Quest Biographies Bundle — Books 26–30. Wayne Larsen

      Communicate with me in one of the

       unknown tongues.

      — GEORGE SIMPSON

      The town of Dingwall, in northern Scotland, lies enclosed on the north and south by two high hills, but on the east the vista opens onto the Cromarty Firth (inlet), and to the west the road leads into the western Highlands. In the 1790s, as well as now, the Statistical Account of Scotland tells us: “Every traveller is struck by the natural beauty of the country.”

      The sea cuts deeply into the landscape in several long firths — Dornoch, Cromarty, Moray, Beauly — opening glistening vistas of water to complement the rolling headlands. To the north, Ben Wyvis, one of Scotland’s highest peaks, is always covered in snow, even in the hottest days of summer. From Fodderty in Strathpeffer, looking eastward, “the valley has a commanding view of the town and parish of Dingwall,” which “forms a beautiful interchange of hill and valley, wood and water, corn fields and meadows.” And beyond, the glistening firth wends its way to the North Sea, conjuring visions of far-off places at the ends of the world.

      To find a place as far north in Canada we must think of Churchill, Manitoba. But the air at Dingwall is warmed by the gulf current, making the land warm and arable, the landscape shaped by centuries of agriculture.

      Here in this lush beautiful landscape, George Simpson was born, probably in the early spring of 1792. But where exactly he was born — in the town or in the nearby countryside — remains uncertain.

      His father was George Simpson senior, born in 1759 in the fishing village of Avoch (pronounced ach to rhyme with loch) about nine miles east of Dingwall. George Sr.’ s father was the Church of Scotland minister, the Reverend Thomas Simpson. His mother was Isobel Mackenzie of the powerful clan of the Mackenzies of Kintail.

      About 1775, George Sr. finished his schooling and a position was found for him in Dingwall as a writer’s apprentice. He became a lawyer in the Sheriff Courts in the town and a factor for lairds in the nearby countryside.

      In 1805 he was recommended by several local landowners to the position of agent for the British Fisheries Society at Ullapool, north of Dingwall. The governor of the company supported him through to his retirement. The secretary of the society, however, thought he spent too much of his time communicating with the settlers. He was a deeply religious man, sprinkling his letters with religious sentiments: “I am able to thank my God for all His Mercies…. It is with a grateful heart I acknowledge the Goodness of the Lord…. [May] the all-powerful Protector … guard & watch over you.”

      Certainly he adored his son, referring to him as “My dearest beloved George.” The picture that emerges from these brief glimpses is that of a rather decent man, pleasant, friendly, and warm-hearted, a devout Christian and adoring father. If he had a fault, perhaps it was that his professional responsibility was compromised by his compassion for the poor. The question we have to ask is how such a man might have responded to the unexpected arrival of a son.

      In October 1789 George Sr. would have celebrated his thirtieth birthday. By then, it would seem, he was settled into a quiet bachelorhood. However, in the next year and a half his life was turned topsy-turvy, and by the spring of 1791 he had fallen for the charms of a young woman, and had fathered a child — a love child, legend has it, born with great intellect and wit.

      It is said that nothing is known of George’s mother. But that is not quite true. Some evidence leads to reasonable assumptions. For instance, George’s cousins, Thomas and Alexander Simpson, who later grew up in Dingwall, both sneered at George’s lowly birth. The father was not of lowly birth, so the cousins must have been talking about the mother. It’s entirely possible that she was from what was then called the “lower classes,” which included farmers, crofters, mechanics, and servants, most of whom lived in the country. Those of the so-called “upper classes” — lawyers, ministers, merchants, and gentry — lived, for the most part, in the towns.

      A relationship crossing class lines shouldn’t surprise us. Gentlemen were having children by country women at such a steady rate that ministers of the Scottish church spent much of their time tracking them down to make them pay for the welfare of the mother and child. There is no record, however, of George Sr.’s appearance before a kirk session or presbytery, where matters of illegitimacy were dealt with.

      Lower class, of course, is a label given to working people by those considering themselves upper class. Genetically it is by no means an inferior status. This was certainly true of the mother, who left her genetic imprint on her child for all to see. George grew into a man at least two inches, perhaps as much as four inches, taller than the average men of his generation. He had blue eyes and red hair — unmistakable Celtic characteristics. As an adult he had a barrel chest, legendary stamina, and a stability of character that did not come from his father, whose family is described as delicate of frame and health. But no one ever accused George of being delicate. Certainly George’s mother was, judging from George himself, someone in considerable physical contrast to the delicate Simpson family, into which, in this case, one must argue that the infusion of new blood was a good thing. We might expect, then, that Simpson’s mother was a strong, healthy, intelligent woman who shared with her son that red hair and eye brightly blue, a woman whose natural affection could only be heightened by a child bearing so many of her Celtic characteristics.

      Another distinction separated the classes in those days: English was rapidly replacing Gaelic as the preferred language spoken by the upper classes. The Simpson family from which George Sr. came, spoke English. The lower classes still spoke Gaelic. So if George’s mother was from the lower classes, the odds are that she spoke Gaelic, could not read or write, and knew little, if any, English.

      As it happens, George could speak Gaelic as if it was his first language, and it may well have been. We know that because he later tells us so. This was no smattering of the language picked up in the schoolyard. He spoke it well enough to converse in it for months at a time, and to translate from it when necessary. All this suggests that young George spent his early years in the country. He would have learned his Gaelic at his mother’s knee, playing with the country boys, and listening to the Gaelic-speaking adults around him.

      Far from being neglected in such an environment, young George would have been favourably privileged. He was, after all, the factor’s son, the son of that warm-hearted, friendly, gregarious, compassionate, and religious man, who also had blood links to the Mackenzies of Kintail. In such circumstances, he and his son would have been accorded all the deference to which their positions entitled them — George Sr. as factor and George Jr. as factor’s son.

      On whatever estate he spent his childhood, he would have lived in the factor’s house. Young George may have played with the country boys, but he stood on a higher social plane. His life would have been lived not only in the simplicity of a country setting, but in the knowledge that he was the factor’s son and a Mackenzie scion. This special standing in his world later translated into that easy command he displayed in Rupert’s Land.

      Somehow, in his young mind, he would have picked up a good understanding of the common people among whom he lived. The writers of The Statistical Account all agree that the country people were, on the whole, a sober and decent people, whose peccadilloes, when they occurred, were noted in an apologetic, even forgiving way:

      The people in general are sober and quiet,