The Sea and the Rope

The Life of Privateer Captain Springorum

Childhood in Henrichenburg

The village of Henrichenburg lay scattered like a handful of houses along the road, with fields that in summer rolled like waves and in winter lay black and hard. There, on August 8, 1742, a boy was baptized with the names Josephus Bernhardus; at home they called him Barend. In the stone basin of the font, drops caught the light. The priest spoke in Latin, the godparents bowed their heads, and someone quietly closed the church door against the draft.

8 Augusti 1742 — Josephus Bernhardus, son of Johann Joseph Springorum and Anna Maria Strotmans; godparents: Johannes Henricus Springorum and Helena Herdinck.

Barend grew up between plough and church door, and at the same time between letters. In his family there was the firm belief that a man needed two hands: one for work, one for writing. As the day fell low and the lamp was lit, Barend and his elder brother Willem practiced loops and firm strokes on scraps of paper. Willem had a steady hand, as straight as a dike; Barend wrote more swiftly, with little flourishes that seemed to want one more breath.

The land was generous and cruel at once. A heavy summer could bow the grain beneath the scythe; a wet autumn could rot everything before your eyes. In the tavern men sighed over rent and tax, over cows that calved or failed. Barend heard it all and thought: here I will grow old if I do not move. Willem thought the same, but where Barend looked to the horizon, Willem looked to a book. “He who counts,” he said, “carries less.”

At the edge of their world lay Amsterdam. The word rolled through the village like a coin across a table: they spoke of masts that touched the sky, of spices whose scents spread like dreams, and of men who returned rich or not at all. Barend traced the shape of a ship in the air; Willem counted wages, costs, and profit on his fingers. They were often silent, but when they spoke it sounded like one decision: to go together, not later, but as soon as possible.

The winter that followed their decision was harsh. Water crept into the seams, bread was gone by week’s end, and the air above the fields seemed made of iron. In that cold they resolved to leave. Their mother smoothed each head of hair; their father gave a short nod — he knew hunger, and that a son cannot live on loyalty alone. Barend folded the paper with his name into his pouch. Willem slipped in a stub of pencil. Then they set out, two shadows long in the low sun.

To Amsterdam and the VOC (ca. 1762–1764)

The road west was dusty in spring and sticky in rain. Barend and Willem followed the Lippe, crossed the Rhine by ferry, slept in barns or paid a penny for straw. At night they spoke softly: of work, of letters, of what a man is worth when he has both name and hand. “You will sit at a desk,” teased Barend. “You at sea,” laughed Willem in return. It sounded like a wager no one wanted to win.

Amsterdam was another world: canals, warehouses like brick fortresses, cranes groaning, air smelling of pitch and tar. In the harbor lay the ships of the Dutch East India Company, with masts like forests without leaves. On the quay stood recruiters with heavy registers. They spoke quickly and warmly, counted advances, pointed to pay, held out a letter of marque as if it were a promise of rescue.

Willem found work with paper. His neat hand and calm voice suited a merchant who needed someone to write accounts and list goods. Barend meanwhile listened to the recruiters and felt the sea stir behind his ribs. A man with a leather cape over his shoulder tapped the register. “Name,” he said. Barend breathed in and wrote it himself, without a cross, without help:

Josephus Bernhardus Springorum

“Strong?” — “Yes.” “Healthy?” — “Yes.” “Courage?” — A moment’s pause. “Yes.”

So Barend became a sailor. He signed for sea and salt and the uncertainty between them. He would not see the East at once; first he would learn the West: French Guinea, Suriname, and between them the silence of an ocean that refused to move. Willem watched him from the quay and raised a hand with more blessing than words.

Barend stepped aboard with a linen bag, a spare shirt, and a small bundle of paper and pencil. “Write,” Willem had said. “Even when there is nothing to say. Especially then. The world grows larger when you set it down.” Barend nodded. He knew that words were sometimes a rope — to hold fast when the water runs too deep.

The Nijenburg, the Long Calm and Paramaribo (1764)

When Barend boarded the Nijenburg at French Guinea, the storm of mutiny had just subsided. He had not taken part himself, but he stepped onto a ship still tainted by revolt. The air was heavy, the officers spoke curtly, and some bunks remained empty. No one asked about the missing men. It was as if the deck itself still trembled with what had happened. The whispers reached him anyway: plans made in whispers at night, men dreaming of freedom or foolish riches, and then betrayal, chains, and death.

The passage to Suriname was a trial. For days the ocean gave no wind. The sails hung slack, the ship lay as if rooted in the water. Men fell ill, the drinking water tasted of barrel and rust, and each day seemed longer than the last. In the suffocating stillness, even strong men muttered to themselves, and others prayed aloud. The memory of mutiny shadowed every creak of the planks. Some swore the sea itself was waiting, punishing them with silence. Barend kept watch lists and rations, because he could write. That gave him work, but no rest: he felt the unease among the crew, as if beneath the silence whispers still passed.

At last the mouth of the Suriname River appeared, and relief spread. But the calm did not last. In Paramaribo came the order: all men on deck. None knew why, but the foreboding was dark. They were drawn up in ranks, hands at their sides, silent.

Then the prisoners came: seven men, emaciated and chained. They were the survivors of the mutiny, locked up since Guinea. An officer read the sentence: six to hang, one to the sword. The words fell heavy and cold upon the deck.

At the foremast the nooses already hung. One by one the men were led forward. Some cursed, others kept silent, but the end was the same: the creak of rope, the jerk of bodies, and the stillness after. The seventh knelt, the sword flashed down, and red blood stained the wood.

The commander spoke briefly: “This is the fate of mutineers. Let it be a mirror to you.”

Barend watched, his knees gave, but he did not close his eyes. He knew he would never forget this sight. That night he heard again and again the creak of rope. And he wrote a single line on a scrap of paper he kept in his pocket:

“The sea is not only wind and water. It is also rope.”

Privateering: The Spion, The Dolfijn, The Triton (1782)

It was the time of the Fourth Anglo-Dutch War. The great merchantmen remained in harbor, fearful of English men-of-war that patrolled the coasts. But the small, swift ships of the privateers put out to sea. They carried letters of marque, and with them both freedom and command: to seize enemy merchants as prize. It was war and commerce in one, and for many the only way to make a living.

In the summer of 1782 a small squadron sailed: The Spion, The Dolfijn, and The Triton. They were no mighty warships, but together they were formidable. The Dolfijn was sturdy and dependable, The Triton heavily armed, and The Spion — slender and agile — was the fastest of the three. On The Spion, Captain Jan Olhoff held command. He knew the wind, and the art of threatening without waste.

Barend sailed as prize master. His task was not helm or cannon, but the pen. He kept the papers, counted the casks, and would later testify before the notary. Yet he too stood on deck when the lookout cried: “Sail ho!”

On the horizon a lumbering merchant rose into view: the English John. Signal flags passed between the three privateers. The Triton and The Dolfijn would hold the rear, while The Spion, with her speed, gave chase. The men were silent. The sails were hoisted, the ropes drawn taut, and the ship surged forward. Water foamed at the bow, the masts groaned with strain.

Slowly The Spion closed in. The John was heavy-laden and could not escape. When the distance shrank, Olhoff gave the order. The cannons were run out, matches lit, but the volley was fired high, over the deck, striking nothing but nerves. It was enough. Everyone knew what it meant: resistance was useless.

The white flag rose. The English crew was disarmed and gathered. No man was killed, no man wounded. The power of speed and threat had won. The three privateers claimed the John and her cargo.

Later the English were set ashore. At low tide they were put upon a sandbank, from which they could wade to the coast. Rumors spread that this had been done within Danish waters, against the rules. But there were also testimonies that said the opposite: that the rules had been kept, and neutral ground chosen. Truth drifted like a piece of wood at sea, moved back and forth by the waves.

In Amsterdam all was recorded. On October 3, 1782, Barend stood before the notary. The deed spoke cool words, but behind each lay a summer of tension, wind, and threat:

On the 3rd of October 1782 appeared before me, Nicolaas Brahe, notary in Amsterdam, Barend Springorum, prize master, empowered to collect prize money for the sailor Barend Likman, serving aboard the privateer The Spion, which, together with The Dolfijn and The Triton, had taken the English ship The John as prize.

Barend signed, and with his hand confirmed that all had been done justly. For him this was the other side of the sea: not only rope and cannon, but also ink and seal. The prize was shared, each man his portion. None grew rich, but all knew justice had been done.

The John was only one of several. In that year The Spion, swift and relentless, collected six prizes in total. Each capture meant testimony, division of goods, disputes settled at the notary’s table. For Barend it meant the same routine repeated: chase, surrender, record, and write. The sea was danger, but also paperwork, and in the end a thin purse of coins that smelled of salt and sweat.

Willemina, Children and Loss (1779–1785)

Between voyages there was a street and a door that opened. On August 19, 1779, Barend married Willemina Altmans. She was small in stature, strong in back, and laughed as if she were always on the verge of bursting into song. Their room was narrow; the light came through a small window streaked with rain. On the table stood two pewter cups that did not match, and so looked right together.

They worked and saved. Barend sailed; Willemina kept the house. When he was ashore, they went together to the market and pretended the world was simple. Then came a child. Joanna, born April 2, 1783. Barend held her in his arms and felt something within shift, never to return to its old place.

A year later came Hendricus Bernardus (November 1784). The house smelled of soap and bread, and sometimes of tar when Barend hung his jacket too near the fire. In November 1785 Maria was born and died almost at once. A month later, in December 1785, Hendricus Bernardus too was gone. Two coffins small as boxes, two times walking behind something that would not return.

Barend wrote, because he could, and because words sometimes carry what is otherwise too heavy:

In this winter of the year 1785 we have given back two children to the Lord. We pray for strength and silence. — B. Springorum & W. Altmans.

He read it aloud. Willemina heard in the sound of his voice a bridge over water that could not be crossed. She laid her hand on the paper, not to read it, but to feel that it existed.

The Testament (1786) and Sickness

In 1786 the city grew stifling and the air heavy. Sickness moved about with no name needed to be known. Men coughed into linen, sweated against the window, prayed against the ceiling. Barend and Willemina felt the fever touch them like a hand that would not let go. In December they went to the notary. When you hear death speak behind the door, you want words ready on the table.

The deed was neat and hard at once:

On the 27th of December 1786 appeared before me, notary … Barend Springorum and Willemina Altmans, spouses, sickly yet of sound mind, declaring their last will … … that the survivor shall administer all for the good of the household; that debts shall be justly paid; that little Joanna shall be supported in all things by family and friends … Signed, B. Springorum — W. Altmans (with consent) — [Notary].

Afterwards it was cold, though fire burned. Outside it rained; the stones of the street turned black and slick. Barend raised his hand and looked at the ink under his nail. He thought of rope and pen, and how both chafe in the palm when held too long.

Death and Legacy (1787)

On January 5, 1787, Barend Springorum died, forty-four years old. In the register another line was added, the same black ink as for all. The notary shed no tear; he kept only certainty. Willemina sat at home at the table scarred by many years, laid her hand on his signature in the testament, and felt how paper can weigh heavier than wood.

They spoke of Barend at the quay as men speak of sailors: briefly and without flourish. He was that man who had boarded at Guinea and learned the silence of the ocean. He had seen the rope in Paramaribo and yet chosen again for rope and sail. He had, with The Spion, The Dolfijn and The Triton, brought in six prizes and later at the notary shared warm bread with cool words among men who would never be rich but wished to be counted.

What remained of him was paper and talk. Paper: the baptismal entry from Henrichenburg, the deed of October 3, 1782, the testament of December 27, 1786. Talk: stories at the table, told soft and crooked, with pauses in the right places. Someone said, “He was honest.” Another: “He could count down to the last penny.”

And because in Bochum we had already learned that fire devours not only houses but also documents, one must know that of Barend’s life much has vanished: logbooks, letters, scraps with sums or wishes — decayed, drowned, lost. What remains is enough to see him stand at rail and writing table, and to say: he was. For a man of sea and letters, that is much.