A month after the committee's formation, the factory Fievé had provided was no longer a chaotic experiment; it was a well-oiled machine, thrumming with a constant, rhythmic roar. At their next meeting, held on a raised platform overlooking the assembly line, Baron Fievé presented the official production report.
"As of this morning," he announced, his voice filled with the pride of a master industrialist, "we have one thousand and forty-two M1864 'Eskildsen Conversion' rifles, fully assembled, inspected by Stig's team, and ready for service. We have also produced over one hundred thousand rounds of the new paper cartridge ammunition."
It was a staggering achievement. But Admiral Løvenskiold's face was a mask of thunderous rage.
"And those one thousand rifles are sitting in a warehouse," the Admiral growled, slamming his fist on the railing. "I have spent the last week battling the Ministry of War. They want to form a sub-committee to conduct six months of field testing. Six months! They want to write training manuals! The Prussians are testing their rifles with live ammunition on our sons, and our own government wants to write a book!"
The bureaucratic inertia of the old guard was the new bottleneck. They couldn't stop the committee's formation, so now they would try to smother its output with red tape, ensuring the new weapons never reached the front in time to make a difference.
"They are trying to bleed us out with procedure," Fievé analyzed coldly. "To make our efforts irrelevant."
"Then we will not follow their procedure," Christian stated, his voice cutting through the Admiral's anger. "We will bypass the Ministry of War and go directly to the army command. General de Meza is a desperate man, and a desperate man may be convinced to take a risk."
"De Meza is one of Ahlefeldt's cronies," Løvenskiold retorted. "He will not listen to us."
"He will not listen to us as politicians," Christian agreed. "But he may listen to you as a fellow soldier. And we will not ask him to re-arm the entire army. We will propose a single, targeted deployment. An elite unit, where the results will be undeniable and politically visible. We will arm the Royal Life Guards."
The choice was a masterstroke of political savvy. The Royal Life Guards were the King's personal regiment, a symbol of the monarchy itself. To deny the King's own guards the best available weapon, a weapon sanctioned by the King's own decree, would be an act of near-treason.
The meeting with General de Meza took place at the army's beleaguered headquarters. The General looked exhausted, a man drowning under the weight of a losing war. He was indeed hostile to the presence of the committee members.
"Admiral. Count," de Meza said, his voice strained. "I am fighting a war. I do not have time for the political games of Copenhagen."
"This is not a game, General," Løvenskiold said, his voice sharp with authority. "I have seen the new rifle myself. It is not an incremental improvement. It is a generational leap. To keep it from our men is a crime."
"To introduce an untested weapon into the field during active combat is madness!" the General shot back.
"General," Christian interjected, stepping forward. His tone was not argumentative; it was cold and analytical. "A battalion of your men, armed with muzzle-loaders, can sustain a fire rate of approximately one hundred rounds per minute. A Prussian battalion of the same size, armed with the needle-gun, can fire at least four hundred rounds per minute. You are outgunned four to one. Give me one battalion of the Royal Life Guards. I will give you a unit that can match the firepower of a Prussian brigade. Put them in a key sector at Dybbøl. Let the Prussians assault a position held by men who can fire as fast as they can. The results of that 'field test' will speak for themselves."
General de Meza stared at the young Count, then at the revered Admiral. He was being offered a tactical advantage beyond his wildest dreams, presented by a coalition he could not afford to anger, to arm a unit he could not refuse. He was trapped.
"One battalion," the General conceded at last, his voice heavy with resignation. "For a limited field trial only. Their performance will be on your heads."
That evening, Christian read the latest dispatch from the front. The situation at the Dybbøl redoubts was critical. The constant artillery bombardment had turned the fortifications into a charnel house. The Prussians were preparing for a final, massive assault. Time had run out.
The first shipment left the next morning from a secure military dock. Ten large, anonymous wooden crates, each containing one hundred Eskildsen Conversion rifles, and dozens more filled with the precious new ammunition. They were loaded onto a fast steam transport bound for the coast of Jutland, from where they would be rushed to the front.
Christian, Fievé, and Løvenskiold stood on the pier, watching the ship disappear into the morning fog. They had overcome the political opposition, the industrial challenges, and the military bureaucracy. They had placed their wager.
"We have done our part," Fievé said quietly. "Now it is up to God and the soldiers."
Christian watched the ship vanish over the horizon. God has no place in this equation, he thought. It is up to logistics, and the mathematics of firepower.