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Updated: May 7, 2025
The Mariscal itself was a little steamer, too small for the passengers and freight it had to carry. It had no beds nor cabin; it was dirty and crowded; it had not food enough to feed the first-class passengers, who paid twenty-five pesos each for their short journey. There was, indeed, no other class of passengers, only one grade of tickets being sold.
Teeth were not so universally splendid as on the plateau, but the luminous, snapping black eyes more than made up for this less perfect feature. Nightfall found us still rumbling lazily on and it was nearly an hour later that we reached Mariscal at the end of the line, four or five scattered buildings of which two disguised themselves under the name of hotels.
We started off right proudly in the Miriam, but, alas, pride goes before destruction, and we had hardly left the heavy flatboat a little behind us, when our machinery broke down, and we had to wait until the clumsy scow overtook us, when we became common passengers again, and drifted down the stream to the Mariscal, passing the Lumeha plantation, an American enterprise.
Across its plank floor and beyond ran the rails of the "Pan-American," but the trains halt at Mariscal because Guatemala, or more exactly Estrada Cabrera, does not permit them to enter his great and sovereign republic. Our own passage looked easy, but that was because of our inexperience of Central American ways.
Fortunately they did not stay, but after an hour and a half of troubling, disappeared as suddenly as they arrived. The river had fallen to that degree that it was impossible for our steamer, the Mariscal, to come up to La Cruzada, and we learned that it was anchored about a league down the river.
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