Chapter 154 - Death and Honor Are Not the Same (17)
Someone once said that nighttime is a time for rest. For Georg Brandt, who had fallen into eternal sleep beneath the night's shroud, that may have been true.
But for Ernest and Ferdinand, who spent a sleepless night in pain after seeing him off, it was anything but.
As promised, before dawn broke, Bertrand came to the 1st Battalion's campsite.
Taking the dangers into account, Bertrand didn't come too close; instead, he sent someone ahead to check on Estelle's condition, while the 1st Battalion did the same to confirm the state of Robert and Baumann.
"She seemed not to have slept all night, but there was nothing unusual."
After hearing the report that Estelle was unharmed, Bertrand felt a strange mix of emotions.
He was relieved, and yet there was a strong sense of regret that he couldn't wipe out the 1st Battalion.
"Let's proceed with negotiations."
Bertrand seemed to be battling conflicting feelings, but he spoke about the negotiations with determination.
Either way, it was over now.
Even if Bertrand fought the 1st Battalion here, it would just lead to pointless losses; he wouldn't be able to prevent Belliang's downfall.
The only thing left to do was get out of here as quickly as possible—if the 5th Division had moved fast, reinforcements might already have reached Lanosel.
Within the Belliang Army, Bertrand himself—who couldn't even walk easily through the forest—came in person.
He brought along a knight to prevent any accidents, like slipping on moss, breaking his limbs, or dying outright.
Bertrand's guard, Jade, was currently receiving treatment for a gunshot wound inflicted by Ernest and had to yield his place.
In the 1st Battalion, it was decided that Ferdinand, the acting commander, would represent them.
There was some debate about who would accompany him, but Ferdinand wanted Ernest to go as well.
Without complaint, Ernest pushed his weary body to prepare for the negotiations.
Because this meeting was for negotiation, they had to leave all weapons behind.
However, having anyone else involved could complicate matters, so both sides agreed that the prisoners would conduct body searches of the commanders.
Baumann checked Bertrand and the Belliang Knight for any weapons, while Bertrand's attendant patted down Ernest and Ferdinand to confirm they were unarmed.
"..."
Estelle stood off to the side, her face pale and her eyes clouded with gloom, completely still.
Once both sides confirmed no one was carrying weapons, all that remained was to proceed with the negotiations.
Ernest and Ferdinand set out accompanied by Estelle and Bertrand's attendant, while Bertrand and the Belliang Knight brought Robert and Baumann along with them.
Meeting in the middle between the two camps, they tried to read each other's faces.
Sunlight was finally starting to reach even this deep part of the forest, so the shadows could no longer hide anyone's expression.
The people from the Belliang Army all looked healthy—they'd eaten well, drunk well, and slept well.
By contrast, the faces of those from the 1st Battalion, to put it politely, looked tired; to be blunt, they looked like death warmed over. Estelle, though she was a prisoner, appeared physically well enough, but her expression was just as bleak as the others.
"Georg…"
Baumann looked at Ernest and Ferdinand, whispering with trembling lips.
Ferdinand met his gaze quietly, his eyes red from crying.
"..."
Baumann's lips quivered as if to speak, then, overcome by dizziness, he almost collapsed.
If Robert hadn't caught him, he would have sunk straight to the ground.
"…Baumann, pull yourself together."
Robert spoke, his eyes brimming with tears as the sudden wave of sorrow overcame him.
"I'm not exactly in the best shape myself to support you right now."
"..."
Robert struggled to swallow despite the lump in his throat, his eyes red.
Baumann, covering his eyes with one hand, let hot tears stream down his face, then took a deep breath and forced himself to stand upright.
Bertrand silently watched the young men's grief and despair for a moment before slowly turning his gaze to Ernest and Ferdinand.
"I suppose it's not really my place to say this, but… my condolences, first of all."
Bertrand removed his ornately decorated red hat and held it to his chest, inclining his head slightly.
Now that he'd come to terms with his obsession and despair, Bertrand had regained his rational demeanor and was expressing genuine sympathy.
Ferdinand nodded heavily, his expression as hard as stone.
A heavy silence fell over them for a moment.
"But, I don't see your battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Hoffman… Has he not come?"
Bertrand calmly glanced around, surveying the area before asking quietly. Ferdinand replied,
"He took his own life last night."
"…I see. Well… I can't say I'm particularly sorry to hear that."
Bertrand knew that as a member of royalty, he was expected to offer condolences even in moments like this, but he couldn't bring himself to utter such empty words.
For the members of the 1st Battalion, Bailey's death was something closer to a cause for celebration.
Another silence fell before Ferdinand spoke in a heavy voice.
"How about we exchange prisoners and go our separate ways?"
Negotiations aren't usually conducted like this.
Normally, you'd consider each other's positions, dig into the opponent's weaknesses, exploit any openings, and strive for the most advantageous outcome possible.
Pushing for the maximum gain is the goal.
But at this point, none of that mattered to them.
They knew far too much about each other.
They already understood what the other would demand, and what they would refuse.
Bertrand needed to preserve as much of his remaining force as possible and get away.
Most likely, he would seek asylum in Konchanya by crossing the Bertebras Mountains, or perhaps try to carve out a new path by heading west. Either way, he had to escape this place at once and avoid another battle at all costs. As for the 1st Battalion, everyone was on the brink of collapse from dehydration and colds. They could fight if they had to, but there would be nothing left afterward. They needed to get out of the forest immediately.
Both sides understood all too well—they had to get out of here without another battle.
There was no need for pointless quarreling or probing.
"All right. Let's do that."
Bertrand agreed with striking ease, as if all that had happened in this forest had been nothing but lies.
He even gestured politely for Robert and Baumann to go, before Ferdinand had sent Estelle and his attendant back over.
Baumann, struggling with the death of his close friend, and Robert, battling illness on top of exhaustion, leaned on each other as they staggered toward Ernest and Ferdinand.
In turn, Ferdinand gestured politely for Estelle and Bertrand's attendant to leave as well.
They exchanged prisoners without the slightest trace of discord.
Now, only one thing remained.
"Withdraw the troops. We need to leave this place as soon as possible ourselves."
"Yes, Your Excellency. Clear the way!"
Bertrand immediately ordered the soldiers waiting north of the 1st Battalion to pull back.
As the command was relayed, sounds of hurried movement rose around the 1st Battalion's campsite.
It would take a little while for the order to fully pass through and for the Belliang Army to withdraw.
No one avoided this awkward stretch of time; instead, the commanders of both sides looked at each other.
"Someday, we'll probably all regret this moment."
Bertrand spoke, not as the Supreme Commander of the Belliang Army, but as a man addressing the young men before him.
"No."
Ernest replied, not as an Imperial Army officer, but simply as a man to Bertrand.
He raised his face, dry as a withered tree.
Sunlight streamed down against his features, trailing across his face like tears.
"I resent you and your army, but I won't regret this moment."
"...."
"I've lost too much, but those who can live should live. Between us, there's no better path than this one right now."
As he watched sunlight flow down Ernest's face like tears, Bertrand was lost for words.
He gazed at Ernest's face for a moment.
Even with his hollow, scruffy appearance and the unshaven stubble, his youthful features were impossible to hide.
"…Is that so."
At that moment, Bertrand realized that he had truly come to accept Belliang's downfall.
No matter how desperately he struggled, Belliang was inevitably going to fall.
And with that, he also realized that he loved his Homeland more deeply than he had thought.
Bertrand gripped his Red Hat tightly and pulled it down low.
Hot tears soaked into the golden beard beneath the brim, disappearing before they could be seen.
"What you said is truly right, Krieger."
Bertrand murmured in a rough voice, almost whispering.
How could he be so composed?
Even with so much pain.
"I will never forget you all."
Then, in a resolute voice, he continued,
"This is a complete defeat for me. I can't even offer an excuse."
He had lost utterly to these young men, not only in battle but now in spirit as well.
It was hard to believe that they were mere greenhorns, not even twenty years old.
Bertrand took off his hat and looked at Ernest with reddened eyes.
An unreadable smile flickered across his tear-stained face.
"And please, don't tempt me so much with such admirable composure, Krieger. I'm already starting to regret not having killed you."
Bertrand would not give up.
No matter what it took, he would find a way to resurrect his beloved Homeland, Belliang.
When that time came, Ernest would surely stand in his way once again, just as he had now.
Bertrand could clearly sense that this young man, far too talented for his age, would one day become the most dangerous predator he'd ever face.
"Regret only comes after a decision is made, doesn't it?"
Ernest answered, knowing Bertrand would not kill him.
He understood because he felt the same way.
"That, too, is quite true."
Bertrand laughed.
He started to turn away, then paused and looked back at Ernest.
"May I ask you one thing?"
"Yes."
When Ernest replied, Bertrand nodded seriously and asked with utmost gravity,
"So, how old are you, really?"
They can't honestly be seventeen-year-old greenhorns, can they?
It must not be true.
Please.
Bertrand, despite being in an overwhelmingly advantageous position, desperately hoped that this boyish-looking officer who had completely defeated him was actually just blessed with a remarkably youthful face.
***
Instead of heading directly north along the path the Belliang Army had cleared, the 1st Battalion began by moving west.
There was no reason for the Belliang Army to provide water for the 1st Battalion.
If the 1st Battalion didn't find a way to deal with dehydration immediately, everyone would collapse and die of thirst before even making it out of the forest.
"Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! Gasp!"
"Don't breathe through your mouth, breathe through your nose."
"My nose is all stuffed up…"
"..."
The soldiers, struggling with both dehydration and colds, were barely able to walk.
If it hadn't been Ernest who said, "I saw a shallow brook while running yesterday," everyone would have headed blindly north and collapsed along the way.
Thud.
One of the 2nd Company members, barely managing to walk, collapsed.
But the other soldiers, using their rifles as canes and staggering forward, had no strength left to help him up.
"Huff!"
Billim grabbed the arm of the collapsed, gasping soldier and, using all his strength, hoisted him up, draping the arm over his own shoulder to support him.
"Just a little farther… Just a bit more…"
"..."
Billim, too, was at his limit.
But trusting Ernest's words, he squeezed out the last of his strength to help the soldier along.
The soldier, in turn, pushed himself to keep walking, swaying on shaky legs.
Robert and Baumann, who had spent a comparatively luxurious day as prisoners of the Belliang Army, were already supporting other men.
Ernest, leading the way, couldn't spare the energy to help anyone else.
And Ferdinand, stubborn as always and insisting he'd take his friend home, was plodding forward alone carrying Georg's body, which was wrapped tightly in cloth—he had no strength left to help anyone else.
Amidst all this, not a single person made a move to transport the body of the 1st Battalion Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Bailey Hoffman—the one man who should have been their top priority.
In fact, except for Ferdinand, no one had any strength left to carry another body, so Bailey's corpse had simply been tossed in among the other bodies.
Every surviving member of the 1st Battalion, without a word, was united in choosing to abandon Bailey's body.
Some soldiers had even tried to desecrate and defile Bailey's corpse, and others had only stopped them out of basic decency.
Considering even Ferdinand held an indescribable grudge toward Bailey, how much more must the rest have hated him?
If they hadn't been in such a desperate situation, the officers might well have let the soldiers do whatever they pleased to Bailey's remains.
But above all, there was a decisive reason they had to, and could only, discard Bailey's body.
There was clear evidence on Bailey's corpse that he had been murdered, not died by suicide—things like his broken and torn fingernails on his left hand, and the mark of strangulation around his neck.
And so, they simply threw his body onto the pile of corpses and left.
It was a humid, warm forest at the start of summer.
By morning, decomposition had already begun, and insects were swarming in.
And now that the 1st Battalion had left, the beasts would be drawn in, licking their lips in anticipation.
By tomorrow, there wouldn't be any trace of strangulation left—no one would even be able to tell it was Bailey.
"Found it…!"
Ernest, undoubtedly the one who'd spent the most energy in the three battles fought in Bertebras Forest, was nearly crawling as he leaned on his rifle, but when he finally spotted the brook, he dropped to his knees in front of it.
His voice was rough and scratchy, like sandpaper.
"It's water! Water!"
"Ahaha…"
The men who found the brook cheered and cried at once.
Even though it was barely more than a trickle, not as wide as a handspan, to the survivors of the 1st Battalion, this little brook now felt greater and more beautiful than a mighty river running through a desert.
They practically wanted to kneel down and bow to Ernest in gratitude and awe for remembering the exact spot where even this trickle, like a stream of calf's urine, appeared, and then actually finding it as if by magic.
Ernest, having spotted the brook first, collapsed flat on the ground and buried his face in the shallow water to drink, and everyone else did the same.
Not a single person cared about appearances.
They licked the bottom clean, not leaving even a drop of water behind.
"Hey! Hey! What do you think you're doing, drinking like that from upstream!"
"C'mon, you should've come upstream if you wanted the good spot!"
The bastards who'd claimed the upper part of this tiny brook drank greedily, even licking up the mud and sand, leaving the men downstream with nothing to drink.
Only after dragging those upstream away from their spot did a trickle of water start flowing down again, so everyone could share in it.
"..."
After drinking, everyone was completely spent, unable to move a muscle.
Despite finally getting some water, their bodies were still in terrible shape.
They desperately needed to get out of the forest right away, rejoin the Allied Forces, and get medical attention—but even so, they collapsed where they were.
"Don't sleep. Get up. Come on."
Ernest, knowing all too well the soldiers' condition, forced himself upright on shaky legs and urged them on.
If they started resting here, everyone would just collapse for good and never get up again.
They had to get moving immediately.
"Get up right now! We have to get out of this forest!"
Ferdinand, who had carried Georg's body all this way by himself, shouted in a booming voice as he stood tall.
His face was ghostly pale, but his voice remained steady.
"If you want to rest, do it outside the forest, as much as you want! Nobody will disturb you then!"
Everyone was so exhausted, even raising their voices was almost impossible.
Even in this situation, when Ferdinand—who had been carrying Georg's body all this way—shouted out so powerfully, it was as if, like a miracle, a surge of strength sprang forth from somewhere inside everyone, a strength they'd been sure was long gone.
"Ugh!"
Andersen forced himself to his feet, swaying as he barely managed to steady himself by bracing his gun against the ground.
"That's right, let's go back. Come on, get up, everyone. Hurry up. This damned war is basically over now. Once we get out of here, we'll be able to make it home alive. After surviving so much, if you just lie down and die here, you'll be so frustrated you won't even be able to close your eyes."
Andersen said this with all the cheer he could muster, forcing a smile.
Hearing that hint of laughter in his voice, the soldiers clung to the faint light of hope and began getting up one by one.
The 1st Battalion finally began moving north again.
If they could keep going like this, they would leave the forest behind and reach the plains.
Because they had fled so far east to escape the Belliang Army, even after leaving the woods they'd have to walk west again—but unlike Bailey, the 13th Regiment's commander Levin would surely be conducting thorough reconnaissance with the cavalry, so they would be found soon enough.
The 1st Battalion trudged onward, heading north. Even though it wasn't a great distance, there was still no sign that the forest was about to end.
"We're almost there. Almost there."
Ernest kept encouraging his soldiers without pause.
In truth, though, he knew very well that at this pace, it would take more than thirty minutes to get there.
When they'd been in good shape, they could have covered this distance by running in just five minutes, but now it felt impossibly far—even walking steadily for half an hour, they might not make it.
Clinging to Ernest's words for hope, everyone squeezed out the last of their strength as they walked, but in the end, physical limits that sheer willpower couldn't overcome finally caught up to them.
Thud. Thud.
The exhausted soldiers began to collapse one after another.
The officers weren't much better.
Ernest had reached his limit, and even Ferdinand, who'd been carrying Georg's body this whole way, was staggering, unable to walk properly anymore.
Thud.
Ferdinand, still carrying Georg, finally dropped to his knees, and Ernest—panting for breath—collapsed as well.
"I'll… I'll go get help."
Baumann, the only one still standing, gasped out the words.
Thanks to having spent yesterday with the Belliang Army, Baumann had managed to recover some of his strength.
Robert, on the other hand, even after a full day of rest, was half-dead from the flu.
"Just hang in there a little longer!"
Baumann steadied himself with his gun and started running unsteadily north.
"Haa… haa…"
Ernest lay face down on the ground before mustering the last of his strength to roll onto his back.
He felt so weak that the weight of his own body pressed on his chest, making his heart feel like it might stop. Everything in front of his eyes turned yellow, spinning round and round. He couldn't make out anything clearly.
'Baumann needs to bring people back quickly.'
Ernest didn't even have the strength to speak, so he could only mutter this to himself in his head.
Then, at some point, he realized he'd blacked out for a moment.
He thought he'd just blinked once, but he must've regained a tiny bit of energy—enough for his vision to clear up a little.
"Hngh…"
With great effort, Ernest turned his body and pushed himself up onto his stomach with trembling arms. He barely managed to sit up and looked around.
It seemed that a few others had also recovered just enough strength to sit up.
For a moment, Ernest just sat there in a daze, his head spinning, when suddenly he realized how he'd come back to his senses.
"1st Battalion! Where is the 1st Battalion!"
The distant shout rang out clearly, and in that instant, Ernest realized a flurry of footsteps was thundering through the forest, rapidly approaching.
"Over here! We're here!"
Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, Ernest shouted with all his might. The others, dazed up until now, snapped back to awareness and started yelling too.
Hope lit up on everyone's faces.
Then they finally saw them—Imperial Army soldiers, clad in deep blue uniforms, rushing toward them. It felt as if God Himself had sent them.
"We're alive! We made it!"
The soldiers of the 1st Battalion sobbed with relief. In this one moment of joy, it felt like they could live happily, without worry, for the rest of their lives.
Then, soldiers whose affiliation was unclear reached the collapsed 1st Battalion.
"Where is Captain Krieger!"
Suddenly, they began searching for Ernest.
In this confusing situation, Ernest, completely drained, just blinked in exhaustion.
"Who is Captain Krieger!"
A soldier with the rank of lieutenant colonel—probably the battalion commander—called out for Ernest again. Ernest felt a sinking sense of dread.
But there was nothing he could do.
"…I'm Krieger."
Ernest raised his hand weakly as he spoke.
The lieutenant colonel whipped around to look at Ernest, his face twisting with emotion.
"Was it truly you who killed Lieutenant Colonel Hoffman?"
"..."
Ernest had never imagined he'd hear that question here, like this.
Click.
When Ernest just stared blankly upward, the lieutenant colonel drew his pistol.
He didn't point the muzzle directly at Ernest, but with the hatred, contempt, and intense rage in his eyes, it looked like he might shoot Ernest dead at any moment.
Seeing this, Ernest quickly realized what was happening.
Bertrand Belliang Lafayette had decided to eliminate any future threat, so he wouldn't have any regrets.
***
"Are you certain?"
Immediately after the negotiations ended, Bertrand heard a startling story from Estelle.
"I'm sure. Krieger killed Hoffman."
Estelle, who had been held hostage by the 1st Battalion, shared all the information she had learned with Bertrand. She couldn't logically prove that Ernest killed Bailey. But Estelle was convinced, and Bertrand wasn't about to let this opportunity slip by.
"…We just said our goodbyes so grandly, and now I'm about to turn around and do something like this."
Bertrand muttered bitterly.
"Gather those we agreed to send back to Lanosel."
Bertrand had planned to send the soldiers conscripted from Lanosel back home.
With their hometowns right in front of them, forcing them to join him on another endless retreat would only lead to rebellion.
According to the Empire's colonial policy, the Imperial Army wouldn't kill the surrendered Belliang soldiers, so he could simply send them back.
After hearing about Ernest's and Bailey's involvement, Bertrand decided not to send them off right away.
Instead, he hatched a plan and gathered everyone together.
Before the group had fully assembled, Bertrand wrote carefully and politely on a piece of parchment, dried the ink, rolled it up, and sealed it with wax.
Of course, he also stamped it with his own signet.
"Take this and deliver it to the Imperial Army."
"Y-yes, sir…"
The soldier received the parchment from Bertrand with an air of deep gratitude.
Then, Bertrand addressed everyone who had gathered.
"And when you go, shout it out with all your strength. Tell them Krieger killed Hoffman."
That bastard would be nothing but trouble in the future—if he could, Bertrand wanted to have him killed right here.
He knew the 1st Battalion was on the brink of collapse, but he was too afraid to fight Ernest himself, nor did he have the time or means.
So instead, he would let the Imperial Army do the job of killing Krieger.
The Belliang Army soldiers, who had suffered defeat after defeat at the hands of that terrifying young officer, both deeply feared and hated him.
While the 1st Battalion trudged slowly westward, trying to survive their dehydration, the Belliang soldiers aiming to surrender simply dashed north out of the forest toward Lanosel.
Just as Ernest had expected, after surrendering to the cavalry who were thoroughly scouting the area, they dutifully carried out Bertrand's orders.
"Krieger killed Hoffman! Krieger killed Hoffman!"
They shouted it so fervently that not only the 13th Regiment, who had pulled back north of Lanosel for safety and were guarding against the enemy, but also the reinforcements who had rushed to join them earlier that morning, all heard the news.
Bertrand's formally written letter, complete with his signet, was also delivered.
In the letter, Bertrand concisely summarized the events that had occurred in the forest and calmly acknowledged his defeat.
This meant that the respectful Declaration of Defeat, stamped with his own seal, and the accusation of Ernest having killed his superior officer, all seemed thoroughly credible.
For those who didn't know what kind of person Bertrand was, the phrase in his letter—"Before being a member of the royal family, as a commander leading my troops, I cannot ignore such a tragic event"—sounded entirely plausible.
From the perspective of a noble commander who doesn't engage in direct combat on the field but issues orders from afar, this came across as the considerate gesture of Count Bertrand Belliang Lafayette—the Noble One—who upheld honor and respect even amid a war where people killed and were killed.
"The living must survive. And the dead… well, they were meant to die."
Bertrand was fully aware that what he was doing was underhanded.
Still, he felt no remorse or regret for it.
He had no time for guilt or hesitation over something like that—not when Ernest Krieger, at the mere age of seventeen, had destroyed everything in his path and sealed Belliang's downfall.
He was simply too dangerous.
If Ernest had been anything more than a mere company commander—if he'd even been a battalion commander from the start—he would have annihilated Bertrand's Belliang Army in the very first battle, and taken both Bertrand and the royal banner for himself.
Traps, tactics—those things didn't matter.
Even surrounded by all those deadly traps, Ernest had managed to find a way out and return alive.
So Bertrand resolved to kill Ernest by any means necessary.
And he felt not a shred of shame about it.
He knew he couldn't defeat Ernest in a stand-up fight, so he recognized, deep in his heart, that as a commander, he genuinely respected Ernest—even admired him.
That was why Bertrand decided to claim victory outside the battlefield, not in combat, and not with tactics but in a larger arena—just as he had at the beginning.
Bertrand was no tactician.
He was a strategist—one who made plans on a grander scale.
There was nothing shameful about doing whatever it took to defeat someone stronger than himself.
When a tiger kills a rabbit by any means possible, people call it cruel.
But when a rabbit uses any means necessary to kill a tiger, people call it wise.
Bertrand was a clever man.
Of course, he was also a cruel one.
"If I could kill him without fighting, that would be ideal..."
Before he grew up and spread his wings—while he was still young—he had to be killed no matter what.
Bertrand, recalling that young man with the body of a lion and the mind of a fox, murmured with desperate longing.
"..."
Estelle, thinking of Ernest, glared northward—toward where Lanosel was.
She too wished with all her heart for Ernest's death.
That was why she had immediately told Bertrand that Ernest was the one who killed Bailey.
But she felt no relief.
She felt no joy.
She felt no happiness.
Doing this would not bring back her beloved younger sibling—the caring, gentle Clemence.
Likewise, even with this nonsensical victory, neither the friends of Ernest, the so-called hero, would return to life.
Estelle was far too exhausted to dwell on these agonizing matters, so she turned her thoughts to something else.
'Did I make a mistake?'
Recalling the last battle, she asked herself once again the question she had repeated countless times since then.
'Did I get too worked up and fail to notice that Balt had run out?'
She was sure Balt should have still been there.
No matter how rattled I was, there's no way I would've made such a basic mistake.
"…Let's get moving. We need to cross the Bertebras Mountains, so the sooner we set out, the better."
Bertrand, determined to start over from scratch in Konchanya after defecting there, pointed the way forward.
Estelle, still glaring at the direction of the forest where Ernest would be, turned and followed Bertrand.
If only, with just this force of barely two hundred, the Imperial Army could kill Ernest Krieger, the hidden hero behind the Empire's conquest of Belliang, that would be the best outcome.
Then she wouldn't have to agonize anymore over the strange events of that day.
And for Estelle, if he died such a miserable death, maybe—however slight—the satisfaction would help her calm these overwhelming feelings.
"Yes, let's never meet again, Krieger. Please."
Praying that one day she would hear the news that Ernest had been executed for the crime of killing a superior officer, Estelle pressed on.