THE MASTER OF BANNU.
On reporting himself at his old station at Lahore, Nicholson was not
left waiting long for a fresh appointment. Reynell Taylor, who had
been in charge of the Bannu district, had applied to be relieved, and
Sir Henry Lawrence, now Chief Commissioner for the Punjaub, offered the
post to Nicholson. The latter accepted, and in May of 1852 entered
upon his duties as Deputy Commissioner.
This new position was one fraught with considerable difficulties.
Bannu, which lay on the north-western frontier of the Punjaub, was
populated by a wild and lawless people. Waziris, Marwatis, and men of
other Afghan tribes, they had lived an open, free-booting life, raiding
far and wide at will, and were known as the most daring thieves and
bloodthirsty ruffians on the border. Under Taylor's wise but gentle
rule they had been kept within certain bounds, but much remained to be
done. They were now to learn from Nicholson the lesson which in time
transformed the province into the most orderly one in the whole Punjaub.
Truly could Herbert Edwardes, who had had no little experience of them,
say afterwards, "I only knocked down the walls of the Bannu forts; John
Nicholson has since reduced the _people_ to such a state of good order
and respect for the laws, that in the last year of his charge not only
was there no murder, burglary, or highway robbery, but not an _attempt_
at any of these crimes."
The new _hákim_ (or magistrate) quickly made his influence felt when he
arrived on the scene at Bannu. Up in the hills to the westward lived
the Umarzai Waziris, among the worst of the outlaws. The knowledge
that a fresh ruler had been appointed over them troubled them not a
whit, and they proceeded to swoop down on the villages in the plain for
the purpose of taking toll as aforetime. Nicholson acted promptly.
Placing himself at the head of 1500 mounted police, he carried war into
the enemy's country, penetrating the hill-fastnesses into which no one
else had yet dared to venture. To the surprise of the Umarzais, he
turned the tables completely upon them, and in a week or two he had
their headmen at his feet suing for pardon.
The moral of this swift retribution was not lost upon the other people
of the district. One and all came to agree that "Nikalseyn" was a man
to be feared, respected, and obeyed. His hand fell heavily and surely
on the wrong-doer within the limits of his jurisdiction, and he was a
bold Bannuchi indeed who dared to challenge his power. At the same
time that the new Deputy Commissioner was a stern dispenser of justice
he showed himself an impartial ruler. If he punished the lawless he
certainly protected the oppressed, irrespective of rank. Lies availed
little in the court over which he presided; sooner or later he would
get to the bottom of the matter, and the wrong would inevitably be
righted.
The villagers, it is said, after long discussion of his merits under
the vine trees, where they gathered of an evening, came to the
conclusion that "the good Mohammedans" of olden days must have been
"just like Nikalseyn," and emphatically approved him as every inch a
_hákim_.
Of Nicholson's methods in dealing with his turbulent subjects Mr. S.
Thorburn, who served in the same district some years afterwards, tells
this story. The locale, he believes, was Rawal Pindi. A reward of a
hundred rupees had been offered for the capture of a noted freebooter,
whose whereabouts were well known, but whose reputation had deterred
anyone from arresting him. On taking his seat in his court-house one
day Nicholson demanded to know whether the man had been caught. The
officers of justice shook their heads.
"Double the reward at once," said Nicholson. This was done, but
without any result. The same afternoon he inquired again it the fellow
had been caught, and received the same answer, "Not yet, my lord." The
timorous officials added the suggestion that a very strong force of
police would be necessary, as the man was surrounded by his kinsmen.
"Very well, then," said Nicholson, "saddle my horse."
A few minutes later he rode off alone to the village in which the
outlaw was sheltering, though, as a matter of fact, the latter walked
about openly in little fear of capture. Almost the first person
Nicholson met was the very man he had come to find. At his order to
surrender the desperado rushed upon him with drawn sword. Nicholson
calmly awaited the attack, and with a sweeping stroke of his own sword
cut the man down. Then, riding back to his court, he commanded that
the body should be brought in, and the head cut off and placed on his
table.
It was a gruesome thing to do, perhaps, but it must be remembered that
it was necessary to strike terror into the hearts of other evil-doers,
to whom the free-booter in question had been something of a hero.
Every Malik[1] who came into court recognised the features of the dead
man's head as it rested by Nicholson's elbow, and understood that the
same fate would befall him did he venture on a like course.
A more pleasing anecdote is that which tells of how Nicholson settled a
complicated land dispute. One Alladâd Khan was accused of having
seized the inheritance of his orphan nephew, to whom he had acted as
guardian during the boy's minority. As usual there was much hard
swearing on both sides, but the weight of the evidence went with
Alladâd Khan. The most influential man in the village, he made it
understood that it would be wisest to support his claim. To Nicholson
the case was perplexing, but he had strong reasons for believing that
the youth was in the right. He decided upon a novel plan to solve the
difficulty.
One morning, therefore, Alladâd Khan and his neighbours were greatly
concerned at seeing their _hákim's_ famous white mare grazing
untethered on a piece of grass on the outskirts of the village. This
meant a fine or a whipping at least for some one, so the party resolved
to drive the animal to the next village, and let the people there bear
the brunt of their lord's wrath. The mare was accordingly turned into
the road, but Alladâd Khan and his followers had not gone far before
they saw Nicholson himself fastened with ropes to a tree!
[Illustration: "They saw Nicholson himself fastened with ropes to a
tree."]
When, with trembling hands, they went to release him, Nicholson asked
in a stern voice, "Whose land is this I am on?"
"It belongs to Alladâd Khan, my lord," replied one or two bolder than
the rest. The piece of ground was the actual plot in dispute between
uncle and nephew. At this assertion Alladâd Khan emphatically denied
ownership. "It is not mine, indeed, my lord," he protested, "but my
nephew's. Nay, of a truth, it is not mine!"
"Will you swear it is so?" demanded Nicholson. And Alladâd Khan swore
by all he held most sacred that the land was his nephew's. This was
all that Nicholson wanted; and, having now several witnesses to the
other's statement, he permitted himself to be unbound.
The breaking-in of these "fluttered folk and wild" among whom he was
thus cast took Nicholson four years, but the work was done thoroughly.
Throughout the vast district between the Indus and the Sulaiman
Mountains his name alone was sufficient to inspire awe and bring the
refractory to reason. For a long time after he had left Bannu, it is
said, the village people would wake at night trembling, declaring they
heard the tramp of "Nikalseyn's war-horse." And Waziri mothers would
still their crying babes by saying that he was coming to them, though
by thus holding him up as a bogey they did Nicholson an injustice, for
he was ever tender and kind with children.
There is significance, too, in a note which Mr. Thorburn makes in his
interesting volume on Bannu. Often, he says, when sitting in his court
he would be puzzled by the lying of the parties in the suit before him,
and in despair would give the disputants "a few minutes' freedom of
tongue." Then he would be amused by hearing one of them saying, "Turn
your back to the sahib, and let him see it still wealed with the
whipping Nikalseyn gave you!" Whereupon the other would retort, "You
need not talk, for your back is well scored also!"
Of the nature of the people with whom he had to deal Nicholson once
told a story which is grimly characteristic. A little Waziri boy
having been brought before him on a charge of poisoning food, he asked
the young culprit if he knew that it was wrong to kill people. The boy
acknowledged that it was wrong to kill with a knife or a sword. "But
why?" persisted Nicholson. "Because," was the prompt answer, "_the
blood leaves marks!_"
Towards the end of his stay in Bannu Nicholson had a narrow escape from
assassination at the hands of a fanatic. The story may be best told in
his own words, as he described the incident in a letter to Herbert
Edwardes.
"I was standing at the gate of my garden at noon," he wrote on the 21st
of January 1856, "with Sladen and Cadell, and four or five chuprassies"
(native orderlies), "when a man with a sword rushed suddenly up and
called out for me. I had on a long fur pelisse of native make, which I
fancy prevented his recognising me at first. This gave time for the
only chuprassie who had a sword to get between us, to whom he called
out contemptuously to stand aside, saying he had come to kill me and
did not want to hurt a common soldier. The relief sentry for the one
in front of my house happening to pass opportunely behind me at this
time, I snatched his musket, and, presenting it at the would-be
assassin, told him I would fire if he did not put down his sword and
surrender. He replied that either he or I must die; so I had no
alternative, and shot him through the heart, the ball passing through a
religious book which he had tied on his chest, apparently as a charm.
"The poor wretch turns out to be a Marwati, who has been religiously
mad for some time. He disposed of all his property in charity the day
before he set out for Bannu. I am sorry to say that his spiritual
instructor has disappeared mysteriously, and, I am afraid, got into the
hills. I believe I owe my safety to the fur _chogah_, for I should
have been helpless had he rushed straight on. The chuprassie (an
orderly from my police battalion) replied to his cry for my blood, 'All
our names are Nikalseyn here,' and, I think, would very likely have got
the better of him had I not interfered, but I should not have been
justified in allowing the man to risk his life, when I had such a sure
weapon as a loaded musket and bayonet in my hand."
[1] The head-man of an independent village.