Camouflage is a very commonly used tool in the animal kingdom but most people don’t think it applies to humans. Indeed, to even suggest that humans possess any natural camouflage would cause some to decry racism, perhaps looking for any excuse to rise up in indignant anger in the latest social cause, as if righteousness in itself is a sign of wisdom.

Yet Armand had fought in his share of guerrilla battles and was quite aware of just how well he naturally blended with the night thanks to his very dark skin. It was a tool he’d used in the past to deadly effect. When the English soldiers had approached their group, he’d melted away from the others and into the shadows of the patch of jungle around them, knowing full well that he’d be hard to spot so long as he moved slowly.

Like a ninja, he gracefully slid between low-growing ferns and a thick bush, his eyes never leaving the circle of soldiers who had their guns on their captives, standing only a few meters away. He placed his feet carefully, not making a sound, moving too slowly to catch anyone’s attention. He was calm and focused.

Armand removed the bayonet from the end of his rifle and carefully stuck it into the soft soil at his feet, the edge towards the people in front of him so that the flat wouldn’t catch any stray light. Very carefully, he raised the rifle. 

There were eight soldiers, including one officer. Not good odds. Yet every second he hesitated risked more soldiers arriving from the fort only fifty meters away. 

Taking another half step to the left to gain a clear line of sight on two targets at once, his finger gently squeezed the trigger. A moment of pause, then the flintlock lit the pan, the gun fired, and a bullet spun through the air, penetrating the head of the soldier closest to him, exiting in a spray of bone and brains, then piercing the next soldier’s head and lodging inside, rattling inside the skull, too spent to exit. 

Both targets crumpled. Six remained.

Armand was already in motion. He knew there was no point in waiting for the timer on the rifle to count down; thirty seconds was far too long and his position was now known. Pulling the bayonet blade up out of the ground, he moved sideways and disguised himself behind a palm tree’s narrow trunk. 

He experienced a moment of déjà vu, a flashback to his time in Africa many years ago. How odd it was that he’d fallen back into old patterns of violence so easily, that his old skills remained, despite having lived far longer in peaceful France in nonviolent activities. What did it say about him, or about human nature, that one could so easily become a warrior—and killer—when the need arose? He wondered, for a brief second, how he should feel about this. 

The sergeant shouted. “There’s more out there!”

“Where are they?”

“The shot came from that way!”

Rifles fired, tearing up the vegetation where Armand had been only moments before. 

A brave man jumped into the bush, rifle in his hands, ready to stab or shoot, running forwards, heading swivelling. Yet he saw nothing.

Armand let him come close, dropped his own gun at the attacker’s feet to distract and slow him, and then when the soldier looked down, he jammed his blade deep in the man’s side. His free hand grasped the soldier’s rifle and liberated it. In one, smooth motion, he brought the gun up and fired, killing the next soldier foolish enough to come at him. 

Four down. The one at his feet screamed in pain.

A gun fired and he heard Lance cry out. Looking up, he saw the officer and three other soldiers taking the others hostage. 

The officer stood over Lance, gun smoking, having shot the American in the leg, but his eyes were on the jungle. “Come out or we’ll kill your friends!”

Mei was having none of it. She jumped to her feet and wrestled with the closest soldier. Being female, she was weaker, but struggling admirably. 

Juan tackled another to the ground. 

His own gun almost recharged, Armand picked it up off the ground, discarding the other at the same time. 

The sergeant drew his bayonet and stabbed Lance in the gut, making him scream a second time. “Come out with your hands up! No weapons!”

Walking forward, Armand put a bullet in the officer’s chest from close range, dropping him. The corpse fell atop Lance. Raising the now-useless rifle like a spear, he threw it at the last free-standing soldier, fouling the other man up and momentarily preventing him from helping any of the others. 

Mei was flung to the side by the soldier she was battling and fell to the ground. She kept her cool though and reached into the pocket of her jacket for her second pistol. A quick shot centre mass had the soldier reeling backwards. She leapt back up to her feet and went at him, giving him no time to recover should the shot not be deadly, bashing him in the head with the gun. 

He was impressed. She was holding her own against a larger opponent. Despite her background, Mei was tough and something of a natural fighter. Perhaps she’d taken self defence classes or martial arts or something.

Juan was overwhelming the soldier he was fighting, holding his arms down and pounding him in the face. 

Cheeto, in possession of a knife he’d taken off a soldier earlier, saw the man Armand had thrown the gun at and threw himself at the bigger man, arm stabbing wildly, punching holes in the soldier’s arms, chest, legs, anywhere he could reach. 

“I’m hit,” Lance moaned. “I’m shot. And stabbed!” He lay back on the ground, bleeding from his stomach and one thigh. Clutching his gut, blood oozed between his fingers. 

Armand went to the man’s side. “Bah. Don’t be a little baby. Who has not been shot before, yes?”

Lance blinked up and frowned. “What?”

He fought to keep a smile off his face. “It is only a little stab wound. You will be fine.”

“Go to hell!” Lance shouted, spittle flying. “This is not fine!”

The other men dispatched, Mei came over and kneeled next to him, wincing as she did. After all, she had a battery of her own injuries all over her body. She examined Lance’s wounds. “How bad is…? Oh.”

“He won’t be able to walk,” Armand surmised, cutting the dead officer’s clothes into strips and rapidly and roughly bandaging the injured man, ignoring Lance’s protests. “Bullet’s still in the thigh. Looks like it missed the main artery, but it’s still bad.” The shot had been from up close, at full power. There were burns and stippling on the pant leg around the hole. “He won’t bleed out from the gut wound right away, but moving around will definitely make things worse.”

Fear entered Lance’s expression. He looked around at everyone with widening eyes. When he saw the disappointment on Mei’s face, he reached up and grabbed the front of her jacket. “Hey! You’re not leaving me. You can’t!”

She shook her head sharply. “Of course not.”

But he didn’t believe her. “You can’t! You know what they’ll do to me. Especially if the rest of you get off the island. They’ll take it all out on me.” He shook her. “I didn’t even want this. It’s your fault I’m here!”

Mei placed a hand on his arm and spoke with motherly assurance. “We won’t leave you.”

“I can carry him,” Juan offered. 

“Not ten or fifteen kilometres,” Armand countered. 

Lance’s frightened eyes turned on him with betrayal. “You… I thought we were friends.”

“I said he cannot carry you, I did not advocate leaving you,” he chastised.

Shouting from the fort carried to them. Reinforcements would be coming.

Mei wearily stood. “We can’t stay here. For now, grab him and let’s get away from here. Then we’ll figure out what to do.” Rubbing her own leg, she favoured it, then gingerly touched a wound on her shoulder. She closed her eyes for a second, seemingly forlorn, before looking over at the fort.

Armand wasn’t sure she’d make the journey either before she collapsed out of sheer exhaustion, her body failing on her. Still, they could not stop to rest. Every second counted. 

Juan slung Lance onto his back, the latter crying out from the pain. Together, they hobbled away from the seaside fort as quickly as they could, sticking to the jungle and fields as they bypassed the next fort down the road as well. Luckily, they weren’t spotted a second time. 

However, not even Juan with all his muscles could carry Lance indefinitely. A few kilometres south of Speightstown, they sought shelter in a small gully. Out of sight of the road and any passerby, they fell to the ground, tired and aching. 

Lance had tears in his eyes from the pain of being jostled as he’d been carried. As Juan tried to gently place him on the ground, the American groaned. 

“How are you holding up?” Mei asked him. 

He didn’t look at her, his voice terse. “I’m fine. I can keep going.”

“We’re not going to leave you behind,” she reiterated. 

Lance’s lips twisted almost in a sneer but he said nothing in reply. He obviously didn’t believe her. 

Armand was under the impression that Lance wasn’t the sort who trusted others easily, nor someone who had a lot of faith in his relationships. Under the circumstances, with lives on the line, who could blame him?

Cheeto jumped to his feet. “I have an idea. Hold on.” He dashed off before anyone could object. 

They waited about fifteen minutes, growing increasingly anxious. Mei suggested going to look for him while Armand was intent on getting back underway. What was that kid doing?

They heard a hollow metallic rumble. A few seconds later, Cheeto reappeared, pushing a wheelbarrow. He grinned at them. “What d’you think?” He looked around with hopeful expectation. 

Juan exasperatingly let out a big breath. “Oh thank goodness. If I had to carry him another two hours, I was thinking of just leaving him here.”

“You too, huh?” Armand nodded, playing along. “With all his whining and complaining and moaning, I was thinking the same. It would be quieter.”

Lance’s worried face snapped back and forth between them. “Wait. What?”

Mei sighed, though her eyes twinkled. “I don’t know. Even pushing a wheelbarrow seems like a lot of effort doesn’t it?”

Juan heavily nodded. “True. I’m pretty tired.”

Lance pulled himself up into a sitting position with panicked effort. “Hey now!”

Armand, enjoying the teasing, rubbed his beard in mock thought. “Perhaps we should stake him to the road. A good distraction for any soldiers coming along.”

This time the American’s face turned red. “Hold up! You’re not staking me anywhere. I’ll ride the wheelbarrow!” Grunting and bleeding afresh, he struggled to crawl towards it. 

Everyone finally broke out into laughs. Armand and Mei rushed forward to help the man up into the wheelbarrow without hurting himself further. 

Lance scowled at them, resentful but too scared to complain further lest he actually get left behind. 

Juan carried one side of the wheelbarrow, while Armand manned the other. This way, their pace picked up considerably, especially when they returned to the road. 

“Better?” Mei asked as they travelled.

The wheelbarrow hit a bump and Lance winced. “It still hurts.”

“Well,” she teased. “Next time, don’t get shot. Or stabbed.”

He gave her a dark look and grumbled something under his breath. 

Cheeto ran ahead a couple of hundred meters down the road to act as scout. Only twice did they have to find a hiding spot: the first as a large group of soldiers marched past in double time, and the second when another mounted rider flew by on route to Bridgetown from behind them. They had luckily heard him coming before he’d seen them. Perhaps the additional bodies had been discovered, fuelling conjecture about Spanish agents active in the countryside. It seemed that their plan was working. 

Jie eventually returned, apparently seeking them out. Armand was puzzled by the feline. It showed remarkable loyalty to Mei. The others all gave it wide berth, yet it seemed content to trot by her side in defiance of wild instincts. Watching the way the woman strode down the road, it occurred to him that she and the cat might be two of a kind. Perhaps recognition of one in the other was what drew the two together: kindred spirits.

When they reached Bridgetown, they found the town practically bustling for this time of very early morning. Where the road left town, another company of soldiers was assembling, an officer shouting from horseback. Several men carried lanterns, the soft orange glow creating a kaleidoscope of shadows amongst the red-uniformed men. 

The companions verged off the road with the town just out of sight and found shelter in a plantation, hiding behind the barn while they scouted Bridgetown from afar. 

“No cover,” Juan noted, a bit dispirited. “The town is surrounded by fields. There’s no way to sneak in.”

Mei reached into a pocket and pulled forth the watch she’d taken off of Captain Fowler’s corpse. “We’ve got an hour and a half until dawn which means it’ll start getting light a little before that.” She gazed out over the fields. “Let’s circle around to the backside of town and hope they don’t have spotters out looking for us.”

“With all the ruckus we’ve been making?” Lance scoffed in a tight voice. “Of course they’ll have people out.”

“So how do we get in?” Cheeto innocently asked. 

A thought occurred to Armand and he turned to Lance. “Where is the main dock? You said something earlier about a river?”

Having lived here, Lance knew the layout pretty well. “Yeah. There’s a little river that empties out on the south side of Bridgetown. Hardly anything built on the south side of the river, almost all of the town is on the north side. They use the spot where the river turns into ocean as a little bay. It’s just big enough for the sloop or a mid-sized merchant vessel to dock there. The brig and anything large have to anchor offshore.”

“And there were cannons protecting the river mouth?”

“There’s a tiny fort on the south side. There’s a cannon embankment on the north. Just a really short wall above the beach, maybe two meters above the water with eight or ten cannon pointing out to sea. The headquarters is directly behind that, overlooking the ocean. There’s a plaza around headquarters and the barracks are north of that. Main Street runs from the docks north and a smaller one along the river to the bridge which gives the town its name. Both roads are lined with warehouses and factories for the most part.”

Armand nodded slowly and pictured the layout in his mind. “This side of town is busy with soldiers. The coast will be watched in case of a Spanish attack. But the landward side will likely have fewer lookouts. Perhaps if we circle around the town to the river—“

Mei finished the thought. “We could float down the river all the way to the ship.”

He looked at her with approval. “Oui. Then climb up onto the ship and sail away.”

“What about the cannons?” Juan pointed out. “If they see us leaving, they’ll just sink us, won’t they?”

“We’ll have to take the cannons out before we sail,” Armand agreed. “We’ll have to split up. Half of us quietly liberating the ship while the other half disable the cannons.”

“How do you disable them?” Mei wondered aloud.

Armand had read enough historical fiction to know. “The touch hole where the powder is ignited. We need to spike it. Drive something into the hole so the spark can’t reach the powder. Like a knife or bayonet blade or even rocks. Hammer it in tight enough that they can’t easily pull it out without tools.”

Cheeto generally alternated between youthfully boisterous when outgoing and quiet when around his elders when they were discussing things like this. But he stood straight now, obviously putting on a brave face. “I don’t know nothing about boats. But I can fuck up those cannons.”

Juan, as was his habit, volunteered to go with the Mexican. “And I.”

Looking nervous and worried, Lance spoke up as if desperate to be of use. He tried to sit up a bit in the wheelbarrow. His clothes were soaked with blood. “I…I can keep a lookout or something.” His eyes flickered over them all. “Just don’t—“

“Lance!” Mei sighed. “Stop freaking out. No one is leaving you behind. Do you really think I would do that?”

He didn’t reply. 

Armand kept silent. He himself would try to accommodate the wounded man, but if it came down to it, if sacrificing Lance meant everyone else getting safely off of this island, he would do it. Not because he was callous or didn’t like the man, but because the prosperity of the group was more important than any one person.

He wondered what Lance’s worry was based on. Was he uncertain because he did not have a strong, established relationship with the others, no friendship to count on, so he did not yet trust? Or was Lance anxious because he was the type who would easily leave others behind and therefore he naturally assumed that others would just as easily do the same to him?

Liars always assume that everyone else is lying. Thieves always assume that everyone else will steal. 

Just how trustworthy was Lance when it came down to it? Armand had enjoyed his company on the other island for weeks. In regular circumstances, they could perhaps become friends. And yet he found himself wondering: was now the time to accommodate the wounded man because he would prove to become a solid companion in the future, or should he use Lance’s condition as an excuse to divest the group of his company and prevent future betrayal? Should he continue to carry the man, or arrange an accident?

What kind of a person was Lance? Was he worth investing in? Or would they be better off without him?