The Prisoner's Dilemma (26 page)

Why, Mr Hume, he thought with sudden pleasure, realising that he was more than a little in love with her. Perhaps there was hope, after all, that he might find a wife for himself one day if he was capable of having these feelings.

He was rather pleased with his conclusion and now
wandered from room to room, looking for Sophie like a bored puppy. He even put his head into the kitchen before he set off with a sigh to haul himself up the long climb to the observatory. If she was nowhere else, he thought, she would be up there.

She was indeed, but as Hume came into the glass sided room he was immediately aware of a change in her mood. He now stood watching her as she went about in a desultory way, tidying papers and moving instruments in a dispirited fashion.

‘I was wondering where you were, Sophie. I've become so used to seeing you by the fire with your workings. I hope you're not sickening. Or have you given up on the Dilemma?'

‘I must be honest with you, Mr Hume,' she replied with a sigh, ‘I have become dejected by where it is taking us. I'm afraid the conclusions are pointing me in directions I do not wish to go. They show me things I do not wish to find.'

Hume took a step towards her, a look of concern on his face.

‘I am so sorry to hear that, Sophie. I know from experience how hard the road can feel when we enquire too closely into our natures. But what is it that's bothering you so?'

‘Well, it was when we were speaking of King Solomon and the power of a mother's love …and I heard myself talking about it with all the dispassionate manner of a doctor discussing a patient. That's not as it should be, we're not dissecting a body here, we're not cutting people up to see how they work. We're humans – feelings and hopes as well as flesh and blood. It was the story of the two women that brought me to my senses. One was so evil that she would even see a child killed rather than admit to her selfishness. Yet the other would sacrifice everything, even to agreeing to this wicked woman having her child, rather than see it harmed. Such a great love as this must be the most pure and wonderful thing in the world. But where was the Prisoner's Dilemma in this? Where in the Dilemma is there room for passion and compassion, the great love a mother has for her child or a woman might have for a man? Where is such love in all
this mathematics and talk of hawks and doves, of free riders and defectors?'

Sophie came to an abrupt stop and walked to the window. She gazed out of it, clearly upset at her thoughts. Hume was standing quietly and after a brief pause she turned back to face him.

‘Are we not doing exactly what St Paul told us not to do?' she continued, tersely. ‘Understanding all mysteries and yet lacking charity? Lacking love? Are we not simply the sounding brass and tinkling cymbals that he warned us of?'

Hume sighed and stepped towards her. He took her hands in his.

‘Dear Sophie,' he said softly, ‘only a heart and mind as great as yours could find yourself in conflict on this. To have the intellect to analyse what you see but also the compassion to be saddened by the fact that you can. Lord Dunbeath is the most fortunate of men that you should have come into his life. But, yes, I do understand your thoughts and the questions you ask. And indeed I have an answer to them although you may not like to hear it.'

Sophie smiled, warmed by Hume's kindness.

‘Well, I have come this far, Mr Hume. Perhaps I should stay and hear the worst.'

‘Very well,' began Hume, ‘I believe the logic we have found is this. We do good – but the Dilemma tells us that we are doing it to get rewards. Although these acts may have a selfish origin we learn that altruism and virtue attract others and lead to trusting relationships. Unlike defectors, co-operative people do not look for
exact
exchange or
immediate
rewards, yet they expect a return at some point nonetheless. And we know that some of these co-operators will not tolerate continued defection – they will either avoid it or sometimes fight back, be a retaliator we called it.

‘Visible charity or compassion enhances one's reputation and we applaud it in people. If one lacks for these feelings then the Dilemma shows us that such a person is a rational fool. But, if we
are to be applauded, it seems that charity must be seen to come at a price – after all, who do we more admire: the rich man that gives alms that mean nothing to his purse or an act of kindness that involves some effort?'

Hume looked out to sea, picking his words with care.

‘So, where then is the ‘pure' love that you spoke of?' he continued. ‘Love that is not part of the intricate human transactions we have exposed? Why do we think of this love as a mystery described only by the poets and saints? Why don't more of us practice what we admire so much?

‘I'm afraid the reason is this. It is because when we commit ourselves to others in such a way that we give ourselves up to them – we lose control. In fact this loss of control is our priceless gift to them, the ultimate sign of love. It is a sign that the person who loves in such a wonderful, completely selfless way, has stopped playing the game. After all, how can one play a game if one ignores the rules? Unconditional love may be the greatest sacrifice we can make to another person but it comes at a great cost, because it leads to one being dangerously revealed and exposed. And, so dangerously vulnerable.'

Hume paused and then seemed to rally as he looked at Sophie's sad face again.

‘And here, I fear, is laid bare the greatest of paradoxes, Sophie. We admire the givers in life, the compassionate, the charitable, the great hearts. We are against self-interest. We applaud love. So why are not more of us compassionate, openly unselfish, even altruistic? Sophie, it is because we are afraid of it ruling our lives. There can be no avoiding the fact that this is understandable – because what is obvious is that the more that
other
people show compassion and give love, the better it is for us. And, equally, the more that
we
can practice self-interest, the better it is for us also. That is what the Prisoner's Dilemma shows us. So here is your answer. We may admire such love in others and we may like to benefit from it – but it doesn't suit us to give it ourselves.'

Sophie stood up silently as Hume finished speaking. Then she looked away and a tiny groan came from her.

‘I see,' she said. ‘I understand what you mean. What a mess. What a tangled mess we make of the precious lives we have.'

* * * 

Once he had the bundle in his hand, James ran from the cottage and climbed high onto the dunes. He didn't slow until he had reached a secret spot he knew, far from the cottage and far from where prying eyes might possibly see him. Nevertheless, he looked carefully about himself, making doubly certain that he was alone. Once he was satisfied, he turned his attention to the wrapping and his hands shook as he untied the twine and wrenched the oilcloth off the long bundle in his hand.

For a second he stood stupefied, unable to take in the sight of the wooden fake.

For a further second he stared at it in disbelief. Then he gave a great bellow of anger and fear as he flung it to the ground. Terror at the thought that he must now stay and be interrogated by Sharrocks swept over him like one of the breaking waves on the far shore – and any shred of loyalty he might have had towards Zweig had gone forever.

‘How can you eat that, Zweig?' said Dunbeath with a mixture of exasperation and admiration.

Zweig glanced up but then went back to his breakfast.

‘You should do so yourself, my lord,' he replied. ‘I dare say you feel yourself too agitated for food, but this mutton is quite excellent.'

He continued to chew as he looked Dunbeath up and down.

‘You look the part, I must say, my lord. I would not refuse you the Prize in that finery.'

‘You are a new man yourself, captain,' replied Dunbeath, glad to be distracted from his frayed nerves. ‘That powered wig has turned you into quite the Englishman. I've no doubt we shall be seeing you at court if we prevail today.'

There were a few final changes that Dunbeath felt he had to make but it was not long before the two men emerged from the great mansion for the short ride to Whitehall. Outside the front entrance an exquisite carriage waited for them, four perfectly matched white horses standing calm yet alert to the coachman's orders.

As they crossed the courtyard towards the carriage in silence, both men carried rolled charts, each lost in his thoughts, each gathering himself for the meeting ahead. Dunbeath climbed stiffly into the coach first, his face tight with determination.

But Zweig had been very aware all morning of the mounting tension in Dunbeath and he knew only too well the dangers of his brittle personality. He now put his foot on the riding plate and dropped the bundle of charts he was holding inside onto the carriage seat.

‘One minute, my lord,' he said, ‘I need a quick word with your man.'

He climbed up beside Makepeace and whispered to him.

‘Who knows what we may find today. Do you carry a
weapon?'

‘Indeed I do, sir,' said Makepeace grimly, and showed Zweig a heavy cudgel that he kept under the bench, ‘never fear for that.'

Zweig returned to the carriage and Makepeace called to his team. There was a clatter of bridles and harnesses and then, together, they set off for the Admiralty.

* * * 

James McLeish had walked the seven miles to Craigleven in less than two hours. Now he presented himself to the sentries manning the roadblock outside the lodges.

‘I want to see Major Sharrocks. It's urgent. I have information I wish to give him.'

The guard looked at him sourly, wary of trouble from embittered Scots. However, there was something so blankly insistent about James's manner that made the redcoat put his suspicions to one side and, instead, he called over the other sentry.

‘This trooper here will take you to the major,' he said to James, ‘I hope what you have to say is worthwhile, my friend, or you shall suffer for wasting his time. And so shall I.'

But it was only half an hour later that Sharrocks was knocking hard on L'Arquen's door and then nudging James forward into the office.

L'Arquen rose from his desk with his usual mock courtesy.

‘Major Sharrocks has told me who you are,' he purred. ‘He has informed me that you have something to tell us but that you wish me to hear it first. I am most interested and I would be obliged if you would proceed. I understand you told Major Sharrocks that Lord Dunbeath went to London over a week ago – with that ruffian we saw outside the castle. What is their business there?'

James wrung his cap in his hands.

‘Ruffian? Someone has misled you there, sir,' he said. ‘No,
that man is no ruffian at all; his name is Alexis Zweig and he was the captain of the ship that was bringing gunpowder from Prussia. He survived the explosion when the ship sank.'

Even L'Arquen's studied insouciance slipped as he heard this. But he recovered quickly.

‘Indeed, that is most interesting. Yes, most interesting. You are right, I was indeed misinformed. But why have you decided to tell me this now? How do I know that you're telling me the truth? My men reported that you were seen fighting with this man you say is called Zweig. Perhaps you are inventing all this to cause trouble for an innocent person?'

At this, James protested passionately.

‘Oh no, sir! I have my reasons to speak about Zweig as I do and I want nothing more than to see him hang. And I have no love for Lord Dunbeath either. I shall tell you everything I know about them.'

‘My goodness, Sharrocks,' murmured L'Arquen softly, ‘we seem to have found an intelligent Scotsman. At last.'

* * * 

The boardroom of the Ripley Building at the Admiralty had long been considered one of the architectural glories among even the most admired of Whitehall's many offices. Under a highly ornate plaster ceiling it was finely panelled in carefully jointed lime wood. At one end was an outsized built-in bookcase whose soaring, curved top held a colossal clock that seemed designed to dictate the tempo of naval business. Opposite this, at the other end of the room, a large pair of double doors had been incorporated into the panelling. These opened onto an adjoining room but were now closed, as for all gatherings of the Board of Longitude.

Along the outside wall, five long windows opened virtually from ceiling to floor and gave out onto the Admiralty's perfectly
proportioned courtyard. From these windows light flooded into the large rectangular room. A magnificent mahogany table usually ran down its centre but now, as at all full meetings of the Board, it had been pushed back to be nearer to the fireplace opposite the windows, so that space was made for members of the Board to clearly see the presentations.

Rumours that the meeting would be showing possible candidates for the Longitude Prize had circulated for some time and the day's sitting had attracted considerable interest across a wide section of civil servants and merchants. Thus, while the Committee sat serenely in their places at the table talking idly to each other in a superior manner, they were hemmed in at both ends by excited and gossiping spectators standing shoulder to shoulder and pressing forward from the main body of the crowd that had gathered on the staircase landing.

Lord Dunbeath now stood before the table. Behind him were three easels, loaded with a mass of celestial charts and sample calculations. He had been speaking for over an hour and was bringing his case to a close.

‘And so, my lords, gentlemen, the secrets of longitude at sea are laid bare at last. The celestial mapping so necessary for success is now complete and these charts, together with the conversion tables I have set before you, have given us the means to calculate a ship's position …wherever it may be on the open seas.'

He approached the Board's table and now stood in front of the upturned faces of its silent members.

‘When the conditions for the Prize were set down by this Committee many years ago, your honours' criterion of success was to be able to determine a vessel's position within a half degree of longitude. My lords, gentlemen, as a result of my research, this is now possible!'

The pitch in Lord Dunbeath's voice rose higher and he took two steps backwards so he could better address the room at
large.

‘In conclusion, I believe you can be quite certain that from this day forth, there will be no reason why our ships should ever be lost again. I say to you that what you have seen here are the keys we have been searching for, found at last, that will allow our great nation to use Edinburgh as the universal meridian for all maritime charts – and for our navies to dominate the oceans. With these keys, my lords, gentlemen, we can unlock the race for world trade and secure the safety of the realm, now, and for generations to come.'

He came to a stop. There was a profound silence. Then the Chairman of the Board of Longitude rose to his feet and, without referring to any of his other members, he began to applaud. First one, then two others followed his lead and soon the whole room was clapping loudly. Some of the spectators even called out Dunbeath's name while a few of the more high-spirited among the crowd let out a series of uncouth cheers.

Dunbeath gave a slight bow and the room began to fall quiet again. But in their enthusiasm for Dunbeath's astonishing breakthroughs, nobody had noticed that the double doors to the side of the room had been slightly open as he'd been giving his presentation. These were now suddenly thrown back and all eyes turned to see that the king and his party had been listening in the next room. A gentleman usher brought his rod down on the wooden floor, once then twice, and the king swept into the boardroom, followed by a small crowd of favoured retainers. Alongside him, smiling broadly with the triumph of being given an invitation to leave Hampton Court for the day, his father's old friend, Prince Friedrich von Suderburg-Brunswick-Luneburg puffed away with the effort of having stood for so long. As always, his preposterous hussars jostled to stay close to their master.

‘Many congratulations, Lord Dunbeath!' called out the king, ‘I heard your conclusions. You have made a wonderful contribution
to solving the problem of longitude with your discoveries and I believe the whole nation has cause to thank you. Who knows, the Prize may very well be won soon.'

He paused, theatrically, and looked around the room with a particularly ingenuous set to his features.

‘However, we have yet to hear from Mr Harrison, have we not?'

The Chairman turned an angry scarlet. He was a committed advocate of the lunar distance method and he had hoped to avoid having to give time to John Harrison, a man he considered as little more than a dangerous upstart. But he knew he had to give way to the royal command and he now forced a smile of agreement and waved forward a group of men that had been standing in the far doorway.

In spite of the king's obvious patronage, there was a low murmur of disapproval as Harrison made his way to the front of the room. He ignored the evident ill feeling and had his two assistants set down a large box on the table in front of the Board.

‘Your Majesty, my lords, gentlemen,' he said in a strong North Country accent as his men took the cover off the box, ‘this is my latest clock. The third that I have made and submitted before this Board for your honours' consideration. I have been working on these marine chronometers for twenty years, but I am pleased to say that they have finally rewarded my efforts in full.

‘As your honours commanded, this latest of mine was sent on yet another sea trial. It travelled in His Majesty's warship, Agamemnon, to the island of Jamaica in the West Indies, and has just returned from an arduous journey of fifteen weeks, a journey of the most violent storms and heavy seas and extreme variations in temperature and humidity. When the Agamemnon docked at Deptford this chronometer was taken under the custody of a guard of marines to Greenwich. There it was measured against the land clocks of the Royal Observatory.'

There was a deep silence in the room. All eyes were on
Harrison. He turned towards the king.

‘Your Majesty, my chronometer was found to have deviated from the best clocks at the Observatory by just one second.'

The room erupted. Some of the crowd clapped and cheered while many of the celestial navigation supporters shouted out with frenzied complaints. But the crowd quickly fell silent again as the king began to speak.

‘That is an astonishing piece of timekeeping, Mr Harrison,' he said, ‘and I'm sure you have earned our profound admiration for your result.' He paused as he gazed around the room with a trace of ham drama and then continued, ‘but you will have to forgive me if I ask how this great achievement of yours can solve the problems of longitude?'

‘Well, Your Majesty,' replied Harrison solemnly, with more than a hint of a rehearsed dialogue, ‘we are all aware that the earth takes exactly twenty four hours to rotate around the sun.'

He stooped down and picked up a small globe from the Board's table and pointed to the lines of longitude, arranged on its surface like the slices of an orange.

‘When, for example, it is noon here in London,' he indicated with his forefinger, ‘it will not be noon at Your Majesty's dockyard in Plymouth for a further seven minutes. And, indeed, it will not be noon in Georgetown in the American colony, for another five hours, twenty three minutes and forty five seconds. So, if one knows the exact time in London, the home port, and one knows the time on board the vessel one is travelling in, then it is a simple matter of computing the longitude, once the latitude – where one's ship is on the curve of the globe – has been factored in. Every hour of difference equates to fifteen degrees. Thus, if you are three hours behind the time in London then you are at sea in the Atlantic Ocean some forty five degrees west of here.'

‘I understand,' said the king in such a way that there were few in the room that didn't see he was almost speaking in prepared lines, ‘and your clock will be set to the time in the home port. But
how can one tell accurately what time it is on board?'

‘Why, by measuring noon from the height of the sun, Your Majesty,' said Harrison. ‘Please allow me to demonstrate with this globe.'

The king's party moved closer to the front of the room and now stood to watch Harrison while a visibly agitated Dunbeath was edged to one side. Harrison threw the globe high into the air and as it reached its apex the upwards movement stopped, paused for a fraction of a second, and then started to descend. Harrison caught it again.

‘You saw the globe pause as it reached the top of its flight, Your Majesty? Just as the globe stopped in the air, so the sun reaches the highest point in its arc each day, what we call its zenith, before starting its downward journey again. That is the point when it is noon. And it is easy to measure. Indeed, I believe that even the most callow of midshipmen would be trusted to reckon this point with a sextant within a few months of joining Your Majesty's navy. Or, indeed, any navigator on one of our great trading ships. In fact, I foresee that ships will carry two chronometers in time. One would be at the time in the home port and the other would be altered with the progress of the ship. In this way a vessel would be more independent of the weather and a regular sighting of the sun would become less necessary. In any event, the calculations for longitude are then easily completed and an exact position for the ship can be arrived at within just a few minutes. Not hours, but minutes.'