The success of the Eskildsen Conversion was a fleeting victory. In the committee's headquarters, the latest dispatch from General de Meza cast a grim pall over their recent triumph.
"The Prussians are not fools," Admiral Løvenskiold said, his voice a low growl as he paced before the large map of the Dybbøl front. "We have blunted their infantry, so now they intend to simply pound our boys into dust from a distance. Their artillery outranges ours by a thousand meters. We have given our soldiers a sword, but they are fighting an enemy who stands far away, firing cannons."
Baron Fievé, ever the pragmatist, looked at the production schedules. "We can increase rifle production, but it won't matter if the soldiers holding them are killed by cannon fire before they can even see the enemy."
Christian listened, letting his allies articulate the problem he had been wrestling with since reading the dispatch. "The problem is not just range," he said, drawing their attention. "It is technology. We are fighting with bronze, smoothbore, muzzle-loading cannons. They are fighting with steel, rifled, breech-loading cannons made by Krupp. Every aspect of their artillery is superior: their range, their accuracy, their rate of fire, and the explosive power of their shells."
He walked to the head of the table and unrolled a new set of schematics, even larger and more complex than the ones for the rifle conversion. They depicted a long, sleek cannon with a sophisticated-looking mechanism at the rear.
"This is what we must build," he announced. "A steel, breech-loading, rifled cannon. A ninety-millimeter field gun. It will match the Prussian range and exceed their rate of fire."
Fievé's engineers leaned in, their eyes wide. But the Baron himself looked deeply troubled.
"Count," Fievé said slowly, choosing his words with care. "I admire the vision. But converting rifles is one thing. Casting and forging steel ingots of this size, with the quality required to withstand these pressures… it is beyond our current capacity. We would need to build new Bessemer converters, a new heavy forge, new rifling machines. It would be a monumental undertaking. It could take a year, perhaps more."
"We do not have a year!" the Admiral thundered, slamming his cane on the floor for emphasis.
"And we will not wait a year," Christian said, silencing them both. He looked at Løvenskiold, then at Fievé, addressing both their concerns with a two-pronged strategy.
"Admiral, you are correct. We need an immediate solution. Starting today, our workshops will cease production of solid shot for our existing cannons and focus entirely on manufacturing modern percussion-fused explosive shells. We will give our current artillery more bite. It is a small advantage, but one we can deliver to the front within weeks."
He then turned to Fievé. "Simultaneously, you are correct, Baron. We lack the infrastructure. So we will build it. You will begin at once, using the committee's full authority and capital, to construct a new National Steel Foundry and Heavy Forge just outside Copenhagen. It is a long-term project, but its foundation stone must be laid today. We are not just solving today's problem. We are building the arsenal for Denmark's future."
The sheer scope of the plan was breathtaking. Christian was proposing they fight a short-term battle of innovation while simultaneously launching a long-term industrial revolution. There was no argument. It was the only logical path forward.
That evening, Christian visited the Admiral's residence to discuss the ironclad designs in more detail. As he waited in the parlor, Amalie entered, carrying a tea service.
"You seem troubled, Count," she observed, her gaze direct as always. "Even after your great success."
"Success only reveals the next, larger battlefield, Miss Løvenskiold," he replied, the day's immense pressures weighing on him.
"You carry the weight of this entire war on your shoulders," she said softly, pouring the tea. "Does the burden ever feel too heavy?"
It was a simple, human question, one that no one else had dared to ask him. For a fleeting moment, Christian let the mask of the infallible strategist drop.
"The weight is not the problem," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "The problem is the clock."
Later, as he gave the final orders to Fievé's engineers to begin the foundry project, the reality of his decision settled in. He had just initiated a full-scale industrial arms race against Prussia, one of the most advanced industrial powers on Earth. He was building the factory while the war was already raging.
Every day his men spent digging the foundations for the new foundry, every day they spent designing the new cannons, was another day that Danish soldiers at the front would have to endure the unrelenting roar of the superior Prussian guns. The blank check from the King was not a gift; it was an invoice for a seemingly impossible task, to be paid in sweat, iron, and blood.