This is the first story in our Black Resistance series — a collection of forgotten histories about how Black communities stood up to injustice in the face of terror. These aren’t just stories of what was done to us. They’re stories of how we responded.
And there’s no more powerful place to begin than with Lula Sherman.
In the winter of 1887, in Pickens County, South Carolina, 14-year-old Lula Sherman stayed home with her little sister while her parents were away. Her mother, Delia, had gone to a funeral. Her father, Cato, was out early — maybe working, maybe visiting relatives. It was the day after Christmas.
Lula was just a child. But being Black in the Jim Crow South meant childhood didn’t protect you. And that morning, a 35-year-old white man named Manse Waldrop showed up at her door.
He wasn’t from their community. He didn’t know the family. But he forced his way into their home and brutally violated her. The assault was so severe that Lula began to severely bleed. Waldrophe tried to stop the bleeding himself — first with medicine, then by stuffing cotton inside her. And then he walked out.
Lula didn’t tell her parents what had happened. Not right away. Her mother noticed something was wrong. Lula was quiet. She looked sick. But she didn’t say a word. It wasn’t until days later — after her body had grown weak, after her fever worsened, after her small frame started having seizures — that she finally told her mother what happened.
But by then, it was too late. The infection caused by the dirty cotton left in her body had spread. Lula died in her mother’s arms. She never got to become a teenager. She never got to heal. Her life was stolen.
And yet, this tragic story doesn’t end with silence. It doesn’t end with surrender. It ends with resistance.
A System That Never Protected Her
When word of Lula’s death spread through the Black community in Pickens County, a coroner’s inquest was launched. Her parents, Cato and Delia, testified. The doctor who examined Lula shortly after she died confirmed what had happened.
Soon, neighbors began speaking up. They’d seen a white man — Manse Waldrop — in the area that day. Some even saw him near the Shermans’ home. Lula’s younger sister confirmed it was him. He was arrested and charged.
But for Black residents in South Carolina, there was little faith that charges meant justice. White men who violated Black girls rarely faced consequences — not in the 1880s, and not in the decades that followed. Lynching Black men was common. Holding white men accountable was not.
That’s when something unexpected happened.
Cato Sherman, Lula’s father, was overwhelmed with grief. But beneath that grief was fury. And he wasn’t alone. Other Black men in the community — Harrison Heyward, Bill Williams, and others — started planning. They decided to do something no one had ever seen before. They were going to lynch a white man.
Turning the Rope Around
On the surface, it may seem shocking — but for these men, it made a twisted kind of sense. White mobs had lynched Black men countless times for the mere accusation of looking at a white woman. And now, a Black girl was dead, and her killer was being protected by the same system that claimed to uphold justice. So these men took matters into their own hands.
They intercepted Waldrop as he was being transported to jail. Shots were fired. He tried to escape. A group of Black men took him from the custody of white officials. And by morning, his body was found hanging from a tree on the road.
It was the first known case in South Carolina — and possibly the country — where Black men lynched a white man for assaulting a Black girl.
It wasn’t just vengeance. It was a message.
We will not sit quietly anymore.
The Legal Fallout
The backlash came fast.
A new investigation was launched. Five Black men — including Lula’s father, Cato Sherman — were arrested and charged with murder. A white man who had helped transport Waldrop was also charged, but only as an accessory.
Cato and the other Black men couldn’t afford bond. So they sat in jail while the white man posted bail and hired top attorneys.
When the grand jury met, it did something even more disgusting: it tried to blame Lula for her own death. They suggested that she died not from rape, but from a sexually transmitted disease — or that her mother had beaten her to death.
This wasn’t just victim-blaming. It was an attempt to erase Lula from the record. To deny her pain. To deny her worth.
But the Black community pushed back. People organized. They raised funds. Black attorneys stepped in. Even a former Confederate officer agreed to help to join the Black men’s defense team.
At trial, the courtroom was packed. After hearing the evidence, the jury could not reach a verdict. A mistrial was declared. The state was not deterred by this. Prosecutors tried the men again the next year.
At the second trial, Cato, a white man named Gaylord Eaton, and another Black man were found not guilty. Three other black men were found guilty. Two were sentenced to hang. That’s when the Black community stepped up again. Petitions poured in. Black churches rallied. Even the trial judge wrote the governor, urging mercy.
And in 1889, something few expected happened again: the Governor of South Carolina issued full pardons.
Why Her Story Matters
We tell Lula’s story today because her life mattered. Because her pain was real. Because her name, like so many others, has been lost in the noise of history.
But we remember her now.
And in remembering — we give her something the system never did: dignity.
If this story moved you, share it. Watch the full video on our channel to learn more. And join us as we continue to honor the past through the work of the Memory Justice Project.
Justice may have failed in 1887. But memory — our memory — can still speak.
