Newton County GaArchives News.....A GEORGIA HERO, WHO LIVES IN THE COUNTY OF NEWTON April 18, 1889 ************************************************ Copyright. All rights reserved. http://www.usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm http://www.usgwarchives.net/ga/gafiles.htm ************************************************ File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by: 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. 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