The Monitor-Herald, Calhoun City, Calhoun Co., MS, Thursday,
April 9, 1942
The Hanging of Dock Bishop
by Dennis Murphree
A few days ago the newspapers of
the nation carried the thrilling story of how the FBI or “G” men had
surrounded the Number One Bad Man of the United States, Charles
Chapman, over in Neshoba County, Mississippi, and called on him to
surrender. When he refused the demand and opened fire on the, these
representatives of the law promptly sent him to his death with
eighteen bullet holes in his body.
For years, it is said,
Chapman had slipped in and out of this, his home community, being
shielded from the law by friends and kinsfolks, while members of the
FBI kept relentlessly on his trail until they finally cornered him
and sent him to his death.
Pondering this grim story and
talking with friends who had first hand and personal information
about its stark details, there came from time to time back to my
mind the story of Calhoun County’s All-time Bad Man, and his
gruesome end. This is a story which was fresh in the minds of all
Calhoun County folks in my earliest boyhood days, and the details
were so thoroughly implanted in my fresh young mind in those days
that I have never forgotten.
One day this week, I was
gratified indeed to have a personal visit from my lifetime friend,
Uncle Bill Yancy, 87 year old citizen of Sarpeta, and talking over
these things with him and having him refresh my mind on various
points, I decided I would endeavor to write this story for Calhoun
County folks, all of whom have heard of it, and many of whom perhaps
will find it of interest.
Nearly sixty years ago, up in the
high hills of Northeast Calhoun County and along the line of
Lafayette, there lived the characters of this story among a people
who were honest, sincere, hardworking, mostly god fearing, and all
in all the kind and type of folks who are even yet the very backbone
and sinew of good citizenship of our land today.
The blight
of the fours years of Civil War still lay heavy on the land. Times
were hard, money was scarce, opportunity was lacking and yet these
people made the best of what they had, and enjoyed life as best they
might.
There was a dance one night in the home of a good
citizen who lived Northeast of Sarepta. A fiddle and a banjo, and a
man to “beat the straws.” A big old log house, with a huge fire
place, in which blazed a big fire of hickory logs and fat pine
knots. It was the old fashioned square dance. “All hands up and
circle left,” “right hands across and left hands back,” ladies do
see and gents you know,” “swing your partner and promenade.”
Ab Kelly was quite a character. Big and strong, a fine fellow when
sober, but given to being quarrelsome and overbearing when under the
influence of the brand of “wildcat” liquor, which was at that time a
rather plentiful product on Cowpen and Potlockany. Ab was at the
dance, more or less looking for trouble.
Dock Bishop was
there too. He was a man of striking appearance. More than six feet
tall, coal black hair and eyes, handsome face, fine personality,
dock with his impressive personality, made many friends easily.
Always he was a favorite with members of the fair sex.
On
this night, Dock was having a fine time, dancing with one of the
most beautiful girls present. Round and round he went, keeping
perfect time, his polished boots seeming to tap most lightly as he
lifted his beautiful partner to the strains of “Soldier’s Joy” and
the “Eighth of January.”
Somehow the sight of Dock Bishop
having such a good time jarred on Ab Kelly’s vision. Somehow, Ab
resented it.
So, when Dock swung by with his partner on his
arm, Kelly deliberately spat a brown stream of tobacco juice on Dock
Bishop’s polished boot. Dock looked Kelly in the eye, half stopped,
but decided to let the insult pass. Round he came again, and this
time Kelly spat a big shot of tobacco juice on Bishop’s new jean
trousers.
This was entirely too much. An invitation to go
outside, a wild melee in which others joined, and in a few moments
Kelly was flat on the ground with a pistol bullet through his
shoulder, and there was the beginning of a feud which smoldered as
messages passed back and forth between the principals and with
friends on both sides being slowly drawn into the affair.
Months passed and finally in the little town of Dallas, two miles
north of the Calhoun-Lafayette County line, the long smoldering feud
burst into full blaze when principals and friends on both sides met
and engaged in a general battle and shooting scrape, in which it is
said that Dock Bishop, always a crack shot with a pistol, shot and
killed two men whose name was Harmon and shot through the mouth
another man who was present.
This was too much, and
immediately the officers of the law began a man hunt for Dock Bishop
and for two or three other men who were his kinsmen and friends
charged as accessories to the crimes.
But Dock Bishop, like
Charles Chapman, had many friends, many kinspeople scattered
throughout the area from Yoccona to Scoona Rivers. It was not easy
to catch him. Over a period of several months, he roamed the
territory accompanied by his friends, staying a night with one
kinsman, a week with another, moving as the word was brought to him
of efforts being made to apprehend him.
I do not remember
whether or not a reward was offered for their capture. Evidently
there must have been.
Anyway, down in the Robbs neighborhood
in Pontotoc County and the Paris neighborhood in Calhoun County,
each bordering the Calhoun-Pontotoc line, there appeared a man named
Wise, from Texas, who claimed to be a cow buyer or cattle man and
who made it his business to try to locate Dock Bishop and his
associates.
In reality, Wise was a famous detective, and he
felt that he was outwitting these bad men thoroughly. But he was
badly wrong, and he paid for his error with his life.
Wise
made friends with a member of the Bishop crowd, and agreed to reward
this man if the man would direct him to Bishop’s hideout. All plans
were made, and it was agreed that on a certain night, the accomplice
would go on ahead of Wise and from time to time drop pieces of torn
newspaper in the road so that Wise might follow and take the outlaws
in their nest.
Jim Bishop was the man who promised to lead
Wise to the outlaw den. It was the theory of the state in the
prosecution of Dock Bishop that Jim Bishop was a tool and accomplice
of Dock Bishop and that instead of leading Wise to the place where
he might arrest Dock Bishop and the others, he betrayed Wise and led
him to his death.
Whatever is the truth about this, there
can be no doubt but that Wise on a starlight night, followed what he
thought was a certain trail to catch the outlaws.
As a boy
I saw the place where Wise was murdered.
A narrow country
road winding along the ridges and slopes of the red hills some five
miles southeast of Sarepta in Calhoun county, and only a little way
from the Pontotoc County line, came at one point between two huge
white oaks trees, neither tree being more than ten feet from the
road bed.
It was down this road came Detective Wise on that
starlight night way back in 1884, looking from time to time for the
piece of newspaper scattered along the road.
Neighbors who
lived in hearing distance swore on the witness stand that suddenly
there rang out on the still night air several gunshots and then
there was silence again.
The story is that when Wise walked
down the road and just as he reached the two huge trees a signal was
sounded and from shotguns and pistols a stream of bullets and
buckshot poured into his body killing him instantly.
Wise
was missing several days before the countryside was aroused. But
aroused it became when the story of the shots and his disappearance
became known.
Posses were formed and a wide spread search of
the countryside was made. Combing the woods and the entire country,
one member of this searching party, riding horseback through the
woods, noticed as his horse stepped across a fallen log, a piece of
bright red clay lying there. A clod of red clay lying by itself
there in the deep woods aroused his suspicions. He got down off his
horse and tied him to a nearby bush. Then he went and got down on
his knees and began to remove the leaves, pine straw and other
debris which covered the spot.
It was a matter of a moment
to determine that the earth had been disturbed there and recently.
He notified other members of the posse and soon with shovels they
began to remove the earth.
Buried almost under the huge
fallen log in a shallow grave not more than two feet deep, they
found the bullet torn and mangled body of Detective Wise, and as you
can very well imagine, excitement flared to a crescendo.
Word went by telegraph back to Texas and within a short period there
appeared on the scene grim and determined relatives of the dead man
bent on seeing to it that the murderers of Detective Wise should be
speedily brought to justice.
The shocking crime was too
much for even the friends of Bishop and his associates. No more
could they find shelter and safety in the homes of people in that
country. No more could they roam scot free. Public indignation
mounted to such extent that realizing they could no longer escape,
Bishop and one or two others went to Oxford and surrendered
themselves all the while bitterly denying the murder of Wise.
Money was not lacking to defend Dock Bishop and so there was
employed as his legal counsel, the Hon. Hamp Sullivan of Oxford, one
of the greatest criminal lawyers of his day and age.
Representing the State of Mississippi as District Attorney was the
Hon. Ira D. Ogglesby, reputedly one of the ugliest men in personal
appearance ever known in that country, but at the same time, one of
the brightest and shrewdest prosecuting attorneys that section has
known.
From the very outstart, it was a battle of giants.
Sullivan, with all his vast legal knowledge and great ability,
took advantage of every legal technicality, every loophole, every
possible avenue to save and acquit his clients.
Ogglesby on
the other hand backed by the majority of the law as well as public
opinion, met his adversary on every point and maneuver.
Bishop was tried first. He was the chief object of the state’s
attack. He was the acknowledged leader of the gang.
Back and
forth the battle raged, with each prospective juror being
scrutinized and put under the legal microscope. Many were challenged
and set aside. Those finally chosen were seated only after a barrage
of questions seeking in every way and manner to determine their
leanings or opinions.
For days on end Ogglesby put on the stand
an array of witnesses linking one to the other certain facts which
all together would irrecocably damn and convict the accused Dock
Bishop. Then for days, Sullivan threw forward an array of men and
women whose testimony he hoped would raise a doubt as to Dock
Bishop’s guilt. In the end, after many hours of deliberation, the
jury filed back into a tense and crowded courtroom with a unanimous
verdict of “guilty as charged.”
Standing cool, calm, and
unruffled in the court’s presence, Dock Bishop declined to make any
statement as to why the sentence should not be pronounced and heard
the Judge sentence him to be “hanged by the neck until your are
dead, dead, dead, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
Then followed many months of waiting while Mr. Sullivan appealed to
the Supreme Court and finally that high court said: “The case
against Dock Bishop is affirmed,” and set the date on which he
should die.
Friday, the Fourth day of July, 1886, was the
awful day on which Dock Bishop was slated to pay with his life for
his crime. Bright, hot sunshine fell upon the untold thousands of
men, women, and children, who on horseback, on foot, in mule and ox
wagons and all other kinds of transportation then in existence,
wended their way toward Pittsboro, the county site of Calhoun County
“to see Dock Bishop hung.”
The Board of Supervisors had made
arrangements to have the hanging in public. They had selected a
valley two miles west of Pittsboro on the old Pittsboro and Big
Creek road as the site. It was a natural amphitheatre, at the head
of a little hollow where on three sides the earth sloped down to the
little valley, and under the fine trees that covered these
hillsides, thousands upon thousands of people from all over Calhoun,
Pontotoc, Lafayette, and Yalobusha Counties gathered in restrained
silence, waiting, watching for the dread event.
A gallows of
huge square timbers had been builded there, and from the cross beam
several feet above the hinged trap door there hung a brand new grass
rope, already coiled ready for the fatal knot.
As the
appointed hour drew nigh, there was a buzz from the crowd, and
coming slowly down the winding country road, there was a wagon with
spring seats on which sat the sheriff and his deputies, one on each
side of the prisoner. In the back of the wagon, partly covered by a
quilt, was the black draped coffin inside of which the body of the
prisoner was soon to rest.
Scott Hardin, a good man and
true, was sheriff of Calhoun County. He led the way up the steps of
the scaffold and the prisoner followed. Dock Bishop stood on the
gallows and looked over the great crowd assembled. There was the
stillness of death over all. Pale from his long days in jail, Bishop
was yet a fine looking man in the very prime of his life. A minister
prayed for the forgiveness of all sins, and especially for the soul
of the condemned man. Then Dock Bishop was offered the opportunity
to speak for the last time on earth, and stepped forward. There was
not a tremor in his voice. There was no hint of a breakdown. Calmly
and with deliberation, Dock Bishop expressed his thanks to those who
had befriended him; he told of how he held no malice against him nor
against those officers of the law at whose hands he must suffer his
life. With almost his last breath, he finished his statement by
declaring that he was innocent of the death of Wise, at the same
time admitting that he had killed a man in Alabama.
Not a
muscle in his fine body quivered as Dock Bishop stepped on the fatal
trap. The black cap was swiftly slipped over his face, and then the
peculiarly tied hangman’s knot was adjusted so that it would break
his neck when he fell. There was a long drawn sigh from the
assembled thousands, and then Sheriff Hardin swiftly raised his
hatchet and struck the rope which was so tightly stretched across
the block. Not striking with the full blade, all strands in two save
one, and the Sheriff found it necessary to make the second stroke.
The trap door fell with a bang and Dock Bishop’s body shot through
the hole, jerked tight on the end of the rope several feet below.
There was the sound of a sharp crack as the bones of neck snapped,
and swinging slowly in the ghastly circle, Dock Bishop’s body “hung
by the neck until he was dead, dead, DEAD.”
When his body
was finally cut down, and placed in the coffin, there stepped up to
the sheriff a comely woman, who made request that she be given the
rope which had taken Bishop’s life. “I was the wife of Detective
W.A. Wise,” she said, and these men are my brothers.” She was given
the rope, and took it back to her home in Texas.
I was born
on January 6, 1886. Dock Bishop was hung on July 4, of that same
year. I was, therefore, only six months old, and the things I tell
you are, of course, only those that were told to me when I was a
little boy. But I have never forgotten them, and there are many,
many people yet living in Calhoun County today who will remember as
I have about this terrible tragedy and its shocking sequel.
Jim Bishop was finally found not guilty. Bob Lamar, another one of
those implicated, was kept in jail for months and years and finally
the case against him was nolle prossed.
W.A. Wise’s body
lies today in the old cemetery at Sarepta far from those who loved
him, while Bishop was buried I know not were.
And so ends
the story of the man who in his day was Calhoun County’s “Charles
Chapman” while “time marches on.”
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Asst. State Coordinator: Denise Wells
If you have questions or problems with this site, email the County Coordinator. Please to not ask for specfic research on your family. I am unable to do your personal research. I do not live in Mississippi and do not have access to additional records.