Mountbatten was personally hurt by Jinnah’s decision, and his sense of crisis was so acute that he flew Lord Ismay back to London to present the situation to the cabinet. Ismay reported that Mountbatten feared that, ‘If he accepted the Congress invitation after being largely responsible for partition, he might be subsequently criticised for siding with Congress and for failing in impartiality during his period of office as Viceroy.’ This was an accurate prediction. But both Attlee and Lord Listowel felt strongly that Dickie should be persuaded to stay on. Listowel argued that Mountbatten could influence India to stay in the Commonwealth and to negotiate defence arrangements that would be beneficial to Britain. Moreover, he admitted, ‘The partition of assets between the two Dominions would in any event work out unfavourably for Pakistan; Lord Mountbatten would be in a better position than anyone else to exercise a moderating influence on Congress policy in this matter.’57 Though the cabinet conceded that Mountbatten’s personal reputation might suffer, it resolved to ask him to carry on as Indian Governor General – in the interests, principally, of his own country.
Ismay next went to discuss the matter with Churchill, who was happy to accept Jinnah’s candidacy for Governor General of Pakistan. He was also concerned that India retain a strong British influence in the form of Mountbatten. He emphasized that Mountbatten would be particularly useful in three key roles: ‘He can strive to mitigate quarrels between Hindu and Moslem, safeguard the position of the Princes, when that is involved, and preserve such ties of sentiment as are possible between the Government of Hindustan and that of the other Dominions (or Commonwealths) of the Crown.’58 All of these roles would have been just as relevant in Pakistan as in India, but Churchill already had good reason to be confident of Pakistan’s obedience: he trusted Jinnah to run it in a way that would serve British interests. Meanwhile Jinnah, who saw as clearly as anyone else the advantage of having one overseeing body to regulate the partition awards, arms and resources distribution and so on, lobbied Churchill and Attlee to set up a council from among the British government to act as such. The intention was clear. He still wanted a Supreme Arbitrator, but not Mountbatten. His suggestion was ignored.59
On 9 July, under pressure from the cabinet, the opposition, and the King, Mountbatten agreed, with great reluctance, to stay on.60 ‘Everyone seems to think the decision has been a right one’, wrote Edwina to Lady Reading, ‘although I myself am still worried at its implications, not personal of course, but as to whether it was really the right decision for the people of this country.’61 The achievement of separate Governors General was, however, a great victory for Jinnah, and no one could be in any doubt at his satisfaction. He held press conferences in fanless rooms, amid hordes of sweating journalists, at which he wore an immaculate white silk suit and smoked cigars while informing them cheerfully about his modern, democratic and inclusive vision for Pakistan.62
For all Jinnah’s publicity, it was Mountbatten’s name that shone out from the headlines. That day, the world’s media had been able at last to confirm what they had keenly suspected for months, if not years. Lieutenant Philip Mountbatten, RN, was engaged to marry Princess Elizabeth of Great Britain, the woman who would be Queen. The Mountbatten connection was not lost on the press: the Times of India printed a warm editorial noting the Viceroy’s contributions to Philip’s upbringing. Dickie himself was elated: ‘I am sure she couldn’t have picked a better man’, he wrote to Attlee.63 Edwina wrote to Lady Reading that Philip was ‘extremely cultured, well-read, of a progressive mind … In fact he will I think be a breath of fresh air into the Royal circle’.64
Thoughts of thrones and crowns and ermine were soon to consume them all. Mountbatten had persuaded India’s political leaders to accept his plan. For his next trick, he would have to persuade each of the 565 princely rulers to join one of the two new dominions. The clock was ticking. Less than a month remained before the British would finally leave India.
Nehru family portrait, circa 1899. Left to right: Swarup Rani, Motilal, Jawaharlal.
‘A beam of light that pierced the darkness’: Mohandas Gandhi and his wife Kasturba.
A reluctant Jawahar marries Kamala Kaul, 1916.
‘I think we are going to be great friends’: David (front), the future King Edward VIII, on his imperial tour with Dickie Mountbatten.
Hollywood honeymoon: Dickie and Edwina Mountbatten (2nd and 3rd right) on set with Charlie Chaplin (centre) and Cecil B. DeMille (3rd left).
Gandhi (left background, bare-chested) arrives with his Salt Marchers at Dandi, 6 April 1931, to collect salt in defiance of British law.
Ramsay MacDonald, standing, presides over the 2nd Round Table Conference, London, 1931. This attempt to move towards Indian self-rule failed, owing in part to the massive number of delegates. Gandhi is sitting centre, fourth right from MacDonald.
Balmoral, summer 1936: King Edward VIII (in cloak) is joined by friends, including (left) Dickie Mountbatten, and (right) Wallis Simpson and Edwina Mountbatten. A few months later, the King would abdicate to marry Mrs Simpson.
Grand strategy conferences
Jawaharlal Nehru and Mohandas Gandhi agreeing the ‘Quit India’ plan in defiance of the British raj, 1942.
World War II Allies, 1943. Seated centre left, Winston Churchill; centre right, Franklin D. Roosevelt; standing, centre, Dickie Mountbatten. Sir Hastings Ismay is to the left of Mountbatten. Seated to the left of Churchill is Admiral Ernest King, who Mountbatten accidentally shot in the leg.
Captured in a rare moment of mutual good humour: Jawaharlal Nehru and Mohammad Ali Jinnah, 1946.
24 March 1947: Dickie Mountbatten is sworn in as Viceroy of India. Edwina is to the right of Dickie. Standing to the left of the picture can be seen Jawaharlal Nehru, in black sherwani and white cap; to the left of Nehru is Vallabhbhai Patel, in white khadi. Liaquat Ali Khan is standing to the right of Edwina, in a light suit and a black cap.
28 March 1947: At the Viceroy’s first garden party, Edwina sits on a sofa with Nan Pandit and Pamela Mountbatten. Jawahar sits at Edwina’s feet.
Front page news, 31 March 1947: Gandhi, at his first meeting with the Mountbattens, leans on Edwina for support.
It was no secret that the Mountbattens got on less well with the Muslim League leaders. Left to right: Liaquat Ali Khan, Jinnah, Dickie, Fatima Jinnah, Edwina.
‘Like the Blitz at its worst’: Edwina inspecting riot damage in the Punjab, April 1947.
3 June 1947: for the first time in history, no party raises an objection to the plan for independence. Clockwise around the table from centre: Dickie, Jinnah, Liaquat, Abdur Rab Nishtar, Baldev Singh, K. R. Kripalani, Vallabhbhai Patel, Jawahar.
Independence days
Pakistan’s Independence Day, 14 August 1947. ‘I won’t pretend I wasn’t scared’: driving through Karachi, Dickie and Jinnah maintain brave faces despite an assassination threat.
India’s Independence Day, 15 August 1947: a rainbow appears in the sky as the new flag is raised. Dickie salutes; to the right, Edwina and Jawahar in conversation.
15 August 1947, Delhi: crowds greet the Mountbattens.
Calcutta, August 1947: Gandhi (with grand-niece Manu) plugs his ears against the screams of rioters.
‘A great and unique love’: brought together by their work with the victims of India’s partition, Jawahar and Edwina can be seen holding hands during a visit to a refugee camp in this rare photograph.
October 1947: crowds gather in riot-torn Delhi to hear Gandhi and Nehru call for peace.
‘We have so long been the “Aunt Sally” of politics in India that our reappearance in that role is hardly surprising’: the Mountbattens in Gwalior during the Kashmir crisis, December 1947.
‘His sister slipped up before each photograph and tried gently to uncurl his desperately clenched hands’: the dying Jinnah photographed by Margaret Bourke-White, 1948.
‘A thousand years later that light will still be seen in this country’: Jawahar climbs the gatepost of Bir
la House to tell the crowds of Gandhi’s murder, 30 January 1948.
‘Only the eyes revealed stark anguish’: Jawahar (centre) at Gandhi’s funeral, 31 January 1948. Edwina sits behind him.
Mashobra, May 1948: Dickie and Pamela Mountbatten in their car, just outside the Governor-General’s Retreat. Edwina and Jawahar are in the back.
‘They really dote on each other in the nicest way’: Edwina and Jawahar walking together in the forests around Mashobra.
‘Hundreds of thousands will be sorrowful at the news that you have gone’: Edwina and a downcast Jawahar at the Mountbattens’ farewell dinner.
More goodbyes: Dickie bids farewell to Rajagopalachari while, in the background, Jawahar kisses Edwina’s hand.
‘It was not a bang but with a kiss you left us’: Edwina hugs India’s new Governor-General, Chakravarty Rajagopalachari, as the Mountbattens leave for London, 21 June 1948.
Keeping in touch: Edwina and Jawahar in London, 1955.
‘He had sat between Mrs Kennedy and her sister and with the light of love in his eyes’: Indian state visit to Washington, 1961. Left to right: Jacqueline Kennedy, Jawahar, Indira Gandhi, John F. Kennedy.
‘Theirs had been a harmony of difference, cemented by their mutual admiration for the Mahatma, on the one hand, and the very human Edwina, on the other’: Dickie is the first British visitor to Jawahar’s lying in state, 1964. With Dickie is Jawahar’s sister, Nan Pandit.
CHAPTER 13
A FULL BASKET OF APPLES
ON 18 JULY, THE KING SIGNED THE INDIA INDEPENDENCE ACT in London, and the Mountbattens celebrated their silver wedding anniversary in Delhi, twenty-five years after having become engaged in that city.1 They received numerous congratulatory gifts and messages from a cross-section of society – everything from an intricate solid silver model of a palace from the Maharaja of Bikaner, to grubby notes from schoolchildren – but the most memorable of all was the very first to arrive. At an early hour of that morning, a message arrived from Gandhi. Pointedly, it was written to Edwina, addressing her as ‘Dear Sister’. Edwina was deeply touched. ‘I hope that your joint career here will blossom into citizenship of the world’, the Mahatma wrote.2 But, though the Mountbattens’ careers were blossoming, they were not doing so jointly. Dickie would come up to Edwina’s room every night to kiss her goodnight before returning to work. Every night, there was a row.3
Other friends were beginning to worry about Edwina. ‘As for yourself, my dear I wish you would gain a little weight’, wrote one. ‘I do hope you’re finding time to relax.’4 She was not. For one thing, there was her anniversary party to manage: guests included Nehru, Jinnah, all of the cabinet and most prominent Congress and Muslim League figures, which must have made for a vexing seating plan. Jinnah turned up half an hour late, uncharacteristically. Auchinleck’s secretary, Shahid Hamid, remembered meeting Jinnah in a corridor, and remarking on his apparent insouciance. ‘My boy,’ Jinnah replied, ‘do you think I would come to this damn man’s party on time? I purposely came late to show him I despise him.’5 The relationship between the Mountbattens and Jinnah was now in a parlous state. At the dinner, Edwina described Jinnah as being ‘in an unbearable mood and quite hopeless … God help Pakistan.’6
In addition to hosting this dinner, Edwina embarked upon two major healthcare initiatives that week. On 17 July, she made a public appeal for nurses and midwives through the Countess of Dufferin Fund. Three days later, she launched a campaign to recruit 14,200 health visitors in the fight against tuberculosis.7 She took a special interest in a Nursing Council Bill, a piece of legislation that had been drifting around unpassed since 1943. It had been proposed to set standards for public health, and Edwina was desperate to get it passed before partition. She embarked upon a campaign of intense lobbying among her political contacts, but at the very last moment it looked as though the bill might fail. It might have been expected that the Vicereine would speak to the Viceroy over such a matter. Instead, Edwina went to talk to Jawahar. Within two days, the bill had been approved.8
Behind the scenes, her political activities were explicitly left-leaning. ‘I wish I could completely share people’s views about Ernie Bevin as to his sincerity and vision, but I just can’t’, she wrote to a friend. ‘I feel myself that his hatred of the Communists and his fear of them blinds him in making decisions that very largely affect foreign as well as home policy.’ Jawahar introduced her to a wider spectrum of political figures. At his house she met Indonesian exiles escaping the latest ‘ghastly Dutch aggression’, and heard their ‘shattering’ stories.9 International news was at its most dramatic that week. On 19 July, Mountbatten’s and Nehru’s friend Aung San was sitting in a meeting of his executive council when gunmen burst in and shot him dead, along with six colleagues.10 Meanwhile, Liaquat was reporting to Mountbatten that relations between the future officials of Pakistan and India had become so tense that they could no longer work together. The secretaries of Pakistani departments had been turfed out of their offices and sent to work among the clerks; there was no space to do so, and so the grounds of the government offices were now full of pitiable little groups of Pakistani officials, reduced to setting up desks under trees. ‘I was one of the strongest opponents of rushing partition through by the 15th August,’ Liaquat told Mountbatten, ‘but I now wish to God you could get partition through by the 1st August.’11
Against this background of upheaval, Mountbatten felt that he had to refocus attention on the matter in hand, and on 20 July issued each of his staff with a tear-off calendar. The day of the month was at the top and, underneath it in bold, the words: ‘X days left to prepare for the Transfer of Power’.12 Yet it was he himself who could not be detached from trivialities. In the middle of July 1947, while negotiations about defence, finance, partition, the possible independence of several princely states and the future of 400 million people raged around him, the Viceroy spent hours fussing about flags. ‘In previous reports I have expressed the hope that I would be able to persuade the new Dominions to have the Union Jack in the upper canton of their flags as do other members of the Commonwealth’, he cabled to London. ‘This design has not been accepted by either part.’13 The Muslim League felt that it would be distasteful to juxtapose the Christian crosses of the Union Jack with the crescent of Islam; Congress agreed that the retention of the British emblem would upset hardliners; the British government did not really give a hoot what they did. Having lost that battle, Mountbatten turned his attention to the woefully minor issue of Governor General flags – the ensigns that would be flown on top of residences and car bonnets. A week later, he nearly came to blows with Jinnah when the Quaid-e-Azam rejected his designs. ‘He was only saved from being struck by the arrival of the other members of the Partition Council at this moment,’ Mountbatten reported to London. ‘However, I sent Ismay round to beat him up as soon as possible, and Jinnah claimed that I must have misunderstood him.’14
There was one more enormous obstacle to be overcome before partition, and that was the question of what would happen to India’s princely states. Each of the 565 princely states in India had a separate agreement with the government, ensuring the paramountcy of the British Crown over its affairs. It had taken centuries to bring the states under paramountcy, and many still operated through arcane systems of government and society. It was the boast of the Empire’s supporters that the reassuring eminence of the Indian Civil Service, staffed almost entirely with public-school-educated British men, kept things on track. Some thought this the pinnacle of British achievement, allowing the states their freedom of cultural diversity while tempering the worst excesses of absolute rule. The idea was to leave rulers as independent as possible; in case of trouble, for the British to offer the ruler in question ‘private counsel’; and, should that not fix the trouble, to intervene. In the event of gross totalitarianism or outright rebellion, the British raj would remove the individual prince who had proved to be a bad egg, install a more responsible scion of his family, and leave
the dynasty intact.15
Unfortunately, this appealing portrait of a smooth, tolerant and accountable system was a fiction. In reality, the British presence in India was relatively small and unable to keep watch over so many princes. The notion that the ‘British race’ had a monopoly on freedom and democracy was unsupportable with regard to the lengthy traditions of public debate, heterogeneous government and freedom of conscience that had existed for centuries in the Indias of Asoka and Akbar.16 If anything, the presence of the British damaged these traditions, and actually safeguarded the princes from any new incursion of democracy. The British Army was always on hand to give succour to each imperilled tyrant, and stamp out any attempts by the people to express their discontent. As one staunch imperialist boasted, the princes had been ‘mostly rescued from imminent destruction by British protection’.17 And so imperialists were able to perfect a classic piece of doublethink: railing against what they called ‘Oriental despotism’ on one hand, while propping it up with the other.
Even the illiberal Lord Curzon had been appalled by the standard of princely behaviour during his viceroyalty, half a century before. He had written to Queen Victoria that ‘for all these failures we are responsible. We have allowed the chiefs when young to fall into bad hands. We have condoned their extravagances, we have worked at their vices.’18 Though he conceded that some of the princes were ‘capable and patriotic men’, many more were ‘frivolous and sometimes vicious spendthrifts and idlers’. In the latter category, he counted such men as the Maharaja Rana of Dholpur, ‘an inebriate and a sot’; the Raja of Chumba, who had ‘crippled himself by intemperance’; the Maharaja of Patiala, ‘little better than a jockey’; the Raja of Kapurthala, who was ‘only happy when philandering in Paris’. ‘As Your Majesty knows,’ he added, ‘the Maharaja Holkar is half mad and is addicted to horrible vices.’ This last was a particularly pointed comment – Victoria liked Holkar, because he had once sent her a telegram on her birthday. It was unfortunate, for ‘half mad’ underestimated his insanity by around 50 per cent. He would stand at a high window overlooking his subjects and issue random edicts as they popped into his head, once ordering the abduction of every man wearing a black coat. Once, he harnessed the bankers of Indore to a state coach and whipped them soundly as he drove them around the city.19
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