Admiral Løvenskiold's urgent question hung in the cold air of the firing range, a demand that shifted the world from the realm of theory to the brutal reality of production.
"It is not a question of how many a single craftsman can make, Admiral," Christian replied, his mind already moving far beyond the single prototype in his hands. "It is a question of how many a system can produce. We will not have one man build one rifle. We will have fifty men, each performing one simple, specific task, over and over. We will create an assembly line."
The engineers looked intrigued, but it was Fievé who grasped the concept instantly. His eyes, which had lit up at the design, now burned with the fire of a true industrialist seeing the next great leap in efficiency.
"Division of labor," Fievé breathed, the idea clicking into place. "Of course. My largest textile warehouse near the port—it will be cleared by the end of the week. We can power the machine tools with a stationary steam engine. My engineers will begin at once."
The project moved with the speed of Christian's will and Fievé's capital. The cavernous warehouse was transformed. Christian, covered in chalk dust, spent days on the floor, mapping out the flow of production. He designed a system where the rifles would move from one station to the next in a logical sequence, minimizing wasted time and movement. It was a factory layout from the 20th century, being drawn onto the floor of the 19th.
Then came the human element. They hired dozens of workers, not skilled gunsmiths, but men who were quick with their hands and eager for work—unemployed dockhands, clockmakers, carpenters. Christian was looking for dexterity and focus, not preconceived notions of how a rifle should be made.
The greatest resistance came from the one man Christian respected most: Stig the blacksmith. When the old craftsman saw the production plan, which broke his holistic art into fifty discrete, repetitive motions, his face filled with disgust.
"This isn't craftsmanship, my lord," he protested, holding up the schematics as if they were tainted. "It's butchery. A rifle has a spirit. It should be made by one man who understands it from start to finish. This… this is creating soulless scrap metal."
Christian led Stig to the center of the bustling warehouse floor. "Look at these men, Stig. Can any one of them build a complete rifle to your standard?"
"Of course not!" Stig scoffed.
"No," Christian agreed. "But I can teach that man to perfectly mill a locking lug, and that man to precisely fit a firing pin, and that man over there to flawlessly attach the finished breechblock. And together, they can produce a hundred rifles a day. A hundred rifles, Stig, that can save a hundred Danish lives. We are not sacrificing quality. We are sacrificing the artistry for the sake of speed and volume. It is a trade I will make every time."
He then placed a hand on the old blacksmith's shoulder. "I do not need another man on the line. I need a master. I need the one man whose eye is sharp enough to ensure every single rifle that leaves this factory is perfect. I am not asking you to be a cog in the machine, Stig. I am asking you to be its final judge. I am making you the guardian of its soul."
Stig looked from the earnest face of his lord to the sprawling, chaotic factory floor. He understood. He was not being replaced; he was being promoted to a position of ultimate trust. He gave a single, gruff nod. "The work will be to my standard, my lord. Nothing less."
Weeks later, the assembly line was ready. A massive steam engine hissed and thumped at one end, driving a series of belts and pulleys that powered the lathes and milling machines. One hundred M1848 rifles were stacked at the beginning of the line. The newly trained workers stood at their stations, nervous and expectant.
Christian, Fievé, and Løvenskiold stood on a raised platform, looking over the entire operation.
"Begin!" Christian shouted over the noise.
The great flywheel of the steam engine turned, the belts engaged, and the factory roared to life. The initial movements were clumsy, but soon a rhythm emerged. The harsh whine of saws cutting barrels, the rhythmic pressing of drills, the sharp tap of hammers fitting pins. The rifles began their journey, moving from one station to the next, each worker performing their small, specific task before passing it on. It was a noisy, relentless, and brutally efficient symphony of production.
An hour later, the first rifle reached the end of the line, where Stig waited. He picked it up, his expert hands flying over the mechanism. He checked the fit, the finish, the smoothness of the action. He nodded, satisfied, and placed it on a rack.
Then another rifle arrived. And another. And another. A steady stream of perfectly converted, identical weapons.
Christian looked out over the factory floor, at the scores of men working in the synchronized system he had designed. He had done more than just invent a rifle conversion; he had created a modern factory in the heart of old Copenhagen. The immense, thrumming power of it was intoxicating. It was the sound of the future he was forcing into existence, a future that could arm a nation and build an empire.
It was a magnificent, and terrifying, sound.