Nicholson quitted Bannu early in 1856 for a six months’ special mission to Cashmere, preparatory to taking up an appointment as Deputy Commissioner at Peshawur. It was at this frontier outpost that his loyal friend Herbert Edwardes was stationed as chief political officer. Before going on to speak of this important change, however, I may refer to a side of Nicholson’s work that has not been touched upon in the preceding chapter.

His duties as a civil officer at Bannu comprised more than the dispensing of justice and the keeping in order of the unruly tribesmen. As “Warden of the Marches” he had to watch closely the agricultural interests of the community, and it is well worthy of note that he reclaimed a large waste tract of land named Landidak by running a canal into it from the river Kuram. He also made a summary settlement of the Land Revenue in 1854, thus following up a task that Reynell Taylor had begun.

To make quite clear the course of future events, it is necessary further to point out that Nicholson was now placed directly under John Lawrence. Three years previously friction had arisen between Sir Henry Lawrence, as Chief Commissioner of the Punjaub, and his equally strong-willed brother. While the difficulties were purely technical, and in no way affected their personal relations, it soon became evident that affairs would come to a deadlock, and Lord Dalhousie very wisely determined on a bold stroke. Transferring Sir Henry to Rajputana, to act as Agent there, he gave John Lawrence the vacant post of Chief Commissioner, a position for which he was well fitted.

To Nicholson the change of masters was by no means welcome. Between him and Sir Henry there existed a rare bond of sympathy, and he felt that he could never entertain a similar affection for John Lawrence. Despite this, however, he worked loyally for his new chief, who, for his part, thoroughly understood the nature of his fiery-tempered and impetuous subordinate, at the same time that he appreciated his many admirable qualities. There were differences of opinion between the two naturally, but John Lawrence’s firmness and tactful methods, together with Nicholson’s sense of justice, prevented any rupture.

At Peshawur Nicholson found that his reputation had preceded him, and made his task all the easier. Bannuchi and Waziri tribesmen had carried a faithful report of his doings to their more northern compatriots, and the word quickly went round that “Nikalseyn” was a dangerous man to flout. There were some, as it happened, who ventured to cross swords with him, but the result taught them that this stern-faced, black-bearded giant of a sahib was their master every whit as much as was Edwardes.

The spring of the fateful year 1857 now arrived, and with it came a desire in Nicholson’s mind to exchange his post in the Punjaub for another more remote. A restless fit was on him. He would have liked to go to Persia to see some fighting, or to Oude, to serve under Sir Henry Lawrence. Fortunately for India, Lord Canning, who had succeeded Lord Dalhousie as Governor-General, did not see his way to oblige him. Edwardes pleaded his cause at Calcutta in an interview in which, after a eulogy of his friend, he uttered these memorable words: “My lord, you may rely upon this, that if ever there is a desperate deed to be done in India, John Nicholson is the man to do it!” But the time was too critical for such a man as the Deputy Commissioner at Peshawur to be spared. Already signs were to be observed of disaffection among the native troops, and the time was rapidly nearing when a challenge was to be flung at British supremacy in India. “Wait,” said Lord Canning in effect, and Nicholson went on quietly with his duties.

The native mine which had been slowly preparing exploded in May of the same year. On the morning of the 12th the belated news was flashed over the wires to Peshawur that three regiments of sepoys had revolted at Meerut two days before, and massacred every European not in the British lines. The Great Mutiny had begun in earnest.

How Edwardes, Nicholson, and the other British officers at Peshawur received the startling tidings we learn from Lord Roberts, who was on special duty in the city at the time. Roberts, then a youthful subaltern in the artillery, acted as secretary at the council of war which was immediately held at the house of General Reed, the divisional commander. There were present, he tells us, besides Reed, Brigadier Sydney Cotton, Herbert Edwardes, Nicholson, Brigadier Neville Chamberlain, and Captain Wright. The last-named had been summoned to act in a similar capacity with Roberts. The question to be decided was how to make the Punjaub secure and prevent a general rising there, and the point to be borne in mind was that there were only some 15,000 British troops with 84 guns in the province, as against over four times the number of natives armed with 62 guns.

Almost the first proposal was made by Nicholson. To raise a strong force of native levies who could be trusted was his recommendation, warmly supported by Edwardes, and it was unanimously approved by the council. All along the border which they had brought into submission during those arduous years of labour at Bannu, Attock, and other stations, Nicholson and his chief had staunch friends among the Sikh warriors. To these they now turned for help in the time of need. And so it was that the Movable Column came into existence, that splendid body of picked men who made themselves and their leader ever famous in Indian history.

In the meantime it was arranged that General Reed, as senior officer in the Punjaub, should join Lawrence (now Sir John) at Rawal Pindi, to act in concert with the Chief Commissioner, and that Brigadier Cotton should succeed him in command at Peshawur. As a measure of precaution, the “treasure” (computed at 24 lakhs of rupees) was now removed from the cantonments to the fort outside, where a European garrison guarded it. At the same time, for the security of the ladies and children in the station, Brigadier Cotton made his headquarters at the Old Residency, a strong, double-storeyed building which was capable of being well defended.

For the next week or two Nicholson and his colleagues had their hands full. He himself tapped the mail-bags at the post office, making thereby many important discoveries in the shape of treasonable correspondence, and saw to the prompt checking of seditious reports, such as that issued by the Mohammedan editor of a native paper, who went to prison for his pains. The raising of the native levies, to his disappointment, proceeded slowly. Most of the border chieftains were waiting to “see how the cat jumped,” to put it figuratively, and both Edwardes and Nicholson were kept hard at work exerting their influence with the maliks of the various villages.

After the news that Delhi had fallen to the mutineers came an alarming report of a fresh outbreak at Nowshera, only a few miles away. In the face of this development, the two friends came to the conclusion that the sepoys at Peshawur must be disarmed. They carried their arguments at once to Sydney Cotton, and convinced the Brigadier of the necessity for such drastic action. This decision was arrived at in the small hours of the 22nd of May. By six o’clock the same morning the colonels of the sepoy regiments had received their orders, and by seven the work of disarmament had begun.

“These prompt and decided measures,” notes Edwardes, “took the native troops completely aback. Not an hour had been given them to consult, and, isolated from each other, no regiment was willing to commit itself; the whole laid down their arms.” The same writer records how, as the muskets and sabres of “once-honoured corps” were thrown unceremoniously into carts, there were to be seen here and there the spurs and swords of British officers who had vouched for the loyalty of their men, and who still refused to believe them traitorous. Very soon after were these simple gentlemen to have their faith rudely shattered.

It was a dramatic scene, but to Nicholson, if to none other, it was not painful. Too well did he know how the seeds of rebellion had been sown in these same regiments.

The next day Nicholson was called upon for immediate active service. The 55th Sepoys at Mardan had mutinied and taken to the hills. At the head of a strong body of cavalry and infantry he hurled himself on the track of the rebels, and then began a fierce pursuit that gave the fleeing sepoys no respite. Up hill and down dale they were hunted, until at last nearly three hundred had been killed or taken prisoners, together with a large quantity of arms. The rest, it may be mentioned, fell into the unfriendly hands of the hill tribes across the border, and suffered either death or slavery. Not a man is known to have escaped.

In this dashing piece of work Nicholson was ever foremost, bringing many a mutineer to the dust with his own great sword. For twenty hours he was in the saddle under a scorching sun, and “could not have traversed less than seventy miles.” He had given a practical lesson in the art of punishing rebellion, and had demonstrated the value of a mobile field force. He was now within a short time to further display his abilities as the commander of the Punjaub Movable Column, to perform, in fact, that “desperate deed” of which Edwardes had spoken to Lord Canning.