The Evening News. October 11, 1916.

15. The Death of Don Jose

Don Jose failed to salute the dawn. He was dying. Still young, still basking in the sun of life, unaware and unexpected, he was stricken by an unseen hand. Swift messengers sped to summon the good father at Santa Clara to shrive Don Jose's soul. Kneeling at the foot of the shrine in the old adobe, vainly the wife of Don Jose prayed for the coming of the father.

The father came, but all that remained of Don Jose was a chill body in the brown habit of Mount Carmel stretched out on the chamber floor, head resting on an adobe slab, eyes fixed on the shrine where a candle ever burned. Even the holy father was awed by Don Jose in his austere, penitential death. The proud Don had chosen the hard bed of the cross.

Out of the depths of despair the widow of Don Jose lamented. Without the last blessing and absolution her beloved had departed. The father gave her comfort. Don Jose had died a holy death. Scant need had he of priestly ministrtions. Don Jose was always prepared. For the happiness of the bereaved woman the father chanted "De Profundis." In the evening he joined the others in "Ave Maria."

In the morning the father said mass for the repose of Don Jose's soul. Soon assembled in the garden a throng of friends, kinsman, acolytes and holy men who on foot were to follow the remains of Don Jose through the little gardens of Milpitas into the great garden of wildflowers through which for three leagues they must journey to the grave at Santa Clara.

As the black cortege started, for the last time the Indians and the serving people look at Don Jose. Habited in brown, as he lay on his litter, now more than ever was he the beloved master of these humble people who lamented aloud their grief.

First went the cross bearer. Then followed the fathers in their white surplises and sombre garb. Next was the celebrant chanting the Office of that Dead. Then came Don Jose borne by four of his best beloved friends. Finally came the widow, the children, the kinsmen.

Some doubted that the widow could endure the fatigue of the pilgrimage, but bravely she tottered down the narrow, dusty road. Bravely she followed the trail across the blooming fields, through the forest of mustard, unknowing whether the sun shone, forgetting all except that the way was hard. The material world seemed so far away that she could hardly hear the priest's words, "Eternal Rest!" "Perpetual Light!" Always she looked down, saying Our Lady of the Rosary. Strong in the spirit, feeble in the flesh, she had no thought for rest when the procession paused by the roadside. "Eternal Rest!" "Perpetual Light!" For her there was neither rest nor light.

When the litter and the mourners passed through the unpaved streets of the Pueblo the people uncovered. As the litter was borne along the Alameda the throng increased. When the procession neared the Mission of Santa Clara, the bells tolled, but in the interlaced willows overhead the birds gladly sang. The louder tolled the bells the gladder was the song of the birds. When the chapel doors opened to receive the body of Don Jose the birds sang, and when the last prayer was spoken the birds sang, and when Don Jose was lowered into his grave the birds would not be silent. They knew that Don Jose had found Eternal Rest.

Transcribed by Claire Martin, for the Santa Clara Co. CAGenWeb Project. 2007

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