Chapter 2: In Search of Gold
Alexandra did not sleep. When the first hint of dawn bled through the heavy curtains, she was still in her nightdress, hunched over her desk, a map spread out before her. Dutch East Indies, particularly, the map of New Guinea sprawled beneath her scrutinizing gaze, its mountainous interior a taunting tangle of green. Somewhere hidden within that jungle was her chance... her only chance. A chance that she didn't want to miss, couldn't miss.
The gold mine. A ridiculous, desperate scheme but the only one in the short term that looked like it would work without bringing some disaster to her along with a substantial profit. But in the small hours of the morning, when the palace slept silent and her demons danced, it seemed less ridiculous and more like a lifeline.
"Princess, a crisis?" Marta's voice, laden with concern, intruded upon her thoughts.
Alexandra hastily rolled up the map. "No crisis, Marta. Just… an unexpected lesson that kept me occupied."
The maid eyed her with barely concealed disapproval. "Lessons are well enough, Princess, but sleep deprivation is not fitting for a lady of your station. It will give you dark circles under your eyes, and will also cause headaches."
Sometimes she was tempted to confide in Marta. The woman, a comforting mix of maternal fussing and dry wit, was as steadfast as any of those ironclad battleships. But Marta was a fixture of this gilded life, not a strategist for grand 'rebellion'. To reveal her plans would likely earn her a one-way trip to the nearest sanitarium.
Instead, Alexandra managed a weak smile. "My mind races, Marta. Give me an hour or two of rest, and I'll be ready for the day."
Finally, Marta retreated, clucking softly about 'unnatural schedules'. With forced calm, Alexandra settled back into the chair. The absurdity of her plan did not escape her. A young woman barely tolerated at the Naval Academy, an unorthodox princess with a secret hoard of anachronistic knowledge, now planned to finance a covert mining operation in a far-off colony. If she uttered it aloud, even she might laugh. But she couldn't afford to laugh. The German Empire, her German Empire, was an imposing giant built on a foundation of sand, it was not like the British, with their chokehold on global economy. Its military strength, its industrial zeal, those were assets, not solutions. The British watched with envy, the Russians with hunger, and the French cockless wonder with hatred, a ring of predators circling an oblivious beast. And her father... he was not a stabilizing force but the accelerant to the inevitable conflict.
Alexandra rubbed at her temples, a wave of exhaustion threatening to pull her under. It was time for action, however illogical. The seed money would be the first hurdle. Her royal allowance was, by any ordinary standard, a sum to be cherished. For what she planned, however, it was a drop in the ocean. She would tell her father, but only after her venture was confirmed.
"Think!" she commanded herself, the quiet desperation seeping into her voice. Her memory flipped through the pages of social events, the tedious parties, and the staged encounters. A flash of silver sparked from the relentless grey – Countess von Hagen, the widow with the insatiable appetite for diamonds and the equally insatiable appetite for gambling.
A distasteful memory surfaced – the Countess cooing at Alexandra, praising her complexion while her eyes cataloged the intricate emerald and sapphire necklace that had been Alexandra's grandmother's. Such jewels, the inheritance of princesses, were symbols, not mere adornments. And yet…
A reckless plan began to form. Jewels could be transformed into capital, currency to fuel her impossible scheme. It would be risky, scandalous even. Should her father find out, his wrath would be thunderous, and his affection for her wouldn't matter. But with the future that hung above her head, one black mark wouldn't sink her further.
Dawn was breaking as Alexandra slipped from the palace with the help of a few maids who were more than happy to help their princess in return for a favor, a carefully crafted excuse about an early 'walk for contemplation' offered to the sleepy guards. In actuality, her destination was far from the manicured palace gardens. Berlin, even in the pale light of morning, thrummed with its own restless energy.
She veiled her face, and her dress was ordinary. no need to publicize that te eldest Hohenzollern princess was having a secret liaison with someone.
Goldsmith Kellerman was known for both his exquisite craftsmanship and the discretion he offered his wealthy clientele. It had been Marta, with her ear to the servants' gossip network, who had whispered the name. She had needed some very persuasive argument to bend her servant.
Kellerman, a small, bespectacled man with the air of a nervous bird, had looked aghast when Alexandra unclasped the emerald necklace tucked inside her reticule.
"My Lady, this… you wish to sell?" he sputtered.
"Discreetly," she stressed. "The utmost discretion, Herr Kellerman."
The goldsmith swallowed, bobbing his head frantically. When Alexandra stated her requested sum, the bobbing became so violent, he resembled a child's wind-up toy.
"I must consult, My Lady, valuations… it will take time."
"Time is a luxury we may not have, Herr Kellerman," she retorted, a touch of steel entering her voice. Let him think her eccentric, even a touch desperate. It was safer than the truth.
The necklace vanished into the goldsmith's vault. In a week's time, he promised, the agreed-upon sum would be hers. One week. It felt like a lifetime.
The days that followed were a blur of Academy lectures she only half-heard and feigned smiles in the drafty corridors of the Potsdam Palace. Each night, she pored over her maps and sketched out plans crude but fervent. Her mother was worried, so was her father, even her younger siblings were worried, but she din't want to tell them… not yet, not until everything was confirmed.
A week later, Alexandra slipped away once more. This time, her reticule bulged not with jewels but with a weighty stack of banknotes. It was a sum that would have sent a shockwave through the aristocracy had they known it was the product of their beloved Princess's reckless actions.
A desperate bid for agency? She didn't have a neat word to pin to this growing madness.
Her next stop was a far cry from Kellerman's opulent shop. Herr Gunter Schmidt, shipping magnate and known dabbler in colonial ventures, was of a different breed. His office, smelling of oiled leather and several others she didn't wish to know, was a testament to his commercial acumen. He regarded Alexandra with a shrewdness that was both unsettling and oddly reassuring.
"A venture in the East Indies? Transporting… mining equipment, you say, My Lady? A most unusual request," he mused, a bushy eyebrow cocked.
"The Empire has many interests in the region, Herr Schmidt. Surely supporting such enterprise is the duty of a loyal subject," she countered, keeping her tone deliberately measured.
Schmidt studied her for a long, unnerving moment. "I sense a certain urgency in your request, My Lady."
Alexandra held his gaze. "Timetables are crucial in all ventures, are they not?"
A smile, slow and predatory, spread across Schmidt's face. "Indeed, My Lady, indeed. And discretion, I believe, is also of value to you?"
It was a question, not a statement. "The utmost discretion, Herr Schmidt. I am… an investor who prefers a degree of anonymity."
The shipping magnate leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Very well then, My Lady. Let us discuss the practicalities."
Practicalities. Such a mundane word for the first step of her improbable gamble. Gunter Schmidt, with his network of ships and his nose for profitable ventures, was an invaluable, if morally dubious, ally.
Over the following weeks, a peculiar rhythm settled over Alexandra's life. Days were consumed by her mother's nagging, her younger siblings continuous urge to play with them, and finally sometime, noting down the naval and marine regulations as well as the colonial laws that existed. There was also the matter of her being a naval cadet and three days a week she had to appear in the academy too for trainings and lectures, which were utterly boring in her opinion. Nights were for planning, charting, and the desperate hope that sleep would douse the relentless hum of anxiety in her veins.
Schmidt, true to his word, had proven efficient. A suitable ship was acquired under a veil of fabricated manifests and dubious ownership. A crew was assembled, men handpicked for their loyalty to the coin, not inconvenient questions. The equipment – a collection of odd machinery disguised as agricultural tools – was loaded in the dead of night on a deserted stretch of the Hamburg docks.
When the ship, christened with the unremarkable name of 'Fortuna,' slipped its moorings, bound for the Dutch East Indies, Alexandra was not on board. It was too dangerous.
Word arrived, months later, smuggled back through Schmidt's network. The Fortuna had reached its destination. A suitable pretext, a tale of a modest mining venture, had been woven to appease the Dutch colonial authorities. The initial surveys were… promising. A word that sent a jolt of mingled terror and exhilaration through Alexandra. Her hands shook as she reread the short note. They had found traces. It was only a start, a whisper of the potential fortune buried beneath the jungle's green cloak. It could still amount to nothing, a fool's errand born of desperation. Or it could be the means to her own goals, the key to influencing the titanic forces she was pitted against. At least now she could tell her father, she had the evidence.
"This isn't just promising, Father," Alexandra said, holding up the latest report. The faint scent of sea salt clung to the paper - a testament to its journey back with the Fortuna. "This is confirmation. The gold is there, and the veins... they appear rich."
Wilhelm II snatched the report, his eyes skimming the figures with a mix of avidity and suspicion. "Are you certain, Alexandra? Such a venture demands absolute certainty." His voice was the honed edge of a Prussian saber, meant to slice through any hint of doubt. Whatever the later generations say about him, Wilhelm ll was the very image of an emperor.
She met his gaze with a determination born from weeks of balancing the absolute clusterfuck that was her life at the moment. "Herr Schmidt's men are reliable. Discreet and proficient in such matters. I believe their assessments."
"Schmidt," Wilhelm II muttered, stroking his beard. "This shark swims in treacherous waters. Your choice of… associate is questionable."
Alexandra kept her expression carefully neutral. "He is a capable man, Father. And when it comes to colonial ventures, sometimes expediency must outweigh... conventional alliances."
The Emperor grunted, a grudging acknowledgment of her point. He tossed the report onto his desk, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful frown. The ticking of the ormolu clock filled the silence as Alexandra braced herself. She knew her father: the allure of grand schemes, the whiff of immense profit – these were siren calls to his ambition. But then there was the inherent risk, the unpredictable nature of a venture so far from his direct control.
"Copper," she said softly, pushing a map across the desk. The Grasberg mine was circled with a discreet red mark invisible to any but the most curious eyes. "Officially, that is what we will declare. It is plausible, even profitable. But that," she pointed to the unassuming mark, "is our true treasure."
Wilhelm II peered at the map, his finger tracing the outline of the Dutch-controlled island. "Secrecy will be paramount. One leaked word, and the British will be sniffing around like bloodhounds."
"I am aware, Father." And yet, wasn't she placing an extraordinary amount of trust in this volatile man beside her? But what choice did she have? He was her father and the Kaiser.
"The logistics..." He tapped the map with a blunt finger. "Transport, infrastructure... all in a region we have scant influence over. It smells of trouble, Alexandra."
"There is always an element of risk, Father," she countered. "But with sufficient investment… The returns could be extraordinary. Imagine…"
She let her voice trail off, allowing him to fill the silence with his own dreams fueled by her carefully planted seeds. Gold. Rivers of gold flowing back to Berlin, bolstering the Empire's strength, perhaps even altering the balance of power in a world bristling with tension.
Wilhelm II sat up straighter, a predatory gleam entering his eyes. It was the look Alexandra had come to recognize, the look of the gambler seduced by an audacious play. "You possess a streak of ruthlessness, my daughter," he mused, a hint of admiration in his voice. "Most unlike a princess."
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. "These are not times suited for the docile, Father."
He chuckled, a booming, full-throated sound that echoed in the grand office. "Indeed not! Very well, let us discuss the practicalities. Schmidt will be involved, naturally, but under my terms, not his. This…" he jabbed the marked map, "is an undertaking of the Hohenzollerns, not a venture for opportunistic profiteers."
Relief washed over Alexandra, a warmth that threatened to break her carefully constructed facade. It was a start, a perilous start, but a start nevertheless.
"Might I suggest, Father, that it would be prudent to form a separate entity. A mining corporation, seemingly independent of the Crown. It would… deflect scrutiny," she offered.
Wilhelm II nodded. "A clever touch. It will take time to assemble the necessary capital, to acquire the machinery…"
"I have already made some inquiries, Father. Discreetly, of course." She produced a leather-bound ledger. "Preliminary cost projections, potential investors…"
He snatched the ledger, his eyes already devouring the figures. Alexandra allowed herself a small, secret smile. He was hooked, drawn into the intricate web she'd woven. He was, after all, a man who craved action, bold gestures on the grand stage of empires. And she, his unconventional princess, had offered him exactly that. The meeting stretched on, the details of their clandestine enterprise taking shape. There were arguments, points of contention, and compromises made. They were not father and daughter in that room, but strategists, bound briefly by a common purpose. They would still need to discuss some more later, but for now, this was enough.
When Alexandra finally emerged, blinking in the pale light of the palace corridor, exhaustion gnawed at her. She had secured the first, precarious step towards her rebellion, but how long until suspicion took root in her father's mind? How long until her network of lies began to unravel?
Marta intercepted her, clucking like a worried hen. "Princess, where have you been? You missed afternoon tea, and the Countess von Hagen was most insistent on…"
Alexandra held up a hand, silencing the tide of mundane social concerns. "Tonight, Marta, I wish to be undisturbed. And…" a thought sparked, a useful piece in her long game. "Find me the Countess von Hagen's file. Be discreet. I must make my apologies and perhaps offer a private audience to discuss her latest, ah, charitable projects."
The Countess, bless her frivolous gossip, was a direct line into the drawing rooms of Berlin's elite. Spreading carefully crafted rumors of copper ventures and vague colonial endeavors among those bored ladies would serve another purpose entirely – camouflage.
Back in her rooms, Alexandra sank into a chair, the relief at her successful gambit.
A letter, addressed to one Charles Jonah Wright, was hastily drafted. Her cousin, the underachiever, the black sheep of the family – she might yet find a use for the young man she'd barely given a thought to. His distance from the rigid court life, and his father's disapproval, might make him a malleable tool in the machinations to come.
The butler, old Jonalet, appeared at her door, concern furrowing his brow. "Princess, you look unwell. Is there anything I may procure for you?"
"An extra dose of resolve, Jonalet." She forced a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But sadly, that is not within your power to supply."
The old man shook his head sadly but retreated with a bow. As the door closed, Alexandra found herself staring at her reflection in the polished dressing table mirror. She saw the Princess, with her carefully styled hair and flawless posture, a model of aristocratic breeding. But beneath that veneer, someone else stirred, she was Alexandra Karoline Brunhilde Friederike Henriette, but she was also Miyako Anand, she was both but none.
