Among the white devils
At night, when the tribe is sleeping and the only ones awake are those keeping guard, Jack slips out of his tent. The old woman keeping watch on him is damn quick when she's awake, but it's not hard to get by her as she sleeps. He's nearly nude as he creeps out of the teepee. He uses every bit of stealth he has and every trick he's been taught since his induction into the tribe. Jack stays close to the tent's side and keeps low as he moves around to the back side. He heads towards the woods where he hid his 'white clothes' earlier in the evening. The Spanish won't keep their distance long. He has to do something.
His clothing is already bloody and tattered. All it takes is to mash up a few berries and some dirt to add some wounds to his exposed skin. He pulls his hair up and wraps his head in his sash, letting the blood stain make it look like a bandaged head wound. In the dark, it's a decent enough disguise. So he makes his way to the Spanish encampment. He makes sure to move around the perimeter so his approach is from a different direction than his tribe's village and different from where the Spanish seem to be traveling from. For the most part, however, he hopes not to be caught.
Military are always so predictable. He guesses the sentry positions before he even sees them. There aren't very many. Clearly they haven't come up against much resistance in this area. Jack isn't surprised. What he wants, is for them to expect trouble, and from a different adversary than the native people. He knows the French and Spanish are both vying for this land. And the British Empire wants every scrap of land it can lay it's white gloved hands on. Making a colonizing army paranoid isn't exactly difficult. He moves up close very slowly, keeping low and covered in shadow. He's barefoot as he moves, and quieter than he once was. Jack comes up to one of the carts, near where the horses have been tied. The troops munitions are well guarded, but their rations are not.
Jack finds one of the barrels in the cart to be full of strong brandy. He pulls the bung from the side and drinks a bit, then pours some over the soldiers' food supply, before tearing a bit of blue fabric from his waistcoat and stuffing it in the hole. He uses the flint from his pistol to ignite the soaked cloth and then starts to run. The small noises have already started to arouse suspicion and the sentry's are moving towards him.
"You'll not get away with your life, you French pig!" He shouts in Spanish. Then he darts off with long, hushed strides into the darkness. He pulls his filthy and leaf covered coat over his head and runs through the ankle deep swamp to the north to cover his tracks. Everything is lit up around him when the brandy keg blows, but he keeps heading towards the darkness. Anaba told him if he goes too far into the swamps, he'll never find his way out, but right now he'd prefer being lost to being murdered by a horde of furious Spaniards. Once he feels he's not within his pursuers' range of vision, he scales a thick willow tree as fast as he would a main mast. He hides in the branches, covering himself in his coat and thick layers of hanging gray moss. In the darkened canopy of the swamp, they shouldn't even be able to find him with torches. However, he fears he'll be spending the entire night here.