She nodded, and he added: 'And in Cornwall - Portsall, Lesneven, Lanion, Lannilis, Crozon, Plabennec, Kerlouan...'
'It's extraordinary,' she commented. 'Still, I think one can distinguish the Cornish ones.'
'Can you?' he smiled, eyebrows raised.
She nodded. 'Oh yes, even though I'm not Cornish.'
He laughed and leaned over to kiss her. 'Don't be cross with your new husband because he's teasing you. The first names are Cornish - the ones you thought were Breton. All the second are here in Brittany!'
'But...'
'Just listen to these: St Levan and Lesneven, Lanivet and Lannilis, Perranzabuloe and Plabennec ... the first of each pair are Cornish, the second Breton. I can forgive you for mistaking them! And Botusfleming, Lansallos, Lesnewth, Lezant, Trelill - they hardly sound very Cornish, but they are.'
Sarah smoothed the olive green material of her dress, not bothering that the wind ruffled her hair. 'Brest... the blockade of Brest... I've heard you and your father talk about it,' she said thoughtfully. Her voice was deep; he reflected that he seemed to hear it with his loins, a caress rather than a sound. She was watching a bee circling a buttercup, thwarted as the breeze bent over the golden bell. 'We can't see the port from here, can we?'
He shook his head. 'Bonaparte's main naval base on the Atlantic coast is well up the Gullet. One has to sail in close under the cliffs (with these and other batteries pelting you if you're British in wartime) and usually there's a soldier's wind to let you run in. All the way up to Brest the Gullet narrows like a funnel and there are three forts on your larboard hand - if memory serves they're Toulbroch, Mengam and de Delec; we'll be able to see them on the way back - and one on the other side. Plus various batteries.'
He half turned, resting on an elbow and looking across at the hills beyond Brest and at the ruined abbey in the foreground. It was built many centuries ago and obviously had been abandoned for at least a hundred years, but he tried to think what men had quarried the rock and hammered and chiselled the blocks to shape to build a monastery on what is one of the bleakest spots in Europe. Here during winter gales it must seem the Atlantic was trying to tear away the whole continent. Were those monks of the Middle Ages (or earlier?) scourging themselves by establishing their home on one of the windiest and most storm-ridden places they could find? Did they think the harshness made them nearer to God? Were they seeking absolution from nameless guilts?
'This must be the nearest point in France to Canada and America,' Sarah said.
He shook his head. 'Almost, but Pointe de Corsen is the most westerly.' He pointed northward along the coast. 'Look, it's over there, about five miles, beyond Le Conquet. Hundreds, indeed thousands of English seamen know it because it's a good mark when you're working your way through the Chenal du Four, keeping inside of Ushant and all those shoals
He fell silent, looking westward, until finally Sarah touched his cheek. 'Where are you now?'
He gave a sheepish laugh. 'Running the Calypso into Brest with a southwest wind. Earlier I was beating in against a northeaster, with all the forts firing at me. I was scared stiff of getting in irons and drifting ashore.'
'Southwick wouldn't let you do that,' she said teasing.
Like Ramage, she remembered the Calypso's white-haired old master with affection. She said: 'I wonder what he's doing now?'
He shook his head as if trying to drive away the thought. 'By now he and the Calypso's officers and men will probably have the ship
ready to be paid off at Chatham.'
'What does "paid off" really mean? I thought it was the ship, but it sounds like the men.'
It was hard for him to avoid giving a bitter answer. 'Officially it means removing all the Calypso's guns, sails, provisions, cordage and shot (the powder will have been taken off and put in barges on the Thames before she went into the Medway), and then the ship, empty except for a boatkeeper or two, will be left at anchor, or on a mooring. They may take the copper sheathing off the hull.'
'Why "may"?' she asked, curious.
'Well, you know the underwater part of the hull of a ship is covered with copper sheathing to keep out the teredo worm, which bores into the wood. Now some peculiar action goes on between the metals so that the ironwork of things like the rudder gets eaten away. Not only that, but after a year or so the copper starts to dissolve as well, particularly at the bow: it just gets thinner. So when a ship is laid up she is usually first dry-docked and the sheathing is taken off.'
'You still haven't explained "may" - and there's a strange look on your face!'
He sighed and turned back to look at her. 'Well, you know my views on this peace treaty we've signed with Bonaparte, and that neither my father nor I - nor most of our friends - believe Bonaparte truly wants peace. As a result of the Treaty, he's already had more than a year to restock his arsenals and from the Baltic get supplies of mast timber and cordage which we had cut off for years by blockading places like Brest. So now he's busy refitting his fleet: new sails, masts, yards. New ships, too. Now - or very soon - he'll be ready to start the war again.'