It was two days before Memorial Day. I was thinking of my cousin who had been killed in Vietnam and that created a sudden need for me to ensure that the veteran graves in the small churchyard cemetery in town were honored with flags. I tried to replace them every year. It was easy enough. There were only three. All Civil War veterans. I swung by McCaffreys, picked up three flags and headed to the old Bethel Cemetery in Plainsboro. Most people don’t even know it’s there. Situated on Plainsboro Road, it is hidden by the bridge over the Northeast Corridor railroad tracks. I turned onto the dirt path which led to the cemetery, then parked in front of the gate of the black, imitation wrought-iron fence surrounding the graveyard and exited my car.
The gate stuck a little when I opened it. Entering, I found the first two graves easily enough. Memorial Day had once been known as Decoration Day, so I was glad I came as the old flags were faded and a bit ragged. I switched out the flags that were there with new ones. It took me another few minutes to spot the third grave as the flag had toppled. I stood before the gravestone and read:
Sean Duffy
Born 1840 Died 1918
Pvt. 29th New Jersey Regiment
“He was a hero you know.”
People speak of jumping out of their skin and if it was possible I almost did. A man — an older man — was standing not three feet behind me and uttered those words in a deep, soft voice.
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I smiled. “It’s okay. I have a good heart.” I looked around. “I didn’t hear or see you arrive. Where did you…”
“I don’t mean a hero like Sergeant York,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “But what he did that day possibly changed the outcome of the Civil War. Some know what happened, but even those who do might at best know the name of the commanding Union officer, Colonel Chamberlain. The ordinary soldiers are long forgotten.
He looked to me to be about eighty. Standing about five-ten and weighing maybe a hundred and forty pounds, his slender build sported a gray beard and matching hair. He wore a dark blue NY Yankee baseball cap and a blue denim shirt and jeans with shin high brown boots. His face was weathered. He put out his hand and I took it. It was cold and thickly calloused. His grip was like that of a hard-rock miner.
“I’m Bill,” I said.
He didn’t give his name, but instead replied, “It’s nice of you to do this. How come? You work for the township?”
“No,” I replied. “I used to do it for the Plainsboro Historical Society. Besides, there are a lot of vets in my family going back to the Civil War. This is just something I wanted to do.”
“It was at Gettysburg,” he said, obviously about to tell me the story of the man whose grave lay before me. I was a little surprised that the gravestone was so readable and wondered if it was a replacement or just well kept. Like the other two veteran graves, there was a tarnished brass holder for the flag, but this one was tipped over. I pulled out the old flag and squatted to adjust the holder as he continued speaking.
“July 2, 1863. The second day of the battle. It was blistering hot, just like the day before. Pvt. Sean Duffy shouldn’t have even been there. His regiment had served their time and was in the process of being mustered out. He’d fought with them at Chancellorsville back in June, another hellish battle. But he wanted to hitch up again. A new New Jersey regiment was being formed, but it would take several weeks. It seemed foolish to go back to New Jersey to re-enlist when General Lee’s Army of Virginia was moving north and every man might be needed. So, with permission, about thirty men from the New Jersey outfit signed up temporarily with the understaffed 20th Maine and found themselves right in the thick of things at Gettysburg.
“After fighting throughout the day, troops were scattered all over the battlefield, but things weren’t looking too bad for the Union. So far, the Rebs had been held and the Union soldiers occupied the high ground.”
The old man suddenly stopped and looked around. “I used to farm near here. I grew corn silage for the Walker-Gordon Dairy. Plainsboro was almost all farmland until the last fifty years, you know. The dairy guaranteed me a set price and bought all I could grow. I couldn’t ask for better than that.”
He paused again, rubbing his face while taking off and readjusting his cap. “Now, where was I. Oh, that’s right. Gettysburg.
“Well, General Longstreet’s charge against the Union right and center had failed. But a regiment of Rebs under General Hood from the 15th and 47th Alabama attacked the 20th Maine up on Little Round Top. It was about the highest spot in the area. Big Roundtop was — as its name indicates — bigger. But it wasn’t suitable for infantry or artillery. Little Round Top was as it was cleared of trees. The Rebs saw that if they could occupy that hill they could collapse the Union left flank and change the whole course of the battle — and maybe the war.”
“How could the Union army have left it unprotected like that,” I asked?
He shrugged. “A lot of funny things happen in battle. Armies, regiments, divisions are all shifting around with the flow of combat. In this case, Union General Geary, who occupied the hill, but was ordered to move, took his troops out before General Sickle who had been ordered to replace him had arrived. Then Sickle got bogged down by Longstreet. Fortunately for Commanding General Meade, not every officer was oblivious. Colonel Vincent saw the danger and moved his 44th New York, 16th Michigan, 83rd Pennsylvania and 20th Maine to fill the gap.
“The 20th had only about 350 men that day, including the 30 New Jersey volunteers and our own Private Sean Duffy.” He nodded towards the gravestone and cleared his throat. “Colonel Vincent set his line with Michigan on the right, New York and Pennsylvania in the center and the 20th Maine under Chamberlain on the left. The 20th, guarding the Union flank, was told to hold no matter what the cost.
He paused again and turned, looking out on the open field lying before the grave. It was as if he could see the battle.
“The Rebs charged like wild men, crying their frightful, Rebel yell. After all the battles they had won they were beyond confident. General Lee thought his soldiers could do anything and so did they. They were fighting in Yankee territory and if they could break the Army of the Potomac here there would be nothing between them and Washington DC. Take Washington and the Union might sue for peace. Not every man had figured that out by any means. They just all seemed to know this was their big chance.
He turned back to look at the grave again. “But so did Pvt. Duffy and all the other men on Little Round Top. They might not know all the whys and wherefores, but they knew they were fighting a defensive battle. It was their wives, children, homes and farms that were under threat. So, they hunkered down behind every rock, log or bush they could find and resolved not to budge.
“Maine’s Color Sergeant Andrew Tozier stood up during Alabama’s attack and waving the flag inspired his comrades to stand firm. He was awarded the Medal of Honor. The 20th held. But ammunition was running low and there was only one thing to do. Make a bayonet charge. The order was given, but the men hesitated. Company F’s Lieutenant Melcher drew his sword and tried to lead the charge, bravely ending up alone and ten yards in front of his men.
“And that’s when Private Sean Duffy changed history. He shouted to his friends from New Jersey and new comrades from Maine, “Are we going to lie here and be overrun or are we going to fight like only men from New Jersey and Maine can?” With that he got up and started to run forward. The New Jersey men formed around him and the Maine men alongside. Duffy caught and passed Melcher. He reached the Confederate lines and speared the first man he saw, kicked him off the blade and turned to stab another. Then he used the butt of his rifle to crack the head of another man from Alabama as a bullet whizzed by his neck. He roared a blood curdling sound. He killed three more men that day. The New Jersey and Maine men, caught up in the frenzy and blood lust, slowly pushed the Rebels back. It’s hard to imagine the smoke, noise, blood, gore and fear that takes place in those few minutes that seem like hours. Then, in another brave move, Captain Morrell of the Union Army, whose skirmishers were trapped behind the Alabama line earlier that afternoon, fired a volley into the Rebs. Thinking they were now facing two divisions the Confederates panicked and began a retreat. Little Round Top and the Union flank were safe.”
The old man paused and looked into my eyes. There was fire in his. “Duffy was never recognized for his valiant charge. All due credit to Lt. Melcher for his bravery, but if Duffy didn’t get the 20th Maine to follow, who knows what might have happened? Anyway, when the war ended, Duffy came back to New Jersey. Eventually he ended up being a farmer here in Plainsboro. He died on Armistice Day, 1918.”
I shook my head. “Wow, that is some story,” I said. “Thank you for telling it to me.” The flag holder started to tip so I quickly fell to my knees and focused on getting the marker deeper into the earth and making certain it was straight. While I did, I called over my shoulder. “You never gave me your name?”
“People call me John,” he answered in a fading voice.
I picked up a nearby piece of short, thick branch and used it to hammer the stubborn metal into the soil. “Well, John, it has been a real pleasure meeting you. I think this would be a great story for the Plainsboro Museum to have. Maybe we can get together and I can take down the particulars from you? I’d love to know how you came up with this information. Would that be okay?”
There was no answer.
“John?” I said, looking up.
But he was gone. I stood up and looked all around. To the south was a hill just past the fence, thick with bramble and leading up to Plainsboro Road. He couldn’t have passed through there. To the north, east and west, I had a clear view for fifty yards or more. He was nowhere to be seen. No one could move that fast.
I spun around again, then in bewilderment collapsed to my knees and looked again at the gravestone. Sean Duffy. Born 1840 Died 1918. Pvt. 29th New Jersey Regiment.
Hold it. John? Sean! Irish for John! No, it couldn’t be I told myself — it just couldn’t! But his sudden appearance, his cold hand, his unexplained disappearance, his description of the battle, “people call me John”…
I fell back on my heels. It couldn’t, but… It had to be. Wait until I told my friends… No, I couldn’t do that. No one would believe me. There must be another explanation. But there was only one and I knew it. I straightened back up to my knees and looked skyward.
“Thank you, Private Duffy,” I said softly. “Thank you for everything.”
Bill Hart is the author of Plainsboro Images of America and The Lenape of Plainsboro as well as two other New Jersey local history books. He is the President of the Trustees of the Friends of the Wicoff House Museum. Bill provides lectures on various local history topics. He resides in Plainsboro with his wife Andrea.
Little Round Top was the site of an actual skirmish at the Battle of Gettysburg that occurred 160 years ago this July 2023. While many of the names, events and places are real, this is a work of fiction.
