Beneath the Shadow of Maine
Copyright© 2026 by MF Bridges
Chapter 5: The Night the Maine Exploded
February 15, 1898
Night fell over Havana like a velvet shroud. The city, restless and uneasy, hummed with a thousand small tensions—arguments in cantinas, the clatter of dice in alleyways, the hush of doors closing early. The Maine lay anchored in the harbor, its silhouette a black wedge against the starlit water.
Michael sat at his desk in the Hotel Inglaterra, pen poised over paper, struggling to find the words that might make sense of it all. His mind kept drifting to Lucía—her warning, her sadness, the secret grief she wore like a second skin.
Down by the harbor, American sailors joked and smoked on the deck, their laughter thin and nervous in the night air. On shore, Spanish patrols marched with heavy boots and heavier hearts. Lucía, unable to sleep, wandered the darkened halls of her family’s villa, haunted by memories and foreboding.
Shortly after nine, the city trembled.
A roar shattered the silence—a thunderclap of metal and fire that lit the sky above the harbor. Windows rattled, birds scattered from the rooftops, and a pillar of flame erupted over the Maine. The explosion was monstrous, tearing through steel and flesh alike. Screams echoed across the water, frantic bells rang from the churches, and for a moment all of Havana seemed to hold its breath in horror.
Michael ran to his balcony, heart pounding, as a second, smaller blast rocked the air. He saw bodies thrown into the harbor, saw sailors leaping from the deck, saw the Maine split and burning, her bow already sinking beneath the waves. The smell of gunpowder and burning oil choked him.
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