“The finest soldier in the world!” Lieutenant Roberts quietly asserted.
“Rather!” chimed in Claude Boldre. “He’s a grand man. I’ve been lucky in experiencing what the Pathans along the frontier think of him. They consider him a sort of second Mahomet.”
“I suppose he’s performing miracles in the Punjab,” said Alec. “Is it really true that they worship him as a god?”
“Up in Hazara,” replied the artilleryman, “they’ve formed a sect called the Nikkulseyns, and though Nicholson only thrashed them when they worshipped him, they considered it an honour to be whipped by him, and those who didn’t get a licking envied their more fortunate neighbours. The fakir who founded the sect bothered Nikkulseyn to give him his old beaver hat, and as he received no encouragement, the wily old gentleman procured one like it. He then went the round of the shops at the busiest time of the day, and placed the hat in the doorway, so that none might leave or enter without removing or kicking it over. When customers were about to enter, the fakir called out, warning them not to desecrate the topi which had been worn by the great and mighty and holy Nikkulseyn. Nicholson was such a power in the land that none dared remove it, and at last the old fraud consented to take it away on being paid one rupee by the shopkeeper. He would thereupon proceed to another shop and repeat these tactics. When Nicholson heard of this he gave the fakir and his disciples a sound hiding all round, but they only sang hymns of praise to him.”
“He was worshipped in Bunnu almost as much as in Hazara, was he not?” enquired Paterson; and Claude Boldre replied:
“Yes, he was both worshipped and feared. Before he went there, an orphan boy had been cheated out of his land by his guardian uncle, named Allodad Khan. A few years later the young man went to law in order to recover his property, but Allodad Khan, who was a rich powerful man, had bribed and threatened all the village, and none would give evidence against him. Nicholson heard of this, and guessed how matters stood. One morning, just after dawn, a villager, going out early, was spell-bound at seeing Nicholson’s well-known white mare cropping the grass outside the village. He ran back and breathlessly told the news. All the inhabitants turned out to gaze, and someone quickly perceived Nicholson himself tied to a tree close by. Their first thought was to run away, but a few plucked up sufficient spirit to go tremblingly to the commissioner’s aid. In terrible wrath Nicholson asked who had dared to treat him like this. They bowed before him, but so terrified were they that no one could answer. ‘Whose land is this, then?’ he demanded. ‘The owner of the land is responsible.’ The villagers pointed to Allodad Khan, who fell on his knees, declaring, ‘No, no, sahib, the land is my nephew’s. He is responsible for the outrage.’ Nicholson sternly made him swear to this before the whole village, and then the ruffian saw that he’d been made a fool of. So the nephew got possession of the estate and money, and Allodad Khan, finding the village too warm for him, went on a pilgrimage to Mecca.”
“He must be a wonderful man,” Alec murmured half to himself. “I wish he’d come to Delhi.”
“He will,” said Claude Boldre. “He as good as told me so when he sent me off with the Flamingoes.”
Ted was all impatience to impart his great news, but modesty forbade him while the strangers were present. The two visitors having inspected the defences of the famous mansion, and criticised most favourably the appearance of the Rifles, Guides, and Gurkhas, took their departure.
“The general’s told me that I’m to have the V.C., Alec,” Ted whispered.