The Last Swing

L'Envoi

When John Henry was a little baby,
A-sittin' on his pappy's knee,
He picked up a hammer and a little piece of steel,
Says, "Hammer gonna be the death of me,
Lord, Lord,
Hammer gonna be the death of me."
   Traditional


The last swing begins

With the penultimate clang

Still roaring in their ears,

Drowning out the chuf-chuf-chuf

Of the opponent.

Muscles move beneath the taut, black 
skin, 

Pure ebon glistening with sweat

Of hard labor,

Yet deep in the mighty chest

Another muscle is at the breaking point.

The pain does not register

Though his world is now

Nothing but pain.



Tighter grows the muscles

As higher rises the twelve-pound sledge,

Its target tended by the shaker

Praying for his life.



As the apex is reached

The heart is pulled asunder,

Red blood rushing out,

Crowding the lungs with its pressure.

He knows something is wrong,

He senses something different;

A finality...



But there is no stopping now;

Not with the rattling chuf

Still filling his ears.

With his final strength 

He brings the hammer down

To deliver its mightiest blow.



Time stood still for him,

The hammer falling for an eternity,

Aiming for the little piece of steel

Past the shaker's wide, 

Death frightened eyes.


Clang!



A clang to define.

A clang that roared like

The opening of the gates of Heaven,

And the closing of the gates of Hell;

A clang that would ring in their ears 

For an eternity;

A clang more savage 

Than the impact of cannonballs

On the sides of iron-clad ships;

Yet sweeter than any lover's touch.



And he stood there...

Dying.



His shaker's hands would burn numbly

For days afterward,

And to his death he would claim

He still felt the force

Of that last, mighty blow.



"By God," shouted the straw-boss,

"Fifteen feet!

How fares the steam drill?"

"Only nine," came the reply,

"And it's near done for!"



The cheers of the crowd 

Break over the big man's body,

Although he barely hears it.

Instead he stands

And grins

Through the cascading pain.



"By God," said the warden,

"If that damn boy weren't so valuable,

I'd press the governer for his pardon,

Ha, ha, by damn!"

The big man's receding spirit

Laughs back at his captor,

"Damned ol' fool, I'm free already..."



With a last effort, 

As though it were nothing,

He lays his hammer gently down.

Sitting... 

Leaning back against the mountain,

He closes his weary eyes;

The muscles that could move that mountain...

Relaxing... resting... losing their 
tone,

And the cheers of the crowd

Like the buzz of a fly.



"I'm free," he thought.



Then thought no more...



Recessional

They took John Henry to the white house,
And buried him in the sand,
And every locomotive come a roarin' by,
Says, "There lies a steel drivin' man,
Lord, Lord,
There lies a steel drivin' man"
       Traditional




       ŠJune 21, 1999