Joachim Morpurgo had been invited to the De Ledesmas, but had not been feeling himself the past two days and had therefore remained in bed. When they returned home later, could Rutger perhaps drop in at the teacher’s home and make an appointment with Joachim? For Joachim wanted to talk business with Rutger concerning the cost of slaves and cattle and in fact everything to do with running a plantation.
That afternoon, when the families began returning home after a busy day with much talking, eating and drinking, Abigail sat in the carriage on her father’s lap. She dozed off with a thumb in her mouth, but was wide awake once the carriage drew to a halt at the corner of the Heerenstraat and the Klipsteenstraat, where the house of the Portuguese-Jewish community’s teacher was situated. Rutger alighted, and the child stretched out her little arms:
“With papa, can I come with papa?”
With his daughter on his arm Rutger followed the Cohens into the house. The boys also wanted to get out, but Elza said, “No, you stay here. After all, there’s someone ill there, and he can certainly do without a lot of fuss and bother.”
A little later Rutger came outside. He held Abigail’s hand tightly and was pressing a handkerchief in front of her mouth. He was pale, and urged Elza, “Away: get away quickly. I’ll walk with Abigail. Have Maisa give the boys a hot bath. You too, quickly; oh dear, it’s terrible, it’s yellow fever.”
Elza was shocked: oh, no, not that dreaded disease! The carriage was already in motion, and a few seconds after they arrived home Rutger was there, too.
“Burn Abigail’s clothes, and mine! Quick! Have Maisa bath her, as hot as possible and with herbs, and everyone must take a draught of gin!”
Abigail began crying: did her pretty new dress really have to be burnt? And when she had to drink the gin, well, it was really no wonder that, after a day with so many different things to eat, the complete contents of that little stomach landed in Maisa’s skirt.
Rutger was extremely worried. He had got a shock as soon as he had stood at Joachim’s sick-bed with Abigail and with little Daniel Cohen on his father’s hand. He had recognized the symptoms immediately: blood-red lips and nostrils, bloodshot eyes. And Joachim could say nothing and could only groan. It was as if a kind of rumble was emerging from the depths of his very being. Yes, Rutger knew these symptoms all too well. He couldn’t get out of the room quickly enough, and blamed himself for having taken Abigail with him. Elza was also worried, especially after Abigail had been sick and had fallen asleep crying and complaining.
The next day, however, the child was running around as brightly as ever, and this put Elza’s mind at rest. Yellow fever was a most serious disease and Abigail had been inside there. But they had taken the right precautions. A few days later, however, the message arrived that Joachim Morpurgo had died, and that the Cohens’ youngest son, Daniel, was ill. In the Saramaccastraat, too, Jacob de Ledesma was ill, and it became apparent that the dreaded disease was affecting many families.
And so it was that one morning Abigail was listless. The same afternoon she was running a fever and was confined to bed. The dreaded symptoms were already apparent: the blood-red lips and nostrils, bloodshot eyes, pain all over her body. There was no known cure for this disease. Maisa made a bowl of tepid water containing some herbs to counter the fever. She sat by the child’s bed and wiped her face and body with a cloth. A cloth was also laid over her forehead and eyes.
“The other children mustn’t go into that room, Elza,” said Rutger anxiously. “Have just Afanaisa look after Charlotte and have her stay downstairs in the back room for the moment.”
The boys were warned not to go into Abigail’s room.
Elza paced nervously up and down in her daughter’s room. The child had high fever, was delirious, came to now and then, and cried. She wanted to say something, but could make no sound. It seemed as if a kind of groan emerged from deep inside that emaciated little body, and the next moment a thick, black-red liquid streamed from her mouth. Maisa held her upright for a short time. Elza had to help hold the child while Maisa changed the sheets and carefully cleaned the little girl. Then yet again that groan, moaning, convulsions. Elza could take no more of this. My God, why must her little girl suffer so? Looking at the child, she prayed silently, “God, may she get better. My Lord in Heaven, I pray you, I beg you, please let my child get better.”
But the next day brought no improvement. On the contrary, things were getting worse and the day after worse still. Maisa and Elza took it in turns to be at Abigail’s bedside. She hardly recognized anyone anymore. Now and then Rutger would come into the room, looking sadly at his little daughter, lying there helplessly in bed, fighting for breath. Then the message arrived from the Saramaccastraat that Jacob de Ledesma had died. Ezau and Joshua (one of the twins) were also ill, and the next day little Daniel Cohen died.