The South May Rise Again

Standing on the third rung of a tall wooden ladder, at the back of her bookshop, Gracie glanced at her wristwatch inherited from Nana Sarah and noted it was long past time to turn out the lights and lock up for the night.

As Gracie slid a National Parks travel guide into place amidst the shop’s non-fiction stacks, she heard the unmistakable sound of books tumbling to the floor, up front. Followed by the jangling of the front door’s bell chimes, then the resounding stillness of silence.

“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice shaky.

Gracie nearly fell when she sidestepped a rung, rushing down from the ladder. I thought I was the only one here. Did someone slip in without her knowledge? Gracie’s last customer of the day stormed out at least half an hour ago.

Or did he?

Expecting to see someone on the other side of the red front door, Gracie’s face met a strong gust of wind, instead, still blustering after an afternoon thunderstorm.

No sign of anyone entering the shop when Gracie was in the back, no sign of anyone racing away, either. When she approached the glass counter to check if a valuable book was still underneath, Gracie gasped when she discovered it was missing.

She recalled running the small, bearded man’s credit card through Moxie’s POS system after he’d browsed the entire shop, helping himself to a complimentary cup of English breakfast tea. An hour later, he appeared most interested in the old shop’s collection of Civil War books, particularly a single copy that leaned into the South’s interpretation of history.

His find of the day? The South May Rise Again—its author unknown. Because of his enthusiasm and excessive praise of the shop, Gracie hesitated to report that his bank had declined payment.

“Sir?” she asked. “Do you have another credit card…or cash?”

“That can’t be correct.” Gruffly, he added, “You’ve made a mistake. Run it again.”

Gracie wanted to yell, “It’s only $36 and change! Why choose a book you can’t afford to buy? An antique one, no less.”

After inheriting her grandmother’s bookstore, located in the heart of Biloxi, Mississippi, shortly after Christmas last year, Gracie spent months debating the pros and cons of keeping Moxie’s afloat. To continue operating and honoring her grandmother’s legacy, she needed to sell books.

As she watched this nervous customer shift his weight from one foot to the other, behaving as if this ancient, hardcover collectible might be free for the taking, Gracie maintained her composure.

“Certainly,” she said, adding, “Check your wallet for a backup credit card, in case this one fails. Again.”

Sure enough, the second attempt failed.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Gracie began. Before she could finish speaking, the man reached across the counter to grab his credit card from Gracie’s fingertips. She stepped back.

“I’ve instructions to return it to Bank of America. Sir.”

When the man’s black, beady eyes met hers, Gracie recognized him as one of Moxie’s fondest acquaintances, although his countenance had significantly changed since she last laid eyes on him…oh, goodness, what was his name? Struggling to remember helped jog the memory of one of Nana Sarah’s final requests: keep collecting books written during the Civil War…build those shelves higher. But don’t even think about selling The South May Rise Again. “It was your grandfather’s favorite book of all time,” Nana Sarah said.

Instinctively, Gracie reached for the unpurchased book and slid it beneath the countertop.

“Why are you acting like this?” the man asked. “Your Moxie would disapprove of your rudeness,” he added, walking toward the front door.

“I disagree,” Gracie called out. “My Moxie would be most proud that I’m honoring one of her requests. She hung her head, ashamed that it had come to this. How could I even think of selling Grandfather’s beloved book?

“I’m keeping her literary legacy intact here on the Gulf Coast. I guarantee, though, she’d be disappointed in you: a friend, turning on her after death.” Tit-for-tat.

The elderly man lingered, his hand resting on the brass doorknob of the red door, as if he had something to add. As he stood still, taking in the perimeter of the shop, Gracie noticed dark clouds gathering outdoors. She wondered if another tropical storm might be brewing in the Gulf of Mexico. Not unusual for this late in the summer.

Something about this scene sparked another memory. When she heard the aging man gruffly say, “I won’t be back,” Gracie remembered his name.

“See you soon, Mr. Blankenship.” But why was a different surname printed on the customer’s credit cards?

Furious, he slammed the shop’s door with more vigor than it had felt in over fifty years of protecting Moxie’s book inventory. Gracie was surprised when the door’s lead glass inserts didn’t shatter into a thousand pieces.

With an hour left before closing, Gracie decided to finish shelving the travel books she’d just received from a new publisher out west. While she carefully lined up each new book in a clay-colored book cubby, she considered inviting regular customers to an evening of exploring western travel, anything to entice Gulf Coast residents to extend their adventures beyond taking cruises and visiting resorts in the Caribbean.

She’d always wanted the bookshop to represent more than a place to pop in and purchase books. Gracie encouraged Nana Sarah to offer a space for folks to hold meetings and engage in debates with one another — a safe zone designated for open expression, beyond the coastal community’s favorite coffee shop.

Still, Gracie could not fathom the loss of The South May Rise Again. Published in 1885, it represented Moxie’s most valuable and irreplaceable book, for both collectible and personal reasons.

*

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’ve been robbed,” Gracie firmly reported.

The emergency services operator sounded complacent at the other end of the conversation. “Ma’am, are you hurt? Harmed in any way?”

“I’m okay, a bit angry, I might add. An old fellow who couldn’t afford to buy an heirloom book at my grandmother’s…no…sorry, my…bookshop snuck back into the store when I wasn’t paying attention and stole it.”

“So, you witnessed the theft?”

“Not exactly. I was in the back, and I’m guessing he snuck back in to swipe it.”

“Okay…I’m sending an officer and a detective, ma’am; they’re on their way. I’d prefer it if you remained on the line with me until they arrive. In case the thief returns.”

Gracie, furious at herself for being such an easy target and for waiting so long to call law enforcement, dreaded an investigation. What a time she’d have, explaining the value of an old, dusty book to a couple of coastal-town police officers who routinely spent their days keeping order at local festivals, monitoring for DUIs, and ticketing speeders rushing to the beach.

But Gracie needed their help.

Nana Sarah had warned her granddaughter about the unique responsibilities she would face as Moxie’s new owner. Her grandmother decided years ago, after thirty years of teaching English and literature at the local high school, that her little bookstore would distinguish itself from big-box locations by collecting, restoring, and eventually marketing rare and antique books. She worked diligently to gain respect for the shop as a place where customers could score antiquities, unlike larger bookstores that shunned antique writings.

Moxie’s reputation, sadly, was at risk.

*

A Harrison County patrol car swerved in front of Moxie’s with its flashing lights, its siren screaming. Gracie stepped back from the street, onto the sidewalk, to give the officers their space. Before engaging with her, they split up and walked in opposite directions along Historic Main Street. Gracie watched, annoyed at their actions.

“You’re not going to find Mr. Blankenship out here, y’all. He’s long gone by now,” Gracie said.

That was enough to catch the officers’ attention as they circled back.

“You’re personally acquainted with the thief?” Detective Marshall asked.

“Well, not exactly. I learned his name when he tried to buy the book. No, wait a second.” Gracie massaged her temples, now throbbing with pain. “I actually remembered his name after his payment was declined…probably because he knew my grandmother, Sarah.”

The officer who drove the patrol car moved in closer, writing furiously in his notebook. “And you confirmed that with the name on his credit card, matched with a driver’s license?”

Rapid-fire questioning never sat well with Gracie. If she’d had to defend her college degrees earned at the University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg, orally with one question spiking after another, abject failure would have landed her back in Biloxi much earlier than she arrived.

“No, and…well, no.”

“Ma’am? How’s about we go inside the shop? You can explain everything from the beginning,” the detective suggested.

Gracie imagined any case against the book thief falling apart before it began.

*

After retracing the afternoon events for the officers, both men stayed stuck on the fact that Gracie knew the man accused of stealing the book. After a while, the repetitive line of questioning felt fruitless.

“Why don’t you pick this guy up and question him at the police station? I’m starting to feel like a suspect in all of this, which is crazy, because I’m the one who’s missing a valuable book.”

Officer Jenkins flipped the pages of his notepad, searching for a detail he’d forgotten to follow up on minutes ago. Gracie didn’t like the looks of things, and based on the officers’ questioning techniques, she began to suspect the book’s loss would serve as a hard life lesson. She suggested a cup of tea. “English breakfast or chai?”

Jenkins declined the tea due to his apparent distraction, while Detective Marshall requested chai with two lumps of sugar. While Gracie steeped their cups, Marshall asked if she knew much about The South May Rise Again. Gracie responded with a stare.

“It’s invaluable, you know. The kind of book no one can place a price on,” he said. “But I’m certain you’re aware.” When she handed Marshall the cup and saucer, Gracie’s hand shook. “Not sure I follow…please take a seat,” motioning to the cozy corner where cushions and embroidered pillows lined a space carved out between the stacks.

“Are you acquainted with any Civil War re-enactors from around here?” he asked.

“No, not really. My grandfather was a huge fan of Civil War history, particularly the South’s involvement, but he didn’t dress up and go to festivals…at least I don’t think he did.” She didn’t wait for her tea to cool. Took a gulp, rather than a sip.

If her self-assurance were more apparent, she’d have reached for the fifth of bourbon hidden in one of the bookcases; then Gracie surely would have topped off hers and the detective’s cup as well.

“Jenkins? Join us. We need to pick your brain,” Marshall said. Turning to face Gracie, he continued. “I only know a little bit about this because every old man in my family participates in Civil War reenactments; they never miss the annual one out on Dauphin Island in Alabama. Nor the one at Beauvoir."

As Jenkins navigated the narrow row between crowded book tables, toward the back of the shop, they heard him shout, “Yes! Figured it out!”

“Figured what out?”

“I can’t wait to hear his take on this. Jenkins is our puzzle solver at the station,” Marshall said.

“But you’re the detective, right?” Gracie stepped from the cushioned alcove to meet Jenkins. “So, do you know why Mr. Blankenship wanted the book so very much…wanted it enough to steal it?” she asked. “Explain.”

Gracie hadn’t given up on reaching for a shot or two of bourbon.

“It helps if you know your Civil War history, as in every little detail,” Jenkins said. “You see, the last battle of the Civil War, fought near Brownsville, Texas, turned out to be pointless since it happened after General Robert E. Lee surrendered at Appomattox.” But for Southerners, he said, the battle was legendary because the Confederate soldiers won, and it served as another signal that the war had finally ended.

“So, there’s probably information about this in my grandfather’s favorite book?”

“Possibly, but all this amounts to backstory, because it sparked Jefferson Davis’s hurried escape from Richmond, where he reportedly took a major portion of the Confederacy’s treasury on his way out, heading South.”

“Wait, the same Jefferson Davis that eventually lived at Beauvoir here in Biloxi?” Marshall asked.

“Yes, the very same. The former Confederate President.”

“Could some of the spoils from the Texas border battle have also landed at Beauvoir?” Marshall asked. “I really wish I’d made better grades in American history.”

“Are you kidding me? You know more than I do.” Gracie shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t remember a thing about this from high school or college history classes. This sounds like a conjecture…unless…”

The three looked at one another, simultaneously. “We’re talking about the Confederate Gold that’s never been found,” Jenkins whispered.

“Is it possible there’s a clue to its location…hidden in that book, Gracie?” Marshall asked.

“One of you needs to find this Blankenship fellow. Now.”

*

After seeing the Harrison County police out, Gracie washed the China cups and saucers and made sure the hotplates were off—she didn’t want to risk adding a fire to the day’s surprises at Moxie’s. Before locking up and leaving, she walked over to the history section, crossed her arms, and allowed her gaze to travel upwards.

Gracie could not believe what she observed—the stolen antiquity, propped up on the fifth shelf, in precisely the same position she’d set it, only days ago.

The South May Rise Again had returned to Moxie’s.

She reached for it, gingerly, now worried about managing the book in the safest way possible. Raising it to her face, she inhaled the scent of her grandfather’s maple-scented pipe smoke still lingering amidst its pages.

As she turned to the first page, a yellow Sticky Note fell like a floating feather.

“See page 202,” it read. “You’ll know what to do.”

Signed, Davis Blankenship.