The Prisoner's Dilemma

by Sean Stuart O'Connor

  ‘I passed L’Arquen as I came in just now,’ said Hume, ‘and he’s stationing men to report to him when the boat gets back.’ He turned to speak to Smith. ‘I believe I told you in Edinburgh that Dunbeath was a zealot in Scotland’s cause. I fear that this Colonel L’Arquen will draw the same conclusion and will find some reason to arrest him when he returns from London. Yes, you’re right Sophie. We have to find a way of telling them of the danger they’re in.’

  Sophie had been deep in thought, gazing towards the far end of the room while Hume had been talking. Now she came out of her reverie.

  ‘Ah, I’ve just thought of something. Perhaps there is a way.’

  * * *

  Zweig and Dunbeath sat in a contented silence as the little jacht made good progress along the Lincolnshire coast. Makepeace had gone below to sleep and Zweig took advantage of his absence. He looked over at Dunbeath.

  ‘So, what are your plans now, my lord?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just having those same thoughts myself, captain. I was in two minds about what to do before we left Scotland but I’m quite decided now. My country’s future is in the balance and I fear that this is no longer the time to be looking at the stars. I wanted to win the Longitude Prize but that was not to be. Now I must think of the clan and of Scotland. The Stuarts were great supporters of the Urquhain and I’ve decided that I shall side for Prince Charles Edward and gather my people together for the coming war. L’Arquen and his kind would like to wipe us out entirely but we shall see it differently. In any event, I rather feel the events in London may have seen me burn my bridges somewhat with the English.’

  Zweig gave a loud laugh.

  ‘I think you may have put some of my high explosive under them, my lord.’

  Dunbeath looked at Zweig and gave a boyish giggle. Then his mood turned serious once again.

  ‘But, what about you, captain? Why don’t you stay? We shall have need of good men and I would reward you handsomely if you fought alongside us.’

  ‘No,’ replied Zweig softly, slowly shaking his head, ‘I believe I must see many a wife and mother before I do anything else. And tell them of the deaths of their loved ones. They need to be told. And, they will be in sore need of money.’

  Dunbeath looked at him with admiration.

  ‘Well said! In that case I shall commission you to bring us guns and powder once you have returned to Königsberg. It’s plain that you know where to get them and I believe we shall soon be using a great amount of both if I guess correctly at how the English will respond to Prince Charles Edward’s challenge. Will you take the task on?’

  ‘Aye, willingly,’ said Zweig. ‘ But I fear I must ask for funds to buy such a cargo. When you meet with the other clan chiefs, Lord Macdougall will tell you where I had agreed to land their powder before. Tell them all that I shall be back with new supplies before the autumn. And this time,’ he laughed, ‘I shall have your navigation to bring me to the right bay.

  ‘But, my lord,’ he continued after a carefully weighted pause, ‘we must speak of Miss Kant. What shall I tell her father when I return?’

  ‘Tell him, please,’ replied Dunbeath, ‘that his debt to you is discharged and that he is not to be anxious for money ever again. But, tell him also that I desire to marry his daughter. When this war is over we shall visit him and he will know her by a new name – the Countess of Dunbeath. Will you do that for me?’

  ‘Why, indeed willingly,’ said Zweig. He swallowed hard, determined not to show the slightest sign of surprise or reluctance. Marriage! Marriage, he thought to himself again, and drove his nails hard into the palm of his hand to keep his manner cool. Well, he’d been right that she’d made an impression on the earl but that had obviously grown since Dunbeath had said she was under his protection. Marriage! He knew now that the stakes had been raised far higher than he’d imagined.

  But he said nothing. Yet again, he would wait. Why should he play his hand before the game had really started? Instead, he looked away and turned his attention back to the balance of the boat.

  And together they sailed on for Scotland.

  * * *

  L’Arquen brought the glass up to his lips and drank heavily, brooding on what he should do, asking himself once more why he didn’t just go and bring the girl in. And let Williams loose on her for an hour or two.

  Why didn’t this bloody war start? How much easier things would be if only it did. There wouldn’t be any of this tiptoeing about then. By God, he’d have her hands in those contraptions of Williams before she could blink if he only knew where they all stood. His lips tightened as he thought bitterly about the way she’d looked at him. There’d be no more of that if he had her in here. And who the hell had been that skinny fellow? Another damned Scots plotter come to see Dunbeath?

  He put his head in his hands.

  What could he do but keep watching? The McLeish boy hadn’t been much good about who the girl was. He’d like to find out though. The moment Dunbeath came back he’d round up the lot of them. That would keep Williams happy. That would solve the whole thing.

  His head throbbed and he reached for the decanter again.

  Chapter 25

  Once the troop had returned to barracks, David Hume saw that even Sophie’s great spirit was severely wounded by L’Arquen’s attack on her. He now attempted to settle her stretched anxieties.

  ‘I don’t believe you should be too concerned by his threats, my dear,’ he said. ‘He may have his suspicions but he has no evidence against you. And, even if he should think further about arresting you, he would soon find out from me that he was trifling with the intended wife of the richest aristocrat in Scotland.’

  Adam Smith had joined them in the salon and he now nodded his agreement.

  ‘And the colonel might not think it would help his prospects if I was to let his superiors know of his attempt on your honour. He would have to reckon with me before I would deny that.’

  Hume smiled inwardly at Smith’s boyish show of loyalty and turned back to Sophie.

  ‘No, Miss Kant, I don’t think we shall hear more from the man until Lord Dunbeath returns with Captain Zweig. Now, more importantly, you were going to tell me of your plan to warn them of L’Arquen’s presence.’

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Sophie and Hume sat happily with Adam Smith by the fire, listening to him as he spoke about their findings on the Prisoner’s Dilemma.

  ‘The most unavoidable conclusion from your games,’ Smith was saying to them, ‘seems to me to be also the most shocking. It is that altruism, goodness, generosity, kindness – all the qualities that we hold most dear – can now be seen more clearly as investments in the expectation of a later reward.’

  He saw David Hume lift his head.

  ‘I know, Mr Hume, I know – you will think me too sweeping in my choice of words. Very well, it is the actions that are investments, not the sentiments. And I shall also agree with you, before you wish me to, that many of these sentiments are not done knowingly. They are more to be gathered together under what you would refer to as ‘benevolence’. But allow me, please, to continue with my point. Knowingly or unknowingly, the people behaving in this way want their investment to be returned.

  ‘What the Dilemma seems to have told you is that the key factor is the timescale. The defector is looking for a short-term gain. The co-operator is looking further out, beyond the immediate choices or exchanges that have to be made. Sophie has told me that you called this process ‘the shadow of the future’ and it must be people’s ability to make this vision of paramount importance that’s driving their co-operative strategies. Or should I say instincts rather than strategies because you say that the one has almost become the other as we humans have developed.’

  Adam Smith thought for a couple of seconds as he stared wildly about himself.

  ‘These strategies show themselves,’ he continued, ‘because we never know when we shall meet the people we are playing with again. And, because o
f that, we must constantly be weighing up a present advantage against possible future gains or losses.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Hume, delighted to have the younger man taking part in their discussions. ‘The underlying conclusion of the Prisoner’s Dilemma is that we are all, endlessly, looking for partners that can be trusted. It is a fact of life. In a world of defectors, Tit for Tat works at its best once a co-operator finds another co-operator. Are these not your thoughts too, Sophie?’

  Sophie had been frowning slightly but she now looked up.

  ‘I would go further than that,’ she said. ‘I think our ability to identify people who are real co-operators, not just opportunists that might just be pretending to be them, is a huge advantage. Honesty really is the best policy in finding partners; people who will help you survive. It seems obvious to me now that the most powerful reason to be trustworthy in society is to get other co-operators to play with you! To build a reputation, spoken or believed.’

  As she said this, Hume looked steadily at Adam Smith.

  ‘This is what we spoke of in Edinburgh, is it not? However little we may like it, we have to recognise that we are good for a reason. And that reason is the wish to succeed and rise above our fellow man. If you agree with this then you have to agree that altruism and compassion are just selfishness given new clothes. It is appalling to contemplate but look at it we must. It is the key to understanding our natures. If you are kindly to someone because it makes you feel better, or gets you a reward, then your compassion is selfish, not selfless. Yet for all that I believe it is the act itself that matters, and not the motive.’

  ‘Ah, here is an argument that I have heard many times,’ said Smith quickly. ‘If we are selfless only because it leads to gains for ourselves, should the motive concern us? Does it matter if a man saves a drowning companion because he wants the glory rather than to do good? That it is the deed that counts, not his reason for it? How often have I attended as Professor Hutcheson and his colleagues in Glasgow argued about whether benevolence that was due to vanity or self-interest was still benevolence. That a man may do a good deed, even if he should do it out of pride or self regard? You must be right, Hume – that altruism and virtue are showing themselves to be just selfishness by another name; a subtle and clever expression of it, to be sure, but nonetheless practiced unknowingly for that end.’

  ‘That still leaves us, Mr Smith,’ continued Hume, ‘with the question of why people are ever truly, deeply, perhaps even secretly, altruistic. Sophie’s view is that it springs from the urge in them to feel better. I agree, that may be so for many of us. On the other hand, it may simply be that some people do things in life to a greater excess than his fellows. Some are more intelligent, others can run faster.

  ‘Perhaps what we are seeing in them is just the instinct for virtue as a survival strategy exaggerated in some people more than in others? After all, do not some of us speak too much or laugh too heartily? Why not give too much as well?’

  Hume looked away, pleased with his conclusion, and then lumbered to his feet.

  ‘Now, Mr Smith,’ he puffed, ‘perhaps I can tempt you to fill your Edinburgh lungs with some of this wonderful sea air? There are superb views to be had from the headland. Will you walk with me out there?’

  * * *

  Zweig was at the helm while Dunbeath munched on an apple he’d found at the bottom of the bag of food that Annie had put out for him. There had been a silence for some time with just the sound of the boat slicing through the choppy water for company. Makepeace continued to snore in the cabin below.

  Zweig glanced over towards Dunbeath. He had been judging the right moment to bring up the subject.

  ‘You mentioned something interesting to me that day on the dunes when we first met,’ he said gently. ‘This was before we learnt something of our natures and found that we could trust each other. You said we were in ‘…another damned Prisoner’s Dilemma’ your words were to me. What did you mean by that?’

  Dunbeath gave a short laugh.

  ‘Ah, the Dilemma. I had quite forgotten about it. How long ago that all seems. Well, if you’re interested, let me explain.’

  And Dunbeath began to outline his great game and the different views that the Castle of Beath had heard so hotly debated.

  * * *

  The market town of Northallerton lay comfortably in the Vale of Mobray, east of the great stretch of the Pennines and to the west of the open moorland of North Yorkshire. To the weary rider it had always made a welcome sight, prosperous and busy.

  For many years the army base there controlled the road to Scotland and sharp eyes were now wide open, alert to the warlike noises coming down from the north.

  A soldier in a grey uniform led his horse wearily towards the warmth of the blacksmith’s fire, directed inside by one of the sentries that had stopped him on the road.

  ‘Hey,’ the guard called out to the farrier, ‘King’s Messenger needs assistance here. Carrying an urgent letter from Prince von Brunswick-Something or Somesuch. He’ll leave you this horse for shoeing. Needs a fresh one quickly though.

  ‘Poor bugger’s ridden all the way up from London and he’s still got hundreds of miles to go.’

  * * *

  Smith and Hume were about to set off for their walk. Sophie stood at the door with them and, as she waved them on their way, she looked down the drive to where two of the Craigleven redcoats were standing guard. She wandered down to where they stood, watching her in an embarrassed silence.

  ‘Good day to you, men. You seem in need of warm soup.’

  The soldiers looked about themselves, terrified that Sharrocks, or even worse, L’Arquen, was about to see them talking to her. They saw nothing and both of them nodded gratefully. A few minutes later Sophie emerged again with a good lunch on a tray.

  They fell on the vegetable broth and bread with a ravening hunger. Now they slowed their manic eating with a large hunk of cheese each and a flagon of spring water.

  ‘You are too good to us, ma’am. We are not used to such kindness,’ said one.

  ‘I am sorry for your trouble,’ said the other. ‘His lordship must be in terrible trouble if our colonel is after him. I fear he is not a man to cross, ma’am. His reputation goes before him.’

  * * *

  Dunbeath was coming to the end of his description of the many discussions and conclusions on the Prisoner’s Dilemma that Hume and Sophie had been having before he had left for London.

  ‘Sophie was very convincing in her analysis that co-operation wins in life,’ he said. ‘She laid much merit on this Tit for Tat instinct and its odd child, a subsidiary strategy that she referred to as Generous. David Hume found it fitted well with many of his own thoughts and they spent hours together filling each other’s heads with the idea that any good there may be in us has a rational basis. I did not like to argue with her too greatly. You and I are men of the world, Zweig, and we know only too well the evil that lurks in us all. Sophie has such a kind and caring nature that I could not bring myself to argue that her views on the world were just so many mathematical theories.’

  ‘I heard from others that she was a promising mathematician, my lord’ replied Zweig. ‘That was before we left Königsberg.’

  ‘There is no doubt of that, captain. She will be of great benefit to me in my researches. Once this war is won.’

  Zweig said nothing in reply but just looked ahead into the wind. Then he turned to Dunbeath.

  ‘I wonder about your game, my lord. Perhaps it’s possible that too much digging can spoil a garden? I should not like to think that the gift of trust and the way we deal with each other are so many scribbles on a piece of paper. And where is the beauty of love? Where was that in Sophie’s view of the world?’

  Chapter 26

  Hume and Smith had walked some two miles along the coast. They were comfortable in each other’s company, largely silent because the noise of the wind had limited their conversation. Now they turned back for the castle as
the breeze dropped.

  ‘You were quite right in your opinion of Miss Kant,’ said Smith. ‘I do not believe I have ever met a more sinuous, inventive mind.’

  ‘Yes, she is extraordinary, isn’t she?’ replied Hume. ‘I have told her about your ideas, of course, and we have spoken much about how your pin makers and their specialisations fit into the results that the Dilemma points us to. It seems to me that there is a great deal of similarity in the two views. They both show us that social benefits can derive from what could be regarded as individual selfishness. That what we see as progress in society stems from self-interest and from that into benevolence. As she has said often, it is hard to distinguish between these in our developed state, so firmly are the principles of co-operation set in the very elements of our instincts.’

  ‘Quite so,’ replied Smith, looking into the sky, ‘although I am troubled by her description of the impact of what she called free riders. As I understand it she explains them almost as a constant reminder to society of what a defector looks like – and therefore an example of what trusting people should avoid and organise against. But one has to ask what happens when free riders cease to be peripheral in society and become so numerous that even the most co-operative of people have to behave in the same fashion to protect their interests and even sometimes their very survival.’

  ‘How very interesting, Mr Smith, can you please explain what you mean a little further?’

  ‘Well let me give you an example,’ continued Adam Smith, gazing out at the grey surface of the sea, ‘I have been reading much recently about the arguments for enclosing common land. I find this fascinating because these commons seem to be almost societies in miniature. Why do I say that? Well, because there are often no laws at all to govern their use and instead the people that put their animals out on them have evolved intricate systems and mutual understandings that give them each a fair return without the guidance of an authority. This shouldn’t work in theory but clearly it does in practice. Is this not what the Greeks might have called a democracy? Those who wish to enclose the commons see it differently. They speak of peasants as being unable to control their greed, and of how the more rapacious of them would easily take more than their rightful share. The argument runs that if a man were to graze more cattle on the common than was considered to be his right, then his neighbours would respond by grazing more themselves out of understandable self-protection.