Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 62: Early Victories
Scotland & England, Autumn 1745
The march begins at dawn. Elizabeth stands at the edge of the settlement, watching Hamish and the clan men gather in formation. Their tartans ripple in the cold morning wind. Swords hang at their sides. Muskets rest on their shoulders. The air hums with tension. The fear. The hope. The determination woven together like threads in a single cloth.
Hamish steps toward her, adjusting the strap of his pack. “Don’t wander too far,” he says. “Stay close to the supply train behind the main column.”
Elizabeth nods. “I will.”
He hesitates, then cups her cheek gently. “If anything happens...”
She shakes her head. “We’ve agreed to face it together.”
His eyes soften. “Aye.”
He kisses her lips, then turns to join the men. Elizabeth watches him walk away, his posture straight, his stride steady. He does not look back. He cannot afford to show doubt now.
The clan begins to move. Elizabeth grips the handle of her pack, breath trembling. She touches the bracelet lightly.
“Jeannia,” she whispers, “guide me.”
“I will,” I say. “Stay alert. Stay close to the others. And trust your steps.”
She exhales, steadying herself. Then she steps forward and follows the wagons.
The Jacobite army grows with every mile it marches south-east towards Edinburgh. Clans join from the hills and glens ... MacDonalds, Camerons, Stewarts, MacGregors ... each group arriving with its own banners, its own songs, its own fierce pride. Elizabeth watches them gather, amazed by the sheer number of men, the variety of tartans, and the thunderous energy of the rising.
The Prince rides at the front. He’s young, bright‑eyed, and charismatic. Elizabeth sees him only from a distance, but even that is enough. His presence radiates confidence, almost reckless hope. Men cheer when he passes among them. Women bow their heads. Children stare in awe. Elizabeth feels the pull of his charisma, even from afar.
“He is bold,” I say. “And boldness can change the world.”
She nods. “Or destroy it.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Elizabeth travels with the camp followers ... wives following their husbands, older men no longer fit for the front lines, boys too young to fight but refusing to be left behind. Although they aren’t counted in the size of the army, they perform an essential role. They carry supplies, tend to the sick and wounded, cook meals, mend clothing and any other task required of them. Elizabeth learns quickly, her hands moving with practised efficiency. She helps Mairead prepare broth, bandages, and salves. She gathers water from streams. She sorts ammunition. She listens for danger.
She grows stronger and braver. She grows more essential.
One evening, as the army camps near Perth, Elizabeth sits by a fire with Mairead, stirring a pot of stew. The air is thick with smoke and the scent of roasting meat. Men laugh nearby, sharing stories of the day’s march.
Elizabeth glances toward the main camp. “Hamish hasn’t eaten yet.”
“He will,” Mairead says. “Chiefs eat last.”
Elizabeth frowns. “That seems unfair.”
“It is tradition,” Mairead replies. “A chief must ensure his men are fed before himself.”
Elizabeth absorbs this, her respect for Hamish deepening.
She touches the bracelet. “Jeannia ... he carries so much.”
“Yes,” I say. “And he may yet carry more.”
The army moves south. From a distance, Elizabeth sees its first victory at Prestonpans, on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Smoke rising as cheers echo across the fields as wounded men are carried back to camp. She helps tend them, her hands steady even while her heart races.
One wounded young soldier grips her wrist, eyes wide with pain. “We won,” he gasps. “We beat them in minutes. Edinburgh is ours.”
Elizabeth nods, pressing a cloth to his wound. “Rest now.”
He smiles weakly. “The Prince ... he’s unstoppable.”
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