Текст книги "Officer's Prey"

Автор книги: Armand Cabasson

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Margont charged. A young trooper, hoping to cover himself in glory by capturing a French officer, rode straight at him. With disconcerting ease he turned his lance round. He was no longer brandishing the point but the end of the shaft. Margont attempted to ward off the attack with his sword, felt a violent blow to his breastbone and fell. He landed on his back and the pain took his breath away. Hoofs galloped past close to his eyes, throwing earth on to his face. The Cossack nimbly dismounted. He must have been sixteen. He could have been a little boy, really happy at the idea of giving his father a present but slightly worried because he was after all in the middle of a battle … His prisoner looked in a poor state and he didn’t know how to set about taking him away. Margont tried to move but his back gave him terrible pain. He felt like a wretched insect crushed by a shoe, surviving only to endure agony. The Russian placed his pike on his throat.

‘I won’t move,’ Margont said in Russian.

The adolescent looked at him wide-eyed. It was inconceivable to him that this man could speak his language because the French were agents of the devil. He carefully examined his captive’s uniform. Yes, he definitely was a Frenchman.

‘You are my prisoner!’ he proudly exclaimed.

‘I don’t doubt that for a second,’ replied Margont.

The Russian removed his belt and set about tying the Frenchman’s wrists. Margont feared the moment when the adolescent said to himself that it would be much easier to kill him than to take him prisoner. All around them the Cossacks looked as if they were celebrating rather than fighting. They were whirling and galloping about in every direction, like leaves blowing in the wind, triumphantly yelling ‘Huzza!’ Their frenzy was indescribable: they ran their opponents through until their lances broke, fired their pistols, slashed around with all their might and rode their horses at the gunners to trample them. The Poles showed equal ferocity in the combat. They were fighting as if each Cossack killed freed one square yard of Poland crushed beneath their horses’ hoofs.

The French were defending their guns. Gathered around their cannon, they gave as good as they got. They were taking advantage of the mêlée to put their muskets against the bellies of Russians engaged in sword duels before firing. They cut into the enemy with their bayonets, swords and even knives. The Cossacks were drooling over the artillery. An elderly sergeant was jealously guarding his Gribeauval and his gunners, like a cockerel guarding his hens.

After smashing two skulls with his musket butt he shouted: ‘God Almighty! What would the Emperor say if they nabbed our fire-belchers? What a disgrace that would be!’

These words galvanised the defenders. Margont was struggling to his feet when the first sign of an adverse wind made the Cossack storm die down. A substantial party of Polish lancers had appeared from a distant wood and was galloping towards them.

‘The escort’s coming back!’ yelled someone.

Margont rejoiced at the thought that these troopers had finally realised they had fallen into a trap, pursuing a decoy intended to lead them away from the convoy. Then he thought that perhaps the Poles had deliberately gone off on this false trail to encourage the Cossacks to attack at last. The adolescent who had captured him was looking at him with an expression of deep sorrow. There were still a few wisps of straw left in his tousled ginger hair from where he had slept. One felt like removing them with a paternal gesture and sending him back out to play. Margont had taken his expression to be one of disappointment but it was more one of guilt. He seemed to be about to apologise. He unsheathed his sabre and approached the captain intending to execute him. Margont rushed him. The Russian brandished his sword but the Frenchman barged into him and his shoulder charge sent him flying to the ground. The shock revived the pain in Margont’s back, giving him the impression that his opponent had, in spite of everything, managed to thrust his sabre into his backbone.

There was a sign of hesitation in the Cossack attack, clearly perceptible by the dying away of the shouts of ‘Huzza!’ The Russians decided to release their prey. A horseman stopped beside the adolescent and shouted something to him as he stretched out his arm. The young man shook his head and again faced up to Margont. If he couldn’t take back a captive, at least he’d have the lovely epaulettes that he’d snatched from an officer’s dead body. Margont easily rid himself of the belt that was shackling his hands. There were almost no Cossacks left. One of them broke away from the group who were fleeing and came galloping back towards the convoy. Aged about fifty, bearded and with wavy ginger hair, he rode his horse between the two adversaries, made it rear up and grabbed the adolescent more by the scruff of the neck than by the collar. The boy shouted out but nimbly threw himself on to the horse’s back. They fled just as the Poles reached the guns and skewered the last remaining Russians as they would chickens or turkeys at Christmas: one after another and without ever feeling sated.

Saber was also back, alerted by the firing. His exhausted mount covered the last few yards at walking pace, its weakened gait contrasting with the efforts of its rider to make it gallop off in pursuit of the enemy.

‘Did you see that, Quentin? They deliberately chose to attack after I’d left.’

Saber really believed he was well known in this part of Russia and that when they talked among themselves the Cossacks would sometimes say: ‘So let’s attack this convoy. It’s poorly guarded.’ ‘No, my friend, because Lieutenant Saber’s with them.’ ‘Oh! If Saber’s there, there’s no point in even thinking about it.’

Margont was having difficulty walking and was trying to recover his sword, his shako, his mount and his pride. He needed a warm, comfortable bed. Yes, that was exactly it – a warm, comfortable bed.

Saber looked him up and down. ‘That’s the second time the Cossacks have unhorsed you, isn’t it? Next time, throw yourself straight to the ground. You’ll save time.’

Saber often tried to outshine his friends with this type of withering remark. For him, glory was not something to be shared. Every man has his limits, so Margont moved towards Saber to grab him by the sleeve and unhorse him, to see which of the two would be the next to end up on the ground. Saber thought it preferable to move away.

Von Stils came back, with a haughty look on his face. His heavy cavalry sabre was bloodstained. He dismounted and wiped it clean with the tunic of a dead Cossack.

‘I killed two of them. I imagined I was charging at two French hussars.’

Margont eyed him coldly. ‘If you hate us so much, why don’t you go over to the Russians? Instead of dirtying this tunic, put it on.’

The Saxon sheathed his sword abruptly, slamming the hilt against the sheath. ‘A Saxon wears a Saxon uniform and obeys the King of Saxony.’

‘To be faithful to one’s ideals or to one’s duty … I would have chosen ideals. Your fringed epaulette has been cut off by a sabre.’

Von Stils looked at his left shoulder. ‘Not content with trying to run me through, they want to strip me of my rank as well!’

Margont and von Stils went to the aid of the wounded. Saber was barking orders for setting up a gun in firing position. The gunners were rushing about, laboriously pushing the wheels, busily bringing round shot. They were obviously very willing but Saber was hurling abuse at them: ‘Layabouts, bunglers …’ However, there was very little likelihood of the Cossacks coming back. So much wasted effort to unhitch the gun, put it into position and load it before firing it at ant-like figures, and then hitching it up again … Margont realised that his friend was frightened. Saber was carefully avoiding looking at the wounded. His aim in putting this gun in a firing position was not to create more victims but to prevent him from seeing the ones already there. Saber completely blotted out this aspect of war. He wanted to fight, but like a child with tin soldiers which don’t bleed when they’re knocked down. So he remained on his horse, sword in hand, ready to order a gun to be fired at Cossacks who never came. When the last of the wounded had been tended and put into a cart and the bogged-down gun pulled out of its rut, an annoyed artillery captain, his arm covered in blood, came to retrieve his cannon. The convoy moved off again.

Saber, Margont and von Stils abandoned it. In the distance could be seen the front of the Pino Division.

The Pino Division was in an appalling state. It was trying to find provisions in an area that had been set on fire by the Russians and pillaged by all the regiments that were ahead of it. The men’s gaunt and haggard faces were worse than any Margont had seen so far.

As the three riders trotted up to the 3rd Italian of the Line, Margont asked: ‘Do you often play with Colonel Fidassio?’

‘Yes, because he loses.’

‘How does he play?’

Von Stils did not seem surprised at this question, as if everyone had a gambling instinct. And perhaps that was true.

‘He takes no risks, constantly undervalues his hand, is suspicious of his own partners. He continually loses money – a lot of money – but when he wins, he’s as happy as a sandboy.’

‘I’d like to play a few rounds with him.’

‘He’s stopped playing now that no one will give him credit.’

‘Who does he still owe money to?’

‘A few of his subordinates who don’t dare to ask for it back!’

‘Does he owe any to that guard dog of his, Captain Nedroni?’

‘As far as I know, Nedroni doesn’t gamble. He merely follows behind Colonel Fidassio to negotiate his debts by staggering the repayments, reducing the amount in exchange for a letter of recommendation …’ Von Stils at once added with a sneer: ‘Yes, that’s exactly it! Captain Nedroni follows behind his colonel!’

‘I’m afraid I don’t really understand what you’re getting at.’

‘I think those two are sodomites! Now do you understand better?’

‘Personally, I don’t have any prejudices against such men.’

‘Neither do I, in fact. Only against bad payers.’

‘Are you sure of what you’re suggesting about their relationship?’

‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’

Colonel Fidassio was riding some way off from his regiment, as was his custom. He turned pale when he noticed von Stils. Nedroni, who was at his side, immediately galloped up to meet these unwelcome visitors.

He brought his horse to a halt in front of them, to block their way, saluted politely and said: ‘May I enquire as to the reason for your visit?’

‘I am Captain von Stils, from the Saxony Life Guards, and this is Captain Margont from the 84th,’ the Saxon replied in a curt tone of voice. ‘We’ve come to talk to Colonel Fidassio about the debts he’s supposed to have paid us some time ago.’

‘I’m extremely sorry but that is impossible. Commanding the regiment occupies all the colonel’s attention.’

Von Stils turned even redder than from exposure to the sun. ‘It’s a matter of honour, sir! I insist!’

Nedroni remained courteous but firm. ‘It’s impossible and I’m sincerely sorry. But if you’re willing to leave me a message, it will be delivered in the shortest possible time.’

‘A message!’

‘Yes, we do have a message,’ Margont intervened. ‘Tell the colonel that we are going to ask General Dembrovsky to order your colonel to receive us immediately.’

Nedroni was taken by surprise. ‘You aren’t going to pester a general about money problems, surely?’

‘Deliver your message by all means,’ said Margont sarcastically before setting off towards the brigadier-general and his aides-de-camp, who were surveying the surroundings through field glasses from the top of a hill.

‘Very well,’ Nedroni conceded. ‘Please follow me, but be brief.’

When they reached Colonel Fidassio he was conversing with a major of the chasseurs. As this officer was French, that was the language the two men were using. The colonel’s face betrayed his dismay.

‘Have you deployed your squadrons to protect our flanks?’

‘Yes, Colonel,’ the chasseur assured him.

The major looked puzzled. It was clear that Colonel Fidassio was faced with a difficult choice. The chasseur couldn’t see what the problem was and was cursing himself for his lack of perceptiveness.

‘Yes, but aren’t your squadrons too spread out? If they are too spread out they won’t be able to stand up to a large-scale attack at one particular point. Tell your troopers to be at the ready but not too spread out. There needs to be a happy medium between being spread out and grouped together.’

‘I’ll transmit your orders immediately, Colonel.’

‘Everything in life is a question of a happy medium. “Always a little, never too much!”’

Always a little, Colonel, never too much, thought Margont.

The chasseur went away feeling he had not properly understood his instructions. Fidassio seemed to be about to call him back to add or subtract something but he restrained himself. Nedroni’s knuckles were white from holding the reins so tightly.

‘Colonel, these two officers wish to speak to you. I told them how overburdened with work you were but they insisted. They quite understand that you can only give them a few seconds.’

The few seconds in question seemed longer to Fidassio than eternal damnation. His face fell when Margont informed him that he’d been entrusted by the late Lieutenant Sampre with the task of recovering the dead man’s debt. Fidassio explained that he did not have the requisite amount on him but paid each of the two men a down payment of two hundred francs in exchange for a receipt. Fidassio kept looking at Nedroni for help. It’s Nedroni who’s the colonel and Fidassio his shadow, concluded Margont.

He and von Stils set off again. Margont turned round. Fidassio seemed more downcast than ever as Nedroni talked to him. Nedroni gave the Frenchman a look of hatred. He was angry with him for having guessed his friend’s secret, for discovering that a colonel’s magnificent epaulettes were too heavy for Fidassio’s shoulders and that Nedroni was helping him to bear this glorious burden. ‘Why did my mother want to make me a colonel?’ Fidassio must have lamented to himself. Yes, of course. But also, why had Fidassio gone along with it? It was true, however, that colonels always obeyed generals.

CHAPTER 23

AT the end of August the Tsar promoted General Kutuzov to generalissimo and the latter thus found himself in command of the Russian army. Barclay de Tolly had been demoted because the public were exasperated by his successive retreats. The choice of his successor had proved difficult. The Tsar did not like Kutuzov and criticised him for ‘having obeyed too well’. It was no secret that at the battle of Austerlitz, Kutuzov had advised against withdrawing troops from the plateau of Pratzen, the centre of the Austro-Russian position, and sending them to try to break through the French right flank. But despite this advice, the Tsar ordered the manoeuvre, falling into the trap set by Napoleon, who had not given ground on his right flank but had happily broken through the weakened enemy centre. But, because Kutuzov was so popular, the Tsar was forced to choose him. Kutuzov was sixty-six. He was considered an old man because he frequently dozed off – even during councils of war – because his excessive weight made it difficult for him to mount a horse, and because he was lethargic by nature. A pupil of Suvorov, one of the greatest Russian strategists, he had lost an eye during one of the many campaigns he had fought. Caution was one of his watchwords and he loved to give the impression that he was a crafty old fox who said nothing but took in everything.

Kutuzov was convinced of Napoleon’s superiority and wanted to continue the scorched-earth policy. But now Moscow itself was under threat, Moscow the cradle of the nation! The Russian people were wondering how things could have come to this. Public opinion and the Tsar’s decision had combined to force a confrontation on Kutuzov. Deeply religious and fatalistic, he now considered that a clash between the two armies was a necessary evil. Napoleon would at last have his battle.

Kutuzov chose an area close to the village of Borodino as the battlefield. Whilst the Russians called the confrontation the battle of Borodino, Napoleon preferred to call it the battle of the Moskva. The Moskva was a river nearby, and although Moscow itself was still more than ninety miles away, calling it the battle of the Moskva made it sound as if they were just outside the city walls. This was in a way correct because if the Russian army were crushed, Moscow would inevitably fall into French hands.

One hundred and fifteen thousand Frenchmen and allies, and their five hundred and ninety cannon – all that was left of the Grande Armée – were preparing to attack one hundred and fifty-five thousand Russians equipped with six hundred and forty cannon, which were often of larger calibre than the French ones. The Russians had set themselves up along a convex front more than six miles long. The terrain was winding and undulating, interspersed with small woods and bushy ravines, and bordered by forests of pine and birch. The Russian right wing, commanded by Barclay de Tolly, came up to the villages of Borodino and Gorki and their environs. The River Moskva flowed along this side. In the centre was the valley of the Kolocha, a tributary of the Moskva.

To the rear on a hillock, the Russians had built an entrenchment called the Great Redoubt or the Raevsky Redoubt, named after the general commanding it. This redoubt was the cornerstone of the Russian centre and it was an impressive construction. It extended for more than one hundred and eighty yards and was protected by a wide ditch. An earthwork had been built in front of it and to the sides. To the rear, a gorge, blocked off by a double stockade, enabled the defenders to come and go. Embrasures had been made to allow nineteen cannon to be fired. In addition, General Raevsky had had ‘wolf holes’ dug in front of the position in order to halt a possible cavalry charge. The large number of infantrymen given the task of protecting the Great Redoubt – twenty battalions – had positioned themselves wherever they could: in the Semenovskaya Ravine, on the slope of the hill and to the left of the redoubt, and in the village of Semenovskaya.

The Russian left, commanded by Bagration, had also been reinforced with fortifications – three redoubts, which were very close to one another. They were dubbed the ‘Three Flèches’. Lastly, large numbers of reserve troops were stationed behind the Russian position.

Napoleon came face to face with the Russian army on 5 September but the battle did not commence until 7 September. The two armies made good use of this respite to observe each other. The French rounded up as many laggards as possible and awaited the arrival of part of the artillery, whose progress had been impeded by the rain. The Russians were also gathering their troops and fortifying their entrenchments.

On 6 September the Russians held a spectacular religious ceremony. It consisted of a procession of icons, including the Madonna of Smolensk, which was reputed to make armies invincible. Priests in full ceremonial vestments marched at the head, followed by generals and soldiers singing hymns or saying prayers. Kutuzov, like many others, knelt as the holy images went past. The effect on the Russians was to rouse them to a frenzy. It was no longer a war but a crusade against the devil himself. And, during the night, the large doses of vodka that had replaced the holy water made the troops more euphoric still.

The Russian plan was essentially defensive: to hold their positions and to bleed the French army dry with their artillery. Decisions would then be made according to the enemy’s actions and reactions. The plan was that General Tuchkov, on the left of the army, would go around the enemy’s right wing to attack it on the flank and to the rear, but that proved unworkable.

In fact, since the Russian left flank had received reinforcements and was defended by the Three Flèches, Napoleon deduced that it was the weak spot of the Russian strategy. This, then, was where he decided he would try to break through. Initially, Prince Eugène would attack the Russian right as a diversion. He would be ‘content’ to take the village of Borodino, to contain the Russians and to surround the Great Redoubt. Ney, Junot and Murat would attack the centre and Davout and Poniatowski the left flank. When the French right wing had broken through the enemy left, it would fall back on the centre and sweep away everything in its path. These were the plans of the two camps. But nothing went according to plan.

The night before the battle, the soldiers talked or got drunk. On the French side there was the dull rumble of troops moving around to take up position. Latecomers kept arriving and then going off in search of their regiments.

The 84th had already taken up its position and was making the most of the night’s respite. Margont was visiting the men of his company, sitting with them around the campfires. Despite the slaughter to come, morale remained high. At last they were going to confront the Russian army! No more marching until they were exhausted or tramping through mud or nearly going mad from hunger … They had faith in Napoleon’s genius and no one doubted that the Russians would be annihilated. Margont was making sure that all was well, giving instructions, reassuring his men … They liked him and were always pleased to make room for him.

‘Captain, what runs faster than a galloping horse?’ asked an old corporal whose right eye was permanently watching the left one since a bullet had deformed its socket.

‘No idea.’

‘A Prussian after the battle of Jena!’

There were roars of laughter. Margont himself merely smiled. When soldiers told one another this sort of nonsense, they were in a really good mood.

‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but what’s that scar on your cheek?’ enquired a soldier who had just about enough teeth left to bite open his cartridges before pouring the powder into the barrel of his musket. If it hadn’t been for his three incisors and one canine, he would have been discharged from the army.

Margont absently ran his finger along the scar. He didn’t like talking about it.

‘Well, let’s just say that like everyone else involved in the Spanish campaign, I brought back a little souvenir …’

A cuirassier appeared in the light of the campfire. The flicker of its flames was reflected in his breastplate and helmet.

‘Do you know where the 5th Regiment of Cuirassiers is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Easy.’

‘Are you sure it’s so simple?’

At that, all the infantrymen pointed their fingers in different directions and shouted out amidst general laughter: ‘It’s that way!’

The cavalryman wanted to leave but Margont held his mount by the bridle.

‘Where’s your greatcoat? In one of your saddlebags? Roll it up and place it across your saddle in front of your private parts. Because tomorrow when you charge, the Russians will riddle you with bullets. Your breastplate and your helmet will protect your body well but not down there. Your rolled-up greatcoat will prevent you from being castrated. What would your pretty filly think if, after letting her young stud go off to war, she saw only an ugly fat gelding come back?’

The cuirassier set off without answering.

Margont got up, gave his apologies and went to the next campfire, despite the request to ‘stay a bit longer’. There, some soldiers were listening to Second Lieutenant Galouche read extracts from the Bible. Margont remembered prayers at Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. He put his hands together and entwined his fingers, as he used to do. He silently asked Heaven for the battle to cause as little bloodshed as possible, for the Russians to be defeated and for the war to end. And if the Tsar capitulated, then England would be forced to negotiate. Probably. Then at last there would be peace.

A little further on, Saber was busily cutting the Russian army to pieces. With the aid of a stick he was drawing a plan on the ground for the benefit of his supporters – soldiers who swore by him and already imagined themselves colonels of the future marshal of France. There were arrows in all directions; the Great Redoubt had already fallen – rather too quickly in Margont’s opinion – and the Russian Guard was rushing into this ‘death trap’. Saber had in fact ordered the French right wing to fall back to make the Russians think that there had been a rout on that side. The Russians had been quick to send in all their reserves, including the Guard, to finish smashing through the right enemy flank. Then Saber ordered the cavalry of the Guard to charge at their flank and break up their columns. The Old Guard followed and finished them off. It was obviously very effective in the sand since Saber was energetically wiping out Russian squares and columns. But he was taking no account of the human factor. Even if the Russians actually believed they had broken through the French right, how could anyone be sure the French would not think the same? And if they did, then the left wing and the French centre, thinking the right wing had been routed, would in turn break up in disarray … Any movement towards the rear was dangerous because it very soon led to all sides following suit.

Piquebois was smoking his pipe some distance from the others. Lying on his back, with a treatise on astronomy resting against his knees and his head on his knapsack, he was gazing up at the sky. His eyes were full of stars.

‘Why do you have such a passion for them?’ Margont asked him.

‘Because they’re so far away.’

Margont then caught up with Lefine, who was selling phials containing a greenish liquid. It was his ‘remedy for fear’, an infusion of verbena and eucalyptus. Margont grabbed him by the collar and, when they saw the expression on the sergeant’s face, all his potential customers immediately realised that the product was a swindle.

‘Ripping people off again!’ thundered Margont.

‘It works. It’s been scientifically proved, Captain. The truth is that you’re against progress.’

‘Give me your report instead of adding fuel to the flames.’

‘If I had fuel I wouldn’t waste it, I’d drink it, even if it were lamp oil.’

Margont let go of Lefine, who made a show of readjusting his collar.

‘My men will try to keep an eye on all our suspects during the combat.’

‘Excellent, I’m relying on them.’

‘Captain, aren’t you afraid?’

‘Why? Do you want to sell me that filthy potion of yours?’

‘No, seriously …’

‘Of course I am. But my fear doesn’t paralyse me and doesn’t ruin my life. So I can consider myself content.’

Margont walked away. He wanted to sleep for a while. Lefine downed three of his phials in quick succession. He didn’t think it would work, but just in case …

His heart was pounding. The Russians were here at last! He was convinced that the Emperor was going to see to them in his own way and he already felt sorry for them. While waiting for the general assault, he had just made up a new game that he found very entertaining. The aim was to imagine the worst possible death for Captain Margont. His wishes were then arranged in ascending order of preference.

For the moment these were the results: For round shot to blow his arm off and for him to lie for hours watching the blood pour out of his stump; for grapeshot to make mincemeat of him; for a blow from a sword to smash his teeth and slash his face from ear to ear; for a hail of bullets to burst open his spleen, liver and bowels; for him to be seriously wounded, unable to move and left behind in a corner of the battlefield feeling the crows pecking his eyes out; for all that to happen at once.

For him, Margont was a louse he hadn’t yet managed to crush. And if he didn’t disappear, this louse would end up, like any other, getting squashed.

*

At three in the morning the order of the day was read out to the troops. It was the Emperor’s address:

‘Soldiers, here is the battle you have yearned for! From now on victory depends on you. We need it; it will guarantee us plentiful food, good winter quarters and a swift return to the homeland! Conduct yourselves as you did at Austerlitz, at Friedland, at Vitebsk, at Smolensk and may all the generations to come proudly hail your conduct on this day. Let it be said of you: “He was at that great battle beneath the walls of Moscow!”’

Colonel Pégot went to find Margont just after the speech had been read out. The cheering and the shouts of ‘Long live the Emperor!’ meant that he had to take Margont to one side to make himself heard. Napoleon had decided to reinforce IV Corps for the battle so he had placed the Morand and Gérard Divisions under Prince Eugène’s command. Some of their regiments had, however, lost a very large number of officers.

‘Officers are therefore being temporarily assigned to other regiments. These are orders,’ explained Pégot. ‘At the battle of Smolensk, the 13th Light lost one-third of its strength and about thirty officers. Consequently, I’m transferring you to it.’

‘That’s out of the question, Colonel. I want to remain with the men from my company. I know them and I …’

Pégot shook his head. He was a pitiful sight with his bloodshot, dark-ringed eyes.

‘It’s only for the duration of the battle. One of the battalions of the 13th Light is without its major. I’m putting you in charge of it. You will take Saber, Piquebois and Galouche with you and you will give them the remnants of two companies each.’

He was being put in charge of a battalion, was he? Promotion was close. To refuse the battalion was to refuse promotion. Margont wanted to ask something but Pégot was already off, waving him away.

‘No time, no time. I have to find some gunners to make up the numbers in our artillery companies, horses for our cavalry and our cannon, and I need to patch together what’s left of the companies … What a life! And on top of all this they’re taking my officers away.’