The Prisoner's Dilemma (28 page)

‘Excellent again, Makepeace. Then I suggest that you leave the carriage at one of the inns here and collect it when you return. I shall give you the funds to come back by road.'

But, half an hour later, Makepeace was trying yet another inn on the waterside. Two had said they had no space to store the coach. Now he was hearing the same news from a third.

‘With great sorrow I must refuse you, driver. There is no room in my stable at all.'

‘Can you not lodge it with a neighbour of yours?' asked Makepeace.

‘I doubt it very much, sir. We all have much custom at this time of year. But perhaps my boy could return it to your own mews?'

Fatally, Makepeace thought this was a good plan.

‘Yes, if you're willing and the lad is able to handle the team. There's money for you both if you can. The address is Urquhain House in St James's. If he goes to the park there he'll find it easily
enough. Let him know that he can do me a favour while he's at it. My name is Hugh Makepeace and I'd be grateful if he could see my wife and tell her that I'm sailing up to The Castle of Beath with his lordship and I'll be back in three or four week's time.'

Makepeace left the carriage with the innkeeper and within the hour the tide had turned and the three men were sailing down the Thames. By now their wigs and coats had been consigned to the tiny cabin and the drama of their fight and escape had them all in high spirits. Together they worked the sheets and sails as they tacked down the river, each of them pleased for their own reasons to be leaving London and heading for the open sea.

* * * 

The stable boy was, indeed, a capable driver and within a couple of hours he was turning off Pall Mall and swinging the beautiful carriage and its team of horses into the forecourt of Urquhain House.

He was about to jump down and rouse out a servant when from all sides a troop of guards hurled themselves at the coach, wrenching open its doors and climbing on its roof.

‘Where's Lord Dunbeath?' screamed a uniformed officer.

‘'oo d'yer mean?'

‘You know! Lord Dunbeath. This is his carriage. Where is he? And the other man he had with him?'

‘I don't know what yer about,' said the boy once more, ‘but the three men that was in the coach sailed off in a boat. I was just paid to bring the man's carriage back ‘ere. I was told to tell the coachman's missus that they've all gone up to Scotland and that she's not to expect him back for a month.'

A low mist hung over the ghostly outline of St James's Palace. The sprawling Tudor buildings sank into the blankness of the watery atmosphere and only the ancient cloisters were dimly visible, picked out by the thin light of their hanging lanterns. Through the still air the cobbles rang with the heavy boots of sentries as they marched endlessly back and forth through the gloom. Although it had earlier been a beautiful spring day, the rain that afternoon had made the brickwork sodden and the damp still hung heavy as a group of army officers in red frock-coats hurried to keep their appointment.

Before long they had gathered in a small room off Friary Court, pine panelled and with a large turkish carpet on the floor. The door opened and they immediately stopped their discussions and stood to attention. General Mallender entered with the old Prince von Suderburg-Brunswick-Luneburg snuffling along behind him, the thunder in his face still unable to disguise the self-satisfaction that shone from him at being at the centre of affairs. Mallender asked the men to settle themselves.

‘Well gentlemen, you will have heard about the attempted assault on His Majesty earlier today and you'll know that we are looking for the Earl of Dunbeath to answer for it. We now learn that he has sailed off, apparently to his stronghold in Scotland. As you know the current situation in that country is giving us cause for concern and we have reason to believe that the clan chiefs will be gathering soon to decide whether to support Charles Edward Stuart in an uprising against King George.

‘It's vital that we stamp out such talk and Lord Dunbeath's behaviour today gives us an excellent opportunity to make an example of our intentions. We want something to let the clan leaders think on. They need to be in no doubt that we shall not stand for any Scottish chief thinking that he can show disrespect to the English king!'

There was a murmur of agreement in the room and Mallender looked out at his officers' determined expressions.

‘By great good fortune, we have a troop of light dragoons, Harrington's Horse, garrisoned near to Dunbeath's castle. It is commanded by Colonel George L'Arquen. Some of you may know him. I suggest, gentlemen, that you have an arrest warrant drawn up which will be signed by the prince here and sent up to Scotland to have the colonel bring Dunbeath back to London.

‘And, Captain Meynell,' Mallender continued, turning to the duty officer who was taking the minutes, ‘you might make the warrant plain to Colonel L'Arquen that we would shed few tears if Dunbeath was to be killed while resisting arrest.'

Mallender began to pick up his papers, clearly bring the meeting to an end. Then he looked into the room again.

‘Frankly, gentlemen, I can think of few of our number who would carry out this order with the enthusiasm of George L'Arquen.'

The officers rose to their feet, laughing. L'Arquen's reputation was obviously well known to them.

* * * 

Two days had passed since James McLeish had told L'Arquen about Dunbeath's flight to London. And for two days the colonel had hardly slept. He still couldn't believe that he'd let the man slip between his fingers and he poured himself another glass of whisky and, yet again, he brooded over his strategy.

He had to guess that the Board of Longitude meeting was the cause of Dunbeath going, he concluded. Dunbeath had said his life's work was at stake and he'd certainly looked as if he was speaking the truth. There was no faking the letter from the Board, either. But what was he doing with that man Zweig if he wasn't involved with the rebellion? He must be. He was probably seeing the other clan chiefs even now. And he'd lied to him. Of that he
was certain – he'd lied about the girl. Maid indeed! God, she was beautiful though.

He shouted to his guard to find Sharrocks and five minutes later he was looking at the major from under half closed eyelids.

‘How many men do you have keeping Dunbeath's castle under surveillance now?'

‘I put two of them back, sir. One on the dunes and one on the headland where he can watch for the boat. As well as observe the far side of the castle.'

L'Arquen looked at him bitterly.

‘Tell them to keep their damned eyes open. And Sharrocks, if you ever withdraw surveillance again I shall break you to the ranks. I should never have allowed you to do it before.'

* * * 

Hume stood in front of the fire warming himself as a slight chill seemed to have come with the new day. He looked over as Sophie came up from the kitchen with firewood in her arms.

‘Why, Mr Hume. Good morning,' she greeted him.

‘Good morning to you too, Miss Kant.'

‘I was thinking of you just now,' Sophie said as she put the logs by the grate, ‘these sticks made me think of something my brother liked to say and I thought to share it with you. Have I ever told you about my brother?'

‘Yes, you have mentioned his work in moral philosophy at the university in Königsberg,' replied Hume. ‘Why, what was it that made you think of him?'

‘He used to have a little saying. Let me see, the German is
Aus so krummen Holze, als woraus der Mensch gemacht ist, kann nichts ganz Gerades gezimmert werden
, and I suppose you would say it in English as “out of the crooked …” I'm not sure what ‘Holze' translates as. It is a collection of Zweige. Holy Mary, Zweig again. I mean branches.'

‘Timber?'

‘Yes, that would be it. Timber. So, “out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing can ever be made.”'

‘A depressing observation, Miss Kant. Still, I dare say your work on the Prisoner's Dilemma has led you towards his views.'

‘Well, my brother is still very young and is yet to record his thinking in a published text. And I must confess that we find much of what he has to say unformed and esoteric. But I believe that in time his thoughts will be less mysterious, and easier to follow.'

Sophie shook some stray bark off her arm and into the grate.

‘I raise him,' she continued, ‘because he has been developing an idea that I think may be of use to us in thinking about the meanings that arise as we explore the Dilemma. His central belief was that one should always act on principles that are capable of being turned into a universal law of nature. He believed our actions should always be judged as if they are the result of a commandment of reason, what he calls a ‘categorical imperative'. The idea is that if you act on principles that you can will to be universal law, you are acting on law that you – with the help of your reason – have given to yourself. My brother thinks that all duty and obligations should derive from this, applying reason in this way.

‘In short, he would have us constantly doing everything in our power to promote good in human beings. To simplify somewhat, he thinks that the question we should always ask ourselves is: ‘what if everyone did this?' And, if we ask ourselves this question, and only act if we believe that everyone should act as
we
do, then it will promote the best of actions in us.'

‘I can see why you've been thinking of him,' replied Hume, ‘aren't these almost the exact words we've used ourselves when we've been discussing the way the Dilemma directs us? What if everyone behaved like a free rider? Or indeed, what if everyone simply practiced Always Co-operate?'

‘Well, I keep thinking of what the point of these games is,' continued Sophie, ‘and it is surely that they show us a simplified version of the world. They are trying to show an unchanging prescription for life and I wonder if, like my brother's thinking, they do not lead to a view of ethical behaviour that can be universalised. Is that not what so many of the ancients were pointing us towards? To make every act achieve the response that you seek from others – and seek for yourself? This sounds very like a continuous three point relationship to me.'

‘Ah, the idea of reciprocity, yet again,' said Hume. ‘But the Dilemma has shown us how hard it is to maintain a controlled exchange when there are only two people playing. How much harder is it with three or more, let alone to distill this into a universal law? And although one can say that the larger the group the more must be the benefits of co-operation, there's also no doubt that the obstacles that stand in its way become ever greater.

‘Tit for Tat doesn't work in this complex structure. It only works between individuals. But Tit for Tat begins to behave like Always Co-operate once people have shown themselves to be trustworthy. The opposite must also be true: free riders – people who defect and don't reciprocate – must be excluded. And they have to be excluded literally as well, otherwise their behaviour will rapidly spread at the expense of more productive citizens.'

Hume looked away in thought.

‘Perhaps,' he continued, ‘what we have here are the beginnings of something we might call morality. If this truth is to be acknowledged by society, though, there must be a mechanism to punish not just defectors but also people who are failing to punish defectors. There must, in my view, be some way of imposing social ostracism to deal with this but I'm not sure what it is.'

Sophie was looking thoughtfully towards the great bow window as Hume said this. Her gaze was blank with concentration
and, after a few moments, she murmured back to him.

‘Perhaps the punishment is simply not to be one of the winners in life?'

Hume said nothing. He knew Sophie well enough by now to know that she would be working through a chain of logic. She continued to look dreamily into the distance as she began to speak again.

‘You see, while there are obvious benefits from winning there's also a reward for co-operators if they
lose
– because they are able to sleep at night. Perhaps being a co-operator actually makes you
feel
better? In German we would call this
ethisches Gefuhl
– I think you would speak of sympathetic feelings, Mr Hume. Why, isn't this exactly the sympathy that you said your friend, Adam Smith, believed we had to apply to mitigate market forces? And that we had to create institutions to apply and govern it?'

Her gaze sharpened as she warmed to her thought process and she now turned to look directly at Hume.

‘Yes, that must be it – co-operators just feel better. They're content that they've done the right thing. If they win then they've met someone they like and trust. And, if they've lost? Well, they still know they've behaved well and they sleep easy because they don't have guilty consciences.'

She left the fireplace and began to walk slowly around the persian carpet between the gilt sofas, still deep in thought.

‘But, much more importantly than that, they think it is how they will get to heaven. Just as we bargain with each other, so, do we not also bargain with God? Perhaps we know no other way to relate to the idea of God than this? What else are all those offerings, prayers, good works and sacrifices if they're not the way that people bargain with God? And to what end? Well, to co-operate. Because people believe that God wants them to co-operate. What is the urge to do good, to co-operate, than the ultimate shadow of the future – their wish to get to what they
believe to be heaven?'

Hume felt for his cuff as he looked at her with fascination. He thought for a moment.

‘But, the opposite might also be true, Sophie,' he said. ‘Perhaps defectors have no sense of guilt? They just view co-operators as stupid. They think of them as people who deserve to be beaten. In fact, how often do you hear these people say ‘there's only one life' as if that gives them permission to behave badly, to defect? As you know, I have no belief in God, no place for him in my thinking. Although I may admire the faith I see in others, I believe instead in our natural benevolence. Still, the more I think on it, the more I see that these defectors are often the people who seem to think little of God or believe him to be only a comfort to the weak. They think of life as having a finite length and, in that sense, they view it all as a one-time Prisoner's Dilemma. No wonder they snatch at every advantage they can. How different that is to how people view life in the cultures and religions of the East. One reads often about the belief there in reincarnation. That must be the ultimate shadow of the future, mustn't it? To think that you're going to live all over again – and be rewarded for living well. As if there was some kind of celestial ladder to be climbed. It's hardly surprising that these people have elevated co-operation into a religious tenet. I believe some of them call this belief ‘karma' do they not?'

‘I have heard these tales myself, Mr Hume. I think it is indeed called karma,' said Sophie. ‘For myself, I believe all this distills down to one great conclusion – that there is only one story in life and one philosophy. And that is to believe in the power of love. Is that not what co-operation is? Is it not the belief in other people's good nature, in which the shadow of the future leads us to a shared vision? A vision based on trust, on forgiveness, on openness and on creation?'

Sophie looked intently at Hume, her mind very obviously clear now.

‘This seems so universally true,' she continued. ‘When one looks at people who are completely foreign to one – you mentioned the people of the East, for example – the same deep currents seem to be flowing in all cultures: love, family, ritual, loyalty, friendship. For all the superficial differences between people, wherever they live, whatever their religions, surely that is why even deeply strange cultures are understandable to us at the more profound levels of motives and social habits.'

‘I have reached very many of the same conclusions myself, Sophie,' replied Hume. ‘Perhaps our moral sentiments have evolved like everything else? Why shouldn't we have evolved our instincts for survival by assessing who we can work with in society? It's becoming increasingly plain to me that what we are constantly doing in our lives is making rational choices that benefit our wellbeing. These choices are problem solving mechanisms, they are the way of settling the Prisoner's Dilemma, and they decide between short term expediency and longer term rewards. In favour of the latter.'