[1] An Unrecorded Chapter of the Indian Mutiny.
Nicholson's plan, which he proceeded to carry out, was to pay a visit to Egypt, where he was desirous to see Thebes, Cairo, and the Pyramids, and thence journey home by way of Constantinople and Vienna. He did not intend to stay long in any of these places, but circumstances were against him. At both the Turkish and Austrian capitals he was detained by adventures which appealed strongly to his chivalrous nature. The account of these comes to us through Sir John Kaye, to whom Nicholson's mother told the story.
At the time that Nicholson arrived in Constantinople, early in the New Year of 1850, the city held a notable prisoner. This was Louis Kossuth, the Hungarian patriot, whom the Austrians had driven into exile. Owing to British influence, the revolutionary leader's asylum in Turkey was rendered safe for the time, but a movement was set on foot by his friends to smuggle him out of the country and convey him to America. Such a project received all Nicholson's sympathies, and when a friend of his—an Englishman who had married a Hungarian lady and served in the Magyar army—enlisted his help, he readily placed himself at the other's service.
The scheme was a simple one. Every day Kossuth took a ride accompanied by a few Turkish soldiers, the route being changed on each occasion. It was accordingly arranged that he should choose to ride on a particular day in the direction of the sea-coast. At a certain spot the conspirators were to await him and his escort, overpower the latter, and carry Kossuth on board an American frigate which was to be at hand.
Unhappily for the patriot, a lady who was in the secret revealed it to a bosom friend, who in turn confided in another. In a short time it came to the knowledge of the Austrian ambassador. Representations were at once made to the Turkish authorities, who redoubled their vigilance, and the plot fell through.
The same friend, "General G——," through whom Nicholson had been interested in the attempt to free Kossuth, now asked the young officer to do him another favour. His wife, a Hungarian lady, as has been said, was imprisoned in an Austrian fortress. So vigorous was the confinement that she was kept in ignorance of her husband's fate, and the General was anxious to send her news of his escape and present whereabouts. Nicholson promptly undertook to convey a letter to the unfortunate lady, should it be possible to do so, and started off immediately for the fortress.
On arriving at his destination, he marched boldly up to the gate of the citadel, demanding to see the officer of the guard.
"I am Major Nicholson of the Indian Army," he said, "and I shall be greatly obliged if you will allow me to see my friend, Madame G——."
The request was undoubtedly an irregular one, but the Austrian officer, after a little demur, courteously gave his permission. Nicholson was then conducted to the prisoner's cell and told that he could have five minutes' conversation, no longer. As soon as the door had closed behind him, and he and Madame G—— were alone, he pulled off one of his boots and drew out the letter, saying, "You have just five minutes to read it, and give me any message for your husband."
There was no time for the poor lady to express her gratitude as fully as she would have liked. Having read the welcome letter, she told her visitor what she wished him to say to her husband, and then—the five minutes having expired—Nicholson departed.
"These two incidents," says Sir John Kaye, "speak for themselves. There is no lack, thank God, of kind men, brave men, or good men among us, but out of them all how many would have done these two things for 'his neighbour'? How many respectable men would at this moment condemn them both?"
What Henry Lawrence and his noble wife thought of the Kossuth enterprise was expressed in a letter from the latter some months later. "You can hardly believe," she wrote, "the interest and anxiety with which we watched the result of your projected deed of chivalry.… When I read of your plan my first thought was about your mother, mingled with the feeling that I should not grudge my own son in such a cause."
After having performed his mission, Nicholson made his way to London, where he found his mother awaiting him at Sir James Hogg's town house. It was now the month of April. The rest of the year he spent in sight-seeing, visiting his old home at Lisburn, and looking up various relatives in Ireland and England. He found time, however, to make a journey to St. Petersburg, where he was much impressed by a grand review of troops by the Tsar. This opportunity to study the Russian military system gave him considerable satisfaction, as he had already devoted some attention to the French and Prussian armies. But what struck him most was a recent Prussian invention, the needle-gun, which he saw would be the arm of the future. In strong terms he urged the importance of introducing this weapon in place of the old-fashioned muskets then in use, but his counsel was unheeded.
At the end of 1851 Nicholson bade good-bye to his mother, and set off on his return journey to India. His friend, Herbert Edwardes, had preceded him thither some months earlier, taking with him his newly-wedded wife. To Nicholson Edwardes had said before he left, "If your heart meets one worthy of it, return not alone," but the advice was not followed. Nicholson, with all the fascination which his personality exerted over women, gave no indication of being susceptible to the grand passion, and he went forth to take up the great task that lay before him single-handed.
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!
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.
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 Landidák 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.
On the formation of the Movable Column to which the council of war at Peshawur had agreed, Sir John Lawrence gave the command to Brigadier-General Neville Chamberlain. Nicholson, like Edwardes and Cotton, had volunteered for the post, and, in view of the fact that the suggestion had been his, was somewhat disappointed at being passed over; but he made no protest. On the other hand, he affirmed that the Chief Commissioner had made the best choice. His loyal friendship to Chamberlain would admit of no jealousy.
Soon after the cutting up of the 55th Regiment of Sepoys at Mardan, however, Neville Chamberlain was promoted to be Adjutant-General, and Nicholson, with the rank of Brigadier-General, was placed in command of the column. It was a popular choice. After Chamberlain there was no one better fitted for the post. With the exception of, perhaps, Edwardes, Nicholson surpassed any of his confrères in the Punjaub in his intimate knowledge of the native mind, while his commanding presence and strong personality marked him out as the man for a crisis such as had arisen.
The first thing to be done in Nicholson's estimation when he took over the leadership of the Movable Column was to purge it thoroughly of any taint of disaffection. Two native regiments were suspected, and he resolved on disarming these at once. On the morning of the 25th of June, while the column was halting on the high road leading to Delhi, the British regiments, with the guns, were manoeuvred into position so that they would completely command the sepoys of the 33rd and 35th, who were marching into camp a little later. When they arrived they would walk straight into a trap.
There was no hitch in the proceedings. Not a native of the suspected regiments had any idea that anything out of the usual was about to occur. Some of the British officers were lying carelessly on the ground laughing and talking as the 35th came up and found themselves suddenly confronted by a menacing line of infantry and guns. As Nicholson, through his staff officer, Roberts, gave the order to "pile arms," the sepoys' faces fell. But a moment's reflection showed them that they were outwitted, and sullenly they threw down their muskets and belts, which were immediately carted off to the fort.
In due course the 33rd were similarly treated, though not without a vigorous protest from their old colonel, Sandeman. "I will answer with my life for the loyalty of every man in the regiment," he declared. But the order was final. It was all over in a very few minutes, and Nicholson was impressing upon the disarmed sepoys the warning that desertion would be punished by death.
Some days before this dramatic scene a notable incident took place at Jalandhar in which Nicholson was the chief figure. The city was found to be in no little confusion on the arrival of the Movable Column, mutiny being rampant among the troops, and the military authorities taking scarcely any precautions to prevent an outbreak. In the streets it was apparent from the swagger of the native soldiers that they believed the sahibs were powerless through fear.
To strengthen his hands, Major Lake, the Commissioner, invited Nicholson to a durbar at which the officers of the Kapurthala troops were to be present. Nicholson attended, and at the close of the ceremony observed that Mehtab Singh, a native general, was leaving the room with his shoes on. This was an act that implied great disrespect. Lord Roberts, who was a spectator, tells the story of what happened in a graphic manner.[1]
Stalking to the door, Nicholson, he says, "put himself in front of Mehtab Singh, and waved him back with an authoritative air. The rest of the company then passed out, and when they had gone, Nicholson said to Lake, 'Do you see that General Mehtab Singh has his shoes on?' Lake replied that he had noticed the fact, but tried to excuse it. Nicholson, however, speaking in Hindustani, said, 'There is no possible excuse for such an act of gross impertinence. Mehtab Singh knows perfectly well that he would not venture to step on his own father's carpet save barefooted, and he has only committed this breach of etiquette to-day because he thinks we are not in a position to resent the insult, and that he can treat us as he would not have dared to do a month ago.'
"Mehtab Singh looked extremely foolish, and stammered some kind of apology; but Nicholson was not to be appeased, and continued, 'If I were the last Englishman left in Jalandhar, you should not come into my room with your shoes on!' Then, politely turning to Lake, he added, 'I hope the Commissioner will now allow me to order you to take your shoes off and carry them out in your own hands.'"
Major Lake assented, and the crestfallen general did as he was bidden. Mr. Henry Newbolt pictures his discomfiture for us in the stirring ballad he has written on this incident[2]—
"When Mehtab Singh came to the door
His shoes they burned his hand,
For there in long and silent lines
He saw the captains stand.
When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate
His chin was on his breast:
The captains said, 'When the strong command,
Obedience is best.'"
The immediate result of Nicholson's high-handed action was to change the current of public feeling in Jalandhar. The natives dropped their impudent manner, and realised that the British raj was by no means in as tottering a condition as they had supposed.
From Jalandhar the Movable Column proceeded to Umritsur, where tidings reached it of fresh outbreaks at Jhelum and Sialkot. Nicholson lost no time in dealing out vengeance to the mutineers, who had killed many Europeans. Pushing on with his force at full speed, he came in touch with them on the banks of the river Ravi, a branch of the Chenab, and opened fire. It was a short but sharp engagement, for numbers of the rebels were inflamed by the drug known as bhang, and fought like fiends. In less than half an hour the sepoys turned tail, leaving some hundreds dead or wounded on the battlefield.
Two days later the pursuit was again taken up, and the mutineers were cornered at another spot on the Ravi. As before, Nicholson had it all his own way. Shot and shell quickly drove the enemy out of their position on an island in the river, and those who escaped death from bullet or bayonet flung themselves panic-stricken into the river, to be drowned or captured subsequently. This victory was all the more notable by reason of the fact that the 3000 (some say 4000) sepoys who lost their lives were at the time marching to join the mutineers at Delhi.
In connection with this episode, Mr. R. G. Wilberforce, who served with the column, makes an interesting note in his book. Nicholson, he says, told him the story of how he had once killed a tiger with his sword while on horseback, the affair taking place (if the narrator is not mistaken) on the very island in the Ravi where the rebels had sought refuge.
This feat, with which Sir James Outram is also credited, is performed "by riding round and round the tiger at a gallop, gradually narrowing the circle until at last the swordsman is near enough to deliver his blow." The tiger, it is said, follows the flying figure of the horseman, waiting an opportunity to spring upon him, but eventually becomes too bewildered to act.
The same writer also records an incident which illustrates Nicholson's remarkable faculty for recognising rebels, however well disguised. On the march from the camp at Goodaspore, whence the column hurled itself on the Sialkot mutineers, two natives were observed by the wayside. They were miserable-looking wretches, with bundles on their backs, and the soldiers gave them but a passing glance. When Nicholson came along, however, his keen eyes rested on them with interest. Then, turning to the Pathans who rode behind him, he uttered the word "Maro!" (kill), and the stalwart troopers instantly cut the pair down.
Nicholson's instinct had not failed him. The natives, for all their innocent appearance, were sepoys carrying swords to a mutinous regiment which had been disarmed at Goodaspore.
How fully the Movable Column justified its existence in those critical two months of June and July, 1857, there is ample testimony. Nicholson moved his light-footed force from point to point with surprising celerity, striking mercilessly at every spot where mutiny threatened, until the possibility of the Punjaub bursting into a blaze of rebellion was averted. It was a difficult task throughout, and its magnitude was the greater in that the famous column itself had to be purged more than once. There was the ever-present danger of disaffection in his own ranks. In the end, we are told, his force consisted of little more than one field battery, one troop of horse-artillery, and an infantry regiment, all of which were British, with a few hundred trusted Pathans.
Of the native levies special mention must be made of the Mooltani Horse. These men, Sikhs for the most part, had followed Nicholson from sheer personal devotion. They recognised no head but him, and, it is said, refused to accept pay from the Government. At his death they disbanded, returning to their homes on the frontier.
In the last week of July Nicholson proceeded to Lahore to consult Sir John Lawrence as to the next step to be taken. The upshot of the conference was that he received instructions to march the Movable Column on to Delhi, where General Archdale Wilson had commenced the siege. So, on the 25th of the month, the Punjaub saw him once more on the move, his face set eagerly towards the old Mogul capital, where he was to place the crown upon his achievements and find a soldier's grave.
[1] Forty-One Years in India.
[2] "A Ballad of John Nicholson" (The Island Race).
In the long march to Delhi Nicholson's temper must have been tried time and time again. He was all impatience to get to his goal and urge on the assault, the delay of which every day added to the peril that threatened British India. The tardy progress made, owing to the heavy guns he carried in his train, caused him to chafe as he had done on that rebel-pursuing march from Goodaspore some weeks earlier, when his tireless energy could not brook even a brief halt for rest.
Captain Trotter, in his Life of Nicholson, gives us a vivid picture of the officers and men of the column snatching an hour's repose in the shade of some trees while their leader remained "in the middle of the hot, dusty road, sitting bolt upright on his horse in the full glare of that July sun, waiting, like a sentinel turned to stone, for the moment when his men should resume their march."
Early in August the Movable Column had crossed the Sutlej, and four days later Nicholson was galloping on ahead to General Wilson's headquarters on the Ridge. Wilson, to his relief, had sent an urgent message summoning him to a council. It was the 7th of the month when Nicholson rode into the British camp. Before nightfall on that day everyone was aware that a new power had arrived and was on tiptoe with excitement to know what the new-comer intended doing.
With the thoroughness that characterised his methods, Nicholson promptly made a round of the pickets; his tall, striking figure exciting comment from those who had not seen him before. "His attire," says an officer who was on the Ridge at the time, "gave no clue to his rank; it evidently never cost its owner a thought." But one had only to look at the dark, handsome, sombre face to see that here was a man of no little distinction. Grave of demeanour as he always was, his features were saddened still more now by the news of Sir Henry Lawrence's death at Lucknow. The loss of his old chief and patron touched him very nearly, and it was with a heavy heart that he went about his duties.
Riding back a day or two later to rejoin his troops, Nicholson found that the column had been strengthened by several additions, bringing its numbers up to a total of over four thousand men, less than a third of whom were British. This formidable body made a welcome reinforcement to Wilson's little army, and put fresh encouragement into the hearts of the besiegers. In the camp Nicholson renewed his acquaintance with Chamberlain, then recovering from a wound; Hodson, the dashing cavalry leader, who had raised a regiment of horse; and other distinguished leaders. One and all were unfeignedly glad to see him on the scene, and looked to him to spur the over-cautious commander-in-chief to a more resolute course of action.
The opportunity for Nicholson to prove his worth came before very long. A powerful siege-train had been despatched by Sir John Lawrence from Ferozepore. About the middle of August it was learnt that a large body of mutineers had sallied out from Delhi with the intention of intercepting the train, which was proceeding slowly under a rather weak escort. The duty of attacking the rebels and preventing what would be a terrible disaster was allotted to Nicholson, and he at once started off with a column of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, to give battle.
Inquiries revealed the fact that the sepoys occupied a strong position at Najafgarh, where they had repaired the bridge across the river. The road thither was a difficult one, and was rendered almost impassable at places by the swampy nature of the ground. It was the rainy season, unfortunately, so that the streams that had to be crossed were in flood. But, despite all obstacles, Nicholson pushed on doggedly, taking the lead with Sir Theophilus Metcalfe, who had volunteered to act as guide.
Sir John Kaye records the opinion of a Punjaubi officer of note who averred that not another man in the camp—"except, perhaps, Chamberlain"—could have taken the column to Najafgarh. "They went through a perfect morass," he states. "An artillery officer told me that at one time the water was over his horses' backs, and he thought they could not possibly get out of their difficulties; but he looked ahead, and saw Nicholson's great form riding steadily on as if nothing was the matter, and so he felt sure all was right."
The engagement was opened briskly with artillery fire. Forcing the rebels' left centre, the troops drove the enemy from their strongest position near an old serai (or caravansary), silenced the guns there, and then swept irresistibly down the long line of the mutineers towards the bridge. Nicholson's plan of attack had succeeded beyond expectation. Under the terrible fusillade the sepoys broke in confusion, and ran pell-mell for the bridge and the open country on the other side, only to be pursued and cut to pieces in large numbers. The whole affair, from the moment of the first shot fired, occupied one hour, and in that time between 6000 and 8000 well-armed mutineers were put to flight.
It was a brilliant action—one of the most brilliant, indeed, that took place in the whole course of the Mutiny. Not only had a huge force of rebels been dispersed, but a number of guns had been captured, and this with the loss on our side of but twenty-five men. Well might General Wilson thank Nicholson and his gallant troops the next morning, "from my whole heart," for the signal victory gained. Congratulations poured in on the hero of the day, Sir John Lawrence telegraphing from Lahore to say, "I wish I had the power of knighting you on the spot; it should be done!"
The time was now fast approaching when Nicholson was still further to distinguish himself. The importance of not delaying the assault longer than could be helped was being forced upon him daily, and at the council table he urged the necessity for striking an immediate blow. To his far-seeing mind it was essential that the mutineers should not be allowed to gather strength while the army on the Ridge became enfeebled through forced inaction. There were sorties and dashing charges almost every hour it is true, but these brought the actual assault on the city no nearer.
As the days crept by and still nothing was decided, Nicholson's patience gave out. When at last the startling rumour got about that General Wilson contemplated abandoning the Ridge and retreating until he had a stronger army at his back, the leader of the Movable Column decided on a bold course. The idea of leaving Delhi to the mutineers as a centre for a rebellion which might within a few days become universal, appalled him. He went to the next council in the General's quarters with the fixed determination to bring matters to a final issue.
Lord Roberts, from whose book I am again tempted to quote, relates the story of how he learned of this momentous decision. Nicholson had been sitting in his tent talking to the young artillery officer of his plans. He ended by making a dramatic announcement. "Delhi must be taken," he said, "and it is absolutely essential that this should be done at once; and if Wilson hesitates longer, I intend to propose at to-day's meeting that he should be superseded."
On Roberts venturing to remark that, as Neville Chamberlain was hors de combat through his wound, this step would leave Nicholson senior officer with the force, the other smiled and answered, "I have not overlooked that fact. I shall make it perfectly clear that, under the circumstances, I could not possibly accept the command myself, and I shall propose that it be given to Campbell of the 52nd. I am prepared to serve under him for the time being, so no one can ever accuse me of being influenced by personal motives."
It was a characteristic declaration, and Roberts knew that Nicholson would carry out his word. As it happened, however, the occasion did not arise. That day Wilson agreed to the assault being made, and the next morning an order was issued to the troops informing them of the welcome decision.