Christian's solution to the domestic crisis in Funen had solidified his power, but the problem of the refractory bricks for the new steel foundry remained. It was a galling reminder that Denmark's industrial ambitions were still chained to the resources of foreign, rival nations. That was a chain he intended to break.
He called the first official meeting of the Royal Colonial Office. It was not held in a grand hall, but in a small, dusty suite of rooms in a government building, its walls lined with faded, inaccurate maps of faraway lands. For its director, Christian had not chosen a nobleman or a diplomat. He had chosen Captain Magnus Heinesen.
Heinesen was a man in his forties, with a weathered face, a perpetually shrewd squint, and hands calloused from years on the deck of a merchant vessel. He had sailed the African coast, traded in goods both savory and unsavory, and possessed a reputation for resourcefulness and a distinct lack of moral fussiness. He was, in Christian's estimation, the perfect man for the job.
"Captain Heinesen," Christian began, with Fievé and Løvenskiold present to form a united front. "The Five-Year Plan calls for the establishment of commercial outposts. Your first mission will be to lead an expedition to the West African coast."
He spread a modern, detailed map across the table—a map far more accurate than any other in the kingdom. "You will sail to the mouth of the Congo River. There, you will establish a fortified trading post. Ostensibly, for the trade of palm oil and ivory. You will be given goods to facilitate this."
He then used a pencil to circle several small, specific areas inland. "However, your primary, and most secret, objective is geological. The expedition's geologist will lead survey parties to these precise locations. I have reason to believe they contain vast deposits of high-alumina clay, a mineral vital to our nation's industrial future."
Heinesen's eyes, which had been passive, now glinted with sharp understanding. This was not a standard trading voyage. It was a state-backed resource grab. "A mission of that nature in territory eyed by the British and the French will require… support, my lord."
"You will have it," Løvenskiold interjected. "I will assign a company of my best naval marines to your command for security."
"And your ship will be the finest we can provide," Fievé added. "A new, fast steam-sloop, the Kronprins Frederik. She will be armed, but will fly the flag of a commercial enterprise."
The preparations took two months. The Kronprins Frederik was outfitted not just with trade goods, but with crates of the new Eskildsen Conversion rifles, disassembled machine tools for the new outpost, scientific equipment, and a hand-picked crew of tough sailors and battle-hardened marines.
During this time, word of the "Royal Scientific and Commercial Expedition to Africa" spread through Copenhagen's elite circles. One afternoon, while reviewing the ship's manifest at the docks, Christian was approached by Amalie Løvenskiold.
"Count," she said, her face alight with an idealistic glow. "My grandfather told me about Captain Heinesen's expedition. It is a truly noble undertaking. To map the unknown territories, to bring trade and modern medicine to the African people… It makes me proud of what our new Denmark is capable of."
Christian felt a familiar, sharp pang of internal conflict. He looked at her earnest, hopeful face and saw the clean, honorable version of the story he himself had helped write for public consumption. He knew the truth was much murkier—a desperate, ruthless scramble for industrial materials.
"Indeed, Miss Løvenskiold," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "A very noble undertaking. We hope it will bring great prosperity to all involved."
Her presence was a constant reminder of the moral compromises he was making, a voice for the 21st-century conscience he had to continually suppress.
The day the Kronprins Frederik was set to depart, Christian stood on the pier with Fievé and the Admiral. They watched as the last of the supplies were loaded. It was a small ship setting out on a quiet mission, but all three men understood its historic significance.
"Godspeed, Captain," Løvenskiold said, shaking Heinesen's hand.
"Find us our clay, Captain," Fievé added, his focus on the practical.
Heinesen simply nodded to them both before turning to Christian. "I will not fail, my lord."
They watched as the steam-sloop pulled away from the dock, its single smokestack puffing black clouds into the crisp autumn air as it headed for the open sea. It was the first projection of Christian's new Danish power beyond the waters of Europe. A small ship, on a small mission, for something as mundane as dirt.
Christian knew, however, that empires rarely began with the roar of a cannon. They began with the quiet departure of a single ship, sailing toward a distant shore in search of the resources needed to build the future. The first piece in his global chess game was now in motion.