Hamerton heard it also. The Diomeda was making straight towards a sandbank. Unhesitatingly he put the helm hard up. He would not risk going about; he chose the lesser danger of gybing all standing.
With a thud the boom swung over, and the stanch little craft drew away from the hidden danger. Her course was now nor'-west.
"Still shallow," announced the Sub. "It's less than four fathoms, but the water seems calmer."
"Light ahead!" shouted Detroit. "Showing red and white. We're right on the dividing line between the two sectors."
"I see it now," replied Hamerton, as he altered his helm to bring the Diomeda more into the arc of the white light. "Hanged if I know what or where it is, but, by Jove, there's a crowd of lights beyond!"
Through the rain a multitude of yellowish lamps blinked after the manner of a street, except that, instead of two rows, there were four or five. The water, too, was almost calm, ruffled by a faint breeze that contrasted vividly with the strong wind but a few hundred yards astern.
The Sub's ready wit grasped the situation. Unknowingly the yacht had entered an anchorage, for the lights represented the anchor lamps of a number of vessels.
"This is good enough for us," he exclaimed. "We'll bring up here till daylight. I shouldn't wonder if we're off the mouth of the Jade or the Weser. Stand by and let go, old man. I'll bring her up into the wind."
Two minutes later the rattling of the chain cable announced the fact that Detroit had let go the anchor. The saturated sails were quickly lowered and stowed, the navigation lights removed, and an anchor lamp hung from the fore stay.
A final look round satisfied Hamerton that he had done all that was humanly possible. The Diomeda was riding snugly in a safe but unknown anchorage.