The half-ruined citadel, built by Charles V., was occupied by a French garrison. It was blockaded by a brigade of British commanded by Colonel Macleod, and the Free Corps of Santugo, on the land side; while the _Amphion_ frigate, with a squadron of Sicilian gun-boats, cut off all supplies, succour, and communication from seaward. The French were reduced to great straits at the time of my arrival, and were daily expected to capitulate. General Regnier—who, since the battle of Maida, had endeavoured to maintain his ground between the citadel and Catanzaro (one of the finest towns in the province)—made suddenly a precipitate retreat towards Tarento; abandoning his soldiers in Crotona to their fate. At Tarento, he was attacked by the chiefs of the Masse and the brigands, who compelled him to retire after losing seven hundred men. The Marchese di Monteleone narrowly escaped being taken prisoner while leading on a desperate charge at the head of a "handful" of cavalry. To his bravery and exertions when commanding the rear-guard, Buonaparte attributed solely the effective retreat of his shattered forces through these wild and savage provinces. The discomfited general retreated along the shore of the Adriatic with the utmost rapidity; passing through Melissa, Gariati Nuova, and Rossana, until he reached the northern frontier of Calabria Citra: then, turning like a hunted stag on his pursuers, he stood once more at bay; and, with the remnant of his force, took up a position at Cassano. There he entrenched himself, and awaited the formation of a junction with Massena, the Prince of Rivoli,—"the child of victory," and of devastation,—who was advancing at the head of an army flushed with success. Gaeta, after a brave defence for three months, had been surrendered to Massena’s division by Prince William of Hesse Philipstadt. On my approaching Crotona, the red gleams that flashed across the darkened sky, and the deep booming sounds that broke with sullen reverberations the silence of a calm evening, announced that an interchange of heavy shot was taking place between the besiegers and the citadel. The loud report of the frigate’s 42-pounders could easily be distinguished from the lighter artillery of the gun-boats and the curricle guns, which formed the only battering train Macleod had with him. From an eminence, I had a perfect view of the whole plan of operations. The noble frigate—whose lofty masts, well squared yards, sparkling top-light, and swelling sides, were reflected in the dark blue water—had been hauled close in shore, for the purpose of battering the citadel; but now, as the darkness was fast descending, her boats were towing her beyond range, and she came to anchor out of gun-shot in the Gulf of Tarento.