The first official meeting of the National Armaments Committee was not held in the hallowed, dusty halls of Christiansborg Palace, but in the main boardroom of Fievé's bank. The room itself was a statement of intent. It was a place of polished mahogany, gleaming brass fixtures, and large windows that offered a panoramic view of the bustling Copenhagen port. It smelled of new money and relentless efficiency.
Around the table sat the core of the new power in Denmark. Baron Fievé, looking every bit the chairman, sat at its head. To his right was Admiral Løvenskiold, his stern military bearing a stark contrast to the opulence of the room. Count Gyldenfeldt was also present, his face still grim, a visible reminder of the coalition's political methods. He was joined by two of Fievé's most trusted chief engineers.
And then there was Christian, the youngest man at the table by two decades, the architect of the entire affair. He was not the chairman, but everyone present understood where the true authority resided.
"Gentlemen," Fievé began, his voice crisp. "The first issue of the National Armaments Bonds was offered to a select group of investors this morning. I am pleased to report that it was oversubscribed within the hour. The capital is secured. The engine now has fuel."
A murmur of satisfaction went around the table. This was tangible progress.
Next, Admiral Løvenskiold presented his report. It was a brutal, unflinching assessment of the Royal Danish Navy's decay. He concluded by formally proposing the committee's first long-term project.
"I request authorization to solicit designs from domestic and foreign shipbuilders for a steam-powered, armored frigate, capable of mounting heavy, rifled cannon. An ironclad. Anything less is a waste of time and money."
"The authorization is granted," Fievé said, looking to Christian, who gave a confirming nod. "But that is a long-term solution. Count Eskildsen, you spoke of the army's more immediate needs."
All eyes turned to Christian.
"Thank you, Mr. Chairman," Christian said, his voice calm and clear. "Admiral Løvenskiold is correct; we must build the navy of the future. But at this moment, our army is fighting the war of the present, and they are losing. Not for lack of courage, but for lack of fire rate."
He let that sink in. "Our soldiers are armed with muzzle-loading rifles. The Prussians carry the Dreyse needle-gun, a breech-loader. A Prussian soldier can fire five shots, or more, in the time it takes one of our men to fire a single round. He can reload while lying down; our men must stand, making them easy targets. This tactical disadvantage is not a gap; it is a chasm. And we are paying for it in blood every single day at Dybbøl."
One of Fievé's engineers spoke up. "But my lord, to design, test, tool up, and manufacture a new breech-loading rifle from scratch would take years."
"We do not have years," Christian stated flatly. "Which is why we are not going to build a new rifle."
He unrolled a set of large, brilliantly detailed schematics on the table. They did not show a new weapon. They showed the action of a standard Danish M1848 rifle, but with a crucial, hinged block at the breech.
"We are not going to build," Christian explained, "we are going to convert. This is a plan for altering our existing stock of muzzle-loaders into breech-loaders. We will cut off the back of the barrel, fit a hinged breechblock, and manufacture a self-contained paper cartridge with a percussion cap. It's a proven concept, faster and infinitely cheaper than building from scratch. We can create assembly lines in Fievé's factories and begin converting hundreds of rifles a week within two months."
The engineers stared at the drawings, their initial skepticism melting into fervent excitement as they grasped the genius and brutal efficiency of the plan.
Admiral Løvenskiold leaned over the schematics, his old eyes tracing the lines of the breechblock. He looked up at Christian, a slow, profound respect dawning on his face. "Good God, boy," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "You're not just increasing fire rate. You're saving lives. To reload from cover… this single change is worth more than a dozen new regiments."
Fievé, ignoring the military sentiment, saw only the beauty of the process. "The genius isn't just the design, it's the logistics," he said, his voice humming with energy. "Using existing rifle stocks, setting up assembly lines instead of whole factories… we can put these in the army's hands in a fraction of the time, at a tenth of the cost. It's the most efficient solution I have ever seen." He looked around the table, now the Chairman in action. "Gentlemen, our course is clear. The Eskildsen conversion is our immediate and absolute priority."
Just as a wave of decisive energy swept through the room, there was a sharp knock at the boardroom door. Fievé's secretary entered, his face pale. He bowed low.
"My lords," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "A messenger from Amalienborg Palace. He bears a royal summons."
The energy in the room instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, political tension.
The secretary held out a letter on a silver tray. It was addressed not to the Chairman, but to Christian.
"His Majesty, King Christian IX, requests the immediate presence of the Count of Eskildsen at the palace."
Christian took the letter. The King. In his meticulous planning, in his battles with the Landsting and his industrial machinations, he had treated the government as the ultimate authority. He had bypassed the King. Now, the King was summoning him. The ministers and nobles he had angered had clearly run to the Crown.
He had been fighting a political war in the legislature and an industrial war in the boardroom. Now, it seemed, he had to prepare for an entirely different kind of battle: one of tradition, ceremony, and the unpredictable will of an absolute monarch.