Battle for flag's return
July 2, 2000

By MICHAEL HEMPHILL
THE ROANOKE TIMES

It's in the history museum, next to the state Capitol whose battlefield paintings and soldier statuary make it appear a Civil War shrine.

Descend to the basement, pass through double doors that open only by a coded key card, and into a climate-controlled warehouse filled with hundreds of 7-foot-high fireproof cabinets.

Sodium vapor lights -- more friendly to old fabrics than their incandescent cousins -- cast a greenish glow, while carbon and potassium permanganate filters scrub the air clean.

"You're not going to find better storage anywhere," the conservator boasts.

You are led to a particular cabinet, to a particular 5-foot-wide drawer whose storage number is classified for security reasons.

It slides open, and there, pocked by bullets, streaked with what most likely is a Virginian's blood, is the Confederate battle flag -- perhaps the most revered Civil War symbol here in the state of . . .

Minnesota.

It is just some pieces of slave-picked cotton and English wool -- red background, quartered by two blue diagonal stripes that bear 13 stars of white.

Cut, dyed and sewn together a different way, it might have made a baby's blanket or a lady's dress for a wintry day.

But because it became a Confederate flag, war-hardened men grappled for it, died for it, 137 years ago this week at a Pennsylvania crossroads called Gettysburg.

Unfurling in a breeze, it was borne that day into battle by farmers and lawyers from Roanoke, Botetourt, Bedford, Craig and Montgomery counties as they made a suicidal assault across a mile-wide field in what history books would later call Pickett's Charge.

Atop a rise known as Cemetery Ridge -- a seemingly impregnable line these Virginians somehow penetrated -- Union soldiers charged for it amid the smoke and musket fire and screams of dying men. And in the end, a Minnesota private named Marshall Sherman -- who would have been painting houses in St. Paul had his country not called -- captured it, leaving the field that glorious summer day the winner of a Congressional Medal of Honor, and a hero to his grave.

No bullets and cannonballs fly today, no men dying terrible deaths.

Most people know the Civil War has ended.

But not the war for this flag.

For more than a hundred years, the regimental banner of the 28th Virginia Infantry has been in the keeping of the Minnesota Historical Society.

Kept hostage, say Roanoke insurance man Chris Caveness and his band of Confederate re-enactors, who for the past two years have clamored for it from within quiet offices and marbled assembly rooms.

They've enlisted black supporters, despite the flag's slavery-stained symbolism. They've sent letters, angry e-mails and legislative resolutions demanding its return. All, they say, so they can better honor their forefathers who fought and fell.

"We're not going to fold up our tent and flag and go away on this one," Caveness insists.

But an array of Minnesotans -- from schoolchildren to artists to the state's flamboyant governor -- cling to it as tightly as Sherman did himself the afternoon of July 3, 1863.

"To the victors go the spoils," declares Gov. Jesse Ventura, adding in a tone not totally in jest, "and we're ready to defend our borders if you guys think you're going to come up here and get it."

How did we get to this standoff?

Why do Minnesotans, so friendly a people there's actually a phrase "Minnesota nice," remain so defiant about this flag when almost all other Northern states long ago relinquished their spoils of war?

Why do Virginians so badly want it back, particularly at a time when the rebel emblem is under attack from all quarters in the once-seceded South?

Why does this stuff still matter, why should anyone still care, and perhaps most importantly, will it ever end?

Duty's call

At a time when the nation was being torn apart, Minnesota was its newest state.

Just three years old in 1861, Minnesota was still frontier, made up of settlers of Scandinavian and German descent toiling through tough ground and tougher winters to make a living. Many farms were poised to turn profitable after years of hard work when, on April 13, 1861, South Carolina opened fire on the federal Fort Sumter, igniting the deadly war to come.

As it so happened, Minnesota governor Alexander Ramsey was that day in Washington, D.C., seeking political patronage from fellow Republican Abraham Lincoln. The morning after Sumter fell, Ramsey rushed to Lincoln's secretary of war and pledged 1,000 soldiers "to help defend the country and suppress this -- treason."

His gesture made Minnesota the first Union state to volunteer troops.

Rallying to their governor's summons, hundreds of men flocked to Fort Snelling near St. Paul to enlist, including Marshall Sherman, who, at 37, was among the oldest.

Neither he nor most of his comrades were abolitionists. Indeed, many seemed as racist as their Southern kin. In letters home, they referred to American Indians with whom their state still warred as "savages," and they routinely discriminated against blacks in camp.

Instead, they saw war for its excitement and adventure, and felt the patriotic urge to crush the secessionists.

"We have reason to thank God that Minnesota is represented in this Grand Army," wrote Private Jasper Searles, "that she has this opportunity of defending . . . that Constitution under which she was born."

In just two weeks after the call to arms, the state had met its quota -- 10 companies of nearly 100 men each -- and so was formed the First Minnesota Volunteer Infantry.

Significant artifact

If Ramsey's call to fight that war went out today, John Guthmann would be equipped and ready.

During the week, Guthmann is a successful St. Paul trial lawyer, scrapping in court for car wreck victims and workers who believe they've been wrongly fired.

But come many a weekend, the 45-year-old die-hard ditches contact lenses for wire-rimmed glasses, dons navy-blue wool pants and a nine-button frock coat, fixes bayonets to a century-old musket and heads to the fields to re-enact the exploits of the First Minnesota.

"This is a reproduction," he says of the wool-and-cotton army blanket folded on his basement floor, "microscopically indistinguishable from the original stuff."

Fingering the buttons on a musty blue coat, he says, "I try to wash this stuff as little as possible just so it looks lived in."

But the Civil War fabric most dear to him is the 28th Virginia's flag.

In honor of the man who captured it, Guthmann helped replace Sherman's tombstone in 1996 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of his death. Ever since the Virginia re-enactors began their campaign, Guthmann has been Minnesota's unofficial spokesman for keeping the Confederate banner, twice debating Caveness on Minnesota Public Radio and once on the local public television station KTCA.

"To give the flag back is to place some sort of credence with the side that lost," he believes. "It is more important that the flag stay here as a memory of why that war had to be won -- to end slavery and maintain the nation."

Besides, he says, "This is one of the most significant artifacts in the history of the state. It would not be on the list for Virginia."

‘We will not back down’

Perhaps they sought to honor their youthful valor, or sensed their legacy wouldn't be remembered. Or maybe they were at the height of their political power and could do anything they wished.

Whatever the motivation, Minnesota's leaders in 1905 saw the ascending Capitol building as the chance to immortalize the state's sacrifice in the Civil War.

On the second floor of the rotunda, they erected four larger-than-life bronze statues, all of Civil War officers, including the First Minnesota's Col. William Colvill. In glass cases on the first floor were displayed 17 flags hoisted by Minnesota troops in the war -- the faded, thread-bare banner of the First Minnesota claiming a cabinet all its own.

And of the six state history murals hanging in the governor's reception room, four depicted its Civil War regiments.

If forgotten legacy was their concern, the politicians shouldn't have worried.

"A lot of Southerners believe they're really hot-blooded about the war and that Northerners don't give a damn," says Keith Gulsvig, a professional photographer and Minnesota re-enactor. "They couldn't be more wrong."

Today, the First Minnesota hails 125 re-enactors, far more than the two dozen in the 28th Virginia.

Four scholarly books have been published on the regiment -- the most recent in 1993 -- as have dozens of journal articles and student theses. A New York filmmaker is working on a documentary.

For the 28th, there's a slender volume of 40 pages, and a 1968 article in the Roanoke Historical Society journal.

Just as Virginia newspapers have been filled with editorial letters demanding the flag's return, so too have keep-the-flag volleys hit the Minneapolis Star Tribune and St. Paul Pioneer-Press.

Even schoolchildren have entered the fray. In April, students from a Minneapolis middle school wrote letters to the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

"I think the flag should stay in Minnesota, because we kicked [your] bootie tuties," wrote Ashley J.

And in language making his governor proud, Bobby B. declared, "If you want that flag come get it! You will have to take it. We will not back down."

Symbol’s importance

Learned books and children's taunts aside, what kind of response would Gov. Ramsey's call get today? How many would be willing -- eager even -- to leave behind family and home to fight a war a thousand miles away in a strange, hot land, all for the sake of a nation?

"Is the power of belief still that strong?"

This is the question that keeps Stephen Osman in awe of the First Minnesota.

One of the original re-enactors, Osman has been a Civil War student since age 7, when he found his great-great-grandfather's bayonet in his grandfather's basement. In college, he hitchhiked to Fort Snelling to work as a tour guide.

Now the fort's site manager for the Minnesota Historical Society, Osman, 50, works full time to kindle in visitors an appreciation for their ancestors' sacrifice.

"They left with the entire reputation of the state on their shoulders," Osman says. "They had to prove that Minnesota was a worthy new state, and they had to prove it in blood."

In all, 22,000 Minnesotans formed 11 regiments to fight in the nation's epic struggle. But only the First fought in the famed Army of the Potomac, whose battles with Gen. Robert E. Lee so near the capitals of both North and South gave it the chance for the greatest glory.

And glory came abundant at the battle of Gettysburg -- making the 28th Virginia's flag it brought home all the more cherished.

"Gettysburg, to most Minnesotans who don't know a lot about Civil War history, that was it," Osman says. "There was one Minnesota unit and that was the First Minnesota, and they fought one battle and that was Gettysburg. That's the popular belief, and as such, it's an extremely important symbol."

The charge

Through memory's rose-colored glass, the Confederate charge at Gettysburg on July 3, 1863, proved the high-water mark of the Southern nation. That failed assault bearing Pickett's name marked Lee's last invasion of the North, his last offensive, last gasp, and made the surrender at Appomattox Court House merely a matter of time.

But it was a lesser-known charge the day before Pickett's, one made 137 years ago today, that immortalized the First Minnesota and, some Northern-minded historians say, foiled Lee's best chance to win the war.

This is how legend tells the tale:

The day dawns foggy and warm as the Minnesota men tramp into reserve position on the southern tip of Cemetery Ridge, near the center of the Union line. Two of the regiment's companies have been posted elsewhere on the field, leaving only 262 soldiers to anchor the left end of Gen. Winfield Scott Hancock's Second Corps.

To their left should be Gen. Dan Sickles' Third Corps. But Sickles has advanced his men a half-mile ahead to higher ground -- a move that breaks his orders and the solid Union line along the ridge. Now, instead of a strong wall of blue that can only be attacked head-on, Sickles has left a gap, while stranding his men in a position that can be hit from all sides.

This, Gen. Pete Longstreet, Lee's second-in-command, does around 4 p.m. As part of a greater attack, some of his Confederates smash into Sickles in a peach orchard and adjacent wheat field. The Northerners bend, buckle, and finally break into a mad retreat toward Cemetery Ridge with anywhere from 1,200 to 1,600 Alabamans at their heels.

Riding up on his horse, Gen. Hancock summons reinforcements to plug the hole, but knows they won't arrive before the enemy. Through the smoke, the rebel banners can be seen less than 100 yards away. If they gain the ridge, they can divide and conquer the Union army and maybe, win the war.

Hancock must slow them down, needs just five more minutes, but all he sees are the 262 Minnesotans.

"My God! Are these all the men we have here?" he cries. "What regiment is this?"

"First Minnesota," Colonel William Colvill replies.

Hancock points toward the advancing flags. "Charge those lines!"

The order means certain death. One Minnesotan for every six Confederates. But there's no debate, just the cha-chung of bayonets fixed to rifles, the scramble to formation, and the order to charge.

Shoulder to shoulder, the men quick-walk down the slope.

"Bullets whistled past us," Sgt. Alfred Carpenter would later recall, "shells screeched over us; canister and grape fell about us; comrade after comrade dropped from the ranks; but on the line went. No one took a second look at his fallen companion. We had no time to weep."

Colvill goes down. So does his next in command. The third and fourth officers fall, as do most of the company captains.

Only 150 men make it to the bottom of the slope. But their charge has surprised the tired, disorganized Alabamans. They stumble, retreat a bit, and the Minnesotans dive into a creek bed and open fire.

But in the darkening day, the Confederates rally. Their superior numbers begin to surround the First, and pour in a murderous fire. Somehow, the Minnesotans hold the line for 15 more minutes until the reinforcements arrive and they hear the call to retreat.

The Confederates have been checked. They'll advance no farther that day, nor any day to come.

The Federal line and perhaps the Union have been saved, but that night, only 47 Minnesotans will answer roll call.

The legacy

If the old histories are true, 215 men of the First were killed or wounded in the charge -- an incredible 82 percent, the highest casualty rate suffered by any Union regiment in one battle of the war.

Modern studies suggest the rate may have been only 70 percent, a still astounding figure, but such revisionism is lost to the average Minnesotan. The greater number graces the monument at Gettysburg that heralds the charge -- one of three memorials there to the First Minnesota.

And this is the figure cited by Gov. Ventura who, in explaining why he won't return the flag, calls the First Minnesota "the most courageous unit in the Civil War."

Regardless, the regiment never recovered from its July 2 charge.

After Gettysburg, the remnant went to New York City to quell some draft riots.

Seeing the war-worn soldiers march through Brooklyn, an onlooker gushed, "There was a history written on every one of them. I never felt so much like falling down and doing reverence to any living men. The music of the band . . . was very sweet, but it seemed to me all the while like a dirge for the fallen."

In February 1864, the men of the First Minnesota returned to St. Paul to muster out -- a faint echo of the bluster they once enjoyed.

But in the years that followed, it wasn't what they had lost that gained them fame, rather what they came to possess -- a Confederate battle flag captured at Gettysburg the day after their unit's decimation. In its folds fluttered everything for which these men had fought. Honor. Patriotism. Sacrifice. And to more and more Minnesotans as the decades passed, an end to slavery.

Yet, it also held secrets, such as how Marshall Sherman actually captured it, and how he got it home. These are the mysteries ruffling this most recent skirmish of the Civil War -- stories for another day.