Richard Ligon’s Map of Barbados (1657) is frequently mentioned in scholarship, yet it is seldom examined as a primary source in its own right. Although his written account has received sustained attention, the map included within it deserves closer study. When treated as a cultural artefact rather than a straightforward geographical record, it offers valuable insight into how Barbados was imagined and presented during the Barbados sugar boom in the 1640s, when Barbados became the leading sugar production colony in the mid-seventeenth century. One of the most striking features of the map is the density of plantations marked across the island. Each is labelled with the name of its owner, creating a landscape organised around property and commercial ambition. Certain regions appear heavily occupied, while others remain relatively open. This contrast conveys the speed with which European planters were acquiring land and reshaping Barbados. To ambitious young men in England, the map would have indicated that the island had become a site of rapid economic growth and was an appealing place for investment or social advancement. The representation of enslaved Africans is equally revealing. They appear as miniature, faceless figures on the plantation and they lack any individual detail. That is to say that their bodies are simplified and unclothed, and they carry no identifying features. The image communicates their centrality to sugar production while reducing them to an undifferentiated and anonymised labour force. This visual treatment reflects the racial attitudes that shaped the plantation world, where enslaved people were treated as instruments of labour rather than as individuals with social lives and identities. Another notable feature is the inclusion of European cavalry on horseback. They are shown pursuing enslaved individuals who appear to be attempting escape. Although this imagery may seem unusual for a Caribbean map, it reflects Ligon’s familiarity with the English Civil War and his assumption that his audience would recognise and understand such scenes. The presence of the cavalry hints at the strategy of maintaining plantation order through surveillance and force. It also presents violence as an expected element of plantation governance, woven into the visual logic of the map. These visual choices contribute to the impression that the map served a persuasive function. It presents Barbados as orderly and profitable, and it largely obscures the harsh conditions that sustained the plantation system. Its silences and distortions reveal the attitudes of the planter class and the expectations of the metropolitan viewers for whom it was produced. The omissions invite a more critical reading, since they highlight the aspects of colonial life regarded as secondary or inconvenient to the narrative of prosperity. The absence of enslaved women is also significant. Women played a crucial role within plantation societies, especially as the colony shifted toward a labour system increasingly reliant on reproduction as well as importation. Their omission reveals the gendered perspective through which Ligon viewed Barbados and the priorities of the readers he hoped to reach. The map foregrounds the concerns of male landholders and investors, and its silences offer insight into which aspects of colonial life were considered worthy of representation. Although the map lacks geographical precision, it remains a valuable source for understanding the early sugar economy. It reveals how Barbados was conceptualised by those directly involved in its development. When placed alongside later cartographic works, such as Richard Ford’s 1676 map, it helps illustrate how the landscape changed as plantations expanded and sugar production intensified. The comparison also clarifies the growing complexity of the plantation infrastructure, including mills and distillation facilities. Ligon’s map is therefore significant for what it includes and for what it conceals. It captures a moment when Barbados was being reshaped by a new economic system grounded in coercion and racial hierarchy. Its visual strategies reflect the ambitions of both the planter elite and the merchants who supported them. A careful reading allows historians to trace the assumptions that underpinned the plantation economy and to recognise how maps contributed to the promotion and legitimisation of that system.