It lies midway in the Atlantic, but well out of the track of ocean steamers, except when it shifts its position to north or south. Latitude might be from 20° to 30°; longitude from 25° to 50°.
Until the unfortunate Zingara drifted helplessly into this great lone sea of weed, little was really known of it and its strange inhabitants.
Long, long ago the ships of Columbus passed through some outlying streams of this wonderful Gulf weed, and when they did so his superstitious sailors began to murmur, and beseech the intrepid explorer to put back, “for,” they said, “God Himself is showing His displeasure at your foolhardiness.”
But Columbus had but one motto, and that was, “Advance!”
Many and many a good ship has been entombed in this wondrous sea of weeds, and never got free till one by one the crew died, and there came to them that freedom which comes to us all sooner or later.
I had, when beginning this chapter, thought of describing the course of the great Gulf Stream, which, starting from Africa, sweeps across towards Brazil and the Gulf of Mexico; then north, and away to Newfoundland; then on and east to Northern Europe, past our own coasts here, and southward, to Africa, once again. But I need be no more explicit. In a story one cares little for unnecessary lectures on the science of geography or anything else.
Suffice it to say that the region of almost perpetual calms and Sea of Sargasso lies in the centre of the sweeping circle of the second branch of the Gulf Stream.
It is said to be a smooth and almost motionless basin; but, as will be seen, our heroes did not always find it so.
One day a man at the foretop masthead shouted—
“Sea of dark water right ahead, sir.”