Shortly after the _Shark_ sank, the British battle cruisers swept past in pursuit of the enemy. The captain asked if the pursuing ships were British. Filleul replied that they were, and the captain said, “That’s good!” Not long afterwards his head fell forward and his gallant spirit fled. The second life-saving raft had been so damaged by shell-fire that only two men could be accommodated upon it. The two most severely wounded (one of them had lost a leg) were helped on to it by a number of others who themselves clung to the edge, among them being the first lieutenant. Able Seaman Smith, on the other raft, realising that the majority were badly wounded, and being himself only slightly hurt, swam over to render what assistance he could. The first lieutenant, who had unfailingly cheered and comforted the stricken little band, presently asked if any could still sing, and then, without faltering, himself began: “Nearer, my God, to Thee.” Those who had the strength joined in as they clung submerged up to their shoulders in the icy water, almost unrecognisable from the thick black oil which floated on the surface; and so, one by one, death overtook them. Able Seaman Smith alone survived more than a couple of hours. While it was still light the British Battle Fleet was sighted through the mists, and the drenched, haggard figures on the other raft cheered it as it passed five miles away. With indomitable optimism they all clung to the hope of a speedy rescue, and Able Seaman Howell semaphored across the waste of water “We are British,” in the hope that it would be read by one of the distant ships. The twilight deepened into dusk, and the raft on which Able Seaman Smith alone survived was lost to sight. The six occupants of the other sat with the waves washing over them, nursing their wounds and debating the prospects of being picked up. The yeoman of signals rambled into delirium at times, and finally said, “I must have a sleep.... Let me get my head down.” Able Seaman Hope attempted to dissuade him, but without avail. “I must sleep,” he insisted pathetically, and as he stretched himself in the bottom of the raft the ruling instinct of the Service came back through the mists of death. “Give us a shake if the captain wants anything,” he said, and his loyal spirit passed to join that of his captain.