Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 63: Disaster at Culloden
Culloden, near Inverness, Scotland, April 1746
The moor feels wrong from the moment we arrive. Elizabeth stands at the edge of the Jacobite encampment, her shawl pulled tight against the bitter wind. The sky hangs low and grey, heavy with rain. The ground is sodden, sucking at boots, swallowing footsteps. The air tastes of cold and fear.
Hamish walks among his men, checking weapons, adjusting straps, speaking quietly to each warrior. His face is grim, shadowed by exhaustion. Elizabeth watches him with a tightness in her chest.
“Jeannia,” she whispers, “this place ... it feels cursed.”
“The land remembers violence,” I say. “And I fear it will soon remember more.”
She shivers. The Prince rides past, his face pale, his eyes bright with determination that borders on desperation. The men cheer, but the sound is thin and strained. They are exhausted, hungry and supplies of all types are low. Since Derby the army has steadily lost men through sickness, injury and desertion. Now they are outnumbered. The Duke of Cumberland’s army waits beyond the ridge. Disciplined, well‑fed, and well‑armed troops.
Elizabeth feels the dread settling in her bones.
Hamish returns to her side. “You must stay well behind the lines,” he says. “With the other camp followers.”
She nods, though her throat tightens. “I will.”
He cups her cheek gently. “Whatever happens ... remember that I love you.”
Her breath catches. “Hamish...”
He kisses her forehead, then steps back. “Stay safe.”
And then he turns away. Elizabeth watches him walk toward the front line, tartan whipping in the wind, sword at his side. She wants to run after him, to pull him back, to beg him not to fight. But she stands still, fists clenched, breath trembling.
The drums begin. Moments later the battle begins. Cumberland’s cannons fire first.
The sound is monstrous ... an explosion that shakes the earth, sending mud and smoke into the air. Elizabeth flinches, covering her ears. Even at this distance she can hear men scream. Horses rear.
The Jacobite line wavers. Then the muskets fire. A crackling storm of gunfire sweeps across the moor. Elizabeth watches in horror as men fall ... some instantly, some clutching wounds, some staggering forward with desperate determination. Hamish is somewhere in that chaos.
She cannot see him. She cannot breathe.
“Jeannia,” she whispers, “help me. Please.”
“I am here,” I say. “But you must stay back. For now.”
She grips the bracelet, knuckles white. The Highland charge begins. Men surge forward, shouting battle cries, swords raised. They run through mud, through smoke, through gunfire. Elizabeth watches them collide with the government line ... bayonets flashing, muskets cracking, bodies falling. The sound is unbearable. The sight is worse.
She briefly glimpses men she knows ... Donnan, Fergus, Ewan ... fighting with ferocity, then disappearing into the smoke of battle. She sees tartans stained with blood. She sees the Prince shouting orders, his voice lost in the storm.
Then she sees the Jacobite line break. And she sees the slaughter begin. The retreat is chaos.
Men run, stumble, and fall. Cumberland’s soldiers advance relentlessly, bayonets gleaming. Elizabeth feels the panic rising in her chest, her breath coming fast.
“Hamish!” she cries, though her voice is swallowed by the wind.
She moves forward, ignoring the shouts of other camp followers to come back. She steps onto the moor, boots sinking into mud, skirts heavy with rain. Smoke stings her eyes. Bodies lie everywhere ... some still, some moaning, some calling for help.
“Jeannia,” she whispers, “where is he?”
I reach outward, sensing the faint threads of emotion, the echoes of pain, the flickers of life.
“Left,” I say. “Toward the ridge.”
She runs. Mud splashes up her legs. Rain lashes her face. She trips over a fallen man, gasps, keeps running. Her heart pounds so hard she feels it in her throat.
“Hamish!” she calls again.
A musket shot cracks nearby. She flinches but doesn’t stop. The smoke hides her from the front line of advancing troops who have already passed this place. Although unseen through the smoke, she is sandwiched between the advancing soldiers and their line of cannon and reserves. If anyone sees her, then she has no means of escape.
She reaches the ridge. And then she sees him.
Hamish lies half‑buried in mud, his tartan soaked with blood. His sword lies a few feet away. His eyes are closed. His chest rises shallowly. Elizabeth’s breath breaks.
She drops to her knees beside him. “Hamish! Hamish, please...”
His eyes flutter open.
“Elizabeth...” His voice is barely a whisper.
She presses her hands to his face, tears mixing with rain. “I’m here. I’m here.”
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