs a nonprofit, Dialogue on Race Louisiana, that offers educational programs on institutional racism and ways to combat it.
She
prides herself on being unflappable. But the revelations about her
lineage — and the church she grew up in — have unleashed a swirl of
emotions.
She
is outraged that the church’s leaders sanctioned the buying and selling
of slaves, and that Georgetown profited from the sale of her ancestors.
She feels great sadness as she envisions Cornelius as a young boy, torn
from everything he knew.
‘Now They Are Real to Me’
Mr.
Cellini, whose genealogists have already traced more than 200 of the
slaves from Maryland to Louisiana, believes there may be thousands of
living descendants. He has contacted a few, including Patricia
Bayonne-Johnson, president of the Eastern Washington Genealogical Society in
Spokane, who is helping to track the Jesuit slaves with her group. (Ms.
Bayonne-Johnson discovered her connection through an earlier effort by
the university to publish records online about the Jesuit plantations.)
Photo
Patricia Bayonne-Johnson, a
descendant of another of the slaves sold by the Jesuits, is the
president of the Eastern Washington Genealogical Society in Spokane,
Wash., which is helping to track the slaves and their families.Credit
Rajah Bose for The New York Times
Meanwhile,
Georgetown’s working group has been weighing whether the university
should apologize for profiting from slave labor, create a memorial to
those enslaved and provide scholarships for their descendants, among
other possibilities, said Dr. Rothman, the historian.
“It’s hard to know what could possibly reconcile a history like this,” he said. “What can you do to make amends?”
Ms.
Crump, 69, has been asking herself that question, too. She does not put
much stock in what she describes as “casual institutional apologies.”
But she would like to see a scholarship program that would bring the
slaves’ descendants to Georgetown as students.
And she would like to see Cornelius’s name, and those of his parents and children, inscribed on a memorial on campus.
Her
ancestors, once amorphous and invisible, are finally taking shape in
her mind. There is joy in that, she said, exhilaration even.
“Now they are real to me,” she said, “more real every day.”
She
still wants to know more about Cornelius’s beginnings, and about his
life as a free man. But when Ms. Riffel, the genealogist, told her where
she thought he was buried, Ms. Crump knew exactly where to go.
The
two women drove on the narrow roads that line the green, rippling sugar
cane fields in Iberville Parish. There was no need for a map. They were
heading to the only Catholic cemetery in Maringouin.
They
found the last physical marker of Cornelius’s journey at the Immaculate
Heart of Mary cemetery, where Ms. Crump’s father, grandmother and
great-grandfather are also buried.
The worn gravestone had toppled, but the wording was plain: “Neely Hawkins Died April 16, 1902.”
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