The Rosetta Key

my right the player’s. I then start revealing cards until there’s a match with one of the first two.

If the right card is matched first, the player wins; if the left card is matched first, the dealer wins. Even odds, right?

But if the first two cards are the same, the banker wins immedi-1 2

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ately, a slight mathematical advantage that gave me a margin after several hours, and finally had them pleading for a different game.

“Let’s try pharaon,” I offered. “It’s all the rage in Paris, and I’m sure your luck will turn. You are my rescuers, after all, and I am in your debt.”

“Yes, we’ll have our money back, Yankee sharp!” But pharaon is even more advantageous to the banker, because the dealer automatically wins the first card. The last card in the deck of fifty- two, a player’s card, is not counted. Moreover, the dealer wins all matching cards. Despite the obviousness of my advantage they thought they’d wear me down through time, playing all night, when exactly the opposite was true— the longer the game went on, the greater my pile of coins. The more they thought my loss of luck to be inevitable, the more my advantage became inexorable. Pickings are slim on a frigate that has yet to take a prize, yet so many wanted to best me that by the time the shores of Palestine hove into view at dawn, my poverty was mended. My old friend Monge would simply have said that mathematics is king.

It’s important when taking a man’s money to reassure him of the brilliance of his play and the caprice of ill fortune, and I daresay I distributed so much sympathy that I made fast friends of the men I most deeply robbed. They thanked me for making four high-interest loans back to the most abject losers, while tucking away enough surplus to put me up in Jerusalem in style. When I gave back a sweetheart’s locket that one of the fools had pawned, they were ready to elect me president.

Two of my opponents remained stubbornly uncharmed, however.

“You have the devil’s luck,” a huge, red-faced marine who went by the descriptive name of Big Ned observed with a glower, as he counted and recounted the two pennies he had left.

“Or the angels,” I suggested. “Your play has been masterful, mate, but providence, it seems, has smiled on me this long night.” I grinned, trying to look as affable as Smith had described me, and then tried to stifle a yawn.

“No man is that lucky, that long.”

I shrugged. “Just bright.”

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“I want you to play with me dice,” the lobsterback said, his look as narrow and twisted as an Alexandrian lane. “Then we’ll see how lucky you are.”

“One of the marks of an intelligent man, my maritime friend, is reluctance to trust another man’s ivory. Dice are the devil’s bones.”

“You afraid to give me a chance of winning back?”

“I’m simply content to play my game and let you play yours.”

“Well, now, I think the American is a bit the poltroon,” the marine’s companion, a squatter and uglier man called Little Tom, taunted.

“Scared to give two honest marines a fighting chance, he is.” If Ned had the bulk of a small horse, Tom carried himself with the compact meanness of a bulldog.

I began to feel uneasy. Other sailors were watching this exchange with growing interest, since they weren’t going to get their money back any other way. “To the contrary, gentlemen, we’ve been at arms over cards all night. I’m sorry you lost, I’m sure you did your best, I admire your perseverance, but perhaps you ought to study the mathematics of chance. A man makes his own luck.”

“Study the what?” Big Ned asked.

“I think he said he cheated,” Little Tom interpreted.

“Now, there’s no need to talk of dishonesty.”

“And yet the marines are challenging your honor, Gage,” said a lieutenant whom I’d taken for five shillings, putting in with more enthusiasm than I liked to hear. “The word is that you’re quite the marksman and fought well enough with the frogs. Surely you won’t let these redcoats impugn your reputation?”

“Of course not, but we all know it was a fair . . .” Big Ned’s fist slammed down on the deck, a pair of dice jumping from his grip like fleas. “Gives us back our money, play these, or meet me on the waist deck at noon.” It was a growl with just enough smirk to annoy. Clearly he was of a size not accustomed to losing.

“We’ll be in Jaffa by then,” I stalled.

“All the more leisure to discuss this between the eighteen-pounders.” Well. It was clear enough what I must do. I stood. “Aye, you need to be taught a lesson. Noon it is.”

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The gathering roared approval. It took just slightly longer for the news of a fight to reach from stem to stern of Dangerous than it takes a rumor of a romantic tryst to fly from one end of revolutionary Paris to the other. The sailors assumed a wrestling match in which I’d writhe painfully in the grip of Big Ned for every penny I’d won. When I’d been sufficiently kneaded, I’d then plead for the chance to give all my winnings back. To distract my all-too-fervent imagination from this disagreeable future, I went up to the quarterdeck to watch our approach to Jaffa, trying my new spyglass.

It was a crisp little telescope, and the principal port of Palestine, months before Napoleon was to take it, was a beacon on an otherwise flat and hazy shore. It crowned a hill with forts, towers, and minarets, its dome-topped buildings terracing downward in all directions like a stack of blocks. All was surrounded by a wall that meets the harbor quay on the seaward side. There were orange groves and palms landward, and golden fields and brown