“Did you manage to hear about the letter sent about Pieter van der Meer?”
The speaker’s voice was very low, barely audible over the crackling fire in the small private study adjoining the directors’ quarters of the Oost-Indisch Huis. He leaned in close to his colleague, both of them ensconced in the typical gloom.
These men were not dressed in the finery of kings or noblemen; rather, their sober black attire belied their true merchant status. They were two of the highest-ranking members of the Heeren XVII, the seventeen director regents who wielded absolute authority over the vast empire that was the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC), or the Dutch East India Company.
As the flame flickered, casting dancing shadows across the worn pages of ledgers and the partially unfurled chart that lay between them, the first director leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he chose his words carefully.
“The second director, now puffing on his pipe, offered no response, yet the first director pressed on.
“The letter claimed that he had indeed accomplished it; he had built a vessel capable of… Reaching the far southern latitudes.” The first director’s words trembled as if he were revealing his own darkest sin, causing the second director to slowly turn his gaze upon him.
“I must confess, there’s something that’s been weighing on my mind of late,” he continued his voice growing slightly croaky. The second director leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished oak table, his gaze intent and focused.
“I…”
“That southern fool has accomplished nothing, and I cannot fathom what could have led you to believe in such success,” the second director interjected, a sharp laugh escaping him as he forcefully set aside his pipe stem. “What on Earth possessed you to entertain such an idea?”
“The letter…”
“It’s irrelevant; it’s just another fabrication, delusion, or mere rumor. He squandered all his money attempting to build a fleet, and in the end, he’ll be no more than a destitute street vagrant. If anything, he’s merely trying to…”
“The letter insisted categorically that Pieter van der Meer had indeed achieved the feat; one of his ships had sailed to the southern latitudes and returned.”
The second director’s lips curved upward in an odd, almost poetically malicious smirk.
“With a whole pile of gold, I’m sure,” The second director scoffed. “And what proof do we have? Charts, samples, or just his say-so? What does it matter? It could just be a fluke. He’ll make no money on these ships; who wishes to sail south? There’s no profit in that endeavor.”
“This isn’t about money!” The first director interjected, his voice pitching slightly higher under the weight of the growing suspicion surrounding van der Meer.
“No, this is all about money.” The second director insisted, that knowing smirk returning to his face. He then seemed to truly notice the first director, perhaps for the very first time.
“Unless you’re telling me that you actually believe in these fools’ gambit that there’s land beyond New Holland, that they’ve found Australis?” the second director asked, his voice dripping with unhidden skepticism.
“I’m merely suggesting that a man who spent a decade and his entire fortune constructing such an elaborate venture might not be entirely delusional, even if we’re judging him from it from afar.”
“Yes, or perhaps he is a complete madman, driven to insanity by the scorching heat and tropical diseases. Those around him, seeking only his fortune, built ships at his behest, sent them away, and let him believe in his delusion. This is precisely why we are sitting here; to prevent falling prey to such schemes.”
“But…”
“I do not wish to hear another word about these fanciful southern lands, magical realms, or tales of purple stars and persistent rumors. Frankly, it is wasteful speculation contrary to God’s providence.”
Silence enveloped them once more.
Then…
“The letter suggests that Reyniersz himself is quite taken with these findings.” The first director remarked, almost as an enticing aside.
The second director scoffed, smacking his lips together.
“Well, perhaps we should send someone else down there to keep an eye on things.” He suggested.
“The Governor-General wouldn’t show genuine interest without good reason.” the first director countered.
The second director found himself at a loss for words, but his emotions were plainly visible.
“Okay… even if it is true,” The second director insisted, “What does it matter? The sheer cost of constructing an entire new fleet based on der Meer’s designs, transporting goods back and forth, and then sailing all the way from the Indies; it would be prohibitively expensive… and even if it were possible,” he continued before the first director could respond, “And let us assume there are indeed vast lands waiting for us in the south. Look at New Holland and New Zealand: great lands with no potential. Who is to say that this newly discovered land has any actual value? We are not the English, Spanish, or Portuguese; we are not in this to seize land. We are here to make a profit, as I’m sure you’re well aware, given your position on this council. So, why are we even discussing this? At best, perhaps we could barter this information to another power and let them do the heavy lifting. Let them establish colonies and create routes for us to exploit. Therefore, once more, I don’t care what der Meer has accomplished; we’re squandering time and money discussing this.”