Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.

The Tempest
William Shakespere

Amsterdam, January 1632

The traveller brought a gust of winter in through the door with him, a howl of wind, a swirl of snow. He shrugged his shoulders and stamped his feet on the stone floor, grateful to be inside. The room was busy, thick with smoke and heavy with the scent of tobacco and beer. A fire crackled in the hearth beyond the crowded bench tables, where voices buzzed in conversation. A barmaid carrying a tray of foaming jars pushed between the drinkers. In a corner, a whore flashed her wares to a couple of drunken sailors.

“Welcome, sir. A room? A woman? Or just schnapps and beer?”

“A room for the night, if you please,” said the traveller, pulling off thick leather gloves.

“And a bitter night it is. The canals are all frozen and the cobbles might as well be ice.”

“Winter in Amsterdam can be bitter indeed,” said the landlord. He jerked his head at a hovering servant. “The maid will take you to your room upstairs. Then come down and share a beer, or eat a meal.”

His room arranged, mug of beer at his elbow, the traveller sat at the end of a bench and attacked a plate of steaming bean and onion soup. As his hunger abated, the formless noise of voices nearby coalesced into words.

“It must have been the Devil,” said a thickset fellow with a luxuriant moustache. “Hundreds foully murdered.”

“He didn’t do it by himself, though,” said the man opposite him. “He had plenty of helpers, I’ve heard. They say the Captain himself would have stolen his own ship if it hadn’t been wrecked.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it? He must have enchanted them. Or maybe they disturbed some evil spirit, out there in those heathen seas.”

“I heard there was a beautiful woman on the ship,” said another. He wiped beer froth from his lips. “Mayhap she was a sorceress. Like Circe.”

An older man down the end took his pipe out of his mouth and blew a plume of smoke through pursed lips. “Shouldn’t have women on a ship. That’ll be it, mark my words. Bad luck, that is. Well known fact.”

The thickset man drained his mug and rose to his feet. “Speaking of women, I’d best be off. She’ll be waiting and you know how that is.”

The traveller pushed his empty plate aside and grasped the man’s arm as he made to step past. “Excuse me, sir. This ship you’re talking about. What happened?”

“You’ve not heard? The doings with the Batavia? A bad business.” He shook his head. “A terrible business. I’d stay and tell you, but I dare not. I’m sure someone else will.”

But already the others were scraping back chairs, finding cloaks, slipping on gloves. One by one they ventured into the darkness, leaving an eddy of wind in the heavy air of the tavern. Only one man remained. He’d said nothing as the others talked, but the traveller had noticed the gleam in his eye as he sucked on his long pipe. Now, he sat staring at his mug.

“Do you know of this thing they were talking about? Batavia?” asked the traveller, slipping into the seat opposite him.

The man looked up. Flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows on a face past first youth, still handsome but weather-beaten. “And you do not? You’re the only man in Amsterdam who doesn’t.” His voice held a hint of amusement, or perhaps condescension. And something else. Sadness?

“I’m from Enschede,” said the traveller.

“Ah.” The man smiled. “A country lad. Well then, buy me a Genever to go with my beer, and I’ll tell you the story.”

The traveller waved a hand to summon the maid.

For a moment the man stared into the fire, dying down a little now, but deep red at its heart. “You’ve heard of Batavia? The city?” he asked at length.

“Yes. In the Indies, isn’t it? Is that where a ship was wrecked?”

The man grinned, the merest curve of his lips. “The ship was named after the city. The ship Bataviawas wrecked.”

“Oh.” The traveller sipped at his mug, feeling foolish. In the corner the whore helped her customer to unsteady feet and led him to the stairs. Their footsteps clattered on the wooden steps and a door closed. A log slipped in the fire, producing an ephemeral display of bright sparks.

“Have you ever sailed? Ever been on the high seas?”

“No. We keep cows.”

The man swallowed a long draught of beer. “Well, then,” he said as he put the tankard down, “let me explain a few things first.” He wetted his finger in the beer and drew an elongated triangle on the bench top. “This is Africa. And up here…” he drew a couple of sausage shapes just above and to the right of the top of the triangle, “is the Indies. From Table Bay—that’s here—the ships sail south and use the west winds and the currents to sail east until they’ve gone far enough to head north, up along the coast of the unknown South Land, here, to the Indies.”

A pause for another gulp of beer.