After being inspired to research British use of smallpox against Ponticac's support base in the eponymous War, I suggest a more even, and thus less vicious modification to the poem quoted above:

We met the British in the dead of winter.
The sky was lavender

and the snow lavender-blue.
I could hear, far below,

the sound of two streams coming together
(both were frozen over)

and, no less strange,
myself calling out in French

across that forest-
clearing. Neither General Jeffrey Amherst

nor Colonel Henry Bouquet
could stomach our killing soldiers who had surrendered under a guarantee of free passage, not the murder of men, women and children by my warriors.

As for the unusual scent
when the Colonel shook out his hand-

kerchief: C’est la lavande,
une fleur mauve comme le ciel.

They gave us six fishhooks
and two blankets which may have been embroidered with smallpox, or then again may not.