The Prisoner's Dilemma

by Sean Stuart O'Connor

  Sophie gaze moved to the window and she looked out at the ocean.

  ‘Yes, he becomes hot.’

  They both laughed, easily and without pretence. There was another, far more comfortable silence. Then Zweig turned to her.

  ‘You have made your choice between the two of us, Sophie, and I have no doubt you feel you have chosen wisely. With Dunbeath there will be wealth and titles, servants and certainty. With me it would have been nothing but desperate stakes, wild ventures and awful risks. No certainty at all, only insecurity. We would never have had a quiet moment or even been sure of the clothes on our backs – always rising and falling, winning and losing. Exciting some might say. But a settled, comfortable life? No.’

  Sophie stared out of the window. She didn’t move and there was another silence.

  Then Zweig played his final card.

  ‘Lord Dunbeath told me of the Prisoner’s Dilemma. When we were journeying back from London in the boat.’

  Sophie immediately brought her attention back to him.

  ‘Did he? What did you make of it?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘I found it interesting. Then I thought of how we might have been, Sophie. There was no dilemma for me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Zweig looked intently at her. His eyes were clear. He was never more serious. All pretence had gone. There was no strategy. There were to be no more games.

  ‘You must know that I would stay silent. You must know that I would only think of us together and not of myself. There would be no future for me if you were not there. And if you should decide to defect and confess then I should still stay silent – I would happily hang for you in a thousand lives before I ever betrayed you. I would go to my death with a smile on my face knowing that you would be going free.’

  He spoke quietly and his eyes never left hers.

  ‘I have told you this many times …I love you. I showed you my heart in the days when I was on the dunes. And I told you again when I came to your room before I left for London and cried my bitter tears. Sophie, I would care nothing of dying. You could make your own choice in the Dilemma but I would be content to be hanged if it meant your freedom. You would know that my love for you could never die.’

  Sophie looked steadily back at him. Then she rose to her feet and was about to walk to the fire when she turned back.

  ‘I know who you are,’ she said, quietly. ‘You are a madman.’

  * * *

  Sharrocks called for the duty officer when he returned to Craigleven.

  ‘Where is Colonel L’Arquen?’

  ‘He’s out hunting highlanders, sir. I believe he is due to return shortly.’

  ‘In which case take this prisoner and hold him until he gets back.’

  He turned to Makepeace, still bound tightly at the wrists.

  ‘Mr Makepeace. I’m quite sure you know little of what you are caught up in. But in the name of everything that you hold dear, I give you one last chance – will you not tell me where Lord Dunbeath and the other man are?’

  Makepeace’s face was a mask. He had been in Dunbeath’s service for many years and he knew only loyalty to the Urquhain. He would stubbornly protect his master.

  Sharrocks put his head closer to Makepeace and spoke quietly to him in an almost caring tone.

  ‘We shall put you in a cell now but I urge you to think again about your silence, my friend. My colonel is a devil for getting people to co-operate with him.’

  Makepeace jutted his chin. But there was no disguising the anxiety that showed on his face.

  * * *

  Dunbeath went to the door that led to the kitchens and shouted for his housekeeper. She appeared a few moments later, smoothing her apron.

  ‘There you are Annie, he said, ‘have you been to Dunbeaton yet?’

  ‘No, my lord. Not yet.’ She wiped her hands as she spoke. ‘I was going soon to get food for our dinner. I’ll talk to Gordon McKay about Makepeace then.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Dunbeath. ‘There will be many for luncheon I fear. And fetch up the finest wines from the cellars. We are celebrating are we not? The Urquhain are preparing to rise and we shall soon have the king over the water returned to us at last. Captain Zweig will be leaving when the tide is at its lowest at around four o’clock, so let us eat at two.’

  Annie nodded and hurried away.

  * * *

  Makepeace heard Major Sharrocks coming as his heels rang down the stone corridor. The cell door opened.

  ‘The colonel has returned. He wishes to see you.’

  The guard led off but as Makepeace passed him Sharrocks touched his arm.

  ‘Please, remember that the Scots are our enemies, Mr Makepeace. The truth now, or he will be hard on you.’

  But far from being hard on him, L’Arquen was friendliness itself when they were shown into his office. Drinks were offered and then the colonel asked Makepeace in a friendly and conversational tone to tell the story of the trip back from London.

  ‘There’s very little to tell, sir. His lordship left his meeting at the Admiralty and I drove him back to his boat and helped him sail up here.’

  ‘And the German gentleman?’ said L’Arquen, pleasantly. ‘Did he accompany you?’

  Makepeace fatally hesitated for a second.

  ‘German gentleman? Oh, you’ll be referring to his lordship’s sailing master? Yes, he came with us.’

  ‘I see. And you threw them over the side on your way back did you? Major Sharrocks tells me that they were not on board when he took you off. Apparently you had no rowing boat with you. Had they used it to row ashore earlier?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied Makepeace, ‘they took the tender when we anchored.’

  ‘A great shame,’ murmured L’Arquen looking down sadly at the floor. Then after a pause he shook his head. ‘Yes, it is a shame indeed that you do not see fit to tell me the truth.’

  ‘But I am, sir,’ blustered Makepeace.

  L’Arquen shook his head with a show of deep sorrow at finding yet another example of human frailty.

  ‘It won’t do, Mr Makepeace. No, I’m afraid it just won’t do at all. You see, the problem for you is that when the boat was spotted sailing around the headland it had no tender with it. And you were the only person that my major found on deck when you’d anchored. Now, let me ask you again. When did Lord Dunbeath and Captain Zweig get off?’

  Makepeace looked bewildered for a moment but then became sullen.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know round here.’

  He closed his mouth with a studied finality.

  ‘You disappoint me, Mr Makepeace,’ said L’Arquen politely. ‘Now, Major Sharrocks is going to take you back to your room and a gentleman called Trooper Williams will visit you later to ask you again about your trip. If you do think you have anything else to tell me I should be delighted to hear it when you feel ready.’

  * * *

  James pushed open the door of the cottage. He immediately sensed the chill in the atmosphere. Mona was sitting on a low chair by the hearth. She didn’t look up when he came in, but continued to stare silently into the smoking peat.

  ‘Mother?’ said James, and a slight questioning note came into his voice.

  ‘You were seen, James,’ his mother murmured in a dead voice. ‘You were seen with the redcoats.’

  James’s mind raced.

  ‘Aye. Well, I was just showing them where the old beacon is. There’s no harm in that is there?’

  Mona had risen to her feet. Now she stood, looking James in the face.

  ‘You’ve betrayed them, James, haven’t you? You’ve betrayed Alexis and you’ve betrayed the earl. You’ve betrayed your country. And you’ve betrayed me.’

  ‘Mother, please! Listen, you must listen. It was Zweig that betrayed me! He lied to me. He stole the telescope. Mother! Please!’

  Mona turned to stare at the smouldering turf.

  ‘Leave, James,’ she said in a whisper, ‘I have no sons now.�
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  Chapter 30

  Annie and Sophie had worked a miracle and a luncheon to stay in the memory was being served in the dining room. Much of Dunbeath’s fine old Bordeaux wine was flowing, and laughter and storytelling filled the ancient room with noise and warmth. In each of the different people that sat around the table there seemed to be a mood of change and fresh starts – Zweig was returning to Königsberg, Dunbeath to join the uprising, Sophie to be starting a new life as a married woman and the two philosophers going back to Edinburgh with the excitement of their many discussions and discoveries.

  Dunbeath looked down the table, hardly able to believe the changes that had taken place over the past few months. More than anything, he felt able to admit, the changes to himself.

  He now gazed down to where Adam Smith was speaking to Sophie in an unintelligible rattle. What did he make of all this he wondered? Even though he’d only met him that day, Dunbeath felt a great attraction towards the strange, unworldly young man, and he now called out to him as the party began to fall quiet.

  ‘So, Mr Smith, my friend David Hume tells me that you feel my little game may have contributed to your thinking.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, my lord,’ replied Smith, his eyes glued to the fireplace. ‘Yes, I think the Prisoner’s Dilemma has taken us all on a journey.’

  ‘And where do you think it has taken you?’

  Smith’s gaze began its customary careering sprint before it settled on the sideboard.

  ‘Well, my lord, I believe it has shown us how trust is the calling card of co-operation and how co-operation is the key to a constructive society.’

  ‘Ah, I see Sophie has been bewitching you as well, Mr Smith,’ replied Dunbeath. ‘You should know that I am still a sceptic of this thinking. I’m afraid I have spent far too long in this world not to know that however much the Dilemma may want us to have these three point relationships, the temptation to take five is never far from the surface in all men.’

  Well, I don’t believe I would argue with you too greatly on that, Lord Dunbeath. No more would I argue that a butcher might knowingly sell you bad beef. He might and you might pay for it, but you would not buy from him again. His stock would be damaged in your eyes. In just the same way, it seems to me that Miss Kant’s free riders are damaging their reputations and their futures in society because they are seen as a threat to its stability.’

  ‘And where is this leading you?’ said Dunbeath to a now silent table.

  ‘It is leading me without deviation, sir, to the belief that all society is a market,’ replied Smith, ‘and that it is an error to imagine that society is one thing and commerce is another. Tit for Tat is without doubt a building block in our understanding of this. But I also feel that even this insight is too crude, too simplistic, to be the whole story.

  ‘I’m increasingly certain that what is going on is that we are selling ourselves to each other, just as much as we might sell our services, our goods or our specialisations. Just as a trader might lay out his wares for sale, so we are laying out our characters and talents – and our trustworthiness – for others to look at. We do this in what we say, in how we behave, in how we look …we are endlessly writing advertisements for ourselves. These bill posters of ours are appealing in everything we do for the co-operation of others.’

  Smith leant forward and took a deep pull of his wine as he stared into space, clearly thinking through what he was going to say next. The others waited in silence, intrigued.

  ‘And, why are we doing this?’ he continued. ‘Well, to survive, first and foremost, by finding people who will help us do so. That is the lesson of life. But once we think we’ve done that? Then our aim is to win – to win against each other. And, to achieve this, we will employ every artifice, every trick and every instinct we’re able to call on.

  ‘This much I think is plain. But I still do not find it enough to explain our strivings. You see, the Dilemma would have us all looking for long-term, co-operative, three point relationships. A society of doves trustingly building a New Jerusalem. But we do not see this. That is why you don’t agree with Sophie’s conclusions – you don’t see it either. So, why aren’t we happy with three points? What is it that makes us want more? Why do we strive so much and why do we fight so hard to progress? Why are we not content to enjoy our survival, but want to win against each other – and to be seen to win?’ Adam Smith was unaware that all eyes were upon him. He had now become dreamy, rolling bread under his fingers and staring into the far distance.

  ‘And then I realised why. I suddenly saw that we are trying to do more than survive in this life – we are trying to survive in future lives as well. As Mr Hume once said to me: ‘none of our ancestors died celibate’. Each of us is proof of an unbroken success as our ancestors passed on their lines. And we are doing the same. Seeing the future and plotting, plotting, plotting to have our lines continue.’

  Dunbeath had had enough of this.

  ‘Now Mr Smith, I believe you go too far. Think again, I beg you.’

  ‘Too far?’ said Smith, suddenly looking at Dunbeath. ‘Do I? Then I apologise. But answer me then the question that I put to myself, my lord – why did man ever hunt large animals? Why would a man have risked his life trying to kill a great elk or a mammoth when he could kill a rabbit or a fowl more easily? The answer cannot be for the meat because no man or even his family could have eaten a dead mammoth before the meat was spoiled. A guinea fowl or a brace of duck or two would have been far easier to find and far less dangerous to hunt. So, why would a man put himself through the uncertainty and danger of hunting large and dangerous animals when he could have trapped smaller ones more easily?

  ‘There was not only the risk of the chase. There was the waste as well. A man would never have been able to carry a dead mammoth, let alone have made use of it all himself where it was killed. So, he’d have had to allow other people to take some. He’d have to have tolerated their theft. Why would he do that? Why would he appear to have a social conscience or be interested in helping other people? And then I realised why. The answer, I believe, is that just as we trade our specialisations in life so the mammoth hunter was trading an unmovable and perishable commodity, a transient success, for a reward he could carry around with him at all times –his reputation. The community’s gratitude and goodwill for his generosity, people’s respect for his courage and so on. That was his reward.

  ‘This hunter was helping society just as rich men, not unlike your forebears, might build a beacon to warn passing vessels of rocks in a bay. It was erected at your ancestor’s expense yet its light benefits everybody. But it also shines out with the boast of the Urquhain’s social standing. These sorts of actions lead men to be admired, storing up a bank of goodwill to be exchanged later for other services and rewards.’

  Adam Smith came to a stop and seemed to come out of his reverie. He looked up and down the table as if judging whether to go on. Then he stared at the ceiling.

  ‘But, much more than this,’ he continued, ‘these kind of acts make men attractive to women. These actions are for show. They are the peacock’s plumage. Men do such things so that women will think well of them – and will want to have their offspring. These men are saying to the world …see, look how strong I am, observe my courage and skills, see how I provide, see how I win, see what my line will inherit! Yes, my lord, the more you look at my chain of logic …the more you see a bed at its end.’

  There was a collective gasp from the others and Dunbeath was on his feet in an instant.

  ‘Mr Smith. Now, you do go too far.’

  ‘I am surprised at you, my lord,’ replied Smith without the slightest sign of fear or of backing down, ‘you of all people should know that scientists have to think these dangerous thoughts. In your own field, did not the great Galileo suffer for his discoveries? And is there anyone now, in this enlightened age, who would say that he was wrong?

  ‘No, I believe I am right. My parable holds. Killing the mammoth was di
fficult. It took tenacity and cunning and valour and ability. Admirable qualities to set on a bill poster, advertising yourself and your character. These qualities bring prestige and admiration. And in doing so, they bring an invitation to the bedroom. Women look at them and wish their children to have these same qualities and more. However, we forget something here at our peril. Yes, men may do these things to attract women but I rather imagine they do them also to attract other men too. Because they know that they so often control the choices of women. How dangerous would allowing a daughter to marry who she liked be to an ambitious father? So, I believe the urge to achieve these public displays of attractiveness is the key principle. That’s why they were worth the increased hunting risk and why, for example, your own ancestors were so keen to reach the top of the heap.’

  Dunbeath stared at Adam Smith as he talked, his mouth a tight line; but he said nothing.

  ‘What better way could there be of getting society’s attention,’ Smith continued, ‘of telling other people that one is of privileged and successful stock, than to carry round a huge billboard that says so – an advertisement. Like a great name, a title. In your family’s case, an earldom. It proclaims, ‘I am a leader amongst men,’ your bill poster says so. It spells out your success, your status, your specialisation – it spells out what you’re selling.

  ‘To be recognised publicly is nothing less than where the logic of the Prisoner’s Dilemma would lead us. It is the end result of a mechanism that allows a person to say ‘here I am, a proud and successful co-operator. I am trustworthy – yet I am rewarded. Look at me. See how attractive I am. Have my children. Let the line continue!’

  Nobody at the table moved. Smith looked through the window, out to the open sea, smiling his beautiful smile. There was a long silence while everyone waited for the Urquhain Rage to descend.

  But the blackness was broken by Zweig. With a huge laugh he threw up his hands.

  ‘Mr Smith. I wish you’d told my sister about this. If she’d known, she might not have married that idiot farmer of hers!’