The winter of 1865 settled over a Copenhagen that was being reborn in iron and fire. The skeletons of new factories and shipyards rose against the gray skies, and the rhythms of the city were now punctuated by the hiss of steam and the clang of hammers. Christian, approaching his twentieth birthday, was the undisputed center of this new world, a spider in a vast web of industrial projects, financial maneuvers, and political patronage. The days of open conflict had been replaced by the endless, grinding work of administration.
He had just finished reviewing a progress report on the new National Bank's industrial bonds when the message arrived. A fast mail-sloop, having rendezvoused with a Danish merchantman off the coast of Spain, had delivered the first dispatch from the Kronprins Frederik and Captain Heinesen's expedition.
Christian summoned Fievé and Løvenskiold to his headquarters immediately. The three men, the pillars of the new Denmark, gathered around Christian's desk as he broke the seal on the oilskin-wrapped package. Inside was a detailed log from Heinesen and several canvas sample bags. The tension in the room was thick enough to taste. Their first great overseas venture—their first imperial gamble—had been silent for four long months.
"He made landfall at the designated location on the Congo estuary two months ago," Christian began, reading from the captain's neat, economical script. "He reports that a defensible position on a small peninsula has been secured and fortified. They have named it Christianshavn."
A look of satisfaction passed between Fievé and the Admiral. The first step was a success.
"Initial trade with the inland tribes has been established," Christian continued. "Palm oil and some ivory in exchange for our textiles and metal goods. Relations are… functional, but tense. And now," he paused, picking up one of the heavy canvas bags, "the primary objective." He untied the drawstring and poured a small pile of rich, reddish-brown clay onto a clean sheet of paper.
"The geological survey parties were successful," he read. "Captain Heinesen confirms that the deposits are, in his words, 'impossibly vast and of a quality beyond all expectation.' The clay is here, gentlemen."
Fievé let out a low whistle, his eyes fixed on the pile of dirt as if it were a mound of diamonds. This was the key. The missing ingredient for the Bessemer converters, for the steel that would form the armor of their new fleet and the barrels of their new cannons.
But as Christian continued to read, the triumphant mood began to sober.
"The climate is proving to be a formidable enemy," he read, his voice taking on a graver tone. "Heinesen reports seventeen cases of 'the flux' (dysentery) and a persistent fever that I can only assume is malaria. They have lost four marines and two sailors to disease already. The local medicines are ineffective."
Løvenskiold's face hardened at the mention of his lost men.
"Furthermore," Christian went on, "we are not alone. Heinesen's scouts have reported sighting ships flying the French flag, and what he believes to be agents of the Belgian King, operating further upriver. The great powers are already sniffing around the edges of this territory."
He set the report down and looked at his allies. "There was also an incident. A survey party was ambushed by a hostile tribe. The marines accompanying them were forced to engage. They repelled the attack without friendly casualties." He paused. "They used the new rifles. Enemy losses were… significant."
The room was silent. The first blood of their new colonial enterprise had been spilled.
"We have our clay," Løvenskiold said at last, his voice heavy. "But the price is already being paid in the lives of good Danish men."
"It is a dangerous but necessary investment, Admiral," Fievé countered, his gaze still on the precious clay. "The potential return is the industrial sovereignty of our nation."
Christian listened, then made his decision. There was no hesitation. "The mission is a success, and it will be reinforced. We will not falter."
His voice was cold, decisive, the voice of command. "Baron, you will immediately begin drafting the plans for the transport ships and the new clay processing facility here in Copenhagen. Admiral, you will prepare a second, more heavily armed vessel to sail within the month to reinforce Christianshavn. It will carry a new company of marines, a doctor, and every ounce of quinine we can purchase in Europe. Captain Heinesen has secured our foothold. Now, we will fortify it."
His allies, their own concerns swept away by the force of his will, simply nodded in agreement.
Later that night, Christian stood alone in his study. On his polished desk sat the small pile of reddish-brown dirt from a continent thousands of miles away. It was the key to his industrial ambitions, a tangible symbol of his victory. But the victory felt different this time. It was not a clean political maneuver or a brilliant engineering proof. It was messy, complicated, and paid for with Danish lives and native blood.
He had opened Pandora's box. He had entered the great, brutal game of empire, a game of disease, skirmishes, and rival powers. And looking at the mundane pile of clay, he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would not stop until he had won.