While the tenants of Eskildsgård wrestled with the mandated revolution, Christian was already fighting the next battle: logistics. A decree was meaningless without the means to enact it.
He spent the morning in his study, not poring over maps, but drafting letters that would have baffled his father. These were not addressed to merchants in Copenhagen, but to specific trading houses in Hull, England, and Rotterdam in the Netherlands. His requests were precise, using English and Dutch terms for specific, high-yield varietals of turnip and clover that were virtually unknown in Denmark. He authorized payment from the Eskildsen accounts in Copenhagen, a sum large enough to make the most seasoned merchant take notice. He knew he was paying a premium for a direct, priority shipment, but time was a resource he valued more than rigsdaler.
As he was sealing the letters with the family's wax signet, Lars entered, his face grim. He carried a copy of the Fædrelandet newspaper, which had just arrived by courier from the city.
"News from the front, my lord," Lars said softly.
Christian took the paper. The headlines confirmed what he already knew from history. The Danish army had abandoned the vast Dannevirke fortifications in a chaotic winter retreat on February 6th. They had fallen back to the redoubts at Dybbøl, a much more concentrated and exposed position. The Prussians, with their superior numbers and rifled cannons, were methodically encircling the bastion. The paper was filled with patriotic bluster, but the strategic reality was printed in plain ink between the lines: it was a siege. Denmark was losing.
He felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach—a flicker of the boy's fear for the man he barely remembered, Count Eskildsen, now trapped in that doomed fortress. He crushed the emotion with practiced efficiency. Grief was unproductive. Fear was a liability. The coming defeat was a fixed data point, and it only added urgency to his own timetable. When the war ended, Denmark would be broken and impoverished. His barony had to be an island of prosperity and strength in a sea of national despair.
He folded the newspaper neatly and set it aside. "See that these letters are sent with the fastest post, Lars."
His next stop was the estate's smithy, a soot-blackened stone building near the edge of the woods. A steady, forceful ringing echoed from within, a sharp clang of steel on steel followed by the deeper thump as the hammer struck hot iron on the anvil. Inside, amidst the choking heat and the smell of hot iron and coal smoke, stood Stig, the blacksmith. He was a mountain of a man in his fifties, with arms as thick as oak branches and a beard stained gray with soot. He paused his work, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a leather-gloved hand as the young Baron entered his domain.
"My lord," Stig grunted, his voice a low rumble. He held a deep, craft-based pride and was not easily impressed.
"Stig," Christian acknowledged with a nod. "I have a new project for you."
He unrolled a set of schematics on a dusty workbench. They were not the rough sketches of a nobleman, but precise, detailed drawings of a plow unlike any Stig had ever seen.
The blacksmith peered at the drawings, his brow furrowed in confusion, which quickly curdled into professional offense. "My lord… what is this?"
"It is a plow," Christian stated simply.
"This is no plow," Stig scoffed, tapping a thick finger on the diagram. "The share is too small. There is no wheel here to guide the depth. And this moldboard… the curve is all wrong. It's like a lady's ribbon. It will not turn the soil. It is too light. It will shatter on the first rock."
"It is lighter because it uses less wood and more iron, which is stronger," Christian countered calmly. "The lack of a wheel makes it more maneuverable. And the precise curve of the moldboard is its most important feature. It is designed to cut, lift, and turn the sod over in a single, clean motion, burying the weeds and requiring less force from the oxen."
"I have been making plows for forty years, my lord," Stig said, his voice stiff with pride. "I learned from my father, who learned from his. We know what shape works for Eskildsgård soil. This… this is a toy."
Christian looked the powerful man in the eye. "Stig, your skill with the forge is why I have come to you and not to a smith in Odense. I need your talent to create this, not your approval of its design." He softened his tone slightly. "I have already arranged for a shipment of higher-quality English iron and coke to be delivered to you. You will have the best materials."
He then laid his hand flat on the schematic, his gaze firming into the now-familiar look of absolute command. "Build one, Stig. Build it to these exact specifications. Then we will take it to the field, alongside one of your own magnificent creations, and we will see which one the oxen—and the soil—prefer. The proof will be in the furrow."
Stig stared from the strange, elegant drawing to the unwavering eyes of the boy giving him the order. He was a craftsman, and the challenge, combined with the promise of superior materials and the sheer, unyielding confidence of his lord, was a potent mix. He let out a long, slow breath, the air hissing out of him like steam from a quench bucket.
"As you command, my lord," he grumbled, picking up the schematic. "But do not blame me when you have a field full of broken toys."
"I will take full responsibility for the outcome, Stig," Christian said. "As I always do."
He gave a final nod and left the sweltering heat of the smithy. Outside, the cold air felt sharp and clean. He could feel the folded newspaper in his coat pocket, a grim reminder of the war of blood and iron being fought far to the south.
He looked back at the smithy, where his own war was just beginning. They fought with cannons and outdated rifles. They would lose. He would fight with drainage pipes, nitrogen-fixing clover, and plows forged from a future of scientific certainty. This plow was not just a tool, he thought. It was the first cannon in a new arsenal.