The Final Chapter of Bill Rouse

Author’s Note: This account is based on actual events that took place in Worth County, Georgia in 1911. Some of the events are well documented; others live on in legend. There are many more tales of this infamous member of our history. Only the mouths of days long past could say whether or not they are truth, and they aren’t talking! I do admit that some of the story is embellished, but, aren’t all good tales that are repeated around campfires and in barber shops?

The morning dawned cloudless as late summer mornings in South Georgia usually did. Before the clock chimed nine, it already was stifling. It seemed as if the fires of hell were being fanned by the summer breeze. The crowd had gathered on the jailhouse lawn. There was to be a hanging. Bill Rouse had exhausted all of his avenues of appeal; there would be no further stays.

Two years earlier, in a drunken fight, he had shot and killed a man. Some people say this was not the first. There had been many tales told over the years about Bill, all of which he vehemently denied. This time, he claimed that it was self-defense. Had he not killed Bill Bailey, Bailey would certainly have killed him.

The history of the two men went back for many years. Bailey had married Rouse’s sister and the “bad blood” between them had started soon after. There had been many battles some in the legal arena, and some settled more publically. They lived on adjoining farms, giving them much common fodder for arguments.

It is said by witnesses that Bill Rouse got Bailey to ride to an adjoining community with him on that ill-fated Saturday. They rode the short trip in a wagon, drinking and talking all the way there. The more they drank and the more they talked, the more they disagreed, and by the time they reached their destination, they were primed and ready for a battle.

Their argument escalated. Bailey ran into the home of an acquaintance with Rouse right behind him. Shots were fired, and when the first person arrived on the scene to witness the outcome, Bailey lay dead. He had been shot three times, and was bleeding profusely from the neck.

Rouse was arrested immediately and taken to the jail in the nearby county-seat. When interviewed by the sheriff, he admitted shooting Bill Bailey, claiming self-defense. He denied any knowledge of the neck wound.

“Yeah, I shot him,” Rouse said. “I shot him before he had the chance to get to me. He had a knife and was coming at me. We had been drinking, and arguing over some money he owed me.“

The sheriff told him that Bailey did not die from the bullets but had died from a knife wound to his neck—his throat had been slit. Rouse went to meet his Maker denying any knowledge of the wound. He said if Bailey’s throat was injured, it was from a bullet from a 38 pistol.

For nearly two years, Bill Rouse had awaited his fate. He had been tried by the State of Georgia for murder. He was convicted and sentenced to hang. Even in 1911, court proceedings were expensive. In order to pay for his defense, his family had had to sell a portion of the family farm. Then, finally, when the appeal process began, they had sold the remainder of the parcel, leaving his pregnant wife and several small children homeless and without a provider. Today, September 1, 1911, just four days short of his being incarcerated for two years, there would be no more delays. Bill Rouse would die. He would be hanged.

The past twenty-four months had been filled with a lot of soul-searching for Bill Rouse. He had come to terms with his crime. He knew that he must pay with his life for taking the life of Bill Bailey. He had started praying not just daily, but hourly. He prayed for forgiveness, for his family, and for the salvation of men whom he knew were walking the same pathway that he had trod.

There were several pastors who came to the jail regularly to visit with him. They shared God’s word with Bill. They were present today, and would walk with him to the gallows, where Bill would step into eternity. Bill was a changed man.

Bill’s father, old, weary, and heart-broken, had come to bid his son good-by. Tears streamed down his face as he kissed his son through the cold iron bars. He slipped his arms through the openings to hold his son one last time. As the old man stood there, Bill asked two of his brothers to take care of their dad. Sol and Bob promised that they would “look after him”.

Two of the Rouse children tearfully clung to their father. “Papa, don’t leave us,” they pled. “We love you, Papa.”

With tears brimming his eyes, he bid all of his family and friends farewell, and beseeched them to not settle any of their debts here on this earth as he had chosen to do. It was time to go.

The sheriff led Bill Rouse from the small cell, through the jail, and to the tower where the rope would be placed around his neck. At precisely 11:25 a.m. on September 1, 1911, the last official execution in Worth County, Georgia, was finalized. William “Bill” Rouse was dead.

He was pronounced dead by the coroner, and twenty-three minutes later, his body was turned over to his family for burial. They loaded his body into the back of an old farm wagon, and began the drive to his father’s house where he would lay until his burial the next day. It was a long trip. They lived at the north end of the county, nearly fifteen miles away.

Bill was laid to rest the next day. There were many family members and friends as well in attendance. His wife was distraught.

“What will I do now?” she cried. “Without Bill, I don’t know how we will get by.”

Anna Rouse did not look well. She was pale and haggard. She carried in her hand an old and worn bible. Her children gathered around her. They looked scared. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Anna flung herself atop the wooden box. It took four men to restrain her, and to pull her from the grave.

The minister finished the service, and the crowd left. Family members trickled away from the old graveyard. Anna lingered as long as she could, until Sol persuaded her to leave with him.

Several nights passed. Neighbors who lived near the old country church were awakened to the keening sounds of a woman. Looking out their windows, they were surprised to see lights in the graveyard. They quickly ran to investigate.

Anna Rouse was sitting in the grave of her husband. She had obtained permission from the court to have Bill Rouse disinterred, and had dug him up with the help of some family members. She was seated at the edge of his final resting place with his body in her lap. She was chanting, and performing what appeared to be some sort of ritual. Her eyes were glazed, and her hair was tousled. She looked frantic and acted demented. In her hand was a pitcher of buttermilk that she was pouring down his dead, parched throat.

It became evident to Anna , after this went on for several hours, that Bill was dead and would remain so. He would walk this earth no more, and would not be returning to his hearth and home. Alas, Anna was a broken woman! She arose and left the cemetery, walking into the heat of that dark summer night.

The saga of Bill Rouse had ended. His body was returned to his grave, and remains there, undisturbed, until this day.

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