If you were to stand on the coast of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and look 10 miles out into the gray, churning Atlantic Ocean, you might see them, a cluster of nine jagged islands known as the Isles of Shoals.

They look like broken teeth of some prehistoric sea monster rising just high enough out of the water to be dangerous.

One of these islands has a name that sounds almost comical today.

Smutty nose.

But don't let the name fool you.

It wasn't named for a joke.

It was actually named by a 17th century fisherman, who thought the black seaweed at one end made the island look like the smutty nose of a

massive sea animal. I guess they weren't using the word dirty then. And for over 150 years,

that island hasn't been known for its seaweed. It's been known for what happened in the early

morning hours of March 6, 1873. Imagine this. It's midnight. The temperatures are hovering just above freezing. The wind is like a

razor, and the only sound is the relentless slap of the tide against the rocks. On Smutty

Nose Island, there is only one occupied house, a small, lonely cottage only known as the Red House.

Inside are three women.

They recently arrived from Norway seeking a better life.

They are alone because the men are on the mainland, trapped by the lack of bait and a shifting tide.

But they aren't the only ones on the island.

A man is standing in the snow.

He's wearing heavy rubber boots, a size 11, and he's carrying a stolen axe.

He's been watching the house for hours, waiting for the last lantern to go out.

He knows these women.

He's eaten at their table.

He's slept under their roof.

...