The Highlands in 1746

Devin Owen
MSMU Class of 2026

(10/2024) The winds howled as they swept across the hills, carrying the scent of peat smoke and a whisper of rebellion. The Highlands stood as the always had—unyielding, wild, wrapped in ancient mist that held the history of the Highlander culture. However, the men who walked the rugged path here were restless, anticipating the change they could feel whipping through the air in their midst.

Amongst these men stood Brodie Mackenzie, a young man of only twenty-three summers, ready to swear his life to the Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite cause. Brodie was no stranger to battle, being a Scot entitled him to that, but the air felt different this time around leaving a pit that gnawed at the man’s stomach in anticipation and dread for what was to come in the next few hours.

It was the late hours of April 15th, 1746, and the Mackenzie boy did not find himself graced with sleep. Instead, he spent those hours thinking: of his wife Caroline and daughter Ailee, of his brothers and sisters and nephews back home, and of what was to become of him once he went through with this battle. As ready as he was to give his life for the Young Pretender’s cause, he never considered what else he would be giving up within that.

It had been two years since the Bonnie Prince had returned to Scotland, raising the banner of rebellion against King George. For Brodie, the decision to join the Jacobite cause wasn’t a simple one. He did not care much for the politics of distant kings. But the Mackenzie’s had sworn fealty to the Stuart line for generations, and when his clan chief called them to arms, he could not stand idle, regardless of the family he was leaving behind.

Brodie’s wife Caroline was a bonnie lass, but a sassenach. Their marriage wasn’t something that originally sat well with other members of the Mackenzie clan, but Brodie was entranced when he first laid eyes on her. He knew she was the one for him and has’na let her go since. He thought back to the last conversation they had, where she begged him not to leave, her eyes filled with sorrow and loss. "You don’t have to fight for Kings Brodie. This land and your family, that’s what’s important," she cried. He tried to believe her but, loyalty to clan and country weighed to heavy on his shoulders. Leaving Caroline and Ailee behind to fight this fight was the hardest choice he’s ever had to make, but a choice he made nonetheless.

The hours passed on and Brodie Mackenzie found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow Highlanders, each man bristling with anticipation for the coming battle. The rising sun barely broke through the thick clouds, casting the day in a cold, grim light, as if even the heavens have turned their backs on the Jacobite cause.

Brodie glanced over at his older brother, Callum, whose face was etched with determination. The Mackenzie plaid was wrapped tightly around Callum’s broad shoulders, and his claymore hung at his side, its blade kissed by a history of blood and honor.

Brodie gripped his dirk tightly, the cold metal biting into his palm. His mind wandered, for a brief moment, to the days of peace in the glens of Kintail. He remembered the bright streams that trickled down from the mountains, where he and Callum fished as boys, their only worry being whether their mother would scold them for staying out too late. Those were simpler times—before the call to war, before the cause of Prince Charles Edward Stuart.

Beside him, the men muttered prayers in Gaelic, the ancient words rising like mist from their lips. Brodie's heartbeat quickened as he gazed across the moor, where the red-coated British soldiers were assembling in rigid lines. They looked as though they belonged to another world entirely—a world of cold steel and gunpowder. The Highlanders, by contrast, were an untamed force, their swords and shields imbued with the fierce independence of the north.

The Jacobite’s had no choice but to charge. It was all or nothing now.

Brodie caught Callum’s eye. They exchanged a nod—no words were needed. Blood of the same blood, they had fought side by side through the skirmishes in Falkirk and Prestonpans. If today was to be their last battle, they would face death as they had faced life: together.

The signal was given. Brodie’s heart leaped into his throat as the men surged forward, their war cries rising above the howling wind. He ran with them, his feet pounding against the sodden earth, his dirk raised high. Around him, Highlanders shouted, screamed, their faces twisted with the savage determination of a people fighting for their very existence.

The first crack of cannon fire split the air, followed by a barrage of musket shots. Men fell—some silently, others with cries that curdled your blood. The smell of gunpowder grew thick, mingling with the iron tang of blood. Brodie ducked, narrowly avoiding a volley, and kept moving. His muscles burned with the effort, his mind a blur of instinct and adrenaline.

He turned, searching for Callum. The battlefield was a nightmare of mud, blood, and smoke—it was nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. "Callum!" he shouted, his voice hoarse, but there was no answer. Panic gripped him. He pushed through the throng of men, desperately seeking his brother.

And then he saw him.

Callum was on the ground, dark-red spreading across his chest. Brodie rushed to his side, dropping to his knees. "Callum!" he cried, his voice breaking. Callum’s eyes fluttered open, his face pale. "Brodie…" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.

"No, ye cannae leave me," Brodie said, his hands trembling as he tried to stem the flow of blood. "We’ll get ye home. Ye’ll be fine. We’ll get ye home to yer family brother." But Callum shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It’s over, Brodie," he said, his voice weak. "The clans… we’re finished." And then he took his last breath.

The Battle of Culloden was lost.

But Brodie Mackenzie would live to tell the tale. He would be the only of the Mackenzie boys to leave Culloden Moor still breathing. He would go home to his wife and children, carrying the weight of two losses and his own survival.