He looked through the eyepiece, tried hard not to squint for fear the moon might disappear. The sextant was heavy in his hands, and he watched as the moon above him fell to the horizon, brought there by his own hand as he moved the index arm down.
The moon touched the black line of the bay. Across the water lay Delaware; due west of him, he knew from the nautical chart in the house, the St. Jones River on Murderkill Neck. Each time he thought of that name, of the thin piece of land he'd seen yesterday afternoon from the dock he stood on now, he wondered how it had come about: Murderkill. Each time he imagined old Dutch fishing...