The destruction of the Maine has long served as one of the central story lines of the North American historiography of the war with Spain. It lends itself to the prose of historians aspiring to artfulness. In the hands of a skillful writer, it has yielded the stuff of high drama. The destruction of the Maine makes for portentous history, and can be invested with all sorts of symbolism. It invites explanation of the inexplicable, and because circumstances preclude a scientific explanation, they easily prompt a metaphysical one. Why did the Maine blow up at that time, at that place? O’Toole begins his book with these thoughts and ends with the same questions, and with these musings: “The answer to such questions lies beyond the realm of chemistry, physics, or naval architecture. Each must find it within his own personal understanding of the universe. However, there seem to be but three answers to choose among: God, chance, or the impatient hand of destiny.”
There is another question: why have these questions so preoccupied North American historians? This fascination goes beyond artistic aspirations. That the Maine should exercise such an enduring hold over North American historians, and that it should be accorded a position of prominence, if not a direct place of primary causation, must be understood, as O’Toole correctly suggests, within one’s “understanding of the universe”—or, put another way, within one’s ideological framework. In the conventional historiographical wisdom, the destruction of the Maine played a crucial part in causing the war. The conflict is accordingly rendered as a random event, an accident, one in which the United States is overtaken by events which it can not control. War is transformed, by implication, into an act of God, or chance, or destiny—not the product of calculated policy, and certainly not the continuation of political relations by other means. So much for Clausewitz.
This is an appealing ideological construct. Indeed, it has been one of the enduring thematic elements of North American historiography. It provides absolution for a war of aggression and aggrandizement—how can one spurn the impatient band of destiny, much less God?
These are the key elements of O’Toole’s study, and they shape the narrative throughout. Insofar as this work is a representative of the traditional historiography, it is one of the better works. It is good writing, it is art-conseious—colorful, well paced, and brisk—with an eye for tragic flaws, ironic twists, and surprising turns. The book is at its best in the ebb and flow of the narrative of battle—the siege of Santiago, the sinking of the Spanish fleet, and then all those familiar places: Daiquirí, El Caney, Las Guásimas, and, of course, San Juan hill. The action shifts occasionally to the Philippines and Puerto Rico, but most of the story is set in Cuba. It is an absorbing account, masterfully recounted; it makes for intense reading. The achievement is more stylistic than scholarly. Much of the story is known, but it has not often been told with such felicity.
But it shares, too, some of the shortcomings of the conventional historiography. It is based almost exclusively on North American sources. O’Toole is not averse to using Spanish and Cuban materials—if they are translations. As a result, a vast corpus of Spanish-language sources is left unused. We are thus presented with an account of a three-sided war based principally on the sources and sentiments of one side. This does not diminish the value of the book but it does limit its range. At a time when the new diplomatic and military history has escaped ethnocentric constraints, this work falls back on a very conventional format.
For the same reason, this book will no doubt enjoy popular success. It is old- fashioned history, and as such it is a document of its time: old-fashioned virtues are very much in demand, in the past and in the present. It is all so clear and uncomplicated. No ambiguities, just one side, God, and the impatient hand of destiny.
