Brave Old Salt by Oliver Optic

The Firefly had been strengthened and otherwise improved for the purpose to which she was to be applied. Her armament had been changed, to adapt it to the standard of the United States navy. She now carried a hundred pounder rifle amidships, a rifled thirty on her forecastle, four twenty-four pounders on the broadsides, and two howitzers on the quarter deck. The cabin, ward-room, and steerage remained as before.

It was a pleasant November day -- in the full reign of the Indian summer -- when she went down the harbor. Somers stood on the quarter deck, as dignified as the commander of a man-of-war should be, but he could hardly repress the feeling of pride and exultation with which he regarded his position. He was hardly twenty-one, though he was mature enough in appearance and in judgment for twenty-five. He had realized the warmest hope he had permitted himself to cherish. He was in command of a beautiful vessel, with a hundred officers and men under his charge. He was the supreme authority; every man on board touched his cap to him.