Chapter 2: The Expedition – 1701–1702
The spring of 1701 brought fair winds and high hopes. Three ships lay anchored off Texel: De Hoop, a sturdy fluyt of four hundred tons laden with timber, seed, and livestock; Zeelandia, a former man‑of‑war bristling with cannon; and Margaretha, a nimble frigate named for Cornelius's wife, which would serve as Johan's flagship.
Johan Van der Berg stood on the quarterdeck of Margaretha, watching the last crates of supplies swung into the hold. Beside him, a tall, blond Swede named Magnus Eriksson leaned against the rail, a map of the island pinned under his arm. Magnus had worked in the forests of Dalarna and had come to Amsterdam seeking new horizons.
"You are certain of the forests?" Johan asked. "My father's entire plan rests on timber."
Magnus tapped the map with a calloused finger. "The Portuguese records speak of teak as tall as masts, stands that stretch for days. If half of what they wrote is true, we can build a fleet that will make the Dutch jealous."
From the gangplank came a voice heavy with a German accent. "And if half of what they wrote is false, we will be building coffins instead of ships."
Dr. Ernst Weber, the ship's surgeon, climbed aboard with a satchel of medicines. His face was weathered from service in the Swedish army, but his eyes held a scholar's curiosity. He had studied at Leiden and had written a treatise on tropical fevers—though he had never seen the tropics.
"I have studied the accounts of fevers in the East Indies," Weber said. "Men die like flies in the first year. The heat rots the body, and the water breeds sickness."
"Then we will need you to keep them alive," Johan said. "My father chose you for a reason."
Weber grunted. "He chose me because no one else would go to a place they call the 'Green Hell.'" He gestured to the other passengers on the dock—farmers from Groningen, carpenters from Hamburg, a Huguenot vintner from the Rhône, a blacksmith from Lübeck. "These people are brave or foolish. Perhaps both."
The last to board was Karl von Stauffen, a Swedish military engineer whose grey hair belied his iron frame. He carried a portfolio of drawings for fortifications. He had built walls for the Habsburgs against the Turk, and he had fought in the Thirty Years' War as a boy. Now he was old, but his hands were steady.
"I have built walls for kings who fell," von Stauffen said, his voice low. "Now I build walls for a Dutch merchant against the sea. The work is the same."
Johan nodded. "And when we arrive, we will need your walls."
The voyage took five months. Storms off the Cape of Good Hope scattered the ships; scurvy claimed a dozen settlers. Dr. Weber brewed infusions of pine needles and citrus, but the sailors still grew weak. Johan spent hours on the deck, staring at the horizon, wondering if his father's dream was madness.
One evening, Magnus Eriksson joined him. "Do you regret it?" the Swede asked.
Johan shook his head. "My father said that a man who never risks anything never gains anything. I will not be that man."
On a morning in September 1702, they sighted land. The lookout cried, "Land ho!" and the crew rushed to the rails. Below lay a bay of turquoise water, sheltered by green headlands. The jungle rose in layers of emerald, mahogany, and gold. A river of fresh water emptied into the sea, its banks lined with palms.
Magnus Eriksson gripped the rail. "This is it. The Portuguese called it Baía da Esperança—Bay of Hope."
Karl von Stauffen pointed to the headland on the southern side. "There. We build the fort there. It commands the entire harbour. No ship can enter without our permission."
As they rowed ashore, Dr. Weber knelt on the sand, scooping up a handful of dark earth. He let it run through his fingers. "Black," he murmured. "Rich. My father was a farmer. He would weep to see this."
Johan drove a stake into the sand. "In the name of Cornelius Van der Berg and his descendants, I claim this land. We will call it Stadthaven—Town Harbour."
The settlers cheered, their voices echoing off the jungle. Magnus Eriksson laughed. "A town without walls? Let us hope the name is prophecy."
That night, they lit a bonfire on the beach and sang old songs. Johan stood apart, looking at the stars. He thought of his mother, Margaretha, who had kissed him goodbye in Amsterdam. He thought of his father, who had risked everything. And he thought of the island—wild, vast, and waiting.