Newton County GaArchives News.....A GEORGIA HERO, WHO LIVES IN THE COUNTY OF NEWTON April 18, 1889
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Phyllis Thompson http://www.genrecords.net/emailregistry/vols/00011.html#0002524 September 4, 2005, 5:54 pm

The Georgia Enterprise April 18, 1889
[For the Georgia Enterprise.]

     Did you ever know a living hero?, a man who did a noble deed, a deed when 
examined in clear sunlight is found “without spot or blemish or any such thing?”
     The commander-in-chief of the British Army, Lord Wolesly, says, “ I never 
saw but two hero’s in all my life, one, Chinese Gordon; the other Robert E. 
Lee.”
     I know of another, a living man, a Georgian.
     If the memory of his deed of patriotism shall perish, let shame crimson 
the cheek of every son of Georgia. This man is as unknown to fame as to history.
     If he should chance to see these lines in his county paper, he will not 
suspect that he is the man spoken of, but will think it is some other “Joe 
Roquemore.”
     I recall distinctly , the last time I ever saw him, remember how he 
looked. It was in 71, the last of May or first of June. At the town of C, in 
the county of N., at the store of P & Co. He asked for credit until fall. Forty 
dollars worth of corn and meat would be enough he said.
     With this amount, at “time prices” of ‘71, he fed, for five long months, a 
horse, himself, five children and a wife. How? The guardian angel of one of 
Georgia’s honest son’s could tell, no one else knows. I can never forget his 
looks, He’s six feet high, perhaps an inch above. His face and form are thin, 
not gaunt; so were his hands and arms. Eyes and hair jet black, with face and 
hands tanned brown. He wore his whiskers just as they grew, no trimming, nor 
pulling out of those which cold and heat and lack of everything, but hardships, 
made white at 39.
     His features were not regular, but in every line were firm.
     This suited the patient, intrepid soul within.
     His face reminds me of a picture I’ve seen somewhere of John Calvin. 
Bishop Marvin’s features, if you can recall them in ‘73, had sharp resemblance 
to him. Perhaps he is more like the picture Dick Taylor draws of “Old 
Stonewall” at prayer.
     When he talked, it was a nasal drawl, he said naw for no, and fust for 
first.
     Joe wore an old gray sack coat, not ragged, but frayed sleeves and faded 
front and rear, and old of hard service in more than one campaign. That coat 
had served every day in winter, on Sunday’s in the summer. It had one black 
button near the chin, more he did not need. His pants well matched the gray 
coat and white shirt, were of “good brown jeans.” Thou clothed and shod in No. 
10 brogans, he stood, every inch a man.
     But, Joe, still lives, perhaps you may yet see his face, or his portrait, 
in Georgia’s capital.
     In 1862, May 31st, after the day’s fighting at Seven Pines, two men, 
brothers, were apart from their command.
     The first, oldest and strongest, had played a double part that day in the 
game of war.
     He had been chosen as a member of the “Littes Corps.” No wonder; he was 
Chesterfield without his vices; Florence Nightingale without her weakness; 
Chinese Gordon without his foibles; a handsome brave soldier. He had 
a bearing in the presence of men, I have never seen, excelled by any other in 
the presence of women.
     His dignified, polished manners were only exceeded by his tender devotion 
to wounded comrades.
     Enrolled among the bravest of the brave, was, JOHN ROQUEMORE.
     The day of which I write, Joe Roquemore had escaped from a camp hospital. 
He ought to have stayed there. For what right had he in a raging battle who was 
already shot through both arms? But he was there and fired his musket too, with 
a deadly aim. He managed to get into ranks, then notified John he must load for 
him as he passed. This, Joe could not well do, because of his wounds. There 
might have been seen that day, that litter, bearer stopping and loading 
that “old musket,” then quickly passing to the rear, with his dying comrades.
     Earnestly, as composed as Ney -that doubly wounded patriot took aim and 
fired. Until John could pass again Joe could only ‘stand and wait.’
     Thus the day was spent; hour after hour John loaded and Joe shot. The day 
went against us. It will be memorable in Southern history for two other very 
peculiar facts, on that day Joe Johnston’s set, Lee’s to rise toward its zenith 
of glory.
     John tired down, was sitting resting, Joe standing by (his arm pained less 
to stand), his gun at his side held near the muzzle with his right hand. 
Suddenly, from the white oak thicket dashed a squad of Heintzelman’s cavalry. 
In a moment “surrender” rang out from a dozen threats while the gleaming 
barrels of well aimed and cocked carbines added emphasis to the command, 
surrender. John smiled on his victorious foes and surrendered in these 
words; “Gentlemen, if it will be any accommodation to you, I will do so.” But 
not a word from wounded Joe.
     Again came the stern command, put down your gun, or we will shoot you, 
down with your guns.” Looking the men squarely in the face, with a dozen 
bullets waiting to pierce his heart, his strong brother, a prisoner, he drawled 
out;
“Naw, I’ll die fust.”  A moment more and the brave spirit of Joe Roquemore 
would have been hurried from the field of glory to its honorable place among 
the “shades of Valhalia,” John interposed, ‘don’t shoot him, gentlemen; he’s my 
brother; I’ll take his gun from him.”
     Then came the struggle between expediency and heroism.
     What visions of eternity, of “wife  and bairns,” widowhood, orphanage, 
want, must have flashed before his great soul in that moment! But all availed 
nothing with Joe when he must surrender a musket Georgia had placed in his 
hands. He accepted it with the pledge to be true to her honor. He was true. 
     John’s superior strength soon bore the gun from Joe’s feeble grasp and 
laid it at the conqueror’s feet. There’s a picture for a painter; that wounded 
soldier unable to load his gun, surrounded by twelve well armed foes, refusing 
to surrender; while his own strong brother, with a struggle disarmed him.
     Joe Roquemore is a prisoner of war.
     I know of Miltiades at Marathon pleading for battle: Leonidas dying at 
Thermopylae; Lannes at Lodi, fighting like a demon; Ney in rages at Barodino, 
and Cambronne repelling Merde, at Waterloo; but to my Southern soul, not one or 
all of their names and deeds thrill me like this brave deed of the Georgia 
hero, JOE ROQUEMORE.
NEMO


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