Mutiny of the Guns

Monsoon rain hammers a brown, endless sheet of water. Palm tops poke like drowning hands. A HALF-SUNK CART floats by, rope trailing.

CAPT. SILAS CROWE hauls a rope over his shoulder, boots vanishing in mud. LT. TOM KESTREL shoves a wheel free with a curse. ASHA MUKHERJEE balances a leather folio under her shawl, ink already bleeding at the edges.

Keep the trail tight. If the river takes a gun, we’ve lost more than iron.

We’ve lost the road. And we’ve lost the timetable. Company wants us back at depot—

Company wants its receipts. The prince wants his powder. Only one of them is honest about killing.

ASHA opens the folio: a map sketched over numbers, a stamp half-smeared. She points through rain to a line of DARK WATER moving between reeds.

Not road. Canal. They’ll run the shipment where carts can’t follow.

CROWE squints. In the distance: a LOW BOOM, muffled by rain—like thunder with intent.

That’s not the sky.

It’s a test-fire?

Or a signal. (beat) The shipment moves tonight.

Crowe looks at his men—soaked, hollow-eyed. Then at the water, where the canal disappears into fog.

Then we move with it.

He wrenches the rope. The crew drags forward into the flood, swallowed by rain.

A narrow canal, black and fast. Mangroves twist like ribs. Lanterns bob on a BARGE gliding through the rain—CRATES stacked under tarps.

Crowe, Kestrel, Asha crouch in the muck. Two MISFIT GUNNERS flank them, muskets wrapped in cloth. Everyone breathes shallow.

ASHA peers through reeds. Her voice is a thread.

Marks on the crates—Company warehouse code. Calcutta.

Then it’s ours. Escort it, log it, and—

And let it arrive.

Asha fishes out a SMALL SLATE, chalk-streaked. On it: a copied cipher—numbers, dots, and a name.

Payment trail ends with the same clerk. Again. The one who “lost” our powder.

Crowe’s jaw tightens. He watches the barge drift closer. A FIGURE stands under an oilskin cloak—Company sepoy sergeant.

We take it quiet. No shots. Cut the tow line, beach the barge, burn the crates.

Burn Company property in a floodplain?

Better ash than massacre.

Kestrel hesitates—then nods once.

They slide into the canal, water up to their chests, knives held high.

Crowe reaches the barge’s rope—sawing. The fibers give.

A SHARP WHISTLE pierces rain.

On the bank behind them: REDCOATS. Not rebels. BRITISH. Bayonets glint in lantern light.

A clean voice carries over the storm.

COMPANY MAJOR (O.S.)

Captain Crowe. Stand away from the Company shipment.

Crowe freezes, half-submerged, hand still on the severed line. He turns—rain on his face like sweat.

Major. I thought you were upriver.

The COMPANY MAJOR steps forward, umbrella absurd in the monsoon. His smile is polite, practiced.

The river moves things where we wish them to go.

ASHA, still in the water, stares at the redcoats—realizing. Her breath catches.

You want it delivered.

Delivered… and stolen. (to Crowe) A prince fires Company powder at Company villages, Parliament hears “insurrection,” and our ledgers become conquest.

KESTREL looks between Crowe and the Major, sick.

That’s… treason.

That’s bookkeeping.

Crowe’s hand tightens on the rope until his knuckles blanch under water.

My guns won’t light your fuse.

The Major’s smile does not change. He lifts a hand. Redcoats level muskets.

Your guns already have.

A beat—Crowe understands the trap: if he fights, he’s the mutineer. If he yields, he’s the courier.

Asha’s eyes lock on Crowe’s—urgent, pleading for a third way.

Crowe releases the rope.

Tom.

Sir?

Remember the oath. Not to them. To us.

Kestrel swallows, then flicks his knife—quietly—into the barge’s tarp. A small slit. Powder-dark dust puffs, instantly wet.

Asha slides her slate into her blouse, keeping it dry as a secret.

Crowe raises his hands slowly—surrendering—while his men drift with the barge, unseen.

You want a spark? Fine.

He steps toward the bank, letting them take him—eyes never leaving the barge as it glides past, bleeding powder into monsoon water.

ASHA (V.O.)

Let it run. Let the river carry proof.

The barge disappears into the mangroves, lanterns swallowed by rain.

On the bank, redcoats seize Crowe’s arms.

The Major leans close, voice silk.

Mutiny of the guns, Captain. That’s what they’ll call it.

Crowe meets his gaze—steady.

Call it what you like.

Thunder cracks—this time truly the sky—drowning the sound of chains.