The place was thronged that day and night with the expeditionary force, and the landlord of the one inn that then sufficed for the thirst of the whole community—it was probably the “Buller’s Arms,” quite recently rebuilt—was, according to the diarist who recorded all these things, so puffed up with the honour of serving so many lords that he almost imagined himself to be one.
William himself was lodged in the house, still standing in Middle Street, the home of the little man, Varwell, who afterwards marched with the army on to Exeter, and was promised a reward for his services. Unhappy Varwell! He went later, to London, and fell to gossiping with strangers in a tavern, with the result that they drugged him and sent one of their confederates to Whitehall to claim the promised recompense. He was paid a hundred guineas, and when the real Varwell put in an appearance, he was not only sent empty away, but received a good thrashing as well.
THE HOUSE WHERE WILLIAM OF ORANGE SLEPT.
William’s army, having camped in the fields overnight, marched from Brixham about noon on November 6th, in very rainy weather and along bad roads. They made but four miles that day, and halted the night at Paignton, where tradition says William slept at the “Crown and Sceptre,” within sight of that old red sandstone tower in which, according to another tradition, Miles Coverdale, Bishop of Exeter, another sturdy Protestant protagonist, had translated the Bible.
Meanwhile William had been receiving assurances of support from influential personages. Nicholas Roope, of Dartmouth, was the first considerable person to join him. But others exhibited a not unnatural timidity and caution. Memories of the ferocious revenge taken upon the sympathisers with Monmouth, three years earlier, were keen, and the influential and the great did their negotiation as secretly as might be. That is why records of those early days are so scarce and traditions are our only resort.
The greatest and the proudest personage then in the neighbourhood of Brixham was Sir Edward Seymour, of Berry Pomeroy Castle. He it was who, when William asked if he were not of the family of the Duke of Somerset, replied: “Pardon me, the Duke of Somerset is of my family.” There you see the head of the original stock venting his spleen on the younger branch of the Seymours, upon whom the accident of fate had bestowed a proud title, while the elder was fobbed off with a mere knighthood.
Sir Edward joined the Prince of Orange at Exeter, when it was tolerably clear to most people that the cause of James was lost; but when the Prince was but newly landed, that cautious Sir Edward, and a number of equally cautious gentlemen with him, met him secretly at Aish, a lonely, out-of-the-way hamlet between Brixham and Totnes, to discuss the support to be given. The cottage where they met is still standing, and is called “Parliament House,” while all the country-folk know the road to it by the name of “Parliament Lane.”