USA > California > San Mateo County > History of San Mateo County, California, including its geography, topography, geology, climatography, and description, together with an historical sketch of California; a record of the Mexican grants; the early history and settlement, compiled from the most authentic sources; some of the names of Spanish and American pioneers; legislative history; a record of its cities and towns; biographical sketches of representative men; etc., etc > Part 13
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The first white man, other than the Spaniards, who made what might be considered a permanent settlement in this part of the country, was William Smith, more commonly known as " Bill the Sawyer." He planted his domi- cile near where the town of Woodside now stands. At precisely what time he arrived on this coast, or what particular inducement brought him into the red- woods, no one now living can tell. The best authority on the subject, and the most definite statement, is his own story, to the effect that he came out to Astoria on one of the Pacific Fur Company's ships, and that when the British in 1816 supplanted the Americans there and drove them from the country, he came to California. Smith was an American, from one of the Eastern States, but from which one is not known. One fact is certain, he was a resident of the Pueblo de San Jose before the year 1833. He had married a Spanish lady, and when he was in the redwoods his eldest child was about a year old. He afterwards moved to a place north of the bay, where he died. His last resi- dence was in what is now Marin county. His children are now elderly people, and know comparatively little about the history of the old pioneer.
The next white settler after Smith, within the present county limits, was James Peace, who is now living, and still a resident of San Mateo county. Here his home has been continuously, ever since he drove the first nail in his original cabin. Peace is a descendant, on his father's side, from a native of bonnie Scotland. His father was Stewart Peace, and his mother's maiden name was Ellen Essen. She was a native of Denmark. James was born on one of the Orkney Islands, in 1798, consequently he is now about eighty-five years of age. His father was a fisherman, and owned a little fleet of small fishing craft. When about eleven years of age, James was seized with an irre- sistible desire to go to sea, but failing to get the permission of his parents, and meeting with only strenuous opposition in that direction, he determined to run away from home, and not a great while elapsed before he had an oppor- tunity afforded him for carrying out this design. A whaling vessel was about to sail from a neighboring port on a cruise to the northern ocean, for oil and whalebone. Young Peace left the parental roof without waiting to receive a blessing from father or mother, and hid himself away on board of the vessel the day before she was to sail. When she weighed anchor he was
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snugly stowed away in the locker, where he remained until the ship was one day out to sea. Then he crawled from his hiding place and exhibited himself to the captain, who had no alternative but to take the little fellow with him on the voyage. While they were on the whaling coast the ship was wrecked, and the whole crew lay on the ice for fourteen days before they were rescued. " Jimmy," as he is even now best known, was absent from home about nine months on this voyage. Shortly after his return he bound himself to a ship- owner named Popelwell, of North Shields, for a period of four years, and was a sailor on a vessel that was employed in trade between North Shields and London, England. After the expiration of his term of apprenticeship, he indentured himself for another period of four years on board of the ship Mountaineer, of Glascow, sailing from London to Calcutta. When his time was out, he was discharged at Liverpool, but shipped almost immediately, before the mast, for a ten month's voyage to the West Indies.
The roving disposition which had impelled him at the tender age of eleven years to leave home, father and mother, and all that was dear to him in child- hood, and choose the hard life of a seaman, now that he had nearly reached the age of twenty, filled him with a desire to see the new world. He, therefore, upon returning from the West Indies, signed articles for a voyage on the Hudson Bay Fur Company's ship Neriad for the Columbia river, Oregon, and left Liverpool in 1818. Nothing except what is usually incident to the passage around Cape Horn occurred until the ship arrived at Monterey on the coast of California. Here she put in for repairs. The next port she made was San Francisco, which was then but an embarcadero of the missions. The Neriad came to anchor under the brow of Telegraph Hill, almost where the sea-wall is built, in early days a considerable distance out in the stream. At that time there was not a habitation or a living soul about, except the Spaniards who lived around the Mission Dolores. During the passage up the coast, Peace had a difficulty with the captain and one of the mates of the ship, and he deter- mined to leave their service. One night, being on the first watch, he quietly lowered a boat at the fore of the vessel, and soon had let down into it all his earthly possessions. The relief watch came in due time, and the sailor who took Jimmy's place, luckily for him, fell asleep. Peace improved his opportunity, and dropping himself down into the small boat, rowed to the shore without having disturbed the slumbers of the watch on the deck. He got his things safely landed, and carried them to the highest point on Telegraph Hill-a designation given in later years to the then nameless little mountain-where he hid himself in the dense and tangled undergrowth. His hiding place was discovered by an old Spanish woman named Juanita Byeronlys, and although Peace could not understand a word of her language, he made her understand by signs that he had fled from the ship that was moored out in the stream, and that his chief anxiety then was not to be seen by any one who might be
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interested in getting him on board again. The woman regarded his wishes with prudent care, but supplied him with food and water. Jimmy's retreat gradually became known to others, who were in the habit of climbing to the hill-top to look out for vessels, or to enjoy the scenery, and among those who visited him were relatives of William Smith's wife. Some of these could speak a few words of English, and they gave Peace to understand that Smith was residing at the redwoods. The hiding place on Telegraph Hill was becoming too generally known for security so long as the Neriad remained in the harbor. He had been there now about six days, and he began to feel an apprehension that at any moment he might be surprised by his old officers and taken back to the ship as a deserter. In view of this possibility, he enlisted the good offices of his faithful friend, the Spanish woman who first discovered his hiding place, and through her traded some broadcloth for a pony. At his request. she took charge of his effects, and he set out in the direction that had been indicated to him to find Smith, a man who at least spoke his own language. The route was not an easy one to follow; roads, there were none; trails ran in every direction, and at the close of the first day's travel, Peace found himself among the timber on the coast range. The forests were full of grizzly bears and other wild animals, and it required no little amount of courage for one unaccustomed to the wilds of a new country to face the dangers that existed all around him here, with no companion save his little Mexican pony. Peace wandered for four days through the mountains-sometimes scaling a ridge, sometimes threading through a wild and almost inaccessible canon-making a zig-zag journey, back and forth, between the ocean and bay, before he found Smith's camp. The principal edifice liere was Smith's residence-a shake shanty which stood near where Mr. Copinger afterward built his adobe house. Jimmy took up his abode with Smith, and worked a year with him; then he put up a shake house for himself near that of Smith. When Peace first came to the redwoods, there was no white man, save Smith, in the vicinity. He distinctly remembers John Gilroy, then living at San Ysidro, and Robert Livermore, who lived at San José from 1816 to 1820.
Here, then, among the Indians, this sailor made his home, and being skillful with tools, the Fathers at Santa Clara Mission placed under his charge a large number of the native tribe that occupied this part of the country. He instructed them in the use of such tools as they had, and taught them the art of squaring timber before placing it over the pit to be sawed. The plows used in those days were modeled as described in the first part of this chapter, and the improvements Peace made in this important implement of agriculture so pleased the Fathers, that they employed him to superintend the construction of several of their primitive wagons. Although retaining most of the anatomical components, so to speak, of the Spanish carreta, the wheels being sawed off the end of a redwood log, and bored through the middle for the axletree to
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enter, these vehicles produced by Peace were considerably lighter than those the Fathers had before, though equally strong. Peace continued his home here for years without experiencing anything to seriously disturb the peaceful flow of events that made up the daily history of his life. At length, an event occurred which for the time made it a serious question with him as to whether his enjoyment of personal liberty and even his life itself was not about to be terminated. In the year 1840, he, with some other foreigners, and about forty Americans, were seized by the Mexican authorities, put in irons, and sent on the bark Gobernador Gurpuzcoarna, Captain Snooks, to San Blas, as prisoners. From San Blas they were taken to Tepic, where, through some instrumentality, they were released, and Jimmy found his way back to his old home and wards in the redwoods. In 1847, about the close of the Mexican war, he removed to Half Moon Bay, and on an election day in 1849 he raised the first American flag at that settlement. He obtained the flag from Dr. Tripp, at Woodside, and still has it in his possession, but like all other relics of its kind, it bears strongly the marks of having seen its best days. Naturally and properly, Peace cher- ishes it as a sacred memento of the past. In 1835 he married Guadalupe, daughter of Pedro Valencia, and by her has two sons now living-James and Antonio-the elder of whom is now over forty-three years old.
Many years ago Peace possessed a considerable amount of property, but it has all passed out of his hands, and his only wealth now consists of a fishing boat and its unimportant equipment. The boat was built at San Mateo, on Mr. Howard's land, a fact that has no significance except that the only piece of property he can now call his own was constructed so near the spot where sixty years ago he erected his cabin and started to work, with his spirits buoy- ant in the prospect of being some day the proprietor of a lordly manor, where he could end his days in ease and peace. His little boat cruises the bay, and his experienced hand guides the helm. He sets his nets for fish, and dig's clams from the mud flats, and thus in the sere and yellow leaf, he earns a sub- sistence. Jimmy is a slight-built man of medium height, light complexion, and like most bold, adventurous and honest spirits, he has grey eyes. But his form is bent with age, and it is altogether likely that before the sun shall have completed many more cycles, the now oldest surviving pioneer of San Mateo county will have gone to his rest.
The next to come and make a home for himself and those who follow him, was John Copinger, an Englishman, whose ancestors had done their country eminent service, both on the battle-fields and in the councils of the nation. He himself was a man of ability and learning. The date of his birth is not known, and of his early history but little is said. The following facts, how- ever, may be considered authentic: When young Copinger attained his majority, his mother secured for him by purchase-a method of obtaining military hon- ors not unknown in the old countries-a lieutenant's commission in the British
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naval service. Shortly after, while at the dinner-table on board of his vessel, a warm dispute arose between him and the commander, which culminated in Copinger throwing a glass tumbler at his superior officer. For this offense he was reduced to the ranks. The degradation was more than he could endure, and when a vessel to which he had been assigned as a private sailor came to this coast, he found and improved an opportunity for deserting her at Yerba Buena-now San Francisco-and made his way to the redwoods, where he joined James Peace and William Smith. Peace says Copinger came to their place in 1821, and there is still documentary evidence existing which shows that he was residing in the redwoods several years before 1831. It was here that he first became acquainted with his future wife, in 1827. In 1837 he tilled the soil for Señora Maria Antonia Mesa, widow of Rafael Soto, near the pres- ent site of Mayfield. The ground is now owned by Henry W. Seals. It was in this year that he married Maria Louisa Soto, who was the late Mrs. John Greer, and who died May 7th, 1883.
This lady was the daughter of Rafael Soto, the original owner of the Rin- conada del Arroyo de San Francisquito, and one of the very earliest settlers in the Pueblo de San Jose, where she was born in the year 1817. About the year 1827 she accompanied her father to the Martinez Rancho, in San Mateo county, and resided with him until he obtained the San Francisquito grant, in the year 1835. As this was the first marriage connected with this county, let us glance back at the merry-makings that then occurred. At an early hour of that bright and beautiful day two equestrians, mounted on a single horse, might have been seen threading their way through the mazes of brushwood en route to the Santa Clara Mission. These were a man and woman; he in the prime of life, she in the first blush of maidenhood. The sacred edifice attained, the two are joined in accordance with the holy Catholic faith; the ceremony ended, the faithful steed is once more mounted, and the newly-made man and wife, alone with their happiness, their love, their hopes and their fears, commence the journey of life. Arriving at the homestead, it is found that every preparation has been made for a wedding feast of more than ordinary grandeur; congratulations are showered in from every side; the guests bidden to the fete give way to joy and gayety unrestrained; to regale the inner man, a weighty beef has been roasted whole among the bright embers, which still smoulder at the bottom of the trench; viands are spread in prodigious profusion; the fiesta gives way to the dance, the dance to more feasting; day succeeds night, and still the joyousness continues until the third day is ended, when each returns to his home, carry- ing in his mind recollections which many years of the " whips and scorns of time " will leave unimpaired.
In the fall of 1837, Copinger and his wife moved in a small shake house at Woodside. In October, 1840, this primitive building gave way to an adobe
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dwelling, now standing, where the couple happily lived until the death of the husband.
Some years later, Mrs. Copinger married Captain J. Greer, and they moved within about a mile and a-half of Mayfield.
Let us go back forty-seven years, when this good lady lived with her first husband at what is now Woodside. Those residing there at that time were William Smith and wife, James Peace, and Charles Brown. The country was wild in the extreme; hill and valley were alike impenetrable; the lower grounds bore a crop of naught save chaparral and tangled undergrowth; trails were numerous, but ran in perplexing confusion; traveling was dangerous, for beasts of prey were plentiful, while all around bore evidence of impossible fertility. What, then, must have been thought of Mrs. Greer, who mounted her pony and alone rode to her father's ranch, made a visit, and on her return recounted to that little band of pioneers her narrow escape from some wild animals, or still wilder cattle, together with all the latest news from the Pueblo de San José. She lived, however, to see this howling wilderness reduced to a garden of beauty; to see the once sparsely settled country populated by thou- sands, and all but one of that little band laid in their graves.
Early in life she espoused the Catholic religion, and lived in accordance with its precepts, while her hospitality is still gratefully remembered by many a pioneer, and her memory is perpetuated in good deeds and kindly offices.
There is no doubt that Copinger determined that his people in England should always be ignorant of the exact place of his residence. About the year 1831 he wrote to his mother, stating that he had been employed at Monterey, California, and thereafter all letters from home were addressed to him at that place. The letter above referred to, however, was the last one he ever wrote to any of his family back there. His mother, still clinging to a shred of hope that she might one day again see her son, continued writing for several years, but receiving no reply, at last gave up hope of ever hearing any tidings of him. In the letters she wrote to her far, far-off son, this sorrowing mother poured out the anguish of her soul, her anxiety for his welfare. She implored him to write her a letter. The letters were received by Copinger, but he never replied to any of them. After the mother had ceased to hope, his brother Henry commenced to make diligent inquiry by letter.
The few facts above given are stated upon a perusal of the letters from Cop- inger's mother. The letters in themselves, in their entirety, would doubtless be interesting to the readers of these pages, but there is something in the out- pouring of a mother's grief-burdened soul, the welling up of sorrow from her broken heart, still clinging to a faint, lingering hope, with a tenacity stronger than the instinct to cling to life itself-something in all this too sacred to expose to the scrutiny of public curiosity. However, to give the reader an idea of the anxiety with which the mother and brother watched and waited to
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get even the slightest intelligence of him, one or two of his brother's letters are here reproduced :
" PORTSMOUTH, September 15th, 1842.
"MY DEAR JOHN: It has been a subject of great regret to me that I have never, since the year 1831, at Chatham, either heard from you, or seen any one who could give me the slightest information relative to your movements. I have since then been to India, and stayed there some time. I got on very well in health, and had good pay and a desirable situation there. I managed to acquire the language of the country, and by that means I attained the office of interpreter. I have now been at home one year, and during that time have made frequent application to different houses with a view of obtaining some information about you, but I have as yet learned nothing conclusive. The last time my mother heard from you, you stated that you had been employed in Monterey, in California. I send this to a friend in Liverpool, who says that he has sometimes opportunities of transmitting letters to those countries. I sincerely hope that it may reach you.
"I do not know that you are informed of all that has taken place in our family since my uncle Thomas' death. My aunt Mary is married to a Mr. Joy. My aunt Sarah is dead. My sister has now three children. I am a captain in the Sixteenth, the same regiment I was in when I saw you last at Chatham. It cost me money getting the promotion, but the situation and its emoluments amply repay me for the disbursement. If you write a letter and address it to me, Sixteenth Regiment, Portsmouth-if the letter arrives at any place in, England it will be sure to reach me, although I may have left Portsmouth- and I am sure I shall rejoice to hear from you, and if I can manage to find out any medium for our communciation together, I will write to you at length.
"In the meantime, believe me ever, your affectionate brother,
" HENRY COPINGER."
This letter was sealed in the old-fashioned way, with sealing wax, and directed to "John Copinger, Esq., Monterey, California." On the back is written: "Taken from the Monterey P. O. Oct. 12, '43," and signed with the initials " P. O. L."
" PORTSMOUTH, February 2d, 1843.
" MY DEAR JOHN: Many years have elapsed since we met, but I have never, during my long residence in India, for which country I started in 1831, and returned in 1842, or since my arrival at home, neglected any opportunity of making any inquiries which I could think of, to procure intelligence about you. We have now heard, through the medium of some influential people at the Foreign Office, that you are at San Francisco, Monterey, and I am rejoiced to hear that you are well and in comfortable circumstances. I have also to send my love to a new connection, Mrs. Copinger, your wife. I wrote about
arturop.
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three months ago to you, but fear the communication returned to Liverpool, to which place I sent my letter, and Monterey is very slow; so, perhaps, you may not as yet have received it. My mother, who was very well, thank God, when I saw her last, and I am happy to say yet continues so, writes to you, also, by this conveyance, and tells you of most of the events which have hap- pened in our family-some, alas, very sad ones. Do, my dear brother, write to her; let her know everything that relates to you. My sister Annie is also very well, and William Burgh and all his children. When I was at Paris, some months ago, my uncle and aunt Major, William Major, and his wife, spoke of you most affectionately. My other relations, Henry Major and his family, were all well when I was in Ireland last. His daughter Annie is mar- ried to a Dr. Moore; Jane to Mr. Halbert, a clergyman, and Isabella to Mr. Madden, a clergyman. Henry is at Liverpool, intending to be a merchant. Robert is in Trinity College. Poor Fanny Major, who was married to Captain Pajet, of the Seventh Regiment, died last year. She left one son. My dear John, I hope you are happy, and trust that such is the case from all that we hear. I am now much more comfortably situated than when I saw you last, being a captain in the Sixteenth Foot. If you will write to my mother, or to me, direct to Sir John Kirkland, 80 Pall Mall, London, and then the letters will be safe. I do very much wish to hear from you, and am extremely sorry that our situations have precluded our holding any communication by way of letter, as I do suppose that it was only from the circumstance of our not know- ing how to send letters to each other, that a cessation of all correspondence was created so long.
" When I was in India, indeed, I could scarcely hope to hear from you, for the very great difficulty there is of sending letters from such long distances, but now that I am in England, and that I can hear from London in about four hours by the post, which comes by the railroad, I do not despair of getting some intelligence of you. But, most of all, I think you will see that it will be well to write to my mother. Whatever you have to say will, I assure you, be most acceptable to me when you write. I have not been in Ireland since November, 1842, which was the month after I arrived overland from India, and do not think that you know any one in this place, Portsmouth, of whom I can make mention so as to interest you. I met Lady Gray the other day, and she, as usual, spoke of you with interest. She was, when I saw her, on a . visit to a gentleman in this neighborhood, Sir H. Thompson, and I met her there at dinner.
"I believe that my aunt Mary's children were quite little ones when you were last at home, but George is grown up now and gone out to India as a cadet. The girls were at school in London.
"I have been, myself, thank God, quite well since I saw you, and have never suffered from my long residence in India. I trust that I may hear the
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same account of you. I understand that the climate of California is good. One thing I am most rejoiced to hear, which is that you were given a grant of land, on account of your good services as captain of a rifle company.
" Do, my dear brother, let us hear from you.
" Your affectionate brother,
" HENRY COPINGER."
In the year 1836 a revolution broke out in Mexico, and while this was going on, Alvarado was appointed Governor of California, an office which he held until 1842. In the meantime, the differences between the Government and the revolutionists were arranged, but out of the adjustment grew misunder- standings between the civil and military authorities in California. The Gen- eral Government dispatched General Micheltorena to assume the two-fold power of civil and military governor in place of Alvarado and General Vallejo. On seeing the turn which affairs had taken against them, these two officers resolved to lay aside their disagreements and make common cause against Micheltorena, whom they looked upon as a usurper, and, with the aid of Gen- eral Castro, to drive him from the country. The triumvirate declared Califor- nia an independent State, and at once opened hostilities against the representa- tive of the Mexican Government. During the struggle, Lieutenant Copinger espoused the cause of the Californians, and was made captain of a rifle com- pany. In recognition of his services, Governor Alvarado, on the 3d of August, 1840, gave him the Rancho Cañado de Raymundo, embracing twelve thousand five hundred and forty-five acres.
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