Monsoon Trenches

Monsoon rain lashes a flat world of rice and mud. HUTS crouch under palm thatch. A SHIVA SHRINE half-submerged. CHILDREN splash ankle-deep, laughing—until DISTANT HOOVES.

Asha Mukherjee stands with a COMPANY RUNNER, translating as villagers argue.

Hide the grain. Take the children to the shrine—higher ground.

A CRACK of musket fire somewhere far. Villagers freeze.

CAPT. SILAS CROWE appears through rain in a worn red coat turned brown with mud, flanked by LT. TOM KESTREL and a ragged GUN CREW hauling a field cannon on a sinking trail.

What’s firing?

Rebel riders. They’ve been hitting the river villages.

Kestrel scans the open paddy—no cover, no walls. Just water and sky.

We can’t deploy here. Wheels will sink. We’ll lose the gun.

We’ll lose the village first.

He looks—sees the rice dikes like thin raised veins.

CROWE (CONT’D)

Gun to the dike. There—by the banyan.

The crew DRAGS the cannon. The WHEELS bog immediately. Men grunt, slip, curse.

Captain, order says we fall back to the road. Preserve Company property.

Crowe grips the wet iron barrel. It’s COLD, slick.

Property doesn’t scream.

Asha peers into the curtain of rain. A low THUNDER becomes HOOVES.

They’re close.

Crowe sees the village pond overflowing into the paddies, a narrow CHANNEL cutting across.

Ram a fascine under the trail. Raise the muzzle. We fire low.

The crew shoves BUNDLES OF REEDS and broken fence rails under the gun carriage. Makeshift.

Powder’s wet.

Crowe opens the limber box—SOGGY CARTRIDGES. He spits rain from his mouth.

We dry one. One shot is all we need.

He tears open his coat, yanks out a folded OILCLOTH. Wraps powder tight, hands it to a trembling GUNNER.

CROWE (CONT’D)

Touch-hole stays covered until I say.

Asha grabs a villager’s BRASS COOKING POT lid, holds it over the vent. Improvised shelter.

There—use this.

Crowe meets her eyes: gratitude, brief and grim.

A SHOUT—REBEL CAVALRY burst through the rain, silhouettes first, then men with tulwars and matchlocks. They fan toward huts.

Crowe lies behind the gun like it’s a wounded animal.

Hold… hold…

Kestrel raises his pistol, knuckles white.

They’ll be on us—

Now.

The gunner touches match. A BOOM—muffled by rain—then a BLAST of grapeshot tears through the shallow water. Horses SCREAM. Men tumble into the paddy, red blooming in brown.

The charge breaks, chaos in the rain. Villagers scatter. A rebel fires; a ball WHIPS past Crowe’s ear, smacks the cannon.

Kestrel stands, rallying the crew.

Reload! Move!

No time.

Crowe looks left—sees the channel. Water rushing.

CROWE (CONT’D)

Run them into the cut.

He grabs a TORCH from a hut’s wall—half-lit, damp but smoking. He thrusts it into a bundle of DRIED CHAFF under a cart.

Flame catches, a sudden ORANGE in gray rain—startles the remaining horses. Rebels yank reins, veer away—straight toward the channel.

They hit the flooded cut. Horses stumble, riders spill, flailing in sucking mud.

Villagers, emboldened, hurl stones. Asha pulls a child behind the shrine.

Crowe and Kestrel wade forward, pistols up. A rebel rider tries to rise—Kestrel strikes him down with the butt, brutal, breathless.

Silence returns in pieces: rain, groans, distant thunder.

Bodies half-submerged. The cannon sits crooked, smoking faintly. Crowe’s crew stare at it like they can’t believe it survived.

Asha kneels by a fallen rebel, searching his belt. She finds a WAXED PAPER packet—still dry. She opens it.

Inside: a rough SKETCH MAP of the village and rice dikes… and a COMPANY SEAL impressed in red wax.

This isn’t theirs.

Crowe takes the packet, wipes mud from the seal with his thumb. The lion and crown emerge.

That’s… impossible.

Asha flips the map—on the back, neat English handwriting: “TARGET: GRAIN STORES. RIDERS APPROACH FROM SOUTH Dike.”

Someone told them where to strike.

Crowe stares toward the rain-smeared horizon, jaw set as if holding back something heavier than water.

Company intelligence doesn’t draw maps for rebels.

Kestrel’s eyes dart, calculating—fear and loyalty wrestling.

Or they do… if it profits someone.

Crowe folds the paper, tucks it inside his coat like a wound he’ll carry.

No one sees this but us.

Asha nods—then looks back to the village, where survivors gather, shaking and silent.

What do we tell them?

Crowe watches the muddy water wash blood into the rice.

The truth later.

Right now—tell them we held.

Thunder rolls again, closer—like cannon fire waiting in the clouds.