Christian stared at the single line of text, the words seeming to burn on the flimsy paper. ...held by the 2nd Battalion, Royal Life Guards… He was a man standing on a cliff, having just pushed his entire fortune over the edge, waiting to hear the sound of it landing.
He could not wait in the silence of his home. He needed to be at the nerve center. He sent urgent messages to Fievé and Løvenskiold before taking a carriage directly to the Ministry of War. It was a grand, imposing building, but tonight it felt like a hospital waiting room, filled with a palpable, collective anxiety.
He found his allies already there, in a high-ceilinged office that had been given over to the telegraph operators. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and stale coffee. Several high-ranking army officers, men from the old guard, were present, their faces grim. Count Ahlefeldt stood among them, his expression a mask of grim anticipation. They were all waiting for the results of the young Count's mad experiment.
For an hour, there was nothing but the rhythmic, metallic clatter of the telegraph key from other, less critical sectors of the front. Then, a new message began to arrive, the operator transcribing it with a focused intensity that silenced the room. A clerk posted the flimsy sheet on a bulletin board.
FROM: ARMY HQ, JUTLANDTIME: 0830MSG: Prussian assault on Redoubt 6 repulsed. Enemy advance halted. 2nd Battalion reports lines are secure.
A cautious sigh of relief went through the room. Løvenskiold nodded slowly, his knuckles white where he gripped his cane. Ahlefeldt looked disappointed.
An hour later, another message.
FROM: ARMY HQ, JUTLANDTIME: 0945MSG: Enemy has renewed assault on Redoubt 6 with three fresh battalions. Observers note an unusually high volume of defensive fire from the redoubt. The sound is continuous, unlike standard rifle volleys.
Christian's heart hammered. The sound is continuous. That was it. That was the sound of his assembly line, the sound of his paper cartridges, the sound of a fire rate the Prussians had never encountered from a Danish position.
The wait for the next message was agonizing. The men in the room paced, their animosity forgotten, replaced by a shared, desperate need to know. Finally, the telegraph clattered to life once more.
FROM: ARMY HQ, JUTLANDTIME: 1100MSG: Prussian assault on Redoubt 6 has completely stalled. Enemy pinned down in the open. Unable to advance or retreat under the withering fire. They are being decimated.
A map clerk, his hands shaking, dropped his pencil. It rolled across the floor with a sound that seemed deafening in the suddenly breathless room. General Baudissin, a veteran of the First Schleswig War, stared at the bulletin board, his mouth agape. He spoke to no one in particular, his voice a hoarse whisper. "To stall three battalions… with a single unit… What in God's name did you give them, boy?"
The telegraph began to clatter again, the message more grim.
FROM: ARMY HQ, JUTLANDTIME: 1145MSG: Enemy artillery has shifted focus. Entire batteries now targeting Redoubt 6. The position is under extreme bombardment.
The tactical logic was brutal and clear: if their infantry could not take the redoubt, their cannons would simply erase it from the earth. Under that storm of explosive shells, the position became an inferno. General de Meza, having seen the weapon's potential proven beyond all doubt, gave the order for the 2nd Battalion to withdraw, their mission accomplished.
Then came the report that Christian, and everyone else, was truly waiting for. The butcher's bill.
FROM: ARMY HQ, JUTLANDTIME: 1300MSG: Preliminary casualty report for Sector 6 engagement. Estimated Prussian losses opposite the redoubt exceed 1,200 killed or wounded. The 2nd Battalion, Royal Life Guards, has withdrawn in good order with casualties of 41 killed and 78 wounded.
The room fell into a profound, echoing silence. The numbers were impossible. A single Danish battalion, outnumbered and in a dire strategic position, had inflicted casualties at a rate of more than ten-to-one. They had held their ground for hours against a force that should have overrun them in minutes.
Count Ahlefeldt looked as though he had seen a ghost. The other generals stared at the report, their faces pale, their entire understanding of infantry tactics rendered obsolete in a single morning.
Admiral Løvenskiold had tears welling in his ancient eyes—tears of pride for the soldiers, and of rage for all the men who had died before this day. Fievé, ever the industrialist, simply looked at Christian with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe. It was a look that said, Your product works better than you ever advertised.
Christian himself felt a dizzying mix of emotions. There was the cold, intellectual satisfaction of a successful experiment. There was the fierce pride of his weapon saving so many Danish lives. But beneath it all, there was a new, heavy weight. Twelve hundred men. He had never seen a battlefield, but the abstract numbers in his head had just become real people. His invention, his knowledge, had killed on a scale that a single man rarely could. He was not just a politician or an engineer anymore. He was a weapons manufacturer, and his hands were, for the first time, covered in blood.
It was the Admiral who finally broke the silence, his voice rough and commanding, speaking to the entire room.
"This changes everything."
He then turned directly to Christian and Fievé, his eyes blazing with a terrible urgency. "The King must be informed of this at once. The committee must be given full, unrestricted authority to ramp up production. Every rifle in the kingdom must be converted. There can be no more delays."
The trial was over. His invention was no longer an experiment. It was Denmark's only hope.