Isaac smashed his rifle across the head of a man who came charging at him with a bayonet. For a second or two he stood there with the useless, broken rifle in his hands, then flung it away and grabbed a knife from his belt. He heard Zaragosa groan as a bayonet jammed through his heart. Zaragosa fell back against Isaac, knocking him off balance. Isaac surged forward at two soldiers who charged him. He plunged the knife to the hilt into one, then saw the blast from a musket in the hands of the other. He felt the ball drive into his chest with the force of a sledgehammer.

He was numb, half blinded by the fire. He fought for breath but could draw none. He saw the flash of bayonets as two more soldiers came at him. He had dreaded the steel, but he did not even feel it now. He felt nothing except the sensation of floating slowly to the floor. The sound of the battle went dim in his ears.

The last thing he heard was his own voice, calling, “Annie—Cyrus.”

LIEUTENANT DíAZ knew it was more than the saber slash across his shoulder that made him feel ill. He was appalled at the slaughter before him in the wide plaza between the Alamo’s walls. The dead and dying lay, often in heaps, like rag dolls carelessly flung about by thoughtless children. No man could walk across that ground from the wall to the chapel entrance without stepping in pools of blood. Mexican soldiers, and Texan defenders were intermingled in death. He could hear an occasional shot as a wounded Texan was given a coup de grace, and he saw troopers in a blood frenzy bayoneting bodies to make certain. El presidente had ordered that not one male defender be left alive. So far as Díaz could tell, everyone of them had fought until he died or was so badly wounded he could no longer raise an arm in defiance.

Hombres muy valientes. Valiant men, all of them, on both sides.

A shiver ran all the way to his feet, and he tried to brace himself against the cold. After the heat and fury of the battle, the relative calm gave him time to feel the chill of an early March morning. He could see his breath in the air and wished for a coat or a blanket. Santa Anna had commanded that no man wear a cloak or carry a blanket or anything else that would hamper movement. Díaz could feel the blood still trickling from the wound, and he gripped it with his hand, hoping he might stop the bleeding. He had no idea when he might receive medical attention. So many needed it worse than he.

The firing stopped at last, and the bayoneting. Some of the soldiers began searching the clothing of the dead, looking for money or knives or any other treasure that might suit their fancy. Díaz watched with mixed feelings. The men had fought well, and he supposed they deserved anything they found. But the Texans had amazed him with the ferocity of their defense. He had half expected that when they saw the hopelessness of their fight, those who had survived to that point would try to surrender and beg for mercy. It had not happened. He had not seen a man who looked as if he even considered it. Of course they had seen the red flag and had heard the degüello. They knew they were doomed to die; Santa Anna had made it plain that he took no prisoners.