* * *
The first man we have already met: Johan van Oldenbarnevelt, the Pensionary of Holland and the most powerful man in the Netherlands. We find him at his home, this chilly day in early spring, for an informal meeting with three other men: Adriaen van Mander, Admiral-General of the States Navy; Cornelis Dortsman, Captain-General of the States Army; and Pieter Memling, chairman of the States-General Committee on Foreign Affairs. Many of the most important decisions in the Netherlands are made in this way: at personal meetings in the homes of powerful men, where it is possible to speak frankly without fear that one's words will be reported. Oldenbarnevelt and his colleagues are about to make an important decision, here in the Grand Pensionary's parlor. They know that when they speak with one voice, the support of the States-General will be largely a foregone conclusion.
This is not the sort of room where one imagines world-changing decisions being made. Oldenbarnevelt has a tidy brick home not far from the Ridderzaal. Inside, the walls are whitewashed, and the floors and furniture are polished hardwood, and fine clear light streams through windows of very pure glass. Paintings adorn the parlor's walls: a portrait by Frans Hals of Oldenbarnevelt himself, and a seascape by Jan Porcellis showing a merchant fluyt tossed in a storm. Nothing is gilded, nothing is marble or frescoed, but a large Ming vase worth a king's ransom stands in a corner near the window. From upstairs, the voices of children can be heard: Oldenbarnevelt's grandsons are visiting for the day, and they are playing with toy soldiers.
In the parlor, Oldenbarnevelt has the letter from Constantinople open on his knee. He is looking meditatively at the Porcellis seascape. He often does this when he has difficult choices to make. The ship in the painting is flying the Dutch tricolor. His whole long life, Oldenbarnevelt has known that his country was like that merchant ship: battered by storm and wave, forever on the knife's edge of capsizing, surviving only through the stubbornness and resourcefulness and skill of its captain and crew. Now Oldenbarnevelt is the captain, and the storm blows just as hard as ever.
"Why Thrace?" Pieter Memling is saying: a slender Fleming who built and lost three fortunes over forty years, and almost starved during the Siege of Antwerp back in '91. "There are no threats to the Romans in Thrace, except perhaps the Russians. And we have no reason to believe that they fear the Russians."
Cornelis Dortsman shakes his head. The Captain-General is a compact, wiry terrier of a man. He wears civilian clothes, but a well-worn sidesword hangs sheathed from a baldric. "The location is irrelevant," he growls. "Perhaps even intended as a distraction, like their praise of our skill and commercial reach. The point is to watch how we do it, and then replicate our construction techniques themselves, on the Persian and Arab frontiers. They pay for us to build one fort, and in the process learn to build a hundred more."
Oldenbarnevelt's bushy grey beard swallows the bottom half of his face, makes him hard to read. "And the problem with that is..."
"We are being short-changed," Dortsman immediately replies: the merchant's answer, through and through. "Asked to sell a trade secret for the price of a single item of inventory. And for what? So that a few of my colonels can be paid 'good prices for their services'?"
"That's not the real compensation," Memling says. Oldenbarnevelt smiles slightly, and nods at him to continue. Memling leans forward. "The real compensation is the friendship of the Emperor. The fort - and the techniques used to build it - are just our earnest money. Like Heer Doukas wrote, they could just as easily have simply tried to hire individual engineers. They want a relationship with the States-General, not just with a few Dutch engineers. They want the government of the Republic to be invested in their success."
"Because they intend to move into the Indian Ocean." That's Adriaen van Mander, speaking for the first time. In the Hague, word on the street is that Mander is a stuffed shirt. The Admiral-Generalty is a political prize: the States-General will only entrust the world's most powerful navy to a man who lacks the brains or guts to use it against the civilian leadership. Hence Mander: a lifelong protege of Oldenbarnevelt, an officer whose naval career was wholly undistinguished, but a man endowed with a reassuring lack of personal ambition.
All true enough. But here is where you and I, as travelers in time and space, know better even than the gossips of the Hague: despite all of that, Mander is smart. And for a titular admiral who never leaves the Netherlands, that might matter more than all the rest. It is, at a minimum, why Oldenbarnevelt picked him.
Now, Mander points to the letter. "Heer Doukas says so - that they have plans in the East. That is what the Erythraean Sea means, no? The Arabian Sea, and maybe the whole Indian Ocean. If the Greeks - "
"The Romans," Memling mutters.
Mander is unperturbed. "Yes, the Romans - look, the Romans must expect to control at least some of Egypt's Red Sea ports once this war is over. And they know that once they are in Oriental waters, they have ventured into seas where they are weak and we are strong." Mander looks at Oldenbarnevelt. "Heer Memling is right. This is about winning our trust. They are trying to get on our good side."
Dortsman scoffs. "Then why don't they come here to build a silk mill, instead of asking us to do them a favor? You win a man's friendship by giving him a gift, not by asking him to give you one."
"Not if you are the Emperor of the Romans," Memling notes drily. "As far as he is concerned, we should be devoutly grateful for the opportunity to build him a fort. What a sign of imperial favor even to be asked!" Memling chuckles, and Oldenbarnevelt smiles with one side of his mouth.
Dortsman shakes his head. "There's no accounting for the ways of tyrants. But really." He leans forward. "What do we get out of this? Assuming the Greeks - "
"Romans," Memling repeats.
Dortsman snorts. "- the Greeks are offering closer ties in exchange for this fort, what is that really worth to us? What do we care if Persia or Kochiraj sinks every Greek ship that tries to pass the Gate of Tears? I know what they want from us. What do we want from them?"
For a moment, there is silence. Memling shakes his head in frustration, but does not answer. Mander looks at Oldenbarnevelt. Oldenbarnevelt looks at the Porcellis seascape.
Finally, the Grand Pensionary speaks. "The wind is rising." He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Gaul will not slumber so very much longer. The Kings of Bohemia prepare to move against the Emperor, lest the Emperor move against them first. Our Republic is less than twenty years old. Without friends, it may not last another ten." Oldenbarnevelt glances at Memling. "We have no friends. Many clients; some coreligionists. No friends. Certainly none powerful enough to protect us by land. And none who have been so bold as to ask - however indirectly - for our protection by sea."
"This Greek letter is not an offer of friendship," Dortsman states flatly.
Reluctantly, Memling nods his agreement. "At least not yet."
Oldenbarnevelt smiles. "Ah, mijn heeren, but you forget. I am old." His grandsons suddenly clamor from upstairs, shrill boyish voices shrieking in excitement. Oldenbarnevelt chuckles. "Perhaps not as old as Constantinople, though it certainly feels that way sometimes. But old enough to know that no man ever walked from Antwerp to Oldenburg in a single day. And no man ever did it without taking the first step out his own door, either." He glances back at the painting. "A storm is coming. We will need friends. We must hope that after the first step toward friendship is taken, our men in Constantinople will be able to find the next, and the next after that."
"Hope," Dortsman repeats quietly.
"It has gotten us this far," Oldenbarnevelt replies. For a while, the room is quiet - but for the distant voices of children.
"Then I will call on van Goorle and some of my other engineers," Dortsman nods. "If we are going to build the Greeks a fort, we should at least build it perfectly."
"And I will speak to Huig de Groot," Memling says. Mander raises his eyebrows, and Memling shrugs. "He's the smartest man in the Netherlands, for my money, and he speaks better Greek than Sophocles. Who better to find his way into the Emperor's counsels?"
"See it done." Oldenbarnevelt stands. "And now, mijn heeren, you will leave me to my grandchildren for the afternoon." He waves his arms, pantomiming the grumpy old man. "Out! Out of my home, the lot of you!" Chuckling, the other officials gather up their hats and cloaks, and take their leave. Chuckling too, Oldenbarnevelt turns toward the stairs, and the children's voices at the top of them.
And he leaves the painting on the wall behind him - and all its storms - for another day.
* * *
From that tidy whitewashed room, come back out into the bustling streets with me. Follow the main road northwest to leave the Hague, out beneath the earthen bastions and their barricading canals, under the watchful gaze of the cannon. Continue for about thirty miles. Watch the barges hauling cargo up and down the canal that runs alongside the road; note how the urban sprawl never quite ends, instead stretching into a ribbon of smithies and breweries and inns that lines the highway. In time, we come to another landscape of bastions and canals and cannon, and as we pass through that, to another city: Amsterdam.
The largest port in the Netherlands, this; and almost certainly the largest port in the world. There are wonders aplenty down at the waterfront, guarded by the newly-constructed twodecker race-galleons of the Dutch Home Fleet. But our path leads elsewhere today: to a sprawling Gothic church in the center of the city, an ungainly mixture of brick and stone enlivened by gigantic windows. The stained-glass is mostly gone now, replaced by Protestant clarity: God's light, the colorless light of reason and unvarnished truth, streams through those titanic windows. Inside, the ancient stone buttresses and pillars are as cleanly whitewashed as Oldenbarnevelt's parlor. But the huge paving stones of the floor are unchanged: each inscribed with a name, a set of dates, a dedication. For this is the Oude Kerk, and the great and good of Holland have been buried beneath this floor for more than three hundred years.
On each side of the desk sits a man. The man in front of the desk is short, slight, trim, with a sharp intelligent face beneath an old-fashioned square scholar's cap - the hat you always see in paintings of Luther or Calvin or Erasmus. He sits respectfully, but impatiently; this may not be his office, but he is in charge. His name is Jakob Reefsen, and he is from Deventer, in Overjissel. In a Reformed Church that theoretically has no overall ecclesiastical leaders, Reefsen is unofficially among the most influential ministers in the Netherlands: brilliant, ambitious, uncompromising, unafraid of controversy.
The man on the other side of the desk is quite different. A few years older, much taller and broader, with an enormous orange beard overwhelming his small lace ruff. Spectacles perch on the end of his bulbous nose as he reads the letter Reefsen has brought. This is Johannes Bogerman, the long-serving assistant minister of the Oude Kerk, and one of the most respected theologians and Biblical scholars in the Netherlands. He also has a reputation as simply the nicest man in the entire Dutch church.
At length, without looking up, Bogerman reads aloud the last sentence of the letter. "We believe that at the very least theological dialogue is necessary in order to avoid bloodshed between brothers in Christ." He glances over the rims of his spectacles at Reefsen. "We can certainly agree on that, I trust."
Reefsen smiles wryly. "This is the Dutch Reformed Church. The only thing we can ever all agree on is how much we love dialogue about everything we don't agree on." He nods toward the letter. "I wouldn't have thought to hear that sentiment from the Patriarch of Constantinople, though. What do you suppose he's up to?"
"I don't know. I doubt he expects to be persuaded of anything. Probably he hopes to persuade the rest of us of his point of view." Bogerman shrugged. "That is to be expected in any debate. It doesn't mean the debate is not worth having. Sometimes the Spirit breaks through even when we least expect to change our minds. To seek the truth is always to live in hope of that inbreaking."
Reefsen nods reluctantly. His expression makes it obvious that he is biting his tongue. Bogerman's tone is level. "I assume you have a different theory?"
"It's a prestige play," Reefsen says simply. "So the Patriarch can say he tried to stop the barbarous western schismatics from murdering each other over small differences. That's why he talks so much about the risk of bloodshed." Reefsen shakes his head. "The risk of it. As if it isn't already happening - as if the Empire isn't still burning our brothers alive, like they did our fathers fifty years ago."
"You should go," Bogerman suggests. "Say that. Bring their heads out of the clouds. Remind them what happens when we care more about being right than about being good Christians."
Reefsen glances up sharply, opens his mouth for a moment - then relaxes. He lets out a reluctant chuckle. "Well, I'm glad you feel that way, Johannes. But I won't be going." He smiles. "My own wife has made it clear that I don't know when to shut up. I'm hardly the best representative for our faith."
"Ah." Bogerman pauses: too honest to disagree, but too diplomatic to reach the obvious conclusion about what has brought Reefsen to his office. He clasps his hands over his ample belly.
Reefsen eyes him with amusement. "So," he says, "we have thought of a different candidate."
"We?" Bogerman asks the question dutifully, already knowing the answer.
"The Synod." Reefsen waves a hand. "I know we're not in session. But I've made the rounds: Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Antwerp, Leiden, Brussels, Oldenburg. All the major consistories. The consensus is that you are the man to send."
"I am honored," Bogerman says softly.
"You speak excellent Greek, you served as the regent for the seminary at Leiden, and you listen more than you speak. Which is more than any other clergyman in this Republic can say, present company included." Reefsen shrugs. "It may be an honor, but you were the obvious choice. Will you do it?"
There is a long pause. Bogerman looks back down at the letter. He is a surprisingly hard man to read, you notice: his great gentleness flattens out all the hard edges of his personality, and renders him inscrutable. Reefsen watches with obvious impatience.
Finally, Bogerman smiles and tugs gently at his huge red beard. "Of course."
"Good!" Reefsen slaps his thighs in satisfaction and stands. "Good. God's be the glory. The University of Leiden will send a letter of introduction. I've spoken to the regents." He grins. "As well to let the Romans know from the start who wields the power in this church, eh? Just as it's always been - the professors."
Bogerman stands and shakes Reefsen's hand. "Thank you. I do not know what will come of this, but - thank you. For your trust."
"Ach. Well-merited. Go and preach the Gospel, and you'll have done all that we could ask of you." Reefsen waves a hand around the office, and the gesture encompasses the absurd overflow of books. "Now: pack up this library! The States-General are sending a squadron to Constantinople on the next ebb tide. I've arranged a berth for you." He turns toward the door, and pauses. "God go with you, Reverend Bogerman."
Bogerman nods, and raises a grateful hand. Reefsen chuckles and shakes his head, and closes the door behind him. And Johannes Bogerman takes a deep breath, and begins to pack his books: to seek the truth, and to live in hope.
UNIVERSITEIT LEIDEN
To our Christian brothers, the Orthodox Patriarchs of Constantinople, Jerusalem, and Antioch; the Syriac Orthodox Patriarch of Antioch; and the Maronite Patriarch of Antioch: grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
We find in the Scriptures, enlightened by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit through the intermediary of human reason, the same truth that you find in the First Council of Constantinople: we are all one in Christ Jesus. Our divisions are not to be taken lightly, but they should not be cause for violence. Through dialogue and debate, we can create a space for the Holy Spirit to show all of us the error of our ways, and to guide us back toward unity. With humility and curiosity, and with a firm reliance upon the grace of Him who made us, all things are within our hope.
Like the Disciples in the lifetime of our Savior, our Church has no bishops, and so we cannot send to your Council any delegate who holds that office. But we pray you accept, as your brother in Christ, the assistant minister of the Oude Kerk in Amsterdam: the Reverend Johannes Bogerman, of Frisia. He has served with distinction as a regent of this institution, with responsibility for theological studies; he has preached the Gospel for many years in this land with great distinction; he has produced scholarship that has opened our eyes to new lessons of the Scriptures; and he has served honorably and regularly on the governing Synod of our Church. There is no one better suited to learn from our Christian brothers in other lands; to teach them whatever our brothers can learn from us; and to discover those areas of common ground that may draw us closer together, and save us all from bloodshed.
The Reverend Bogerman should arrive with the same States Navy squadron that bears to Roman shores the ambassador and military advisors of this land. We pray you welcome him as you would a different kind of Prodigal Son: long separated more by distance than by error, and arrived home at last to share what he has learned, and to discover what he has not.
Yours in Christ,
The Rev. Dr. Christiaan van Schooten
Regent of the University of Leiden
* * *
It is six weeks later now, and more than a thousand miles away. Warmer, thanks to the passage of both time and distance. Golden sun; a soft Mediterranean breeze. Everything glows here, with the Aegean islands fading behind us and the distant towers of Constantinople ahead. The clear grey light of the North Sea seems a long way away.
Six ships glide through the crystal-blue waters of the Aegean. It is obvious that States-General intended to make an impression with their answer to Emperor Mikhael's letter. This is a full squadron of the States Navy's newest race-galleons: straight-sided ships designed for line sailing and broadside fire, seventy meters long, with two gun decks and forty 24-pounders each. All three masts are fully square-rigged, with lateen staysails for control, and the ships move fast under a great press of snowy sail: the sea foams white at each prow, and each wake ripples the waves for hundreds of meters behind. And from each mizzenmast billows an enormous tricolor of orange, white, and blue.
On the deck of the foremost ship stand three of the most remarkable men that the Netherlands will produce in this century. One of them we have already met. Johannes Bogerman leans on the rail, and lets the spray from the ship's bow blow his great red beard back over his shoulder, and he beams with childlike joy. Next to him is a young man in the buff leather coat and heavy steel cuirass of a Dutch States officer; he doesn't look like he smiles much, but Bogerman's glee is infectious, and this young man wears an odd unwilling half-grin. His name is David van Goorle, and centuries from now, he will be remembered as one of the first modern men to suggest the existence of a basic particle called an atom. For now, he is regarded simply as a prodigy of military engineering, and one of the greatest fortifications-architects in the States Army.
A few steps behind Bogerman and Goorle - safely away from the rail - stands a slightly built man in his mid-thirties, with boyish features and prematurely greying hair and a fussy little goatee; next to him sits a plain-faced woman with lively, intelligent eyes and a constant slight smile. These are Huig de Groot - the newly-appointed Dutch ambassador to the Roman Empire - and his wife Maria. The pair are speaking quietly to each other, and Groot gestures animatedly as the dome of the Hagia Sophia comes into view.
All three of these men are remarkable, but Groot is in a league of his own. He wrote his first treatise on the liberal arts at fifteen; he was named the official historian of the Dutch Republic at seventeen. At twenty-six he wrote Mare Liberum, and invented the modern concept of freedom of navigation. Some day, you will know him as Hugo Grotius: the father of international law.
But in 1618, he is a former child prodigy whose career has stalled and left him about two-thirds of the way up the Republic's bureaucratic totem pole. Until a few months ago, he was facing the prospect of decades of respectable, stultifying government legal work. So Groot leaped at this opportunity: a chance to represent his home in the City of the World's Desire. Its libraries! he is saying to Maria. Its ancient forum! Its archives! Its academies! And Maria smiles, because she has not seen Groot like this for almost a decade now.
These three men know each other, by the way. That's not a great surprise. The Netherlands are still a small society - two million souls - and people of exceptional talent tend to find themselves in the same circles. Bogerman had Groot over for tea when Groot first arrived in Amsterdam; Groot helped Goorle secure his engineering commission from the States Army; Goorle and Bogerman correspond about the relationship of natural philosophy and Christian doctrine. When this squadron left the Hague for Constantinople, these three were pleasantly surprised to meet each other on the docks at the naval arsenal.
Now, their journey is almost over. Groot has slipped, half-consciously, into Greek as he discusses the history of the ancient city ahead. Maria nods along: she speaks Greek, of course, or else Groot would never have married her. It is more or less a love match, this, or at least a friendship rather than a business arrangement. This sort of companionate marriage is more common in the Netherlands than elsewhere in Europe, for a variety of reasons. Perhaps the most important is the simple fact that most Dutch women can read. So Groot rattles on about the teíchi tou Theodosíou, and Maria plays along and asks the occasional question back.
Goorle glances over his shoulder, and then turns to Bogerman. "My Greek isn't nearly that good," he says quietly.
"Neither is the Emperor's, I will wager," Bogerman chuckles. "We've both known Huig long enough not to compare ourselves. We are mere mortals."
Goorle grins, but the expression fades quickly. He studies Bogerman's face. "You are not anxious about what lies ahead?"
"I doubt very much they invited us all this way just to blind and castrate us." Bogerman's elbow gives Goorle a gentle dig in the arm.
"Not that kind of anxious," Goorle says.
"Ah." Bogerman sighs, and leans on the rail. "The responsibility, then."
"I was told that the friendship of the Roman Empire might depend on how good a fort I build. You've been invited to try to restore the unity of the Christian Church. Huig - well, even I don't know what he's supposed to do, but if it were easy then they wouldn't have sent Huig." Goorle shakes his head. "We are a long way from home here, and I feel the world on my back. Don't you?"
Bogerman stares out across the water. Around the docks of Constantinople, dozens of ships already lie at anchor. Many of them, even from this distance, are recognizable as fluyts flying the Dutch tricolor. Bogerman sighs. "Yes," he says. "I feel it. But I don't trust it."
Goorle's brow furrows. "What do you mean?" He notices that Groot's torrent of Greek has fallen silent, and glances over his shoulder. Groot and Maria are quiet too, looking at Bogerman: waiting, listening.
"There are many views on Providence in our Church," Bogerman says carefully. "And many productive discussions to be had about that idea. I hope to have some of them here. But I know of no man who has read the Bible, and come away believing that the whole world rests on his back." The churchman shakes his head. "No. None of us could bear that weight. And so He who alone could bear it, bore it for us. And He bears it for us still. We are here to do His will, and He will see it done in us. That must be our hope."
Goorle looks at Groot. Groot seems to mull over Bogerman's words. In the distance, the docks grow rapidly closer. A signal flag races up the mast of the lead race-galleon, and like a synchronized flight of seabirds, the six ships tack to landward and form a perfectly straight, evenly-spaced line as they glide in toward the harbor.
Bogerman claps a beefy hand on Goorle's armored shoulder. "Not everything I feel is true just because I feel it, David. Nor you. That doesn't mean we can help what we feel. It just means we don't have to trust it. At least not more than we trust to our hope in God."
From the quarterdeck, the ship's captain waves a hand. "We have arrived," he announces. Goorle looks over the rail, and as he watches, the race-galleon comes smoothly to a halt alongside the dock: the wind spills from the enormous sails, and ropes fly out to make the ship fast. A delegation of what can only be Roman officials waits - on the first solid land the Dutch have seen in weeks.
Goorle looks at Bogerman, who looks at Groot. Groot thinks for a moment, and then takes a deep breath of salt air, and smiles with fierce brave hope. He turns to Maria. "Shall we, my dear?"
She takes his arm. "Why not, Heer Ambassador?"
Were it not for all the other Dutch merchants on the docks of Constantinople, this delegation would be exceptionally incongruous. Bogerman and Groot both wear plain black clothes - tall boots, breeches, doublets, shoulder-cloaks - enlivened only by a white ruff in Bogerman's case, and a white lace collar in Groot's. Groot and Maria are flanked by two guards in harquebusier's harness: buff leather coats, steel cuirasses, matchlock carbines and broadswords. There is no silk or embroidery, and no gold save for Groot's ancient chain of office: he is still theoretically the pensionary of the city of Dordrecht, and the chain goes with the title. But if you look closely, you will see other signs of pride. The lace at Groot's collar, and at Maria's neck and cuffs, is of Flemish work, and incredibly fine. And the black woolen clothes that all of the delegation wear - those are broadcloth, with a surface so smooth that only ten thousand blows of a fuller's hammer can account for it.
Of course, in the Netherlands, the wind powers fullers' mills, and the world's finest broadcloth is affordable. Which is the point in wearing it for an audience with the Roman Emperor.
As the Dutch and Roman delegations meet on the docks, Groot doffs his tall capotain hat, tucks it beneath his arm, and makes a low and respectful bow. "Your servants, sirs." His Greek is accented and a bit archaic, but the grammar and syntax are utterly flawless. "I am Huig de Groot, pensionary of Dordrecht, and emissary of the States-General of the Netherlands to the court of the Emperor. My colleagues and I are most pleased to make your acquaintance."
* * *
On the far side of the Earth, another Dutch warship draws near to another port. It is at least as a consequential a meeting, this one - perhaps even more consequential, in the long run. But it will be almost a year before anyone in the Netherlands knows it has even happened, and decades before anyone appreciates its significance.
Even this late in the spring, the early morning breeze off the Sea of Japan still carries a chill, here in Busan. Still, it is good sailing weather, and the light is clear. So the citizens of Busan can clearly make out a sight that Joseon has never seen before. From the south, riding the morning wind up the Western Channel of the Korea Strait, come five shapes. At first, they look like seabirds floating on the waves: all that can be seen are the distant sails, a great press of white canvas, like feathers. As they draw closer, the ships beneath the sails come gradually into view. There are two frigates and three fluyts there, though few in Busan know these words yet. But the difference is obvious. The fluyts are broad and ride low in the water, their pear-shaped holds crammed with treasure. But the frigates are taller, their straight sides lined with gun ports concealing dozens of cannon. And from their mizzenmasts flies a flag that some of the better-travelled denizens of this trading city may already recognize, from encounters in Japan or China: a tricolor of orange, white, and blue, with interlocking letters at its center. VOC.
Closer the ships come. You will note - as will the residents of Busan - that the frigates keep their gun ports closed. The ships approach slowly, too: reefing topsails and topgallants, tacking gradually toward the docks of Busan under mainsails alone. Their behavior, in short, is deliberately - even theatrically - nonthreatening. They could not possibly be mistaken for pirates.
As the ships near the harbor, the men aboard them come into clear view. They are a motley crew. There are Malays and Javanese, Chinese and Siamese, Tamils and Arabs. They fly up and down the ships' soaring rigging as if they had been born on a topmast yard. Among them are a few white men, too - but mostly, those stand on the quarterdeck of each ship, studying the Busan waterfront through ornate brass spyglasses. The staid black vestments of Holland are a world behind them, and these men wear considerably more practical and personalized attire: leather coats, canvas boat cloaks, battered broad-brimmed hats with brightly colored feathers. All carry swords; most carry two or three pistols thrust through a broad belt or sash. As more and more sails are reefed in, there is less and less work to be done in the topyards, and the sailors descend to join the Dutch officers: a crowd of men from three continents, all lining the starboard rail to squint at the Busan harbor - and at the people who are gathering there to squint back.
At length, one of the officers - a very big man, six feet tall and powerfully built - makes his way to the fo'c'sle rail. He consults for several moments with the man next to him: a lean Japanese sailor with a samurai's topknot, who gestures emphatically as he speaks to the Dutchman. Then the big captain raises a brass speaking trumpet, and aims it at the harbor, and speaks in quite fluent Cantonese - a trade language understood all along this coast of East Asia.
"Good morning! Hail and well met to the great city of Busan. I am called Philip de Vries, and I represent the States-General of the Netherlands." Though these are the first Dutch ships Busan has seen, they are not the first Dutch ships it has heard of: the traders of this city have crossed paths with the East India Company many times, from the docks of Nagasaki to the bazaars of Ayutthaya. There are men on these docks who will recognize Vries' introduction.
The captain sucks in a deep breath, and continues at the top of his lungs. "We would fain be friends of Joseon, and of the Emperor, long may he reign. We bring gifts for his Imperial Majesty, and we offer the friendship of our country. We come in peace, hoping only for trade upon terms of freedom and fairness." Vries pauses. "May we have permission to dock?"
* * *
But the resolution of that scene is a story for another day. For now, come away: let the chilly waters of Busan harbor fall away, and fly with me the many thousands of leagues back - back over tundra and taiga and steppe and sea - back to the Hague, and to a familiar, tidy, whitewashed room. It is the parlor of Johan van Oldenbarnevelt, where the Pensionary of Holland sits with yet another letter in his hand: alone beneath his window, so that the afternoon sun can illuminate the writing and ease his old eyes.
The letter is from Willem Janszoon: that dashing explorer whom we last met in the act of presenting the States-General with a koala bear. It is a report, full of place names that you will not recognize - because in the times you know, these places have other names. Names like Sydney, instead of New Ostend; Brisbane, instead of New Dunkirk; and Australia, instead of New Flanders.
A confusing letter, then, as much for us as for Oldenbarnevelt. Still, it is worth a look. Let's peek over the Pensionary's shoulder, and read along.
VEREENIGDE OOSTINIDISCHE COMPAGNIE
New Ostend
April 1618
To the Pensionary of Holland, Heer Johan van Oldenbarnevelt, dear sir:
I write to inform you as to the progress of the expedition to Terra Australis that their Lordships the States-General have so wisely commanded. I am pleased to report the establishment of two forts and trading posts upon the coast of that strange and distant land, and the discovery of a number of useful and beneficial resources - including, most notably, gold.
Upon receiving the orders of the States-General, I proceeded immediately to Batavia, where I communicated the command of the States-General to the officials of the East India Company, and presented my commission pro tempore to Captain Vingboons of the States Navy Marines. With Captain Vingboon's two hundred Marines, and four ships crewed by some twelve hundred Company men, I sailed for that bay on the northern coast of Terra Australis where I had previously found a promising estuary.
Unfortunately, I found the River Maire entirely dry. (I trust you will not inform the Governor-General that the river I named for him apparently only flows for a few months out of the year.) Being well-stocked with supplies and fresh water, I opted to continue along the coast of the continent, seeking fairer harbors, but for several months I observed only league after league of desolate brush or low, stinking jungle. At length, the coast began to turn away toward the south, and I followed it into more temperate climes, where I finally discovered a fair harbor: admittedly filled with sandbanks, but capable of navigation by a shallow-draught fluyt, and exceptionally rich in fish, lobsters, oysters, and sea life of all kinds. The coast beyond was temperate, and the bay was fed by a beautiful river that provided abundant fresh water.
Observing the plenitude of necessities, I made land and replenished my supplies. At that time, I also planted the flag of the Republic and named Terra Australis as New Flanders, in honor of that county's valiant defiance of the Emperor's legions during the late war. Over the course of a week, my men constructed a fort suitable for the use of about five hundred persons, from which site I write you this letter. I have named it New Dunkirk.
When we had finished construction of the fort, my second-in-command - a young man named Anthony van Diemen, whom I commend to the attention of the States-General - continued south along the coast with two ships. About 450 miles further down the coast, he discovered a much more magnificent bay: a natural deepwater harbor reaching ten miles into the heart of New Flanders, interrupted by dozens of splendid headlands that create hundreds of sheltered coves. It is the most magnificent shipyard that Providence ever yet crafted for the use of man. Captain van Diemen made landfall there, and established a second fort, which he titled New Ostend. We have been pleased to claim all the land between these two points for your lordships of the States-General.
Our progress has, of course, not been altogether smooth. This land, like most, is inhabited. Its people are as dark as Africans and entirely naked, and use spears tipped with stone - for they have not discovered even the bow and arrow. Despite their primitive arms, they are not at all pacific. When we commenced fishing at New Dunkirk, hunting at New Ostend, and taking on water at both forts, the natives responded first with loud shouts of indignation and then with hurled spears. Fortunately, their weapons could not pierce our armor, and we repelled their attacks with no loss of life - though we made great execution upon the enemy. We have captured two of the wounded natives, and have begun to teach them our language and to learn theirs in return. This process is slow so far, but progress is being made.
The land itself is strange - most unfriendly - perhaps cursed. There are more variations of snake, spider, scorpion, beetle, fly, bat, and centipede than I have ever seen. My men dare not venture to the privy without at least half-armor for fear of everything that bites, stings, or poisons in the night. I cannot blame the natives for their primitiveness, if they are obliged thus daily to struggle for survival against the very Devil's menagerie. But a few of this land's wonders are less obnoxious. Your lordships of the States-General will recall that I presented you upon my last visit with a small mammal that ate only a particular leaf. We have learned from our native prisoners that this leaf has remarkable properties as an antiseptic and an insect repellant: the indigenes grind it and smear it upon wounds or skin, to promote healing and repel flies. When boiled and distilled, these properties are increased most wondrously. I have sent a crate of this "eucalyptus" along with this letter, and commend it to your lordships' use in our colonies at the Orinoco Delta and along the African coast. It may prove a potent weapon against mosquitoes, and the quartern fever that they carry.
But our most important discovery here has been less wonderful and more lucrative. I can inform your lordships without doubt that there is gold in this country. Flecks of it are clearly visible along the stream-banks above New Ostend, presumably borne downriver from some richer lode up country. On a scouting expedition southwest of New Dunkirk, I discovered a rubble field of geodes, one of which held four ounces of gold embedded within its quartz. This discovery, too, I have dispatched along with this letter. The consensus of the Company prospectors and natural philosophers is that these finds cannot have been anomalies: not when we discovered them so soon after landfall, and several hundred miles apart. We have great confidence that in the dry badlands to our west, perhaps 100 miles from the coast, a fortune in gold waits - undisturbed by the natives or by any other human hand since the very foundation of the Earth.
To that end, I have begun preparing an expedition in force, and have sought more Marines and prospecting supplies from Batavia. I beseech the States-General's support for this venture, already well-begun and abundantly rewarded, in the form of a dedicated supply line from Batavia to New Ostend; I calculate that seven fluyts would be enough to meet the present needs of both forts on an indefinite basis. I also commend to your lordships' consideration my view that this country will, in the end, require a substantial population of European settlers. The natives have no use for gold and no skill at mining it, and so trade with them will not answer. Unlocking the treasures of this land will only be possible with Dutch miners and Dutch engineers. If the Company can recruit such men for market wages, so much the better; but if the States-General see fit to send a contingent of the States Army to assist our mining operations, I can assure your lordships that the investment will prove wise.
For my part, I will remain in New Flanders, dividing my time between New Dunkirk and New Ostend, until such time as our operations here are well-established and our connection to Batavia is secure. In your lordships' hands I leave the future of this most strange and promising land, whose vastness fills me with a thrill of hope such as I have never known.
Your most obdt. servant,
W. Janszoon
* * *
Johan van Oldenbarnevelt reads Janszoon's letter only once. He does not properly understand its significance - but how could he? Unlike you and me, he is a prisoner of his own time and place. And at this moment, he has bigger things to worry about, and even the news that Willem Janszoon has literally struck gold does not merit a second reading. Oldenbarnevelt has to be at the Ridderzaal, and he has to be there now. He grabs his hat and hurries out his front door and rushes toward the medieval stone hall, sweltering in his black wool beneath the summer sun.
They are already shouting when he arrives. Pieter Memling's tart, acid tones are mostly being drowned out by the stentorian bellow of Gerrit Reinders, the leader of the Oostfreesland delegation. "Good God, sir!" Reinders thunders. "Have you not read the damned thing? 'Henceforth, the punishment for Heresy against the Church shall solely be death by burning.' Solely!" Reinders waves an arm. He's a big man, with perpetual salt-and-pepper stubble and a yoke of muscle across his shoulders; he bears an ironic resemblance to Philip de Vries, who even now is shouting too, a world away in Joseon.
Oldenbarnevelt lowers himself carefully into his high-backed chair at the table reserved for the Council of State. "You are too hot, Heer Reinders," the old man warns. He is right; Memling's Watergeuzen and Reinders' Gelovigen have always had their differences, but the two factions have been scrupulously respectful in the past. Without a Prince of Orange to mediate, all the Republic's leaders understand that their system of government requires a minimum level of comity. Or at least they used to understand that; now Memling's knuckles are tapping the council table in a drumbeat of repressed fury, and Reinders' face is flushed with rage.
Sure enough, Reinders rounds on Oldenbarnevelt. "With all respect to the Pensionary of Holland," he snaps, "I am not nearly hot enough. My lords, we know what this edict portends. We know because we have seen it ourselves, in our own lifetimes. The Inquisition!" Dozens of the older delegates recoil at once, flinching at the word alone. Reinders nods grimly. "Aye, we know what it looks like when the Emperor in Vienna chooses to send men to the stake. We know the heat of the flames on our faces as we were made to watch. We know the sound of it - the way a man screams until his voice shatters. We know the smell of it - "
"Good God, sir!" Memling cries. "Control yourself. We are concerned here with affairs of state - "
"We are concerned here with lives, Heer Memling!" Reinders' bellow echoes from the ancient rafters, and stirs the banners that hang from them. "Lives! The lives of men and women - aye, women too, or do you think that the Emperor has suddenly learned chivalry after he burned our wives and mothers for heresy and witchcraft? Lives, Heer Memling, the lives of men and women who share our faith and cheered our fight for freedom. Do you imagine that you are so far from Germany, in your Antwerp counting-house, that you will not smell the greasy smoke of our brothers being burned? Because in Oldenburg, we know that we are not."
"My loyalty is to my country," Memling snaps back. "To the United States of the Netherlands. To the Republic. And I will bear whatever stench I must in order to ensure this country's prosperity and peace and survival" - many of the Gelovigen are exclaiming now, trying to interrupt, and Memling's voice grows shrill and whip-sharp as he shouts over them - "Yes, Heer Reinders, survival - or would you rather Austria's armies ravage this country again, and the Inquisition rebuild its pyres in our cities? Is that the price of your Protestant solidarity with foreigners - with strangers? The ruin of our prosperity and the destruction of our Republic?"
"Then what would you have us do - you and your pirates?" The original Watergeuzen were privateers during the Dutch Revolt, and Memling and his faction have adopted their name with pride. Now, Reinders throws the word's origins in Memling's face. "Line our coffers, pray for the Saxons and Bohemians, and watch as they are massacred?" Renders leans forward. "And what then, Heer Chairman? When the Emperor reigns supreme over all Germany, and the Scandinavians are driven back to their barren homelands, and the whole continent of Europe has been divided between Austrian fanatics and Gaulish pagans, and we are surrounded on all sides by forty million foes - what then will you propose? Will trade and neutrality save our Republic then?" Reinders shakes his head. "I tell you, Heer Chairman: in the name of evading slavery, you would assure it. If we do not stand by our friends now, in the end we will have no friends left to stand by us."
Memling sucks in a breath, but says nothing. Because the truth, of course, is that Reinders is right. Transparently, unavoidably right. In the long silence that follows, a few of Memling's supporters have their heads in their hands. So many of the men in this room had prayed this day would never come, prayed that this terrible choice would pass them by. Today, they are facing the truth: those prayers are unanswered. Look at Pieter Memling's eyes. You can see the panic of a cornered animal.
Johan van Oldenbarnevent stands: hands planted on the tabletop, forcing his arthritic knees to hold him. You have observed him for a long time, and you know his mind: he is thinking of the Porcellis seascape on his parlor wall. The storm has come at last.
"The Scandinavian principalities within the Empire have invited the Protestant princes to gather in Stralsund," Oldenbarnevelt says quietly. "So I am reliably informed by the Committee of Safety, in any case. I move that we send Captain-General Dortsman as an emissary and advisor to those proceedings. By consensus?"
This is a minor concession, and Dortsman is not a follower of either faction. He was one of the prince's men, back when there was a prince. Memling does not object; neither do any of his supporters.
"Hearing no objection, the motion carries." Oldenbarnevelt clears his throat. "For now, I suggest that each man here write to the States of his province. When this council in Stralsund is over, Heer Dortsman will likely return with a list of aid that the Protestant princes seek from us. The provincial States must give their delegations to this assembly clear instructions; they must tell us what kinds of aid to give, and how much of it." Oldenbarnevelt looks between Memling and Reinders. "Because however strong our own feelings on this issue, mijn heeren, we sit in this hall only as representatives of our respective States. It is they, and not we, who must make the final decision."
Memling and Reinders both nod. The tension in the room begins to relax. Oldenbarnevelt takes a deep breath, and lays a steadying hand on Memling's arm. "However," he intones solemnly, "I must in good conscience say: while Heer Reinders burns too hot, he is not wrong. Not about this." Watch carefully: Memling's arm stiffens under Oldenbarnevelt's hand, but he does not interrupt. The Grand Pensionary continues: "The Republic cannot stand alone. We cannot allow the Emperor to destroy our allies and leave us isolated. On this, the imperatives of prosperity, security, and the Reformed faith all align." Oldenbarnevelt looks around the room. "We are the leaders of our country, my lords. Each man here must make the States of his province understand the stakes of this moment. When Heer Dortsman returns, I expect all ten of the provincial States to authorize all the support that could reasonably be required to ensure the survival of the Protestant princes of the Empire."
Memling abruptly sits down. Oldenbarnevelt gently pats his shoulder. "This course is not without expense," he says - to Memling and to the States-General, both at once. "Nor without risk. But to do aught else is slow and certain death. It is now our task, my lords, to convey that truth to the provincial States. Before it is too late."
A long, leaden silence follows. Gerrit Reinders has the good grace to look chastened rather than triumphant. But when the silence grows intolerable, he stands. "My thanks to the Pensionary of Holland," Reinders says quietly, "for his courage and his wisdom. He has led us through one war already. God grant that he will not be called upon to do the same again."
Oldenbarnevelt nods. "Amen," says Memling quietly. But in this cavernous, silent room, Memling's hope rings terribly hollow.
