A captain, frantically trying to rally his men to withstand the flank attack of twice their own number, fell dead in the act of urging on his company. Their leader shot down, a murderous fire cutting their ranks to pieces, for an instant the men wavered. At that moment there appeared in front of them the tall figure of an officer, bareheaded, a pistol in his upraised hand. There was no time to express any of the emotions which seized the soldiers’ bewildered minds at sight of their lost commander. A bullet struck Colonel Gordon in the arm, but he did not feel it. His voice, ringing out clear, strong and confident, in the midst of death and confusion, cried:
“Forward, men of the 39th! Follow me!”
It was all they needed. What were overwhelming odds with that familiar figure leading them to victory? A cheer that shook the enemy’s sense of easy triumph burst from their panting throats. Colonel Gordon was no longer alone, for the whole company had sprung to his side. A solid volley met the German attack, and then in the face of a rain of bullets, the Americans charged.
The Germans saw that hedge of bayonets rushing down upon them, and commenced to give way a little. Trained fighters as they were they could not stand before that onslaught. Leaping down the slope, between the trees and over rocks and brushwood, the Americans came irresistibly on. The Germans, retiring faster now, scowled in sullen rage at this enemy who advanced shouting, against such withering fire, their eyes aflame with the eager light of victory.
As they neared the foot of the hill the German fire had almost ceased. Hand to hand the men of the 39th and their enemy continued the bitter struggle. Now more Americans had reached the hill-crest from the château and, while some remained to lend aid to those men of the 39th who had fought as rear-guard, others came bounding down the hill. Their help was welcome, but the fight was already won. A hundred survivors of the two hundred men who had followed Colonel Gordon down the hill faced the shattered remnant of the German reinforcing column. Those of the enemy who managed to escape alive or uncaptured fled into the town, through which, at news of the broken line, the German troops from the trenches in front of Château-Plessis could be seen retreating in disorder. Two officers, reaching Colonel Gordon’s side, seized hold of him and cried inaudible words of astonishment and joy through the rattle of musketry and the shouts around them. But their faces spoke plainly enough. One thing Colonel Gordon knew in that glorious moment, even before the silencing of the artillery fire confirmed it. Château-Plessis was in the hands of the Allies.
The American regiments now poured unimpeded down the hillside road, hoping to take the fleeing Germans on the flank or rear. A thought struck Colonel Gordon in the midst of his joy. To a signal officer pausing beside him, the vanguard of the new communication lines, he asked hurriedly:
“Can we hold the town, Major? It’s a regular pocket. How far does our advance extend?”
“Can we hold it?” repeated the officer with triumph in his voice. “Colonel, we entered Argenton an hour ago!”
Before passing on he pointed to Colonel Gordon’s left sleeve. It was stained with blood, and the elder officer, noticing for the first time his wounded arm, found that it hung powerless by his side.