“If I had such cash, Major, I could strip Brewhouse Lane of the little bastards in five minutes.” Hocking chuckled. “For a pound apiece! A pound! But we ain’t a rich parish. We ain’t Lewes. We ain’t got the funds to palm the little bastards off onto others. No, we relies on others paying us!” He sank half the ale, then gave Sharpe a suspicious look. “So what does you want, Major?”

“Drummer boys,” Sharpe said. The 95th did not employ drummer boys, but he doubted Jem Hocking understood that.

“Drummer boys,” Hocking said. “I’ve got lads that could beat a drum. They ain’t much good for anything, but they can beat a drum. But why come to me for them, Major? Why not go to Lewes? Why not get three pounds with every lad?”

“Because the Lewes Board of Visitors won’t let the boys go to be soldiers.”

“They won’t?” Hocking could not hide his astonishment.

“There are women on the Board,” Sharpe said.

“Ah, women!” Hocking exclaimed. He shook his head in exasperation and despair. “They’ll be the end of common sense, women will. There are none on our Board, I warrant you that. Women!”

“And the Canterbury Board insists the boys go before a magistrate,” Sharpe said.

“Canterbury?” Hocking was confused.

“We have a second battalion at Canterbury,” Sharpe explained, “and we could get the boys from there, only the magistrates interfere.”

Hocking was still confused. “Why wouldn’t the bloody magistrates want boys to be soldiers?”

“The boys die,” Sharpe said, “they die like bloody flies. You have to understand, Mister Hocking, that the rifles are the troops nearest the enemy. Under their noses, we are, and the boys have to serve as cartridge carriers when they ain’t drumming. Back and forth, they are, and somehow they seem to be targets. Bang, bang. Always killing boys, we are. Mind you, if they live, it’s a fine life. They can become Chosen Men!“