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 hakim (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 hakim.

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 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 Alladad 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 Alladad 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, Alladad Khan and his neighbours were greatly concerned at seeing their hakim’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 Alladad Khan and his followers had not gone far before 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 Alladad 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 Alladad 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 Alladad 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.”