Isaac's calabash opens the poison record in Suriname

The earliest surviving poison case in the records of the Suriname court dates from 1731 and turns on a calabash. Inside it were pieces of a red stone and a bird's beak. Several enslaved people reported having seen the practitioner who owned it near the graves of the dead and using the calabash to pray to leaves behind his house. Isaac did not deny owning it or using its contents. He said it served medical purposes and that he had never used it to cause harm. Objects of this kind worked as compositions rather than as single ingredients, and their power lay in the assembly and in the words and gestures that activated them. Another Suriname case turned on a small stick packed with herbs and tied up with what may have been cowrie shells. Court volumes survive from 1722 onward with gaps, so earlier trials may have existed and been lost.

Ambrose Madison finished building the plantation Montpelier in Spotsylvania County, Virginia in 1732, and shortly afterwards three enslaved Africans were accused of poisoning him. He suffered a long wasting illness and died. Their conviction was the first in Virginia of enslaved people for murdering an owner and the first conviction for poisoning. The documentation is thin, but one detail carries weight. The three had help from a man on another property who was said to know about poisons, which points to a relationship between a client and a practitioner. The case set the shape of Virginian poison talk for the rest of the century, in which an enslaved poisoner kills the owner slowly. Elsewhere in the Atlantic the accusations more often concerned other enslaved people. Virginia stood apart in this respect, and of the cases from Brunswick and Cumberland counties between 1740 and 1799, 44 per cent had white targets.

A town built of palm and thatch burns. Cap Francois burned in 1688, again in 1694, and again in 1734. The colonial authorities answered with building law. In 1721 they outlawed thatched roofs. In 1736, two years after the third fire, they passed an ordinance requiring that houses be built of masonry, or of brick set between wooden posts, or of stone rendered with plaster. The rule changed how the place looked. Walls of rubble or masonry were coated with white or ochre lime wash so that the town glared in the sun, and roof tiles from Normandy and slates from Anjou began arriving as shipping from France increased. The older methods survived in the houses of poorer residents, who could not meet the standard. Every house kept a rear yard with a detached kitchen and usually a well, an arrangement that had nothing to do with fire and everything to do with heat.

Lambe made no immediate attempt to return to Dahomey, later blaming bankruptcy, and turned up in London five years after his release with an African interpreter he presented as a prince. He delivered what he said was Agaja's letter and asked to be sent back with a reply. The Commissioners for Trade and Plantations took evidence from Jeremiah Tinker and William Snelgrave and concluded the letter was a forgery, apparently because neither Lambe on his release nor Agaja in conversation with Snelgrave the following year had mentioned it. They recommended instead that Captain Tom carry a message welcoming Agaja's offers of friendship and asking protection for English traders. Law regards the argument from silence as weak, since Lambe had motives to suppress the letter in 1726, and notes that Snelgrave himself told the commissioners he thought it genuine. Where this account departs from the standard one: Law rejects the 1731 finding of forgery and Marion Johnson's verdict of not proven, arguing the letter is substantially genuine even if Lambe shaped its language and content.