The Prisoner's Dilemma (24 page)

A lifetime of suspicion and repressed feelings burst in Dunbeath. He had never in his whole life allowed himself to be as dominated as he had these past few minutes and he had never had anyone be so unthinkingly forgiving towards him when he'd failed. But the captain had not judged him and Dunbeath suddenly felt completely intoxicated with relief, even lighthearted. And safe. It had taken a terrifying crisis to do it, a vision of death, but for the first time in his life he felt open and happy.

And so the two of them sailed on towards London, catching each other's eye and then collapsing into the simple laughter of small boys – as only people who have just escaped death can do.

Dunbeath had only to say: ‘did you see that rock?' for them to break down in tears of laughter once more. Yet again, Zweig's extraordinary will and charisma had brought someone swinging from hostility and doubt through a complete reversal of opinion to the warmth of a trusting friendship

Once the dam had burst there was little to hold back the flood and a friendship between Zweig and Dunbeath, so impossible to imagine only a few days before, now grew by the hour. Zweig spent much of that and the following day showing the earl the rudiments of sailing and it quickly became clear that this was a skill that he took to with interest and enthusiasm. For a man that had known only a deep sense of antagonism towards the ways of the world, the excitement of finding an inanimate object that reacted to his wishes and intelligence and yet worked with ever-changing natural conditions, became a joy to him.

Now the pair barely stopped speaking except when they slept. Having established Dunbeath as a helmsman capable of following simple orders, Zweig had felt able to grab at some much needed rest and before long he was as alert and forward thinking as he'd been before his long vigil.

For his part, Dunbeath found Zweig compelling company. The two men scarcely drew breath as they spent hours discussing a range of navigational matters and, in particular, the various approaches that the German merchants employed in the Baltic. The many ways that Zweig described how the lack of an effective measurement of longitude had limited their wider trading activities was of great interest to Dunbeath. He'd always taken an academic approach to astronomy and the experience of now bringing his deep knowledge of theoretical navigation to the realities of life at sea was hugely exhilarating to him.

The next two days passed quickly for them both and it seemed no time at all before Dunbeath's little craft was working its way up the Thames and mooring by Execution Dock at Wapping. By then the friendship between the men was firmly established, heightened as it was by the importance of Dunbeath's mission, but also by such an extraordinary swing in the earl's opinion of Zweig that it could only be described as the
zeal of the convert.

The captain now carefully secured the boat to a trot of grain barges and Dunbeath went below to gather up his charts. Together the two men set off in the direction of The Prospect, the most prominent of the waterside inns that lined the riverbank, and it was only a few minutes later that they were negotiating with the ostler there for a carriage to carry them to the earl's London house.

Within an hour the coachman was pulling up outside a fabulous neo-classical mansion off St. James's Street, nestled in its own courtyard and with a view down to the park. Dunbeath paid off the carriage and knocked hard on the front door. Half a minute later there was still no response and he banged again, louder this time. There was a further wait until the door opened a crack and a disheveled man, unshaven and with his clothing unbuttoned, gave them a sharp and unwelcoming scowl.

‘What do you want? What business have you here?'

‘Headley, it is me, your master! Let us in and open up the house.'

The butler took a step backwards in horror and began a series of flustered apologies and excuses.

‘I'm afraid I hardly recognised you, my lord,' he said, gazing in dismay at Dunbeath's appearance. ‘I am more used to seeing you dressed for the city. It's been so long since we've had the pleasure of your company. Let me see, it must be three, or even four years. Perhaps more.'

Dunbeath could not have cared less about the state of the house nor the unreadiness of his servants. He dropped his bag and carried the presentation into a large and lavishly decorated drawing room where he pulled the dustsheet off a sofa.

‘Captain, set yourself here. Let me unroll these charts for you now we're able to spread ourselves.'

Within minutes the great mansion was in uproar as the butler roused up the household. Servants appeared from every door,
their features strained in shock, pulling on livery and clattering about, opening blinds and pulling back curtains. Martins, the housekeeper, bustled in, confused and tongue-tied, apologising in stammered bursts for the state of the house. But once Dunbeath had settled her with an unconcerned wave of the hand, she embarked on a series of curt orders to the bewildered maids to open windows, light fires and make beds with all the furious efficiency of a staff sergeant under enemy fire.

Dunbeath was completely oblivious to the activity that had erupted around him. Going over to a desk in the window, he pulled a sheaf of paper from a drawer. He set to scrawling a letter and then called out for the butler.

‘Headley, have the carriage prepared with all haste. Ask Makepeace to join me here.'

He looked about the room and gestured to an anxious looking footman.

‘You, when you're dressed you're to drive with Makepeace down to Greenwich. Find the Royal Observatory – you'll see it on the hill there – and take this letter to Mr James Bradley. He's the Astronomer Royal, they'll all know him. Deliver it to him in person with my compliments and ask him to come back here with you immediately. He will know that it's of the utmost urgency. You're to see that Makepeace is driving with all speed. Go now.'

He passed the letter over to the footman and turned again to his butler.

‘Now Headley, my friend Captain Zweig and I shall need hot water for bathtubs. And send for a barber. We must both be at our best tomorrow, close shaved, pressed finery and powered wigs. Have a tailor come immediately. Captain Zweig is a bigger man than I am and if he is to fit into my clothes they will need some adjustment.

‘Zweig, if you please. Let me show you these charts and I shall explain to you how I am to win the Prize. I want you to be
with me at the meeting if you'd be so kind, should anyone wish for the opinion of the experienced captain that will be running the final sea trials.'

Zweig bowed, murmuring that he was most flattered and more than happy to be used in such a role. And so, for the next two hours, the two men sat with their heads together talking in low voices as Dunbeath rehearsed his presentation yet again.

* * * 

On another sofa, five hundred miles further north, Sophie sat in her usual place, surrounded as ever by reams of calculations. She was staring into space, turning over a thought in her head, when David Hume came into the room, whistling lightly as he straightened his coat.

‘Helloa, Miss Kant,' he called out as he saw her, ‘I know that look. Behind those beautiful eyes I perceive a great machine is at work.'

‘Mr Hume!' said Sophie, delightedly. ‘Well, yes you are right in the sense that I was indeed thinking. In fact, I was thinking about something you said yesterday. About turning the other cheek. I know you are not a believer but the more I consider it, the more I feel the Lord might have been sitting here with us exploring the Prisoner's Dilemma.'

‘In what way, Sophie?'

‘Well, we've spoken much of the success of co-operation in long term relationships between people who want to build societies rather than exploit others – what the Dilemma would call three point achievers – people whose instinct is to trust rather than not to. You have called them doves. And your parable of the conflict between the hawks and the doves was most illuminating because it showed how the hawks will quickly run short of doves to kill and have then to meet others like themselves in bloody and exhausting battles.

‘Now, imagine that like the hawks and doves of your story, there are whole coalitions of people who think the same way. They assemble to take up the fight against a common enemy. Which of the sides will be the more successful? Those in which people are joined by trust or those that are joined by fear?'

She gestured towards her pages of calculations.

‘We have found, have we not, that the numbers tell their own story. Co-operators are the ones who trust each other enough to stay silent, who look for partners to have stable and lengthy co-operative relationships with, and who have found that trust and virtue are the cornerstones of how to win in
life
. They have found that co-operation wins.

‘But, have you not noticed how some men regard people who wish to trust others as ‘stupid'? You often hear it. They are astonished that their fellow man doesn't see the world as the competitive, unforgiving place that they do and they think him foolish for not doing so. Not only foolish, but weak. Well, didn't we see just this with Lord Dunbeath when you first played the Dilemma with him?'

‘Yes, indeed Sophie, and one sees this constantly being repeated in life,' replied Hume.

‘Then think back to the time of the Roman Empire, Mr Hume, particularly about how the Roman government would have behaved in small and unruly provinces like Judea. Their society was wholly structured with rules and laws, hierarchies, competition, suppression. A society in which there was no trust or individual thought. Only laws. Where the word of law was truth. A society of hawks, in other words.

‘And suddenly a man was attracting huge crowds and saying that none of this mattered. That only love and trust did. As I say, a man who seemed to understand the great lessons the Dilemma is showing us. He talked of the power of co-operation and the death of defection. And thousands were inspired. His vision saw the end of winners and losers. It was a vision in which
everybody, regardless of who they were, could win.

‘Can you imagine how terrifying he was to the Romans and to everything they stood for? Their whole authority depended on them being seen as ruthless defectors. No wonder he had to be obliterated.'

* * * 

In his study at Craigleven, L'Arquen lounged back in a chair, his feet crossed on the surface of his beautiful desk. A decanter of whisky was close by and he held an empty glass in his hand. It was plain that his poise had slipped. He stared blankly into the distance, his lips tight and a bitter, brooding look in his eye. Fruitless days had been spent scouring the vast openness of the Caithness landscape for rebels, and in his frustration his thoughts had now turned back to that arrogant and obnoxious man, Dunbeath. Perhaps he was the ringleader of this whole thing? Why not? Certainly he was the power around here. And he had so blatantly lied to him about that beautiful girl – of that he was quite certain. Yet again L'Arquen thought about Sophie – the few seconds he'd seen her had been enough for her image to crowd in on him. Not only lied, but the bastard had had the impertinence to shout at him, a colonel in His Majesty's army.

He came to a decision and sat up. He yelled at the closed door.

‘Guard! Get Major Sharrocks in here. Now!'

* * * 

‘I must admit,' continued Sophie, ‘that I never understood why the Lord said that the meek would inherit the earth. It seemed so preposterous to me that I often wondered if it wasn't an error of translation. But now I think I understand.

‘It's because the strong would naturally think of themselves as winners that they'd always ignore the meek. Their own ambition
and greed would lead them to compete with each other rather than bother with people they'd regard as not worthy of their attention or who had nothing that they would want to take. Do they not sound like hawks to you, like defectors? Isn't it because these people have such an unshakable regard for themselves that they place a higher value on their endeavours than the meek do? They think far more highly of themselves.'

Sophie set her papers down alongside her on the sofa and stood up. Hume could see that she was continuing to think through her conclusions.

‘But the meek will co-operate,' she continued. ‘Haven't you noticed how it's always the same people, often those with the least, who are the most generous? Their instinct is to share, to co-operate and by doing so, to build. The bonds that unite them are stronger than the bonds of fear and suspicion that unite those who rely only on laws and rules – people who carefully weigh and measure each exchange they ever make.

‘The proof of the fallibility of laws for me is the existence of lawyers. What are lawyers except guardians of the intricate exchanges that defectors weave? There are no lawyers in Always Co-operate or even with those who would play co-operate until they're led by their Tit for Tat strategy to defect in return. It's because there's no need for them. In fact, I seem to remember that St Paul wrote something about this. Wasn't it that the law brought about wrath? And that where there was no law, there was no violation? Just so, co-operators are the ones who stay silent and get three points not those who distrust and only get one. I had always assumed that by meek the Lord meant oppressed, downtrodden, poor. But, see that he uses none of these words. He says meek – an attitude of mind, not a state of affairs.'

David Hume smiled yet again as she spoke. He adored her more than ever when she was in full flood like this.

‘I like that very much, Sophie. Where does this lead you?'

‘Well, to a further conclusion, Mr Hume. Isn't it an inescapable observation that tormenters ultimately always lose? It is because in the end nobody wants to deal with them. They take too much, always insisting on having five points, thinking it is their right. In the same way, I believe this is why tyrannies must fail. In fact, the more authoritarian they are, the quicker they will fall. It must be because a society that's built on the assumption of hierarchy and a rigid measurement of exchange – where exchanges are expected by return and in the exact amount of the deed – will always be vulnerable to being eaten away from the inside by any act of sacrifice or altruism. Or, indeed, long term trust. Fear makes for a poor soil and the roots of a lasting society will never thrive in it.

‘The meek, however, don't “keep the score.” Their faith is in the goodness of other people. Their belief is that that virtue will always, ultimately, be reciprocated. They trust until proven wrong. Some of them may eventually fight back against hawks, like your retaliator doves, but their instinct is always to form continuous, unbroken three point relationships – in spite of the repeated evidence of free riders and other exploiters. If this were not true, how could they ever survive?'