Napoleon and his army of soldiers were marching across the Alps in Switzerland before descending into Italy upon that famous campaign in which all Italy bowed low to the French conqueror. Up the long steep slopes the soldiers toiled in the shadow of the frowning and overhanging cliffs. Here and there patches of bare rock appeared, where the snow had been swept off by the fierce gusts of wind. For miles the army was strung along the roads, and wearily the men walked as they struggled with the heavy cannon. These cannon were mounted on improvised sleds, and the soldiers pulled them over the snow with ropes. At times one of the sleds would slip and tumble over a precipice, carrying with it a number of the men who were dragging it along. The air was bitterly cold, and many of the soldiers died on the road, or from weakness fell off the cliffs, to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below.
An officer had been riding back and forth along his command most of the day, helping here and encouraging there, and by kindly acts urging his men to bravely laugh off their despondency. Cold, frozen, poorly clad, and with but little to eat, such conditions were too crushing to arouse much enthusiasm among the soldiers, but a faint cheer time and again reached this officer's ears as he shouted his commands.
Darkness was gathering fast, and it was desirable that this officer's detachment should reach a small plateau some distance ahead before camping for the night. In order to reach this it was necessary to cross a narrow dangerous part of the road with a sharp descent of some hundred feet on one side and the walls of a cliff on the other.
The officer stood at the narrowest part directing the way. Most of the detachment had passed the spot and three cannon had already made the passage. The last one, larger than any of the others, was being slowly but surely worked over, when there was a sudden sinking of the snow, several shouts, and the heavy iron cannon commenced toppling over the cliff.
"Throw a rope over the end there, quick!" shouted the officer, at the same time grasping the rope attached to the forward end. But it was too late, or else the frozen hands of the soldiers prevented their working lively, and all but two of those having hold of the rope that was attached dropped it in fear of being pulled over the cliff.
Down it went into the black depths of the narrow crevice between the mountains, and with it went the two men who had kept their hold, and also the brave officer, for when the others had dropped the rope it had become entangled in his feet. A short, despairing cry was all that rose on the night air to tell the tale of those three deaths. Napoleon's soldiers were too accustomed to such sights and the hopelessness of an attempt at rescue to do more than shudder and move stubbornly on. Through many such scenes the army made its way over the Alps.
Many years later, in the summer of 1847, a party of people were taking a pleasure trip through Europe, and had stopped at one of the small villages at the foot of the mountains. From here they made occasional trips, exploring the surrounding neighborhood. In the party was a geologist, who was making studies of the geological formations of the Alps. Such work took him into unfrequented spots.
On one of these expeditions he wandered one day into a narrow chasm and slowly worked along, making notes of the walls of stone that rose above his head, seemingly coming together where he could see a narrow rift of light. As he stumbled along, now and then stopping to examine a loose stone, he came across a log-shaped rock. Upon closer inspection, however, he saw it was an old rusty cannon, and sitting down upon it, he fell to musing how it came there.
He had noted that the cannon was of a make used during Napoleon's time, and concluded that it must be one of those that were lost over the precipice when the great general had crossed into Italy. Stooping down, he poked into its mouth, mechanically scraping out the dirt that had accumulated there, and idly thought of the brave soldiers of those days. Suddenly he noticed a leathern book, in fairly good condition, lying in the little heap of dirt he had scraped out. Picking it up he opened it and found it full of papers. Thinking then that it was of no great importance, he placed it in his pocket and retraced his steps to the village. That evening he examined its contents, and among some papers relating to an old estate he found the following scrawl:
"I, one of Napoleon's officers, fell from the cliff above, dragged over by a rope attached to this cannon. The two men that fell with me were instantly killed, as I have not heard them moan nor seen them move. My leg and left arm are broken, and I know that I am hurt internally. Fortunately, I struck but once while falling, and then this soft bed of snow prevented instant death. I have enough strength left to write this and stick it into the mouth of the cannon, for possibly some one may discover it. My papers and such as will prove the right to certain property will be found in the leathern book, and I beg the finder will place them in the hands of the proper owners. My strength is leaving me and I must stop—" (Here followed the signature.)