With Count Gyldenfeldt's reluctant support secured, Baron Fievé was eager to press their advantage, to apply the same financial leverage to another weak link in the agrarian bloc. Christian, however, knew that a faction built solely on fear and greed was brittle. It needed a pillar of moral authority, a name so respected that lesser men would feel secure in joining their cause.
His next target was Admiral Anders Løvenskiold.
"The Admiral?" Fievé had scoffed during their strategy meeting. "He's a relic. A hero of the last war, yes, but he holds no industrial assets and his lands are modest. He cannot be bought or pressured."
"That is precisely why we need him," Christian had countered. "Gyldenfeldt gives us a vote. Løvenskiold will give us legitimacy."
Christian went himself, not as a predator cornering his prey, but as a petitioner. The Admiral's residence was a tall, elegant house in the Nyhavn district, with windows that looked out over the masts of the ships in the harbor. The door was opened not by a butler, but by a young woman in her late teens, whose poise and intelligent, assessing blue eyes marked her instantly as someone of significance.
"Count Eskildsen," she said, her voice cool and polite. "I am Amalie Løvenskiold, the Admiral's granddaughter. My grandfather will see you in his study."
She led him through the house. It was filled not with the opulent clutter of most noble homes, but with naval charts, polished brass instruments, and the faint, clean scent of sea salt and lemon oil. It was the house of a sailor. Amalie watched him as they walked, her gaze sharp. She had undoubtedly heard of the controversial young Count, the boy who had insulted her grandfather's generation in the Landsting.
The Admiral was standing by a window overlooking the harbor, a tall, gaunt figure with a back as straight as a ship's mast, despite his seventy years. He turned as Christian entered, his eyes the pale, faded blue of a man who had spent a lifetime staring at the horizon.
"Count Eskildsen," the Admiral said, his voice a low gravelly sound. "To what do I owe the visit of the Landsting's newest and most… outspoken member?"
"To a shared desire to see Denmark victorious, Admiral," Christian replied, bowing his head respectfully.
"I heard your speech," Løvenskiold grunted, moving to sit behind a large desk cluttered with ship models. "You have a talent for making enemies, young man."
"I have no talent for watching my country fail," Christian retorted. "Which is why I have come to you. Your generation of leaders does not listen to me. But they will listen to you."
Instead of launching into his proposal, Christian gestured to a half-finished model of a ship-of-the-line on the desk. "The Prinds Christian Frederik. Eighty guns. Your flagship at the Battle of Zealand Point, if I recall. A brilliant, if costly, victory."
The Admiral's eyes narrowed in surprise.
"Costly, because you were forced to engage a superior British squadron to protect a retreating convoy," Christian continued, his knowledge of the battle crisp and detailed. "But your decision to use the shallow shoals to your advantage, negating their superior numbers and forcing a close-quarters cannonade… it was a masterclass in asymmetrical naval warfare."
For the next ten minutes, Christian spoke not of politics or industry, but of naval strategy. He analyzed the Admiral's past battles with a depth and insight that left the old man astonished. He was speaking his language, showing a genuine understanding of the craft that Løvenskiold had dedicated his life to.
Finally, having earned the Admiral's full, undivided attention, Christian made his pitch. He laid out the plan for the National Armaments Committee, but he framed it for his audience.
"The army is lost in a land war we cannot win, sir. Our strength has always been the sea. But our fleet is rotting at anchor. The Prussians blockade our ports with a handful of ships because we lack the modern vessels to challenge them. This committee will not just build rifles. Its first priority will be to build the navy of the future. It will finance and construct steam-powered, iron-hulled warships right here in Copenhagen. Ships that can sink the entire Prussian fleet and secure the Baltic. But to do that, I need the support of a man who knows what a real navy looks like."
He was offering the Admiral more than a seat on a committee. He was offering him a chance to save the Danish Navy, to build a new fleet, to be relevant once more.
The old man was silent for a long time, his gaze distant, as if seeing the iron ships Christian described on the horizon. "You are an arrogant, ruthless boy, Count Eskildsen," he said at last. "You have insulted good men. But you are not a fool. And you are right about the fleet."
He looked Christian in the eye. "I will lend my name to your cause. I will support your committee in the Landsting, on one condition: that I am given a seat on its board, with full oversight of all naval procurement."
"That was my intention from the beginning, Admiral," Christian said.
As he was leaving, Amalie met him in the hall. Her expression was no longer cold, but one of intense, searching curiosity.
"My grandfather does not grant his support lightly, Count," she said.
"A nation's survival should not be a light matter, Miss Løvenskiold," he replied simply, holding her gaze for a moment before nodding and taking his leave.
Walking back toward his residence, Christian felt a sense of profound accomplishment. He had secured the second pillar of his coalition. Fievé provided the industrial and financial muscle. Løvenskiold provided the unimpeachable patriotic legitimacy. He had proven he could build his faction with appeals to honor and duty, not just with threats and bribes.
His thoughts, however, briefly drifted from the political victory to the Admiral's granddaughter. He recognized her intelligence, her strength of will. She was not a passive figure. She was a variable he had not anticipated.
He filed the thought away. He now had the support of industry and the military old guard. His movement was no longer a radical idea; it was a formidable coalition. The board was set. The pieces were moving.