The Sale – 1700
Amsterdam, February 1700. The Herengracht glittered under a thin winter sun, but inside the tall brick house of Cornelius Van der Berg, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax, old books, and ambition. Cornelius stood before a carved oak desk, his fingers resting on a parchment that bore the seal of the Dutch East India Company—the VOC, the most powerful corporation the world had ever seen. His wife Margaretha sat by the window, her embroidery untouched, her eyes fixed on her husband. Their eldest son Johan, twenty years old and eager for adventure, paced behind his father.
"You are certain?" Margaretha asked quietly, her voice carrying the weight of thirty years of marriage. "Twenty thousand guilders for a map with blank spaces?"
Cornelius turned. At fifty-seven, he was no longer a young merchant, but his face still held the sharp lines of a man who had built a fortune in Baltic grain and multiplied it in the spice trade. He had grown tired of being a junior partner to the VOC, that arrogant monopoly whose directors treated independent merchants as peasants. When the company announced it would auction off several "unprofitable" territories to cover its own corruption and mismanagement, Cornelius saw his chance.
"The VOC calls it a burden," he said, tapping the parchment. "I call it an opportunity. The island is larger than France and the German states combined. Its harbours can command the Indian Ocean."
Johan stopped pacing. "And if the French take it first? They have Mauritius. A fleet from there could reach this island in a week."
"They will not take it," Cornelius replied, "because they do not know what it is worth. I have studied every Portuguese sailor's log, every Jesuit report. The soil is black and rich. The forests are teak that can build a thousand ships. And there is something else." He lowered his voice, though they were alone. "A Portuguese trader who visited the eastern coast spoke of oil seeping from the ground, and silver that could be picked up from streambeds."
Before anyone could answer, a servant announced the arrival of Nicolaes Witsen, the mayor of Amsterdam and a director of the VOC. Witsen was a tall, thin man with a scholar's stoop and a merchant's eye. He entered without ceremony, his fur‑lined coat brushing the doorframe. Behind him came a clerk carrying a leather satchel.
"Van der Berg," Witsen said, removing his gloves. "I have read your proposal. The Heeren XVII find it… eccentric."
Cornelius gestured to a chair by the fire. "Eccentric? The company has administered Nieuw Vlaanderen for fifty years and done nothing. Now you ask me to pay for your neglect."
Witsen smiled thinly as he sat. "We prefer to call it 'divestment.' The island is unprofitable, the natives uncooperative, and we have the East Indies to manage." He accepted a glass of sherry from Margaretha. "But you are not buying merely an island, are you? You are buying a title."
"I am buying a future," Cornelius said. "For my family, and for any European who wishes to escape the endless wars of our continent."
Witsen studied him over the rim of his glass. "The States General will not recognise your sovereignty."
"They will if Britain does. And Britain will, for the right price." Cornelius opened a drawer and withdrew a second document. "I have already sounded out the English through a trusted intermediary. They would much prefer a friendly Dutch merchant controlling the central Indian Ocean than a French governor."
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Witsen's clerk shifted uncomfortably. Finally Witsen laughed, a dry sound like parchment crumpling. "Very well. The VOC will accept your twenty thousand guilders. But I warn you, Van der Berg—the sea is wide, and the island is wild. You may be buying a grave instead of a kingdom."
"That is a risk I am willing to take," Cornelius said, rising to shake his hand.
As Witsen departed, Margaretha set down her embroidery. "He is not wrong," she said softly. "The sea is wide. And you are not young."
Cornelius knelt beside her, taking her hands. They were cold, though the room was warm. "I am sending Johan with the first expedition. I will remain here to manage the bank. But I promise you, before I die, I will see our flag flying over a city on that island."
Johan stepped forward. "Father, I will not let you down."
Cornelius looked at his son—the boy who had once asked to see the world, now a man ready to claim it. "I know," he said. "You are my heir, and you will be a king."
That night, Cornelius wrote in his journal: I have sold my share in the Baltic trade. I have mortgaged the house. I have risked everything. But I have seen the maps, and I have dreamed the dreams. We will build a nation.